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Jonathan Abel

Engineer, Medic, Space Freelancer.

0 · 250 views · located in Taylor's Bar

a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by NotAFlyingToy

Groups

Mercenary group employed by Tech Con in charge of security Tech Con assets on all worlds.

Description

Rise Against wrote:A hero of war.
Is that what they see?
Just medals and scars,
So damned proud of me.

Image
In Breathing Rig.


Jonathan Abel used to be a religious man. Now the only religion that makes any sense to him is the religious experience of a machine going wrong in his hands.

So begins...

Jonathan Abel's Story

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"I am speaking in character!" Jonathan shouted!

The setting changes from terra to Tech Con Terran Headquarters

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Fresh from duty, fresh from space, and fresh from heatbreak; these were the things that allowed former Corporal Jonathan Abel to walk through the doors of the Tech Con headquarters, a duffel bag containing his gear slung over one shoulder. He had phoned the nice sounding Secretary long in advance, inquiring about opening in the Aschen's Merc fleet, and had been immediately told to come in and meet the Captain in charge of sorting through all of this mess.

He walked on two able legs, his grizzled jaw flashing all the colours of the rainbow; Red, blonde, black... even grey. It was as if his genetics had settled on dusty brown hair for his head, but hadn't made up their mind lower south; opting for an "All of the Above" on the questionarre. Jon's opinion on the invasion of Terra was a simple and uncomplicated one.

Who had the money?

He figured, based off of the building, that he was in the right spot.

Stepping towards the office door, he tapped on it twice in rapid succession, adjusting his duffel further on his aching shoulder. "Abel, Jonathan, reporting for a 1245 appointment, sir." He said through the door.

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Abel took a long glance around the room, old habit, as his eyes settled upon each piece of mechanical equipment before he settled into the seat. The missing nerve cluster in his back shifted against the portion of reconstructed spine, sending an odd chill through the top of his body. As it never failed to do, the discomfort reminded him of a close range round piercing through him, and a cold, evil laughter.

"Thank you, Captain." He said, his voice smooth. He let the duffel hit the floor in front of him with a fwump. The professionalism of the man in front of him made him feel shabby; black bomber jacket, heavy metal band t-shirt, and jeans in a place like this. "I'm looking for work."

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Jon shrugged. "Long term suits me better, to tell you the truth."

Leaning back, he continued. "I was a part of a small Militia on one of the orbiting moons of Cal'thrall, part of the Arghos Rho cluster. My mom and dad were Terran; they were imprisoned on a slaver ship, shot down over there, and raised. I graduated the Militia's academy as a Medic and an Engineer - the only crossbreed they had. There were eighteen hundred of us." He waved a hand.

"We were attacked by a near army of mercs; killed nearly to a man. I escaped on a short range 'pod, picked up work on a smuggler ship called the Rabbit. I did smuggling; short range missions, mostly, and worked on the ship's engines. I wasn't much good with a rifle, but I could talk to machines like no man before me. Or so they said." He gave a crooked smile.

"I engaged on a lot of Scuttling missions; sneak on a ship, disable the engine, assassinate key personal, and then 'render assistance' to the downed ship, demand its cargo and passengers as payment. Then sell the whole load off, and start over. Successful op, for the most part. Until we ran across some Kobolds when we strayed too far into Belkan space. They pretty much decimated the crew; I kept the Rabbit running long enough to land on Terra."

He gave a half smirk. "Only took me a week here before I realized that I couldn't not fight. My skills are there, sir. And you won't find a more professional ex-pirate than I. I'd also like to note that we never hit an Aschen vessel out there; I suspect if we had, we'd be all over your lists."

He let the smile go into a full grin.

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Jonathan nodded, rising from his seat (feeling the cold again, the laugh again) and taking the papers. He read them once, quickly. They outlined everything the good captain said. "How long is the probationary period, and how long on average will I serve for? I'm in this for the long haul." He added, by way of explanation.

He wasn't a fool. He knew that most armies sought out Mercs on a short-term basis. But if there were a way he could angle so that he'd be with the Aschen - rise up their ranks - he'd never have to stop fighting.

