Liliya

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

Error --, Error --, see error code=16724537 --, Error --, recalculating. The synthetic mind had never been programmed on what to do in the event of an all out free for all superstar wrestling extravaganza. There were provisions in place in the case of dragons swooping down from the skies above, zombie apocalypse, alien invasion, Jumanji, but nothing for something like… This. One might think that it could have been expected, Billuh was a notable Gnomish Wrastler after all and it wasn’t out of the question that at some point he might wind up in a bout with a human wrestler of some notoriety, but so many and all at once, seemingly appearing out of nowhere and joining in on the fight faster than they could individually be dealt with? Ones and zeros raced across Billuh’s vision, he thought he might even have seen a two in the mess at one point, running through every possible program, every perceived action and result, nothing fitting the scenario well enough to provide an acceptable degree of certainty on any course of action. Billuh would freeze for but a moment, just as Hornswoggle was doing his little jig and the Undertaker was stunned in sheer pain and utter confusion, seeing and understanding nothing but the numbers.

Too... Many... Wrestlers... Rebooting. Billuh’s slit like eyes opened fully, something usually reserved for the Old and Venerable Gnomish Tradition of Eye Wrastlin’, but the normal glowing blue hue of his robotic ocular implants was replaced by with a blinking mechanical red color usually reserved for electronics in distress. In a single motion Billuh’s right arm would shoot up and outward, attempting to take hold of the Undertaker’s junk and, if successful, a steam port on his bicep would blast forth steaming red mist as he tore down with engine powered force, taking clothing, flesh and organ with him as a second series of steam vents opened on his back, shoulder, and triceps on the same arm, propelling him directly at Hornswoggle and striking toward his face open palmed with the intention of feeding him the Undertaker’s junk. Well, at these speeds and with two hundred pounds of steel heading for the little man’s head, it would be less like feeding him the Undertaker’s junk and more akin to literally putting it through Hornswoggle’s teeth, mouth, throat, spine, and out the back of his head should he happen to land the blow in the first place. If the blow landed according to plan it would certainly shatter the joints and rupture the hydraulics in Billuh’s fingers and wrists, perhaps even causing some damage to his elbow, and impale Hornswoggle upon his right forearm.

Unless physically stopped at some point during these events, Billuh would skid to a stop after plowing through Hornswoggle, the little man’s body still impaled upon his right forearm, pivot and face Gonad. Most of the flesh on the gnome’s right arm would be missing completely, either vaporized by the steam vents or ripped from his metal bones by the sheer force of his punch through the little man’s teeth and bone, his right middle finger would be severed completely along with the first joints of his ring finger and pinky, clearly revealing the steel skeleton and mechanical moving parts beneath, bits of viscera, teeth, and bone from both the remnants of the Undertaker’s softer bits and Hornswoggle’s devastated jaw and spine stuck on and cut into the rest of Billuh’s hand. It would take more than one wrestler at a time to deal with good ole’ Billuh Bob Gnome in this state, and preferably for the wrestlers they’d actually throw some blows rather than stand around like total dick bags getting pummeled one by one by an eighteen inch tall robot. The last time Billuh had faced an error induced reboot he had killed thirteen of his closest friends in a bar. "MOAR WRASTLERS!!"

RAINING BLOOD - Noxx Vs. Donny

Finger on the button Zetan blasters use as a trigger, reticule trained on the hairless ape that would soon join the others in the trash heap, and, “Blam!!” the visceral light which bathed the room fading with the sudden appearance of deafening combustion, the senses of sight and hearing momentarily rendered irrelevant in favor of chaotic imposition. Thinks he’s clever this one, but all rats are the same. Seeking out the darkened corners and using distraction to cover their panicked scurrying from the hunter. For an instant Noxx juggled with the idea of simply firing blind, how far could the monkey move in a mere moment, but, no, there was no need. Let the Earthling hide in the shadows from the monster in the dark. Casually sauntering a few feet over to the nearest row of slot machines from the double doors the Zetan had entered the room through taking advantage of the same distraction as the human no doubt had, Noxx didn’t even crouch or attempt to hide in any more notable way than to take what cover was offered to chest and legs by the standing metallic coin eaters, at least a foot of height left uncovered and peering out from behind the machines.

Why bother? There was no light in the room, nothing to cause the silhouette of the Zetan’s shoulders, neck and head to appear to be anything more than a simple part of the matching row of machines behind the one being used as cover and, perhaps more importantly, camouflage. The blaster was being held just below the peak height of the machine in front of the Zetan presumably out of sight of anyone facing the machines from the opposite direction, being chrome in finish it could theoretically provide enough of a visual signature to give Noxx away though, of course slot machines are also largely chrome and it may simply be overly cautious on the part of the alien, waiting one more moment for the human to turn on a flashlight or start shooting indiscriminately. No? Hide and seek, then? There was an overturned machine in the middle of the twenty foot or so long row of slots Noxx had taken cover in moving away from the doors from which the Zetan had entered, could probably take advantage of it. Convince the human that his pursuer was in this first row, slip over the machine to the row behind it, loop around and move to the poker tables.

It was certainly out of the way, and a misstep on some glass from a shattered beer bottle or broken-in overhead light pane could cause some awkward situations, but the human would have reason to think that the Zetan couldn’t get there without first walking out of the row toward where the body parts had been and, presumably, near to where the human still was. That is, unless he had noted the layout of the machines and tables closely enough to know that one in this row had been tipped over. How observant a hunter this glorified monkey happened to be could make a considerable difference. “Clack, clack, clack,” Noxx tapped on the hard plastic of the machine directly in front of the Zetan using the toe of the heels the alien happened to be wearing in an effort to simulate the sound of knocking without happening to have any wood around, never dropping gaze or the blaster an inch while looking for just where the trash had managed to get off to. “Housekeeping,” the voice the human would hear was nasally, in a register neither feminine nor masculine, toneless, emotionless, and altogether wrong, like something a cheap voice modulator might produce, near robotic, occasionally static sounding, almost inhuman.

RAINING BLOOD - Noxx Vs. Donny

An Eye is on you. Death knells thrice, a cadence of cries, screams of the dying rising and pouring forth, echoing from the bones and rotting ligaments and tendons of the corpse that was the Mojo South Casino, and then... Nothing, but the Eye. The familiar note played out across the universe from time immemorial, always the first and never the last, eternally telling the same old tale like some Faustian pact played out on repeat, doomed to fail from inception and destined to begin anew with each passing of the sun into the void that came after, the note that the predators and creeping, crawling, clawing things of the moon time world share freely between themselves while simultaneously, secretively, selfishly hording it away from one another, guarding the very notion with the lies they make in the light and the lives they take in the dark. The note that says, “I see you,”. Both the most gratifyingly invigorating, and most chillingly terrifying note a hunter in the night can ever hear, the only difference causing the response rendered to the specific individual, and there can only ever be one response, being who happens to be the watcher, and who happens to be the watched.

