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    1. Vordak 10 yrs ago
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Current In Soviet Russia we kick American Capitalist until they turn Red
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In Soviet Russia we kick American capitalist until they bleed
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Triborg or Johnny main?

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Beanbag? The two words slapped together made for something Quebra was ignorant of, but he reckoned that as long as the 'bag' part of it held true, a soft projectile splaying out on impact would be an easy catch for his liquid shock-absorptive coating.

With Rook introducing himself, the wrestler too, prepared himself for a round of banter, eager to both chafe his opponent's spirits with an abrasive taunt and reinforce his own confidence by play to the crowd - but this train of thought was abruptly derailed as an alarm sounded off in his head, eyes capturing the rapid motion of the descending two barrels.

Almost a knee-jerk reaction, Quebra pulled his body away from line of fire, hind foot sliding backwards and torso leaning away. He was only so fast, however: with a loud snap, the bullet whipped against his stomach, tearing up an inch wide gap in his armor just to the right of his navel and ricocheting off, having met its target at a steep angle. The area surrounding its impact went hazy with fractures, his defense slightly compromised already, and lest he wanted to waste all his resources early, he'd have to be patient with patching it up.

Without even looking down, he made a quick assessment of the damage by momentarily flexing his stomach - and the mellow prickling his muscle responded with told him that the damage was superficial, making for a faint bruise at worst. Still, another hit to the same spot would make for tenfold the pain, now that it was stripped of protection, so first things first, he moved the discus-wielding arm to cover it up.

Thing seemed to be looking up for Quebra: the threat of getting gunned on spot was gone, and instead, an opportunity to shake the rust off appeared; one with an audience to to awe, no less. In which case, it'd be unbecoming of him to hesitate. All cards were laid out for him to start off strong and keep rushing in - until Rook somehow proved it'd be a bad idea to do so.

A brief second of hesitation, during which the wrestler further turtled up with a thick layer of porous glass bleeding out to cover the outside of his forearms, together with the back of the hand. Leading arm's fingers were raised up to cheekbone level; right arm stayed guarding its side of the stomach. With this final touche added, Quebra set himself into motion, quickly picking up to a brisk jogging pace as he dashed towards his opponent, keeping the same bladed stance, right foot staying behind the left. Focusing on nothing in particular, but keeping an eye out for any signs of Rook adjusting his aim; light on his feet and holding back from kicking into high gear.

It was a cautious, yet sternly bold approach at the same time, the wrestler's action boastfully implying he found no reason to fear his opponent yet.

No need to tone down Rook, i'm fine with the fight itself; and if you're willing to continue, then i'll won't back down either. Have to give this another shot at least before i give up, so regardless, expect another post from me within the next couple hours - if not, shame on me.
You said it might end up being a role reversal.

Yeah sure, I can use the practice anyway. It could be a role reversal if you end up playing something a bit more like Sigurd, because I must confess my new character was a little inspired by Gigue.


It did not. ;(
Not once in the two months of his travel had he fought for an audience, and returning back to the scene had him consumed by anticipation since he set his foot out the motel's door. Reminiscing his past fights in the ring and cherry-picking the moves he wanted most to perform on his opponents tonight - preferably, something with an oomph, a high-octane bone-busting crowd pleaser - Quebra failed to notice his would be assailant, up until the point when his train of thought was rudely interrupted by the bellowing rumble of Rook's voice.

Rather than stopping immediately, he gradually slowed his steps down from his brisk powerwalk towards a halt. Within the few moments this took him, Quebra snapped himself out of the sudden stupor, and the next second, was already diving into action: the distance from which the voice came was grounds enough to make the first few decisions of the fight.

It'd be far more rational to avoid the conflict, perhaps even run. Nobody was going to pay him to fight Rook, but the risk of being injured - well, it was directly implied in his assailant's words. With a dire need for money and time running short thanks to him taking this detour to Mekkina after all, all efforts were best saved for brawling in the ring, earning a quick buck and proceeding on towards his goal, all for the price of gagging pride just on this one occasion.

Such reasoning only seemed natural in Quebra's position; his thinking was different, however. Seeing this as a string of foul fate woven into the thread of his life by the Moirai, the champion took it not an aggregate of unfortunate circumstances, but as a spit in the face from the higher forces themselves - a challenge to overcome in order to once again triumph as a man of his own will. The man calling out to him, threatening to ruin any chance the wrestler had left in getting to Khaerros in time - he was but the inherent malice of the world given physical form, same as any other mortal, becoming a puppet to its laws. Quebra would be defiant in standing his ground.

Turning in Rook's direction, the wrestler took a bladed stance, left side to the fore, narrowing his profile to provide a smaller target, should an exchange of projectiles occur, and started pumping out his liquid armor, covering all but lower arms and face, the transparent ooze bleeding over even onto his clean-shaved scalp, compensating for his current lack of head gear. Afterwards, he'd start preparing his offense too - attached to the inside of his right forearm, a few sprouts of crystal would begin forming into a sharp-edged disc, Quebra picking second-grade quality for a balance between mass and timeliness.

