Judge Dredd (2012 Version)'s Story

The main enterance of Gambit's Bar opened, and in walked Judge Joseph Dredd. He walked over to the bar, showed his Judge's badge to the Bartender and began to speak.

I'm on-duty, so I won't need a drink. But I do need information. A Yautja was assaulted here by a member of the "Dark Legion" terrorist organization a few days ago. I also heard that the suspect was a woman who had been "killed" in a bombing three years prior. I'm therefore asking for anyone with information on this woman to come forward as she is armed and extremely dangerous. If this woman comes here again, inform the Judge's immediately.

Dredd then looked around, noticing several damaged items in the far right corner of Gambit's Bar. The most visable was the Jukebox that was beyond repair. Psi-Judge Schaefer's report mentioned that the Jukebox was damaged in the attack when the Yautja was thrown into it.

Walking up to the Jukebox, Dredd noticed a note on the Jukebox. He looked at it:

To whichever Judge finds this first,
We know you've been onto us for the past year. We know that the end is near. But it won't be for the "Dark Legion". We make our own futures. And yours will end soon.
J.K.

Dredd pulled out an evidence bag and placed the note in, knowing that the forensic division could determine if Janet Kais had actually written the note, or if it was some prankster who had decided to cash in on the "Dark Legion" craze.

Graeme looked thoughtfully at Cassandra and Raphael for a moment. His eyes landed on the money that Raphael was flaunting. The cocky swagger, the over-indulgence, the over-compensation. Graeme couldn’t help chuckling to himself at Raphael’s words, but Cassandra’s words dampened Graeme’s mirth.

“I’m sorry t’hear ya’ve had a bad ‘sperience,” he said solemnly. “In my ‘pinion, ain’t nothin’ better ‘an th’ lights an’ sounds an’ smells of a good carnival atmosphere. Ain’t been to a real carnival in years, but th’ boardwalk is a pretty fun time.” He could tell Cassandra simply wasn’t interested, and he wanted to bow out respectfully without giving Raphael the satisfaction of feeling like he’d won.

“Eh, maybe I would be a bad boyfrien’,” he started, shrugging nonchalantly. “I’d be th’ type to try to replace bad memories rather ‘an tryin’ t’ buy yer time an’ attention. Kinda makes ya wonder why a guy with so much cash is so desperate t’impress ya.”

At that moment, Graeme’s phone rang and he held up a finger, silently thanking a God he didn’t believe in for the excuse to wander away. “’Scuse me,” he muttered, turning from them and answering the phone. “Snale,” he said, pronouncing it “Snah-lee.”

Crap. It was his landlord.

Again.

“Ah! Mr. Jenkins! ‘Ow nice’a ya t’call! Ya musta got my message ‘bout th’ rat I found swimmin’ in m’toilet this mornin’.”

And with that, Graeme wandered away to a quiet corner of the bar, drink in hand, trying to think of a way to get the landlord off the phone without having to promise to cough up dough he didn’t have.

Cassandra felt bad that he had to leave, but turned her full attention to Raphael who was trying really hard to get her attention. "How about watching the sunset on the water here?" she suggested, looking hopefully at him, then at the bar tender, "I'll have a vodka and redbull" she ordered, and took the right amount from the pile on the table, along with a small tip.

Gabrielle glanced up when a figure walked through the door before he walked over to the counter. He spoke about someone being assaulted in the bar a few days ago. She didn't remember that incident, but hadn't exactly been around a lot lately. So, while it could have happened, she wouldn't be any help to him. Shrugging a little, the teen swept her fingers through her hair, pushing the locks out of her face.

"Sorry, no idea what you're talking about. What bombing three years ago?" Gabby queried, brow arching a little before sighing as he walked over to the Jukebox. Sighing softly, she went back to drinking her Mountain Dew and just watched the Patrons silently.

Vincent pushed open the doors to the bar and, without looking at any of the patrons, strode over to the furthest table from the entrance as possible, and sat down, placing his head in his hands, trying to alleviate his splitting headache. He remained like that for a couple seconds, before straightening and glowering around at his surroundings. The place was largely empty, a few clients here and there, and a couple of teens standing by the bar, talking. One guy split off from the other two and started talking animatedly on his phone.
He coughed and snapped his fingers, one by one, as he mentally argued with himself over whether an alcoholic drink would numb his headache or make it worse...he couldn't decide.
As he watched, one of the guys at the bar began to walk towards the jukebox, doubtlessly to play some loud, raucous song.
Vincent rolled his eyes. This is going to work wonders on my headache.

As Dredd zipped up the evidence bag with the note, he recieved a call from his Judge Radio. He answered it.

Dredd here. What's the situation?

Dredd asked.

We've a 10-65 at the Old Slumwalks Theater. I repeat, we've an Armed Robbery/Hostage Situation at the Old Slumwalks Theater. Suspects are armed with Assault Rifles & are holding ten builders with a ransom of 10,000,000 Credits. Several unit's are on-site, with a SWAT team standing by to storm the building.

The Radio Operator replied.

Don't have the SWAT team storm the Theater. They'll get the hostages killed. Stall them for 10 minutes, as I'm on-route. Dredd out.

Dredd said on radio, before placing it into his pouch. He rushed outside, leaped onto his motorbike, and sped off towards the Old Slumwalks Theater.

Vincent watched as a large, colorfully-armored man ran out of the bar, and wrinkled his nose in disdain as the loud growling noise of a motorcycle engine split the air. There was a screeching of wheels, and then the noise was gone. The quiet chatter of the bar resumed as Vincent suddenly felt a buzzing in his left pocket. He rolled his eyes and reached into the over-sized pocket, retrieving an ancient Nokia phone, which he flipped open. A single line of pixelated text stared back at him:

"New grl in twn. snding her ur way. be nice."

