Jason Redfield (Vanguard)


Gender: Male

Kit: Normal

Location: Atlanta, Georgia


Alignment: Hero

Team: The Angels of Mercy


Strength: standard (rank 1)

Agility: standard (rank 1)

Mind: standard (rank 1)

Body: standard (rank 1)

Spirit: (rank )

Charisma: (rank )


Fame Points: 553

Personal Wins: 49

Personal Losses: 20

Team Wins: 0

Team Losses: 0

Tourney Wins: 0

Tourney Losses: 0


Status: Active

Jason Redfield

The ten-year-old boy sat at the bottom of the stairs, listening to the voice of the police officer as he spoke to his father.

"...sorry for your loss," the voice of the officer spoke up.

Jason's father said nothing. Although the boy could not see actually see his face, he knew exactly what it looked like. A stoic expression to anyone who didn't know the man, unblinking, mouth clenched tight. But under that layer -- in the eyes, was a feeling of... despair. Loss.


In fact, he might have thought the feelings he was envisioning at that moment were his own.


The Redfields exited the cemetery. Rain was pouring down in torrents as they exited the wrought-iron gate. Jason's older brother kept his head hung low, eyes on the ground. His father walked straight, unfaltering. His back was straight, his feet straight. His head looked straight ahead as he marched, the hand of Jason's younger brother held in his hand.

Jace approached his father as they exited. "Dad," he said, quietly.

The man turned to look at him, saying nothing.

"I still want you to teach me, Dad," Jason pressed.

"The answer is no. Don't mention this again," his father warned, before he turned and continued walking.

"You were a soldier. I know you can teach me. Or do you want what happened to Mom to happen again?" Jason spoke with the authority beyond his years.

His statuesque-father visibly flinched at the mention of his wife. His head rotated slowly to look at his son. No... past him. At the grave that held his the woman he loved. His teeth clenched as he stared at the site for what seemed like hours.

"If I do this... if you agree to this, Jason... this is serious," he spoke painfully slowly.

The adolescent returned his father's unblinking gaze. "I know."


The 17-year old walked in to his father's study. The former Marine sitting at his desk turned to examine the paper his teenage son had just placed in front of him.

Jason's father said nothing as he stared at the United States Marine Corps recruitment papers.

Finally, he broke the silence. "No."

Jason frowned. This wasn't the answer he had been expecting. "Dad--"

His father shook his head. "No, no, no."

"But, everything you taught me..." Jace started.

The man sprang from his chair, whirling around to face his son completely. "To protect yourself! To keep you from ending up like your mother, Jason! Not to go off on some crusade to get yourself killed!"

He planted his finger forcefully on the stack of forms. "I will not sign this." His voice was even. Determined.

Jason was silent as the two stared at one another for what seemed like forever.

"You're a coward," Jace said.


"You're selfish. You don't want to lose someone else, the same way you lost Mom. You trained me these last few years, and now that I know what I want do with my life, now that I can do some good in the world, you turn me down. All for you."

That's when the real shouting began. It went on for nearly an hour. Finally, there was another uneasy silence. Several minutes later, Jason left, signed papers in hand and a duffel bag over his shoulder.

The father stood in the doorway, watching his son walk out of the house. A single tear rolled down his face as Jason opened the front door, only to turn and look over his shoulder at his dad. Then he walked out, slamming the door shut.


Jace walked through the empty parade ground of Camp Lejeune, reflecting. The past ten years had brought many things to his life. The training his father had given him had come in handy, and was supplemented by that of the Corps. At times in Iraq and Afghanistan, he felt like he truly was making a difference -- like he had found his niche. But, he could never shake the feeling that he was missing something.

He felt as if he was standing in an empty room, with writing on the wall behind him. He was staring into a mirror, reading the scrambled message backwards. He desperately wanted to believe that his time in the USMC had allowed him to decipher that message. But the hardest person to fool is yourself.

"Master Gunnery Sergeant?" Colonel Wilkins spoke up.

Jason, in uniform, turned to face him. He immediately switched stance, coming to attention and saluting the officer.

"At ease," Wilkins said.

Jason relaxed slightly.

"You have a visitor in my office," the Colonel spoke with barely-veiled hesitance.

Intrigued, Jason followed Wilkins to his the man's office, who opened the door to show him in. Upon entering, Jason spotted a man sitting in a simple wooden chair at the far corner of the room. The man was probably in his late 30s, dressed in a nondescript suit, with receding brown hair and a set of business-like glasses.

Redfield entered, the Colonel shutting the door behind him before leaving.

"Please sit down," the man spoke up, indicating a chair in front of the center of the room.

Bordering on perplexed, Jason did as he was told.

The man nodded with satisfaction, opening a manila folder. He began reading without looking up at the Marine.

"Master Gunnery Sergeant Jason Lucas Redfield. Born October 14th, 1982 in Atlanta, Georgia. Enlisted June 1st, 1999. This all correct?"