Noxx hadn’t come here looking for a fight, wasn’t prepared for one either. A good hunter is always prepared, doubly so if they are hunting another predator, and this hairless ape had sliced three of his fellows to bits with razor wire just for the hell of doing it, and maybe to make cleaning up after himself a bit more time efficient, he certainly wouldn’t be going down without putting up a fight for his miserable little existence. Had there been even a few more moments before the human noticed that he was being watched, the Zetan would have ended his life with a push of a button on the side of a blaster and simply thrown what was left of him in with the rest of the garbage before moving on to the next abandoned place. Now they were both standing here like total amateurs, neither with a weapon in hand, Noxx looking at the human and the human keenly aware of it, his pausing in the midst of action having given everything away, that ancient, primal sense of being hunted in the dark by something just as dangerous as the Earthling was dinging like a bell in his lizard brain, and the Zetan knew it.

The lurking moon time terror did not slink out from the shadows, didn’t move or even make a sound beyond slow, steady, speechless breath. If Noxx drew a blaster now and the human turned, drew his own firearm and, presumably he was carrying a firearm because if he wasn’t none of this mattered and was entirely a waste of time considering, and fired the Zetan would come out the victor every time. The human had no idea exactly where this perceived threat was coming from, though he seemed to have a general idea of the doors Noxx happened to be standing just to the side of, and couldn’t possibly know that his threat was a superior lifeform that was carrying technology that would stop the projectiles fired from the ballistic weapons humans seem so fond of in mid-flight while the Zetan returned fire with concentrated bursts of gamma radiation hurling toward the human that, unbeknownst to him was capable of going through most anything a human could possibly happen to be using as armor. The human presumably knew enough to know that he would have to move against an opponent who knew where he was and was potentially aiming on him now, however, and would instead fire while scrambling to cover, leaving too much to chance. Slowly --, dreadfully, drudgingly, damningly slowly, Noxx reached for the blaster and watched, prepared to quickly get to cover if necessary.

RAINING BLOOD - Noxx Vs. Donny

Noxx

“I really never have gotten used to all these extra fingers,
what's a pinky even for? And they’re so damn... stumpy!,”

Basic Information
Full Name: Uthu Bouxaip Uthu Unyp Xichynoxx.
Earthling Alias: Robin Minke Aukes.
Age: One Hundred Eleven.
Meat Suit Physical Age: Twenty Two.
Species: Zetan.
Race/Sub-Species: Green-Yellow Reticulant.
Meat Suit Species: Human.
Meat Suit Race: Caucasian, Dutch.
Class: Alien Pirate Captain.
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral.

Generic Zetan Green-Yellow Reticulant for Reference

Appearance
Meat Suit Height: Six Foot Three.
Meat Suit Weight: One Hundred Forty Nine Pounds.
Meat Suit Hair Color: Platinum, near white Blonde.
Meat Suit Eye Color: Aqua Blue.
Zetan Height: Four Foot Ten.
Zetan Weight: Eighty Nine Pounds.
Zetan Hair Color: Completely Hairless.
Zetan Eye Color: Radiant Radiation Green.

Brief Description
As a Zetan, Noxx was considered to be relatively attractive by the standards of the Reticulant race, of good height and build, with a large cranium, appropriately flared hips, long neck and exceptional finger length, and would have physically met muster for the highly selective breeding requirements of Zetan society. After the splicing process any Reticulant is barred from reproducing, and even upon returning to Zetan society and the physical form of a Zetan will never look or be quite the same, in appearance or genetic makeup. As a, "human," Noxx is something of an oddity. Androgynous is only barely accurate, as it isn't so much a question if the Zetan is male or female, or rather whether Noxx is more masculine or feminine, but that of whether the Zetan is really even all that similar to either gender. Not to say gender neutral, but literally if the Zetan even is possessed of gender whatsoever. The cutting process can only do so much, and general body shape is usually something that cannot easily be altered, leaving the flared hips of the species and not including any sexual organs, or even nipples. Even the flap of skin human men have on their breast is missing from the meat suit grafted upon Noxx. Zetans do not have gender in the same sense of humans, and are technically more closely related to plants than your typical animal on the planet Earth.

Long platinum blonde, near silvery-white hair falls to the Zetan’s mid back when not pinned up, styled with uneven bangs and layers for days, probably by some five hundred dollar a session stylist named Juan Juan but pronounced, “Juh-ooh-ahn,” for no apparent reason in Beverly Hills somewhere, with gleaming aqua eyes almost more turquoise than blue, legs for days exaggerated by the Zetans insistence on hugely ridiculous Versace four inch heels and knee high go-go boots, always leather of course, with curves that seem altogether wrong for any human, neither feminine or masculine, and altogether oddly near rectangular from bust to waist before becoming clearly pear shaped at the hips. Slender build, though with thighs more thick and arms and fingers longer and more thin than one might expect given the rest of the Zetan’s features or those of a normal human with such a build, with a bit of a distended stomach less pronounced given the extra bulk of a human than it is on a Zetan though not unnoticeably so, and facial features neither notably feminine or masculine, pretty though not soft featured by any means, with a slight, only barely noticeable hint of something like a prominent Adam’s apple, and has neither a belly button or finger prints, though Noxx almost always wears gloves anyway.

Personality
Noxx is something of a traditionalist among the Zetans, coupled with an unconventional and uncharacteristically rebellious streak that has a penchant for leading to awkward situations and alienation from the average sheep like Reticulants. A human poacher and literal alien abductor, despite the majority of Zetans along with their governing officials having decided that humanity and the Earth were off limits after the, what translates from Green-Yellow Reticulant to English as, “incredibly, near unbelievably fucked up fuck up,” or as humans know it the Roswell Incident, Noxx is of the belief that humans are simply weird monkey creatures from some backwater planet that can barely get out of its own atmosphere, who may as well be captured and experimented upon or sold to the highest bidder if it nets a profit, quite like how humans look at chimpanzees. Not necessarily any more a villain to Zetans than a human who hunts whales or captures chimpanzees to sell to cosmetics research facilities and zoos would be to their fellow humans, this nonetheless causes the idea of the Zetan to be a somewhat frightening concept to normal human society, that is if they knew of the alien lifeform walking and hunting among their number.