And he longed to continue fighting. It kept the laughter away. He withdrew his own pen and scrawled his signature on the dotted line.

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Jonathan slid the papers back over to the captain, and opened the crate, eagerness in his movements. His own gear was a custom Halycron Breathing Rig, but it was loud, slow, and unwieldy. Plus, if he were to be engaging in planetary combat, there wasn't much call for that kind of armour. He wondered what exactly they had in store for him.

When the lid slid off, he let out a slow whistle. "Very nice."

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"I'll say. Can't wait until the year's up." Jonathan nodded eagerly. He had always been a tech junkie, and this was basically christmas for the young ex-pirate. "Very, very nice." He muttered, placing the lid back on carefully. "When do I start?" Meaning, when do I get to put it on.

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Jonathan's heels snapped together, his hand coming up in a snap of a salute. The Militaman in him recalled all these manoeuvres easily and quickly. With a serious expression, Jonathan nodded. "Yes sir." He barked.

With a turn, he left, the crate in his possession, Duffel over his shoulder.

The setting changes from tech-con-terran-headquarters to Taylor's Bar

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A soldier's work was never done, especially when it came to using up his shore leave on cheap drinks and cheaper thrills. Still, he was thankful that he didn't have to hump gear any more; at least, for a little while.

The unkempt blonde-and-blue walked into the bar sporting his classiest; a bomber jacket, jeans, and loafers. The joint was far too high class for his regular tastes, but he didn't know anywhere better to blow three months of pay than a place with slots and cards. Hell, maybe an eager body to warm his bed at night.

Hell, he thought, glancing the hot redhead next to Tony's figure. Maybe he wouldn't even have to pay for it.

Giving the woman a quick, easy grin, the soldier leaned against the counter, wagging his eyebrows at the tender.

"You're sure as shit a sight for sore eyes. I'll take three fingers, no ice. Top shelf; I could die next week." Again with the smile. Turning towards Pepper, his grin widened even further.

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Jon grinned. "Sayin' yes when I didn't even ask you anything? You must be the trusting sort. It's okay, though; was just going to ask for an extra napkin. Or your name. Whatever's easier."

He tilted his head. "I'll start. My name's Jonathan."

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Jon raised his hands, leaning backwards. "Woah now. I wasn't looking to buy; if you think someone could purchase a beauty like you on a meagre Soldier's salary, you got another thing coming. And I'm an engineer, not a soldier - I've barely even held a gun in my life."

Okay, that was untrue. Still, combat engineers were far and away from the typical jarhead. Though it was hard to say who put up with more shit.

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Every time he walked through these doors, he always had a distinct sense of "You don't belong here." Almost like those old movies, where the poltergeist would be howling "Goooo awaaaay" at the hapless group of teenagers as they partied and smoked up and generally acted like riff-raff. The suit that clung to his body was too small - borrowed off of an army buddy that had been nice enough to let an old friend-slash-drifter crash on his couch. They had told him that they were going to treat him, let him relax a little bit, ease back into a normal life.

But then Jake had come down with a hard case of the shits, Joey had hooked up with a girl at the bar area, and Mike had to take Jake home before his wife got there. So, Abel was going it solo.

Fine by him.

A toothpick sat in his mouth, rolling from side to side of his curved lips as he observed the surroundings. His left hand trembled noticeably, no more than a controlled, nervous shake, but still noticeable from quite a distance. The doctors said that with time and exercises, it would heal. So far, the doctors were full of shit.

He should go home. He shouldn't blow the last of the Army's paychecks. He shouldn't even be here.

But here he was.

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The soldier's observations of his surroundings were interrupted by the sudden boot being fed to the doors. Even the retrofitted wood, once heavy barn oak and made even heavier due to security measures, creaked and groaned as they flew backwards, smacking into a football-player type, making him spill his light blue, frilly drink. The man whipped around to protest, but stopped dead when he noticed the little firecracker of a woman. Abel could almost hear the man's jaw crack as he stared.

