Redemption-a J-Dawg story

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  • Kind when I can be. Bastard when I have to be.
« on: <10-06-15/2149:47> »
A/N: This is a little piece I had rattling around in my head about my Missions character. This place takes place shortly after I played in SRM 6-06 Fallen Angels at Dragon Con. If you've played it, you'll probably catch a couple of neat references. Also, this is unedited. Just threw it together stream of consciousness style.

September 2076
Seattle Metroplex

   J-Dawg was in his boxers when the corp sec team blew the door. Even in his early 40's, his body was still in great shape. Hard, defined muscle, marred by scars and long healed bullet wounds. He'd been sleeping on the couch in the living room in the shitty little apartment he'd picked up the week before, and his hands still had orange dust coating his fingertips from the cheezee balls he'd passed out eating the night before. The walls still had the serene scene of a beach at sunset playing on the AR from the house's PAN via the Paradise Resort theme he'd chosen.
   His eyes snapped open, the small boom of the front door being blown open really clashing with the lapping waves and soft hues of pink and orange on his image link. J-Dawg's head ached and his mouth felt full of cotton from the synth-whiskey he'd drank the night before. The whole fifth of synth-whiskey, judging from the empty bottle tipped over off the table and onto the living room carpet. Of course, he could afford the real stuff. Just like he could afford a much better apartment than this drekhole. His time in Chicago had been good to his credstick, but it hadn't been good to his psyche. That's what he'd been drinking to forget. That night in the rain, his Enfield auto-shotty thundering in his hands as the spirit possessed bio-engineered monstrosity walked slowly toward him, practically laughing at the tickling of the explosive rounds...
   The clop of boots on the hardwood of the front hallway that led to the living room he was in broke him from his reverie. J-Dawg triggered his Renraku “Cyber-Speed” wired reflexes (state of the art back when he'd had them installed in 2055) and felt his nervous system light up as the world slowed to a crawl around him, everything suspended in amber even as he moved at what he considered to be regular speed.
   The street samurai rolled off the couch, hand reaching for the only weapon he had nearby. It was a Browning Ultra-Power heavy pistol. The rest of his gear: armored jacket, auto-shotgun, katana, it was all in the closet in the bedroom. J-Dawg could only hope that his assailants weren't too heavily armored. His Smartlink came online as his hand closed around the grip of the Browning and a helpful ARO popped up in his vision displaying a full ammo counter. Thank Ghost.
   J-Dawg didn't feel his reflexes were as rusty as they'd been even a few months ago when he'd come out of retirement following the death of his wife. That was a great thing. He landed in a crouch between the coffee table and the couch already in a firing stance with his Browning raised and pointed at the doorway to the living room. The first corp sec goon to come around the corner raised an Ares Alpha at him and was shouting something to his team behind him. He wore black body armor and mirrored shades. No other identifying marks to tell which corp sent him, but it was clear in the way he moved that he was a corp professional. J-Dawg should know, he had been through the same training almost three decades ago.
   The street samurai didn't let the first goon finish his sentence. As the Smartlink reticle snapped up in time with where his gaze landed on his opponent's forehead, J-Dawg pulled the trigger once. The gun barked and the lead guy went down with his face shot off. It wasn't challenging for someone of J-Dawg's experience to put one in his head where there was no armor. That same experience caused J-Dawg to throw himself sideways, landing hard on his shoulder and getting rug burn on his side and shoulder as he slid across the carpet. Just in time as the second corp sec thug, this one an elven woman, came into view, screaming obscenities at him and raising a shotgun very similar to his own to spray the room.
   The coffee table exploded into splinters and the stuffing rained down from the couch being blown to pieces from the heavy semi-auto burst of twelve gauge APDS slugs. From the ground as he slid to a halt, he fired three times in rapid succession and his bullets found their mark the second time with unerring accuracy. The elven woman's throat exploded in a spray of crimson and she fell back.
   J-Dawg's luck ran out then. Rather than come into his sights, the third (and hopefully last?) member of the hit squad just threw something into the room. As it landed with a metallic bang, J-Dawg fired at the arm clothed in black armor as it flashed around the corner of the doorway, but his bullets missed and hit the doorframe, chewing splinters out of the plascrete.
   The Samurai looked at the object that had just landed on the floor of his living room and immediately hated his life. An Ares Macrotechnology BriteBoom flashbang grenade. His cybereyes had never been one of the implants that he kept kitted out. He had just a moment to regret his thriftiness that he hadn't put flare comp on his list before the flashbang exploded and his entire world went white and he could hear nothing over the ringing of his ears. Nausea wracked his body as the Browning fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. After a moment, the haze cleared enough for him to see the third assailant walking slowly but purposefully into the room with a huge Ares Predator held loose down at his side. Cocky bastard.
   It was his cockiness that saved J-Dawg. The slow, measured stroll across the carpet gave J-Dawg precious seconds for his vision to clear up a little more. Sadistic bastard was enjoying this.
   The heavy, steel toed boot of the corpsec goon came down on J-Dawg's wrist, pinning the arm to the ground by the fallen Browning. This close, he could see that the corpsec thug was an ork. Prominent lower jaw and tusked maw curved up in a cruel smile.
   “Saeder Krupp doesn't like failures.” That huge heavy pistol came up so that the runner was looking down its cavernous barrel.
   He didn't account for the street samurai's speed. Even blasted by a flashbang, ears ringing, spots still dancing in his eyes, there were not very many people that were faster than J-Dawg. Even on a good day, with the odds in his favor, the samurai didn't fight fair. With his arm pinned by the heavy weight of the ork, as the Predator took aim, the samurai twisted his lithe body and hammered his fist upward with everything he had.
   He hit the SK hitman right in the balls. The Predator fell from his hand as he stumbled back, clutching his groin, crying out in pain. As his weight left J-Dawg's arm, the samurai kicked up to his feet and lashed out with his right hand. Chrome razors slid out from beneath his fingernails and ripped into the corpsec goon's throat, blood exploding out of the ruined meat of his neck. He fell to his knees with a gurgle, clutching at his throat with one hand.
   J-Dawg slowly leaned down and picked up his Browning. He placed the gun against the ork's temple and shook his head sadly. Then he pulled the trigger. With a boom, he blew out the last corpsec goon's brains out all over the shredded remains of the couch. As the goon's body fell, J-Dawg walked into the other room. He was going to find out who in SK had sent these bastards. But first, he had to put on some pants.
Desire is irrelevant. I am a machine.