Just as a hunter feels little if any remorse when they tag a deer, and more likely feel a satisfied sense of a job well done and a sated urge for blood if only until next weekend, Noxx does not look at humans any differently than your average person looks at an animal. It isn’t that the Zetan hates humans, or even looks upon them as anything less than any other animal; it is simply that they are, well, animals. Something people who belong to a higher class of being pay for the privilege to hunt, and capitalize upon what resources they can take from them, be it hides, meats, bio-material, or use as an exhibit in zoos or test subjects in research labs. The Yautja seem to understand this, they've been using the strange monkey people for sport for millennia, and they're uncouth barbarians, the Mongols of the civilized universe. Noxx is simply of the belief that things were better a hundred years ago, before the, "proper," Zetans forgot who they were and decided to spend actual resources, Zetan tax payer credits, to try and protect some monkeys just because their livers go for a small fortune in Reticulum. Hell, a hundred years ago Zetans were talking about invading the planet and colonizing it for themselves. Whatever the Zetans have become, Noxx hasn't wanted any part of it for decades.

Some Clarifications on Zetans and Alien Abduction
Some of the more, “paranormal,” abilities attributed to alien abductors are actually attached to their ships, not to the living beings or personally carried technology. Phenomena such as time skips and sudden disappearances and reappearances are considerably simpler than all that, though impossible to achieve without a medium sized vessel powerful enough to exert the kind of energy output required. What actually occurs during these seemingly incredible events is a ship pulls up and activates a large inertia suppression field, no different than those used as personal and site-specific deployable shielding, simply stopping the movement of anything not itself equipped with an inertia suppressor. Time continues to flow, and the rest of the world moves on as normal, it is simply that anything in this bubble has ceased movement of any kind. Fifteen minutes may go by, but planes and cars as well as people cease moving, suspended in place and generally unaware of what is occurring around them. Light continues to shine, though gravity is largely suspended allowing for supposed tractor beam like events of people floating up into space ships and the like, simply point and click and people, objects, whatever gain a lesser version of suppression and float around at the whim of the Zetan preforming the abduction. Once they’re done they take off, the suppression field drops, and ships, planes, and people go on as normal, generally unaware of anything except that their watches have inexplicably stopped ticking.

Aliens are not telepathic, and if they seem to be able to hear what you’re thinking or you can hear them speaking to you without actually being present or having their mouths move it is merely because they have put an implant in your head sending and transmitting electrical signals back and forth through what is essentially short wave radio. Humorously, this is actually blocked out by those crazy homeless people tin foil hats, many of whom were actually abducted at one point or another, usually just because a Zetan somewhere was bored and felt like messing up some perfectly normal human. Often these people are targeted again and again for the hell of it; few are clever enough to actually escape detection for long. The practice is, of course, actually illegal in modern Zetan society, though by no means has that stopped the occasional passerby from carrying on regardless, kind of like cow tipping, but if cows had jobs and lives and you purposefully, invisibly marked the cow so that you could keep tipping the same one repeatedly, but without ever being seen by any of the other cows. The cow targeted keeps saying, “Er meh gerd, these weird hairless tall creatures on two legs came and tipped me over, and now they keep coming back every few years to do it again!!” making the cow look a damn fool to the other cows and slowly driving it insane.

So What Can an Alien Actually Do Without a Ship?
Great question! What can a human do without a friendly spaceship in range on a foreign and hostile planet? Well, it isn’t actually supposed to happen. Like, literally ever. Imagine Star Trek people stuck on some dangerous planet full of semi intelligent apes with machine guns and they’re wandering around clearly not fitting in carrying phasers and not much else in the way of weaponry, and their ship is just not there or likely to return for several years. Well, they are probably not going to last very long. However, on the rare occasion that a pair of boots on the ground is actually necessary Zetans do have a system that has proven reasonably successful for short term deployments, splicing. Extremely dangerous, and literally permanently damaging to their DNA and physical bodies, splicing is a process in which the Zetan, while conscious, has every bone in their body broken, human tissue and bone grafted to the broken bits, set, and then rebroken, until the Zetan has enough flesh and bone and actual human DNA forcefully bonded to their system that they look human enough to get by, and will continue to until the process is reversed, an equally painful and damaging process though necessary to reintegrate in any capacity back into Zetan society.

A Splice’s hair and nails grow naturally, their meat suit physically ages at a rate consistent with the species chosen for the splice, and if the job is done professionally they can be made to truly look and, short of actual full round gene testing, for all intents and purposes be that species, human or otherwise. If the job is rushed in the case of a human splice, they will not have human sex organs, belly buttons or fingerprints, and they will have irregular body types, inspection of any even cursory medical degree instantly revealing them to not be a human in any regular sense. Noxx clearly falls into this category. Of course, even the rushed jobs usually performed by unlicensed cut doctors upon pirates seeking to hide from the Zetan authorities in too little time and with too little training for a proper cut job do the trick well enough that, beyond the occasional jeer and shouted vulgarities the Splice in question may not actually look very normal, but they certainly don’t look like something that when seen walking the streets should be accosted with pitch forks and torches by the local villagers, generally appearing healthy if odd in appearance, and not like some Frankenstein’s Monster, or so the Splice hopes for their own sake.

Well That Doesn’t Sound Very Promising
But wait, there's more! Though those poor Zetans who find themselves stranded in an unforgiving, hostile environment surrounded by strange monkey creatures with machine guns would clearly be unable to defend themselves if discovered to be the alien life forms that they are, they are very capable of keeping from being detected and eradicating most random people that they encounter who might happen to find out. All mid-sized vessels carry blasters in both pistol and rifle variations that fire concentrated bursts of gamma radiation which will go through pretty much anything, only really causing as much damage as a typical .44 though exactly accurate to their sights and completely without recoil, the radiation burst traveling through most anything and carrying on for near a mile before dispersing into non-lethal concentrations, known for causing massive collateral damage though designed for emergency use aboard vessels in case the human or whatever population get rowdy, effective against most any organic life form though completely ineffective against the vessels or the material the Zetan space suits are comprised of, simply slipping off of the suits and walls of a ship like water that meets a large rock in a stream, traveling until it naturally dissipates, meant to be useless in the hands of humans or whatever who might get ahold of them while onboard though still completely effective against the unshielded hairless apes.

Additionally, personal inertia suppression devices serve as something of a temporary, generally momentary force field for protection against ballistic weapons and, if swift enough, even some brute force melee attacks. Nothing like the ship borne inertia suppression fields, given the fact that they are small enough to carry and not exactly cold fusion powered, these devices act intelligently, measuring air pressure, velocity, and other variables to detect if and when they should activate, and upon doing so offer only fleeting blips of shielding, bullets and blades simply ceasing to move in midflight. This is enough to let the Splice know something is trying to kill it, of course, and a get out of jail free card from a random sniper's bullet, but nothing else --, active for a moment and only once or twice in any encounter it is then necessary for the Splice to seek out cover and actually engage in an otherwise normal shoot out. Other uses for the device are primarily utility focused, and it can be used to effectively render gravity’s hold on the Zetan irrelevant in a skin/clothing tight bubble around the Splice for a few seconds, allowing said Zetan to walk on ceilings, leap literally at speed without falling across a city block from one rooftop to another, and most anything else that isn’t going to affect an opponent, though this uses up the same energy the shielding is dependent on, and either or can only be used once or twice per fight.