Jason nodded. "It is, sir."

"In that case..." the man closed the folder, leaning forward to shake Jason's hand. "I'm Case Officer Alexander Gates. In case you haven't guessed, I'm a representative of the Central Intelligence Agency."

Redfield nodded again. "Can I help you in some way, Mr. Gates?"

The officer smiled. "I think so, Master Guns. This is no social call -- I'm here to recruit you. I read your file. 4 years in the 1st Marine Division Infantry, 6 years after that in special operations: Force Recon, MSOR, MSPF... it's very impressive. Your list of commendations, badges, and qualifications is simply extraordinary. You are definitely SOG material."

"Thank you, sir." Jason responded.

"Now, we can discuss the specifics later. But if I've piqued your interest..."

The man fished a piece of paper from his briefcase, handing it to Jace.




Jason entered his apartment, tossing the duffel onto the couch and absentmindedly flipping on the TV. This was his "detox" time after a mission, a time to reflect. It was a ritual for him, one that probably kept him sane over the last several years.

Except this night was different. The screams still rang in his mind, no matter how he tried to distract himself. The eyes of the innocent as the bullets and shrapnel tore into them. The shouting match he had with his superiors over his orders... what they wanted him to do in Colombia. All of this still hung freshly in his mind, taunting him.

He stood there, gripping the counter tightly and staring at the far wall of the kitchen.

"...yet another miraculous rescue today in Khazan City. The Sentinels of Liberty and Justice have once again shown their merit when a group of armed men..."

At that moment, a seed was planted in Jason's mind. Was it possible that all along he'd been trying to understand the writing on the wall in the wrong way? Was he simply looking in the wrong places?

He fished his dog tags out from his shirt, examining them for several minutes. Then, he clenched his fists tightly, throwing them against the wall.

All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.

It always had been one of his mother's favorite quotes... and now it rang true through his mind, bringing about a revelation the like of which Jason had never experienced. Suddenly, the writing was deciphered. Jason knew that his destiny wasn't to be a Marine, nor a CIA operative. Though he would never call himself such, fate had decreed that he take the role of a hero.

And so it began.


Jason's mother caressed his face. "You're a good person, Jace. I'm so proud of you... don't ever change..."

"I won't, Mom."


"Damn it, Gates. Just what the hell is wrong with you?! Do you know how many people I just watched die?" Jason exclaimed to his superior.

"They knew the risks," the case officer spoke calmly and evely.

"You know I'm not talking about them. I'm talking about the dozens of people that you just made us accomplices in massacring. What about them?"

"Indeed. What about them? We had to send a message to the rebels, so we did. Besides, it's not like you actually pulled the trigger on any of them, Redfield."

Jason clenched his teeth. "You're right. I just loaded the gun and pointed it in the right direction."

"It's all for the greater good, you know that, Jason," Gates replied with exasperation.

"Is it, now? When you recruited me a couple years back, I thought you'd actually give me what I was looking for. I wanted to make a difference. And if you actually knew me as well as you think you do, you know that I don't compromise for the greater good," Jason's tone was barbed as he spat the words out.

"Jason..." Gates began, hands open to either side.

"No. As far as I'm concerned, you're no better than those rebels." With that, Jason turned to exit the office.

"You walk out that door, Redfield, you'd do well not to bother coming back," Alexander spoke slowly, with a threatening undertone underlining every syllable. "You resigning won't bring back those people, Jason. You know what we did out there today was the logical thing."

Jason paused at the doorway, turning to look over his shoulder. "This is me, walking out. And... maybe so. Maybe it was the logical choice..."

Alexander nodded with satisfaction. Perhaps an asset would be preserved today.

"But it sure as hell wasn't the right one. I'll see you in hell, Gates."



     Marksman: superior (rank 2)


The words of his father filled his mind as he took aim with the M16A2. Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Remember: speed is fine, accuracy is final...

He squeezed the trigger, the rifle kicking lightly in his hands as it sent the bullet downrange.

Marksmanship qualification. Unlike some of the others, Jason hadn't been so nervous. The lessons of his father and of his instructors had honed his skills well.

After the shooting was done, Jason and his drill sergeant were examining his target.

"I'll be damned, Private. We may just make a killer out of you yet," the instructor spoke with a sincerely impressed tone as he tallied up Jason's score. "Looks like you qualified as an Expert, Private. 350 points -- perfect score. Good work."


The woman's screams echoed loudly throughout the warehouse as the masked man grabbed her by the throat.

"Sorry, looks like your luck's run out, darlin'. Your husband ain't paying up. And you're a liability," the man said before pulling a pistol from his waistband.

All around him, his comrades stood, weapons in hand as they looked on. The leader placed the barrel to the victim s forehead, his trigger finger tightening.

He didn't get any further before a hole appeared in the side of his head, blowing blood, skull fragments, and brain matter out the other side. Instantly the body went limp, falling to the ground in a heap.