Abel'd be dishonest, however, if he said his own mouth didn't need a little closing, as well. Abel was many things, but a liar he was not.

He smiled slightly as he gazed at her, his eyes lazy and unabashed over the rim of his glass, the beer suddenly feeling ice cold as he appreciated her figure. A man was allowed to look, after all, and for a soldier fresh from hell (not to mention the war) she was definitely a thirst quencher. Setting the mug down at his table, he straightened slightly, putting both hands in his pockets as he turned to fully face her.

She was a ways across the bar, but she was by far the most interesting person in it.

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A tug at Abel's lips was all the expression he showed when she sauntered over to him, casual as you please. She had an entire "Don't fuck with me unless I ask you to" kind of vibe to her, something that oozed fire. And really, you didn't say no to a forest fire. You let it rage and fume, consuming everything around it. Without a word, he grabbed the mug and extended it towards her, letting a corner of his mouth arch upwards in a slight smile.

"I was," he said, simply. "Trade you a name for my beer."

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The soldier shrugged, idly. "I'm sure you could come up with something." He said, leaning against his own stool with folded arms, pressing his trembling hand in between arm and rib, holding it there. He silently willed it to stop shaking, and was unsurprised when the quaking continued, unhindered. Glancing her over briefly, on some level insanely happy that he was no longer drinking alone, he flagged down another beer from a passing waitress, utilizing his good hand.

"So. What on earth brings you to this place?"

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The soldier shrugged, watching her as his own brew appeared before him. He raised his eyebrows at her as he took a sip, luxuriating in the taste of the alcohol for a bit, before getting around to answering her question. "For me, it's simple, but similar." He muttered, rubbing at his chin while keeping his quivering hand in his lap.

"Was out of town for a while, figured I'd stop by and see what was up here when I came back. Dropped in on a few friends when they were headed out, and they got me the monkey suit." He tugged on his bow tie with a single digit, to accent his point. "Here I am. Voila. Far too stuffy for me, though."

He took another sip of his beer, looking back out into the crowd.

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Abel smiled a little at her, cocking his head slightly. "Monkey suit. Tuxedo. You're kind of in a high class place, you know. I heard that once, an Aide came here to gamble away taxpayer money. We're talking high rollers, people who apparently get off on having clothes that suffocate each and every orifice on your body. More to the point,"

He looked around, and then leaned closer to her, carefully concealing his hand under the table, avoiding her question. "Is the fact that you haven't asked my name supposed to hurt my feelings, or is that just an unintentional faux-pas on your part?" He gave her his own impish grin, his voice lowering by a few octaves, grey eyes sparkling.

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Abel frowned slightly as she spoke to him in sudden different language - though he had to admit, she did make it sound good - the shock making him lean backwards a bit. He fumbled in the back of his mind for any word that would be familiar. He had had some training in German, but he'd never really had the chance to brush up on it, he went to war so early. After racking his brain for close to a couple of seconds, he smiled slightly.

"I'm afraid I don't speak French, no. But my name is" Staff-Sergeant Jonathan M. "Abel. You can call me Abel. It's a pleasure to meet you, Deja."

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"Yeah. Definitely wasn't my decision, let me tell you that. I prefer a bar where the people aren't required to suffocate to enjoy themselves." Downing the rest of his beer, he ordered another with a tap of two fingers on the countertop. "Friend knows a guy who knows a guy who got us in for free. Something like that. Though, it never occurred to me to just... kick down the door."

He gave her a half grin. "Clever of you. So, Deja. What do you do for a living? I mean, besides beat up entranceways."

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Abel nodded. "Aaah. A self-made woman. I like that."

He grinned at her from over his glass, thoroughly enjoying the way the night developed thus far. "Where are you from? You have an interesting dialect to your speech. West of here?"

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Kamala was certainly right about one thing. The man who was chasing him certainly wasn't Lucius Kane. But, according to his employers, Jon was the next best thing.