That Doesn't Sound Too Bad * - See OOC at the bottom of the page for clarification on this section.
Nah, Splices are not push overs in a fight. Of course, there is almost literally nothing that makes a day to day splice any more effective than a slightly lucky human with a .44 that they're good with and some utilitarian body armor. Blocking a single stray bullet isn't anything humans haven't already figured out how to do, though they do as such in considerably less spectacular fashion than Splices, but really without the addition of an attached vessel Zetans lose a lot of what makes their species actually militarily powerful. Mid-sized vessels rarely have actual Zetan soldiers aboard, and are primarily basic science vessels, meant for mid-range research purposes, and not for legitimate warfare. They do not carry mounted death rays or orbital planetary bombardment systems, and the Zetans aboard rarely carry anything more powerful than one or two guardian drones. Of course, nearly all Splices have a guardian drone buried somewhere, but they're essentially six foot flying pyramid headed robots with massive front mounted cannons, so it's not like they walk around in public with the things. If for some reason a particular situation called for one they'd bring it out, but the situation would have to be dire enough to risk exposure and premeditated, if you have a guardian drone buried in a field in the Mid-West and you happen to be violently accosted in Atlanta, it's sure not going to help you much.

Likewise, even those Splices who are not professional, sanctioned, and actually outfitted for the job are equipped with portable, deployable inertia suppression field generators that stand about three feet tall and fold up and out just like those canvas camping chairs, which create a semicircular force field which stops most all matter from crossing it, though still allowing for light, energy and, most importantly for Zetans, gamma radiation such as the concentrated form fired from their typical antipersonnel weapons to pass through, lasting for about a minute. Of course, its stationary once placed and unless used in some tactical manner to block off a single exit or entrance knowing that one’s enemy will have to come through this way it has little use in a committed firefight. Zetans are also equipped with vials of Epoxy, a viscous syrup containing highly concentrated nanobots which can repair both organic and inorganic tissue upon application, typically kept refrigerated and rarely carried unless one knows that they are walking into a fight, as well as an Electro-Suppressor baton, shaped much like, though coincidentally so, a medieval mace which serves as the only real melee weapon of note in use by non-military Zetans, employed generally in the same manner as a cattle prod might be used by humans to shut up the rabble and biological test experiments, though it is far too large to be carried for any general use unless the natives don't mind someone walking around with what appears to be a literal mace.

Background

This shit all started because of fucking ZETA. ZETA!! Zetans for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Give me a fuckin’ break. A civilization that spans the known universe, and has the capability to wipe entire species off the map, launch asteroids at planets and doom countless worlds without ever having to come within lightyears of their solar systems, and a bunch of pussy ass federals want to spend Zetan tax payer credits to protect hairless monkeys on a backwater planet from the well to do business Zetans who actually pay those brainless officials fuckin’ salaries. If it weren’t for fuckin’ Dydeeq and those blue shrimp the fool couldn’t stop guzzling long enough not to crash a supposedly literally impossible to crash recon vessel in that desert those bastards never would have gotten any attention at all, no one had ever heard of them before that and now look at ‘em. The most powerful special interest group in the literal civilized universe. The advancement of Zetan society literally halted by a single instance of what humans would call driving while under the influence and the reaction of embarrassed Zetans who assumed that they could never be exposed to an inferior species, and couldn’t handle it once they had been.

Some of them actually seem like they look at humans like any other intelligent species, arguing that Zetans were there once and eventually the apes might come to be like any other interstellar civilization, colonizing the planets of their solar system before one day surpassing it, probably heading to Alpha Centauri as they call it in supercarriers the size of continents just as the Zetans once had to their own closest solar systems, before developing a viable faster than light drive and joining the rest of the civilized universe. That’s like saying one day squids might rise up from their shallow tidal pools and start walking on land, wearing suits and working at law firms. Hairless apes will be lucky if they don’t blindly destroy their own planet, can’t get along with one another long enough to get anything done let alone develop the technologies needed to truly traverse the universe. Hell, they can barely pave roads, and what civilization uses diesel engines powering individual vehicles once they’ve developed bullet trains? Sure, the Zetans had used similar vehicles once, millennia ago, for thirty years or so before they realized the things were literally one of the most inefficient means of transportation literally imaginable and developed better technology.

So I picked off a few here and there, where’s the harm in that? I don’t see Zetans defending the squids they so love to eat. Fuckin’ Dydeeq. Always knew that Zetan was trouble, wasn’t sober a single day over here, and there were a lot of years spent in this backward little solar system. Fool manages to crash an impossible to crash recon ship worth tens of millions of credits, totally disgrace the Zetan people, and, in addition, bring about the mechanism for the businesses destruction. I kept at it for decades, of course, under the radar but operating just fine given the circumstances. Mostly avoided detection, made a lot of credits from the price bump, but spent just as much as I was making off the top paying off this Zetan and that Zetan just to get liver and test subjects through customs. After several decades of business going well the ship gets pinged by a Mothership class cruiser, and we all know it’s over. They’ll be on us in three days, and if we move an inch we’re getting roasted. Twenty good Zetans, loyal, true to who our people are, and they’re all going to repatriation centers for the next five to twenty. Of course, they would take me for eighty, a century maybe, effectively a death sentence. They’d make an example of the captain, like they always did, ZETA wants blood with these kinds of things.

So the cut doctor offers to splice me on the fly, says to take the credits on board down to the planet with me and the crew will be back for me and the funds once they’re out. It isn’t something any good Zetan wants, to be spliced I mean, knowing that you will never again truly be a Zetan, even after the reversal your appearance and genetic makeup are permanently changed, but given the alternative there really wasn’t much of a choice. Most painful experience you, me, or anyone else can imagine, the splicing. You have to be conscious and can’t be sedated, something to do with the nerves grafting properly. I think it’s mostly just cruelly painful so more pirates and poachers don’t use it as a convenient way to get out of the repatriation centers, personally. Doc said I died four times on the slab, same one we use for the apes, hadn’t exactly done the process before and certainly wasn’t using the proper tools for the job. Supposedly it would have hurt worse if they had been the proper tools. Don’t remember much but white, searing, cutting, burning laser scalpels… Bad time, that, best not dwelled upon.

