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.

[hider][b][5/10 to 6/10 Ki] (+1)[/b][/hider]