As he performed all of the above, his eyes locked onto the man cockily promising him punishment, Quebra curious to see what made him so confident about beating down a master of the craft. Unfortunately, what he saw wasn't reassuring: a hulk of a man taller and bulkier than him - which would be a nuisance of its own already - wielding a shield, paired, worst of all, with a firearm. Familiar with the concept, he responded with snark to the mercenary's words: "Not here to kill me? Fancy hearing that from a man with a gun." It wasn't to just exchange banter, however - the response he was trying to illicit could clarify whether it was lead loaded in the barrel, or something a notch less lethal. If not, then there was one more thing that could be telling: someone who only needs to bruise their target up would only even aim a gunshot for the feet if it has the potential to kill; if the merc aimed higher, then either he was lying about his intent, or the rounds weren't metal after all.

The battle hadn't started just yet, tension slowly edged towards an adrenaline-pumped plummet; and the breaking point Quebra was waiting for would be the moment the Rook dropped the gun off his shoulder. Then, they'd both be safe to say it had begun.

This trip bode trouble the very moment his sponsors ceased their support.

His ascension in power slow, but steady, Quebra Carolos, the reigning champion of his country's sport - Pankration - decided it was time to move on to something bigger. News of the Gaian Combat League's second season caught his eye, and the footage from its first iteration only sparked his interest further. The wrestler was adamant to go; his sponsors no less determined to have him stay in the local scene, where his dominance brought them large and reliable income, career planned out already for the next couple years.

After being stripped of almost all his earnings through court - petty revenge for breaking the contract - he was now left with barely enough money to make the trip, and only a matter of months to do so, crossing multiple borders and trekking through empires of planetary scale. The means to do so were there, but without anyone backing this trip, he had to pay, plan and and do all the paperwork himself.

And naturally, he found at times that it was easier to deal with on the illegal side of things.

So far, so good, however - even the occasional altercation, he managed to resolve. One particularly bad and still recent instance of messing with the crime involved Quebra punching, suplexing and putting face down into glass a group of border pass forgers, then proceeding to run off with a heap of incriminating paperwork.

How did that happen? Simple enough: it only took so long until his pocket started running dry on money, which exposed the vulnerable underbelly of his ego to snark and jeering on topic of his failed career and withdrawn sponsorship at a most crucially inconvenient time. He had endured it for long enough, and was even certain at the time he could take more, just for the sake of getting done with it sooner, but when suggested by one of the forgers that he do some 'wet work' for their boss and 'put the muscle to use', as means for paying for the favor, the only reply even possible form him was, of course, that he would never let himself be "subordinate to a mere criminal".

Word for word, action for action, and he ended up fleeing, partial evidence of their extensive illegal activity on hands so that they would consider twice before filing charges for assault against him, engaging the law in an attempt to prevent Quebra crossing the border. Whatever other underhanded methods they may employ, he was certain it'd be nothing he couldn't handle - and by the time they got desperate enough to put him through some real trouble, he would have slipped out of their grasp already.

And so it happened, for the most part, the wrestler by now closer to Khaerros than ever, with said documents having been dumped just a couple minutes away from a border checkpoint, Quebra unwilling and finding no need to trouble himself with somehow carrying them through.

However, the snotty forger chap had been right about one thing: Quebra needed to do work and earn some change. With this in mind, he took a detour, having weighed his options and picked out of them all the city of Mekkina: the local haven and melting pot for all kind of cutthroats, mercenaries, private quasi-military organizations and the like, it's position near a cosmic transport nexus guaranteeing a crowd pieced together from a myriad places.

And where there were mercs, there was underground fighting: a long-lived tradition and flashy way to advertise oneself for the mercenaries and a way to make a quick buck for Quebra himself. Not that any of his opponents would refuse money, but a heavy pocket is all the wrestler wanted from this endavor, the reputation earned being a moot point for him.

Though reluctant to admit it, he knew that he was a nobody to the locals, so he wouldn't squeeze himself into the big leagues if he were a greased wedge. This meant having to resort to some of the more shady places, one of which Quebra was already on his way towards. Late evening, air chilly against his nigh naked body, his path was barely lit by the couple lampposts dotted here and there - those were fewer in the city's outskirts. Ahead of him he was a stone-paved square, one of the landmarks he was looking out for on his way. A couple dozen more yards, and he'd get the full view, squat and huddled houses out of his vision's way.

The wrestler walked onward, dry clapping of crystalline feet against cobblestone marking his approach; absentmindedly adjusting the strap of his sling-bag with all the documents and money left from his travels, he watched the house opposite him inch closer and closer with every step, anticipation of battle welling up in his chest as boiling milk running out the pot, nurturing a nervous excitement.
The arena is a small, 50x50 meter plaza with a broken-down fountain, two benches and a couple trees in the middle; a total of 3 food vendor stalls are dotted around the outskirts. The plaza is at a crossroads, three streets branching off of it.

Additional detail will be negotiated/added upon request.
No interest in fighting myself yet; just lurking.

AFAIK, the ranking system is disabled by default.


Combine with gravity guy to give curveball projectiles, homing, grappling gun mobility and all around good shit, give wave/gale style attacks for defensive offence, make 'em chainsaw fireballs actually hot.
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