So the tech officer cooks me up an identity using a randomly generating algorithm, much more advanced than anything humans have available and virtually untraceable unless someone actually wanted to check into whether or not Mrs. Jean Harrison actually had a student named Robin in her first grade class fifteen years ago, hands me my papers and they have me shuttle down in a pod with a gear bag and a guardian drone, wearing some ill-fitting clothing we took off of an ape a day before and hadn’t gotten around to disposing. Embarrassing thing entering through the atmosphere like a barbarian, falling and burning and causing a scene rather than simply causing the ship to be in atmosphere with inertia suppressors, but necessary so as to avoid detection, landing somewhere in North America and gradually making my way down the line of big city to big city, waiting for word from the right Zetans and ducking anything else that might happen to be looking for me, generally taking what I want from the hairless apes and getting by day to day, somehow always managing to get stuck in traffic just like all the other people. Just a few more years of this, maybe a decade tops. Hopefully.

----- ----- -----

OOC

* - Yes, Noxx has a badass guardian drone, a deployable force field generator, Electric Mace/Baton beating stick thing, and what is essentially a super rejuvenation potion, but will not be bringing them to fights unless agreed upon beforehand and presumably to be used against a supernaturally powerful opponent, this is intentional so as to allow the character the capability to scale in power with a potential opponent so as not to be locked into only being able to be used in threads against your basic tier one human with a pistol and some body armor. Not that there is anything wrong with having a character who is locked into a certain type of competition, but I figured hey, since Noxx has basically no character specific abilities like throwing fireballs, being a robotic wrastler’, some peak of human physicality type or anything like that, and the Zetan’s entire power level is really dependent on what advanced technology happens to be on hand at any given time, without any tech Noxx could literally be taken down by any decent hand to hand combatant, why not have some buried super-tech that could allow for scaling power level down the line. Fight a tier one today, something supernatural or heavily sci-fi the next, and back to tier one the third time around, or so my thought process went when developing Noxx.

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

Slightly Mature Content

Humph. Who watches a literal giant hit a man with another man, killing both instantly, and thinks to himself, “I want to get in on that shit,”? Probably feeble minded, that one. Real big, real ugly. Looks like the only thing coming out of his mouth any time soon was, “brains…,” and random groaning noises. Billuh would have said, “Hey der budduh, ya her’ da take dat der body away?” if he was actually capable of understanding that the referee was, in fact, dead in Gonads hands. Billuh couldn’t really understand death, couldn’t be allowed to, only the artificial mind knew the reality of this situation. It was also aware that it would be best to let Gonad handle this one, no use in having Billuh face Gonad as well as the entirety of the human wrestling community, no doubt sooner or later there would even be celebrity guests trying to get in on the action.

Of course, there’s hardly any use in the synthetic brain trying to keep Billuh from clobbering anyone who tries to interrupt him in the middle of a bout of Wrastlin’. In his mind’s eye he never registered the dead referee, the hairless boy whacked into the crowd, the sudden darkness, or the bell. He saw only that, yet again, some random big ass human was trying to get in on his Wrastlin’ unannounced. Hadn’t actually clobbered anyone from out of nowhere, but he clearly wasn’t like the referee, he wasn’t some giant standing in between Billuh and his opponent for shits and giggles or whatever it is that referees are for, gnomes didn’t really have a similar official in their Wrastlin’ tradition. He was here intentionally regardless of whether he had hit anyone yet or not, and if he had the nerve to wander in here getting in the way of business then he was fair game.

“Like I dun toll da last one, boyuhh, dis her’ mah biggun! Billuh Bob Gnome!!” and, after his traditional overly dramatic battle cry of, well, his own name, his hands dropped to his hips, his left forming a triangle between his shoulder, flank and hip, his right moving in between his thighs and, for no apparent reason and to the utter chagrin of his synthetic mind, Billuh Bob casually started pissing on the Undertaker’s boots, whistling a jaunty tune all the while. A second in and a single fart squeaked out, "oh, a, 'scuse me der budduh," and, unless he was actually physically stopped, Billuh would simply go on pissing on the undertaker, apparently not actually at all concerned with the potential repercussions. Being a robot Billuh doesn’t actually produce urine, and the piss is essentially ale and recycled synthetic blood, but the effect is still the same. After all, it’s not every day in a professional wrestler’s life that a hundred twenty year old nude gnome hillbilly casually starts pissing on your boots in the middle of a wrestling match in front of hundreds of onlookers.

Wasteland Restoration

“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly,”

Basic Info
Name: Yevgen.
Age: Twenty four.
Inspiration: Chopin Nocturne in B-flat minor, Op. 9, No. 1

Appearance
Height: Five foot eleven.
Weight: One hundred and thirty one pounds.
Build: Scrappy, Lean, Stark.
Short Description: Yevgen has never been one to go unnoticed, and though he is of average height and build among the colonists of Tinleaf often draws looks wherever he goes. Mixed looks, to be sure, but people always notice him. Hair mottled with patches of golden blonde, fiery red and near raven black in no seemingly apparent order falls in ringlets to his neck and in waves about his throat and jawline. His eyes that of pale, cold electricity, noticeably uneven in placement upon his face and the near white blue color of one stricken with malaria, though possessed him from birth. Angular jaw and cheek bones made readily apparent by the sunken nature of what should be the fleshier parts of his face, a forehead too large for the rest of his features, and the pallor in hue all too common among wastelanders afford him an altogether unapproachable appearance not at all in keeping with his rather friendly and outgoing personality.

History
Life tends to be but a collection of happenstance events played out at random along an endless line. Finding the music in life is a matter of identifying the patterns among the cacophony, such is history. It all seems clear now, but at the time nothing was any more straight forward than a single note, played without purpose to be followed by another, and then another, drops in a stream heading toward unknown purpose. It isn’t until someone stops to reflect that they notice something beautifully cheerful, or stunningly haunting had gradually come into being. Yevgen, his younger brother Miron, and his father Yosyp are rare among the colonists in that their family isn’t from anywhere near Tinleaf, not originally. Their grandmother Halyna and grandfather, Valeriy were artists, musicians, employed with a traveling orchestra who found themselves preforming in what was at the time a backwater no cultured person of the old world would purposely visit. A fellow musician in their outfit was from Tinleaf, or what the colony was before there were colonies that is, and were it not for this engagement to have occurred simultaneously with a great forest fire which barred their progress along the road Yevgen would never have been born.

The old world and those who called it home refused to accept the changes occurring before their eyes. The world had been as it was then for a very long time, after all, and a few strange weather patterns were nothing to be alarmed about. This too would pass, and life as usual would carry on into eternity. Empires would rise and fall, children would be born, bear their own children and then die, the crops would be sown, bud, flower, and be harvested, as it had always been. It was well past the time for action before anyone knew what to do to remedy the ails of the world, or that anything needed to be done in the first place. Some fled, tried desperately to return home wherever home was to them, others wallowed, turned to the bottle, the pipe, or put a barrel down their throat. Halyna, Valeriy and a few other musicians went to what was to become Tinleaf. There their lives continued as the world slowly burned away, they integrated into what had become the colony, had children, and survived as best they could, until the day acid like tar first fell from the skies above and took Valeriy, along with many others in the colony down into the earth along with it.

