Here we go, Judge Eran Tybor

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Fourteen months and nine days since he last served as a Judge in Metropolis City One. Fourteen months and nine days since he’d dispensed the law, pacified the violence and protected the weak. Fourteen months and nine days since he’d lived. 

He’d been so disconnected from his purpose in life, it had been a crushing weight; Judge Tybor had only lived for being a servant of the law. To be raised from such a young age commanded the life of the eventual judges albeit for some the life of solitude and violence comes easier. The simple fact was when he wasn’t serving as a Judge, he was useless in life. Duty and sacrified had compiled his calling, somehow his heart still clung to the vaunted values and beliefs instilled in him during his cadetship. Fifteen years of training didn’t abandon you easily but he’d been rocked thoroughly to his core but when he’d been lost to the tides of darkness that threatened his heart, those values had been his anchor. They’d been what kept him living, kept him fighting in order to return one day as a judge albeit he may never again be the judge he once was.

The harrowing thoughts and memories coursed through his mind as he sat at the end of his bed, set in a grey, spartan room that had a noticeable scarcity of anything portraying life or love. This room, once his fortress of serenity had been converted into his prison after his recovery and rehabilitation. Despite all the mental damage that had been done, the physical scarring remained far, far worse. Not even the most modern of medical procedures had been able to easily fix the mutilated body of the man, at least not without adapting synthetic pieces into the body. All of that seemed a little extravagant for Tybor; besides the scars were a symbol of his pride and servitude to the duty of justice.

Starburst patches of ragged, scarred skin jutted over his stomach and lower back, if one took the time to count they’d find thirteen blotches in total, all of a rather similar size and dimension. That had been when an assault rifle wielding thug had nearly cut him in two with a burst of armour-piercing bullets which shredded his Judge uniform like paper. Not content with filling his stomach with lead; the thugs had continued onward to put bullets in his legs and arms, mainly because their aims had been faltered by the bullets entering their brains. He mainly kept his scars away, society often required a modicum of privacy involving a shirt; but they’d still seen a man tortured by the whims of the world. 

His head was quite noticeably scar-free, a pleasant, almost non-descript face jutted out, a moderate nose, plain ears but dead, grey eyes viewed the world with the manner of a broken soul. Standing up, he couldn’t help but look at himself in the mirror, once again tracing a finger over the contusions in his skin; he was still not used to such a damaged body. He stood at 5’9, with a close cropped patch of brown hair and a medium-set build that once again established the air of averageness about the man; at least until the helmet went on.

He slowly and laboriously donned his Judge’s armour, wincing slightly and readjusting as the once-familiar armour chafed and strained in areas where his body had been warped. Eventually he clambered into a position where he felt comfortable but never as safe as he’d once felt. All that remained was the famous judge’s helm and the golden badge, enscribed with ‘Tybor’ and still bearing the bullet hole nick in the bottom of it; he’d refused to have it repaired as it would always remind him to never go back into the tactical response division. He got caught looking in the reflective black visage of the mask and a torrent of memories came flooding out.

Before he’d been a street Judge he’d been part of the infamous tactical response division, it was mainly composed of the less stable Judges. They act like cowboys and when they went in, they went in hard. They were deployed into the real shitfights, anywhere judges had been pinned down or there were too many armed men were stationed for a normal team. They lived life dangerously and as such recorded the highest casualty-to-mission rating of all the departments, taking out that prize by some margin too. Tybor had once been a reckless member of that division some ten years ago, before he saw the damage it was doing to his life and mind. He became a Street Judge, partnered up with an inexperienced Judge Johnson they’d patrolled the streets and dispensed justice for the better part of 4 years. 

It’d been relatively cosy compared to his past but it was far easier to enjoy; his team wasn’t made up of psychopaths and trigger-happy nutcases and he dispensed far more justice this way. But they’d asked him for one last favour; come back for one mission to help the assault division out. There had been something in the water and they were down a few men, they even told him to bring his partner. A few pulled strings in the hierarchy cancelled that requisition; Judge Johnson was a good street judge but a day on the assault division would have broken her. He’d never let this on, he’d always felt protective of her from their early days and she had a solid career ahead of her.

He’d gone back into that insanity and came out with thirteen slugs in his stomach and four in his arms. Five months of hospital stay, four months of rehabilitation and four months to try and get himself back into the right condition to be a Judge. This lead him to be 32 and basically starting over again as a judge; after 14 months being couped up he’d lost his senses, his instinct and quite possibly his skills as a judge. He snapped himself out of the daze, attaching his badge and carefully lowered the half-face helmet down as he slipped into being a judge once again.
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