[color=007236][b][h1]Sampson Dubois[/h1][/b][/color]

[color=007236]Location: Talon HQ, Los Angeles[/color]
[color=007236]Interacting with: Whoever's on base and cares to talk[/color]

Sampson rolled over, snug beneath his blankets. The key there was blankets, not blanket. Unlike all the soldiers that actually served the cause, the mercenary had learned long ago that having a blanket or two for deployment on someone else’s base was a good way to protect your sleep, and that was one thing he wasn’t living without. 

There was a scratching noise in the distance, then a small clatter. Almost like the sound of metal against stone, just like in Russia when the omnics would try to sneak through the cliffsides...

Sampson’s eyes slammed open, muscle memory kicking his body into motion. No armor, no gear, but he had the pistol. He dove from his bed, rolling on the ground as he came up behind the next row of cots, sidearm at the ready.  It was at this point that a big, black mutt came into view, his claws clacking on the hard stone floors as his tail wagged. There was a leash dangling in his mouth.

A pent-up breath escaped him as he flicked the safety back onto the handgun, laughing to himself as he stood up to scratch Jimmy. The man uttering horrid oaths under his breath, swearing at the animal as warm tones conveyed what he really meant. The pooch tried to lick his face, the dog’s tail slapping his sides.

Jimmy was not a pretty dog, but he was infinitely better looking now than when Sampson had found him. His fur was shiny and smooth, his claws clipped, and he actually had some bulk to him. If made to guess, Sampson would say he probably had a hefty dose of mastiff in him. The smashed face gave it away if the size didn’t. The [i]very[/i] smashed face. In all likelihood, Jimmy had probably been on the receiving end of a car more than once, one eye missing and with several incorrectly healed ribs.

Looking around, the mercenary saw that he was alone in the barracks. Not all that strange, considering it was about noon. With an eleven hour difference between Moscow and Los Angeles, the jet lag was hell. Stretching, he heard his mechanical arm click several dozen times. He tilted his head for a second, making sure they were the same as usual before concluding all was well.

Grabbing the leash from the dog, Sampson looped it around the animal’s neck, scratching behind his buddy’s ears before pulling on his own clothes. Opening up his footlocker, he saw a talon uniform among his other belongings. No rank insignia, no identifying features. Nothing to let the soldiers in his fireteam know who he was. Frowning, he pulled on a pair of grey fatigues he had acquired in Russia and a simple, black tee tucked into his pants. For now, he would have to let his standard armor set him apart on missions. On base, he would wear what he damn well pleased. Jimmy already made him stand out; he may as well enjoy it.

Looking back at the tail wagging the dog, a smile pulled at the corner of the soldier’s mouth. [color=007236]“Well, I figure we can still get us a run in so long as we take care of business beforehand. C’mon, let’s go around and see if I can’t get some gear, eh?”[/color] Jimmy’s eyes brightened at the mention of running, a single woof signaling his approval. Together they set out into the base, footfalls mixing with the same steady clatter that woke him.