Yusyp and his mother struggled by as best they could. The concept of pay for musical talent rendered laughable with the death of cattle and wheat Halyna adjusted to the life of a survivor, a wastelander, patching clothes from bits of leather and discarded cloth and catching what rare reptilian lifeforms she could to keep her and her young child alive. Things were hard, but they got by. Yusyp grew and as he did came to an appreciation for Gilly, a card game centered around gambling, and the dream tea some produced from snake venom and the occasional off colored mushroom which sprouted near the stream, spending his young adult life into the modern day as the town layabout, running card games and spending the profits on what dream tea he could manage to afford. Yevgen’s mother was one of the usual frequenters of his Gilly table, and his odd appearance is credited by most to her use of dream tea during her pregnancy, though she vehemently denied any such allegations until her early death from drinking too much of the stuff and falling ill. The elders say the tea rots the stomach.

Miron’s mother was quite the same story, though she has survived to the modern day. Neither ever truly had a relationship with Yusyp, most assume they became pregnant only after having gotten into debt to him with their gambling, or ever kept it together enough to raise their children, the task of which fell primarily upon their grandmother, though where this gave Miron a bitter disposition from early childhood Yevgen never seemed at all dispossessed. Never cried much as a baby, or so Halyna claimed, and was always a happy child. Throughout his life he always came easily to friends, and despite his off appearance had always managed to have people who cared about him around. After her death near a decade ago, she was old and grey and had lived to become a town elder in her time, Yevgen always struggled to keep steady work unlike Miron who was apprenticed at a young age in some bet made between a local crafter and Yusyp over Gilly, and between the mundane tasks of a colonist and what little occupation preforming menial labor he could come into has floated around.

A decade of running Gilly games alongside his father, brewing dream tea, and turning bits of blood, plant matter, and all manner of odd things into ink to either paint upon stones and what solid surfaces he could find to tattooing it upon the flesh of those so inclined after his father, who had once been quite the artist, gave up on the practice as the tea drove his hands increasingly to unsteadiness and shakes has shown Yevgen much of how bad things can be for people. Always drawn to the arts, music and song Yevgen has never given up on the dream of finding the instruments which his grandparents played so long ago, and learning the songs which his grandmother hummed to him as a child.

Personality
Yevgen never quite fit as a colonist, though not for the reasons one might expect of an off looking son of a degenerate gambler. An inexplicably honest happiness pervades from his person seemingly at all times, a genuine smile apparently plastered upon his face from what most can tell despite it all. Friendly, caring, kind, -- all aspects found exceedingly rarely in the wastes, and all of which fit him to a tee. Nothing gets the guy down for long. Just as often as the collective people of Tinleaf find this behavior refreshing, however, they find it crude and rather insulting. Many of his fellow wastelanders are of the strong belief that he is either loony or feeble minded, and are not shy about letting him know as such. Still he laughs, jokes, sings, dances even, and bringing a smile to anyone’s face, even for a little while, means the world to him. Those who know him well however notice a still, quiet sadness deep within his core. Perhaps he feels that this sadness might abate should he make the world a better, happier place.

Equipment
Clothing: Yevgen spends half of his days with his shirt off. This is not actually advisable in the wastes given biting sand storms, acid rain, and the fact that a stray cut on a sharp stone can easily become infected and lead to amputation, death, or amputation and then death, but the warnings of the colony elders haven’t slowed him down yet. He is never without his shemagh, once of grey wool and embroidered in geometric patterns though now faded, stained and muddied, though he generally wears it as a scarf rather than as a head covering, and when actually wearing a shirt owns only a patchwork sweater that was either red or grey at one time and is now a pale, ruddy phantom motley of the two.
Other: Yevgen carries a steel tuning fork for a wooden, stringed instrument he has never seen, but which was owned by the paternal grandfather he never had the chance to meet. Some day he would love to find the instrument this fork was meant to tune and play with it until he could cause something resembling music to pour forth from its wooden bones, but as the elders say no such instruments survive to the modern day. He also owns a poorly crafted set of tin tokens meant to replicate playing cards meant for Gilly, and an old world set of tattoo needles his father won off a fellow colonist in a card game.

Events
(To be added as the RP goes on)

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

The yuppies in attendance gave little fanfare in response to the devastation unleashed upon the interloper’s groin, a few gasps and snorted, singular chuckles to be sure but nothing as gratuitous as even three back to back “ho-ho-hums”, but in the corners of Billuh’s vision his artificial mind could make out their otherwise disinterested scowls molding instantly to something that could best be described as crocodile smiles, all pretty white teeth nearly from ear to ear --, they were loving this, even if they in their prim and proper code of ethics were not permitted to whoop and holler about it as would your typical gnome or humans possessed of less uppity natures. A regular laid to waste in a single blow at the hands of a twenty inch tall Gnome, and in spectacular, literally ball busting fashion. Some made remarks along the lines of, “how droll, that one’s something of a synthetic lifeform, poor taste that,” or something of the like, Billuh would see how droll he seemed to them once he insulted their mothers and challenged them to the Old and Venerable Gnomish Tradition of Arm Wrastlin’. That would have to wait, however, until after he finished with the giant standing in front of him.

Well, hobbling in front of him. Even bent down as far as is reasonably possible while still allowing for viable movement, his challenger was at least twice the Gnome’s height, and coming at him. Not quickly, however. Was he waiting to see what Billuh would do? Measuring him up, plotting some trickery to catch him at an awkward angle and take advantage of his predicament? With his artificial mind buzzing about considering just what Gonad was up to Billuh decided on some robotic subconscious level to hell with strategy and considered othah Billuh Bob. He wasn’t one for tactics, or even skill really, and had always won through sheer size, determination, and simple passion for clobbering his fellow gnome. His challenger may not be a gnome, and Billuh certainly was not the larger opponent in this case, but that wasn’t going to stop him from pummeling the giant into submission. Besides, if something went wrong he could always rely on tactics to get him out of it then, right? “Wrong, no wait, stop you fool,” his synthetic mind spouted off in its flat robotic monotone as Billuh got to his knees, now totally committed to using the power of sheer brashness and physical might to try and tackle this far larger and more physically adept opponent. For some reason.