He was seated, cross legged, in a small cube hovering above the bar where the young soldier had walked into, his ears covered by giant headphones. He had his chin in his elbow, quietly listening to the conversation going on below, albeit the quality was faint, staticky. The file on Kamala, when he was identified by Jon's employers, had listed a few interesting people of note, places he'd turn to, money he'd mooch. Taylor's bar had a list of priors a mile long as being a hotspot for people to go when hurt, in trouble, or a combination of the three.

These facts, and the dumb luck of ATM cameras catching snippets of Kamala's path, were what led to Jon sitting in the camoflaged box, eavesdropping on the target, and eating Cheetos.

"Guy --- --- me's gun. I don't know if the --- coming. Wasn't --- back."

"Take off ---- pants."


Jon couldn't help but grin, writing something beside the current bar owner - Elizabeth Fern's - photograph in red ink. The channel was useless, meaning he'd have to get in there soon enough. Checking his revolver for rounds, and ensuring that his active invisibility belt was functional, the bounty hunter gingerly replaced the headphones on their wall hook, opened the hatch, and dropped out on the ground below.

Consulting his blueprints of the place in his neural HUD, Jonathan Abel began moving towards Ms. Fern's bedroom.

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Jon placed a small, spiderlike device on the outside of Taylor's bar, pressing a button in the center as the device latched on, revving up into a steady rhythm. After a second, a small drill erupted from the device, piercing the locking mechanism on the door, emitting a low pitched squeal that was far too loud for Jon's liking. He waited until the lock was obliterated, pieces of metal littering the floor, before swinging the front door open and closing it behind him. He ignored the debris; his wasn't the place to worry about the collateral fallout of breaking and entering.

He glanced towards the blueprints once more, frowning. There was no real way to tell where the target was located, and so Jon picked a door at random, easing it open and slipping inside. He put a foot on a staircase, evidently leading somewhere, when he heard something both horrifying and beautiful.

Grimacing at the sounds of distress that reverberated, muffled, through the place, Jon reversed direction and began heading for the source of the noise.

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There were a few ways to play this, Jon figured. He knew that, regardless, he'd be nailed for breaking and entering - hell, he'd gladly accept that charge - but he didn't want to start out on the wrong foot, despite sneaking about this place like a thief in the night. If anything else, he'd needed to undo the damage that Kane's visit no doubt had done to the poor boy.

He de-cloaked quickly, his form-fitting black suit emphasizing the muscular build of the man, the suit wrapping around his head and chin, much like a diver's. He lifted his knuckles to the door, pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts.

He knocked quietly. "Mr. Ainsley?" he called, "Please do not run. We have the building surrounded. I'm here to discuss something with you, and after I'm finished saying my piece, you may leave unharmed."

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Jon didn't fidget, didn't move, didn't breathe other than to wait patiently for the okay to come in. After some time, he spoke again.

"Mr. Ainsley, I'm here representing the company of men that confronted you in Gambit's bar some time ago. You hit one Mr. Sanderson across the head with a bucket." He paused to let the absurdity of that sink in, shaking his head slowly, "Mr. Sanderson isn't pressing charges, nor does he have any intention of coming after you. He understands your position. In case your mind was ill at ease regarding that, you can put the matter to rest."

He ran his fingers through his hair, slipping back the hood of his suit with a sigh. "This would be better done if I could come in, Mr. Ainsley. Ms. Fern can stay, as well."

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Jon's eyes met Liz's first, giving her a small, shallow nod. "I broke in. My employers will pay for any damages I've caused upon forced entry, but it was a necessity to get to you where you're most comfortable. We found you through a list of contacts in Mr. Ainsley's personal file; the fact that he came here was a lucky guess."

He turned towards Kamala then, not moving from the doorway. "Mr. Ainsley, I'm afraid you've come across a problem - one that you are not extracted from easily. The woman you met on board the Strifer - one Lucius Kane's ship - is a dangerous being. One that we call an empath."

The large marine glanced between the two, accepting that Liz was there for the duration. "Are you aware of what an empath is, Ms. Fern, Mr. Ainsley?"