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.

[hider][b][10/10 to 5/10 Ki] (-3; -2)[/b][/hider]