Clutching at one of the legs of his downed opponent, more with his wrists and forearms than with hands and fingers alone given the sheer size, relatively speaking, of his opponents roided out thighs, knees and shins, Billuh pivoted, plumes of red mist pouring out from his flank, forearm and shoulder in the general direction of his opponent as he spun a full three sixty, taking Johnny Boy who was now moaning and crying out in some delirious shock induced near waking catatonia along with him, spinning him now in mid-air before shouting, “Billuh Bob Gnome!!” and releasing him at speed toward his opponent’s knees. Why Billuh Bob had straight up Mario 64 spun John Cena and thrown him toward Gonad who can say, but unless he had done something to interrupt Billuh as he was spinning, which given his steam powered centrifugal momentum had only taking a moment or two, he now had the full two hundred fifty pounds of Johnny Boy’s weight hurling toward his knees, minus whatever the chunk of pelvis and testicle weighed of course. He had obviously exposed his flank and back, if for only a moment, and done something fairly nutty and against the advisement of the more logical artificial mind programmed into him through some mix of science and magic, but he was Billuh Bob Gnome and some machine telling him that this was a potentially dangerous and mildly stupid course of action wasn’t going to stop him from trying.

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

How rude. Some small haired boy just comes waltzing into Billuh’s ring and tries to take his victory? No, no, this is not his fight and the glory of this contest will not be his. Not today. He didn’t even have the decency to publically challenge his foe before bludgeoning him from out of nowhere. Billuh would, likewise, say nothing before starting to charge his foe, as fast as his little legs could carry him. Even your average gnome moved with the grace and surprising speed of a spindly arachnid, dancing and bursting forth in sudden dashes that seem beyond what something so small should be able to achieve. Not long distance runners by any stretch, a human who gets to speed can easily outrun a spider, but with the sudden swiftness of zero to really moving, and there wasn’t really all that much distance to cover between Billuh’s corner and anywhere else in the arena.

“Dat’s muh biggun theyuh, boyuhh! Billuh Bob Gnome!!” should everything go according to plan Billuh would sprint to within a few feet of his opponent before suddenly stopping, momentarily observing and aiming in the anticipation that his new opponent would do some silly ass spin or bullfighters pivot in anticipation of the tackle his charge must have seemed to imply, his opponent hoping that his movements would send the Gnome plowing into the ropes and making him look a fool. Billuh was no fool, though he would seek to make Johnny Boy here look as such. After a moment, and hopefully after an evasive maneuver on the part of his opponent, the back of Billuh’s ankles and the pads of his feet would burst forth plumes of bloody pink boiling steam, eating away at the synthetic flesh which was layered over the steam vents on his steel endoskeleton to keep up his generally biological appearance, timed just as he leaped toward his opponent, head first, aimed for John’s groin like some kind of ball busting Gnome Torpedo.

Billuh’s head and skull are essentially a forty pound solid steel orb, unknown to his opponent though not to the Gnome Automaton’s artificial mind and processing system, moving at a speed no reasonable opponent would have expected from him with the intent to bust this challenger’s balls in spectacular display. That isn’t to say he couldn’t possibly get out of the way, but really? Who in their right mind would possibly expect that the Gnome could move at speeds like this, especially after potentially having undertaken an evasive maneuver in the expectation of a tackle? Gnomes in general are quick, sure, that was to be expected by most anyone who knew anything about their race, but in momentary bursts Billuh was an engine powered speed demon, more motorcycle than biological creature, and no doubt his opponent would have timed a response expecting a far slower moving enemy even if he hadn’t initially fallen for Billuh’s ruse and spun about or something of the sort. Either way, Johnny had a three hundred pound torpedo barreling towards his little boy pants right now.

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

Humans, such petty creatures. The wealthy and bored paying small fortunes to watch people fight, bleed, and die in a ring they could never hope to last moments in against any real warrior, anyone who was truly alive and hadn’t been blinded by the shiny bobbles and conveniences offered by the world of the bankers and politicians in return for their spirit, their slavery, their very nature as living animals. Well, “alive,” is a term nearly so tricky as the trifling nature of humanity, it goes to say, at least one of the contenders in today’s competition hardly registering as such in any biological context. Regardless, any good Gnome in the audience would have mocked the big man’s irregular size, noisily asked if his mother had been that circus elephant they had extramarital associations with that one time, and challenged him to the Old and Venerated Gnomish Tradition of Gut Wrastlin’ by now. These damn yuppie human attendees wouldn’t look the big lug in the eyes at fifty feet for fear of their heads exploding upon meeting his gaze. Beardless boys and soft ladyfolk the lot of them, not a one appeared as though they had ever seen a wild place, let alone been faced with surviving in one or dying in it.

“Dat’ dun sound like a good idea ‘der othah Billuh Bob Gnome,” the Gnomish champion cheerily mused to himself aloud as he approached the ring parallel to and facing his opponent head on, not that anyone could hear him over the dull drone and impatient banter of the patrons quickly tiring of waiting for the blood they craved like the vicarious cannibals they were. “I gun ask ‘im if he da baby a dat’ der funny erephant, dat’ come wit’ ‘dem carne folk ta the village ‘dat one time, know wut I mean der budduh?”. Short of those in the very front rows, the people couldn’t possibly see over one another to actually notice the twenty inch tall gnome approaching the ring, wouldn’t see him until he was climbing the step ladder provided him to slip under the ropes and enter the pit proper. Gnomes didn’t have rings like this, and the lack of pyrotechnics, music and introductions was all the better for Billuh. He wasn’t really here anyway. The only human he saw was the giant he was pitted against, the backdrop in his synthetic mind’s eye a grainy reflection of his ole’ watering hole, his good drinking buddies heckling him from the corners of his vision.

The giant was totally naked and, though never known for being a particularly well-endowed gnome as Billuh came to the step ladder a mere foot from the stage he stepped to the highest rung without entering the ring proper, bent over, unlaced and threw off his boots before whipping off the green cloth codpiece which is the only bit of clothing he actually wears and, with exception of his conical and rather ridiculous hat, entered the ring opposite Gonad only once he was equally naked for the crowd. No women would be carted out for a hundred twenty some year old nude Gnome to be sure, except perhaps to vomit, though some with particularly good eyesight might point out the small but distinct tattoo of a fat lady singin’ half on each ass cheek normally kept concealed. “Hey der budduh! I’m-muh Billuh Bob Gnome!! Othah Billuh Bob Gnome wanna know if you da baby a dat one funny erephant dat to come to da village with dem carne folk that one time who he had dem extramarital likenings wit, he-he-he-heer,” he cackled just as you might expect an ancient one toothed Gnome from the middle of nowhere might, facing Gonad without ever taking his slit electric blue eyes from his foe's hazel ones despite the obvious near five foot height difference, Billuh hardly stood to the giant’s knee as it were, waiting for a reply by his fellow with words or fists.

FACE FISTED: Billuh Vs. Gonad

Billuh Bob Gnome

“I dun tell yah huwat theyuh, othah Billuh Bob Gnome!!”