His comrades panicked, aiming their weapons only to be cut down by relentless, accurate, and deadly gunfire from the darkness. The warehouse became a symphony of echoing gunshots and muzzle flashes lighting up the night. In less than ten seconds, it was all over. Had the woman not been blindfolded, she would have seen a man, clad in ballistic protection, emerge from the darkness, smoking gun in hand.

"It's alright, I'm here to help," Jason said as he reached to untie her.

The blindfold fell away, and she looked upon her rescuer. Speechless, she looked over his shoulder, spotting another armed thug emerging from a side room. Before she could even think to warn the hero, he pivoted on his foot, drawing the Glock and firing two shots from the hip in the space of a less than a second. The criminal fell over with a nary a yell of pain.

Satisfied, Redfield nodded to himself before reloading and holstering the weapon. He could hear sirens in the distance -- his work here was done.



     Piercing Weapon: superior (rank 2)

  • Ranged Attack
  • Multi-Attack


"I know it's not much, but I did the best with what I could get," Daniel's tone was apologetic.

Daniel Henderson was in the business of aiding those that he saw as heroes. Jason Redfield was one such person. Daniel worked for a defense contractor, and as such, was capable of supplying the former Marine with much of the gear he needed.

Jason shook his head. "I can work with this. Thanks."

With interest, Jason grabbed the Glock that rested in front of him. He examined every inch of it -- the specialized sights, the extended magazine, everything. On the table rested a box of 10mm Auto hollow-point rounds.

Jason also handled the modified 6.8mm AR-15, which hosted a variety of attachments, the most prominent of which being the underslung Masterkey shotgun. He looked down the sights, getting a feel for the balance and heft of the rifle before setting it on the table slowly.

Jason also examined the knife, feeling familiar in his hand. The USMC OKC-3S fighting knife and bayonet. High-carbon steel, 8" blade -- one of the best knives Redfield had ever gotten his hands on, in fact.

"Oh yeah, I can definitely work with this..." Jason spoke with a devious undertone.



     Armor: standard (rank 1)


"So this is it?" Jason asked, examining the armored suit laid out in front of him.

"Yep," Henderson replied simply. "Feast your eyes on Aegis."

Jason picked up the vest, getting a feel for it before strapping it on.

"It's so light," Redfield remarked.

"Yeah, it's only in the experimental stage right now, so protection isn't quite what we expect for the later versions. But we've got the lightness and flexibility down pat," Henderson spoke with pride.

"Speaking of which, what exactly can it stop?" Jason asked.

A wicked grin appeared on Daniel's face. "Why don't you see for yourself?"


For the fifteenth time, the pistol bucked in his hands as he fired a round into the vest that had been laid upon a block of clay. Unloading the empty magazine, Jason and Daniel strolled over to examine the vest.

Unstrapping it from its post, Daniel turned the vest over and laid it on the ground. Not a single round had penetrated. Looking at the clay, Redfield saw that the dents were quite small. An idea formed in his mind as he turned the vest back over, drawing a knife and stabbing it down into the garment. Once again, the same result. The tip simply stopped upon meeting the ballistic fiber.

Jason nodded with satisfaction. "Not bad. Not bad at all."


Shaping the Battlefield

     Tactician: standard (rank 1)


Redfield's mind worked rapidly as he scoped out the situation. The forest was filled with the sounds of blanks being fired and soldiers shouting.

Aware that the Ranger School instructors were watching his every move, evaluating him, he made a decision.

"Barnes! Take your fireteam, lay down suppressing fire on their left flank. Adams, you and yours are on point. Draw their fire but keep your head down. Everyone else, stay on my ass! We're hitting their right and moving in!"

The team moved, executing their assigned actions perfectly. Within minutes, the simulated town had been taken, with no casualties throughout the entire platoon.

The Marine spared a look at one of his instructors, who looked up from his clipboard and gave the slightest of nods.

Mission accomplished.


The Vanguard looked over the situation. Khazan City police officers were pinned down by the gunmen, hiding behind their cars and feebly firing their weapons every few seconds.

Jason picked up the fallen police radio, raising it to his mouth. "This is Vanguard. I need you officers to do exactly as I say. I'll get you out of this. In..." Redfield paused. "fifteen seconds, I need you to empty your magazines. Suppress those gunmen. I'll take care of the rest."

After a pause, the radio crackled to life. "Who is thi--" Jason dropped the device, moving into position. The dumbfounded officers did as they were told, albeit at twenty seconds.

Good enough.

The gunmen ducked behind their cover as the intense wall of fire came their way. They never even noticed the figure moving up behind them. As the criminals went to return fire, a voice spoke up. "Hi there."

The first was pistol-whipped in the head and acting as a human shield before he ever managing to turn around. His comrades went to fire at the hero, only to each be cut down by 10mm rounds.

By the time the officers moved in, only bullet-ridden corpses and an unconscious fugitive remained, shell casings littering the ground.