Vincent scowled at the name of the sender. Dexter. That idiot happy-go-lucky nephew of his was always sending him people who were new to the Multiverse. He had no idea how Dexter managed to find them, but he found them nonetheless.
He thought about texting a negative reply back to Dexter, but he knew that it was probably already too late. The moron was going to give the girl one of his one-use, push-button teleporters with Vincent's exact coordinates, and zap her straight to him. At this point, there was no escape.
He signed resignedly and leaned back in his chair, waiting for the girl to appear. The idiot hadn't even thought to give him her name.

Molten stared at Meg in silence, picking up the glass of Ambrosia and swirling it around in the cup, looking at the sweet emerald green liquid and the small cubes of ice that bobbed around in the beverage.

"I never told you this, but everything I did to you, while cruel was intended to make you stronger, prepare you to take care of yourself and run the Empire in the event my political influence became threatened, a good emperor needed a strong, but firm right hand; I felt you had betrayed me, and when Kianna came along she pushed the right buttons, and I sent the state after you." Mollem said calmly, before turning to a waiter and asking the channel on the TV be changed.

The television was changed to an Aschen media channel, and the timing couldn't be more right, as the colorful Judge walked into the bar asking information, the Aschen News anchor was seated next to a portrait of Mollem.

"... The Ministry of Law is offering a two hundred and fifty thousand cubit reward, for information leading to the arrest of Arch-Traitor Mollem McGregor... And now Jimma with sports..."

Mollem grimaced and turned to ignore the television set, watching some kind of new Authority figure. The Aschen Empire never recognized any laws beyond its own, and that often lead to tense international relations and even outright conflict.

"Someone is eventually going to come for me, I won't expect you to do anything to stop them, I'm glad you're doing moderately well; Elise." He said, after some odd sense of clarity.


He looked at the Judge one more time with disdain, and then turned back to Meg. "Since when did cops here start looking like freaks."
---

Raphael merely shrugged, before he ordered himself a Leonis Estates aged whiskey, another popular Aschen drink.

"Here, huh? Anywhere in the Galaxy and you want to watch the sunset here." He said, rubbing his chin.

"I can do that."

He always had a way with women, whether it was flashing cash, or offering to give them a ride in his ship, he always seemed to be able to land them, except the one he truly loved.

Meg sipped her drink and realized that she should probably slow down with the alcohol. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to keep them from shaking or balling into fists or fidgeting, but the alcohol was starting to go to her head. That was the last thing she wanted. In this situation, with this man sitting in front of her, Meg needed a clear head. His presence alone was making it hard enough for her.

She eyed the TV, watching with interest as the anchor announced the reward for information leading to Mollem’s arrest. “They must not want you too badly,” she quipped, dryly. “It’s only a quarter million.”

At his comment about the Judge, Meg glanced over. “Haven’t they always?” she asked. “And when did people in Gambits actually stop fighting at the request of security? Especially being a teenage girl?” She shook her head. “I haven’t been here in years. It doesn’t feel like the same place. I remember the first time I walked into this bar…” Meg trailed off, lost in the memories of another person, another time. “It was so dirty.”

Flagging down a passing waitress, Meg requested a glass of ice water. As she went to fetch the requested beverage, Meg studied Mollem intently. “You’re something, you know?” she chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re justifying your cruelty. You intended to make me stronger? You were grooming me to be your right hand? And then what? You threw me away. Sent the state after me. Sent that woman after me. You tried to have me killed. Wanted me executed. All because I fell in love with someone else.” The waitress returned with the water and Meg threw back the remainder of the whiskey before handing off her other glass and shaking her head at the offer of another. She needed to be clearheaded. When the waitress left again, Meg turned to Mollem. “If you weren’t in the position you’re in right now, you’d have me hauled away, tortured and executed, wouldn’t you? If you still had your power, your home, your money, your job, you’d have me erased. Wouldn’t you?”

Meg lowered her eyes to the water, wrapping one hand around the glass and toying with the straw with her other hand. “The only thing stopping you is the fact that you’re wanted, isn’t it? That nobody would follow your orders? That you’ve lost your credibility and your power?” She jutted her chin up to the television which was now playing a recap of the latest Pyramid game. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t turn you in? One reason I shouldn’t just kill you right here and end it all?” Despite the threat in her words, it was clear that this was not meant to be a threat. Meg was genuinely curious. She flattened her palms on the table. “Are you still too good to apologize?”

While his landlord screamed in his ear about something or other, Graeme stood off to the side of all the action and mini-conversations taking place within the bar. He scanned the groups of people – Cassandra and Raphael, the crazy raptor voodoo chick and the psychotic man that had threatened him earlier, the weird Judge guy and the teenager who seemed to run the place, the lone man sitting by himself.

He glanced at the television briefly as his eyes roamed the room. He was already looking at something else when what he had seen on the television registered with him. He looked back, reading the subtitles as he stared at the image of the man on the screen. And then his eyes flicked down to the man who had flipped out earlier – the man who had pulled a weapon on him earlier – and then back up to the television. Two hundred fifty thousand?

“Uhhh,” he uttered, the noise cutting his landlord off mid-sentence. “Jenkins, I gotta call ya’ back. Business ‘portunity just knocked.”

Without waiting to see what, if anything, Mr. Jenkins had to say, Graeme hung up. He remained where he was - across the bar from the pair - sipping his drink, watching the pair and imagining (and rejecting) various scenarios in which he would be able to capitalize on this fortuitous coincidence.