Basic Info
Name: Billuh Bob Gnome.
Alias: Othah Billuh Bob Gnome.
Age: One hundred twenty eight.
Race: Gnome (Steampunk Automaton).
Class: Gnomish Wrastler.
Alignment: Neutral.

Appearance
Height: Twenty inches.
Weight: Three hundred pounds.
Reach: Thirty inches.
Shoe Size: Eight.
Eye Color: Comically electric blue, slightly radiant and if observed closely visible brass cogs and gears are tinkering around in the iris.
Hair Color: Long since having gone bald, his facial hair has gone solid white with age.

Brief Description
A behemoth of a gnome, Billuh Bob has a chest as broad as those of most human men despite standing less than two feet tall, and hulking arms the hands of which rest below his knees when standing. Even were it not for the two hundred plus pounds of steel endoskeleton under his artificial flesh, he would almost certainly weigh over one hundred pounds. Possessed of ears that even by gnomish standards are ludicrously large and pointed, a huge, drooping, crooked nose that looks to have been broken several times over, and eyes like slits that only seem to open fully when engaged in the, "Old and Venerated Gnomish Tradition of Eye Wrastlin',". His mouth seems to be locked in a permanent scowl, and all but one of his teeth, the left lower canine, have long ago been knocked out or rotted away from excessive drink and poor oral hygiene. His tongue and gums are a swampy color somewhere between charcoal grey and moss green, with stringy off white hairs growing from the tongue like some form of parasite, seemingly sentient and glowing radiation green in the dark, blinking brightly in predictable patterns similar to Morse code dependent on exposure to different stimuli, whether to one another or for some unknown, arcane reason who’s to say. He has a conical steel protrusion on the top of his head that, when not covered with the hat he wears for this express purpose, immediately identifies him as an automaton, which is technically where his artificial brain is located.

Personality
Billuh Bob is a simple Gnomish Wrastler, never had much of an education or interest in anything besides women, whom he prefers on the larger side, hunting, drinking and the Old and Venerated Gnomish Wrastlin' tradition, be it Eye Wrastlin', Gut Wrastlin', Arm Wrastlin', Head Wrastlin’, or Bareknuckle Wrastlin'. His transformation into an automaton hasn't changed any of that, though it's made him a bit wonky in the head region. He identifies the new, machine side of himself as Billuh Bob and the old, biological side as othah Billuh Bob, and keeps a running dialogue between the two spoken aloud at most any given moment, though he doesn't actually seem to be aware that he is an artificial construct. He was designed to never seriously harm any normal living person, be they gnome, human, elf, even greenskin, and can't recognize a life or death situation as anything but a challenge to Bareknuckle Wrastlin', which usually doesn't produce grievous bodily injury or death. As such he is virtually incapable of killing anyone except through sheer accidental coincidence, though this does not apply to animals, rare, mystical or otherwise, zombies and the undead, or anything too far out of the realm of, "normal, sentient being," such as an actively aggressive werewolf, artificial construct, demonic or fae entity, what have you.

Equipment
Weapons: A twenty four inch Gnomish, "longbow," quiver, and several arrows for hunting, as well as a skinning knife.
Clothing: Leather footstompin' boots, a green cloth cod piece, leather conical hat and a belt for his knife and coin purse.
Other: An oaken pony keg strapped to his back by several belts of the tanned hides of rare animals across his torso.

Abilities
Billuh Bob was never designed as a weapon of war, and as such his skills are almost entirely devoted to survival, hunting, and Wrastlin'. Being essentially a solid steel walking steam engine, he's almost impossible to actually, "kill," short of heat extreme enough to simply smelt him back down into molten metal, electric shock powerful enough to fry his artificial brain, or being completely submerged under several feet of water for a significant amount of time. It’s not as though most anything can actually run a sword through a hundred pound hunk of metal torso, or cleave a twenty pound neck of steel in twain with a greataxe. His joints are simply moving plates of steel and hydraulics, however, and though each individual joint has its own redundancy system so that a broken pinky doesn't result in his being entirely unable to move they are only barely more difficult to break individually than those of any normal person. His arms each have eight pairs of internalized hooks which can extend out from his person rapidly, latch into a challenger's flesh and inject a potent numbing paralytic agent, similar to Novocain and near instantly effective, primarily used to cheat at Arm Wrastlin'.

Across his body he has steam ports under his artificial skin which can be activated to provide momentary boosts of speed used to do everything from sprint, leap, tackle, hit with extreme force, though of course his joints are not immune to the added force of the blow and often break should the steam ports be employed in this manner, or to use his bow, the draw weight of which is well beyond what normal humans, let alone gnomes, can achieve without such an adaptation. These ports do, of course, burn his flesh away on site, revealing him as an automaton if by some stretch of reason one hasn’t discovered Billuh Bob isn’t quite a normal Gnome by such time as he might choose to employ them. His stomach is technically an inflatable bladder capable of holding massive amounts of ale before simply bursting, and being an automaton he is immune to ill effect from consuming excessive alcohol, used primarily to cheat at Gut Wrastlin’, though by some synthetic psychological process he seems to actually become increasingly inebriated in speech and demeanor and continues to enjoy drinking, the act simply doesn't alter his perception, reaction time, or higher cognitive functions.

Background
Born in a dirt floor shack in the middle of nowhere, Billuh Bob was always poor, always ugly, and always big. With arms that looked like they belonged on a gorilla long before they had any muscle on them, a massive chest and a face that not even his mother could love, he was never destined for much of anything besides Wrastlin’. Wasn’t smart, never did learn to read good, wasn’t pretty, didn’t talk right, wasn’t graceful, couldn’t dance, couldn’t sing, play music, or even footstomp to a consistent beat, but he could throw most adult gnomes across a room by the time he was ten, and nearly any gnome alive by early adulthood. He was never really even all that good with the fundamentals and finer points of Wrastlin’, truth be told he still isn’t, but when you are twice the size of the other guy and you get your hands on them it doesn’t matter all that much. Lift, smash, toss, bend, tear, repeat until he is lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood and teeth, or is at least begging for mercy and crying, “uncle,” always seemed to work well enough for Billuh Bob.

Growing up he and the neighbor boy, about his age and the closest person to his family shack by five miles, ran about hunting, Wrastlin’, and generally making a nuisance of themselves to everyone in a twenty mile radius, until it became clear that the boy, his best friend, happened to be a veritable genius. He got sent off to some fancy school in some big Gnome city far away, and for years Billuh Bob ran alone, his only reprieve going out to the local watering hole and challenging old drunks and fools to Wrastlin’ bouts for drinks and wagers, picking up on the local girls who mostly laughed him off, and once he was old enough to see over the counter getting drunk ‘till he passed out at the bar. All in all, it was a shitty little existence that were it not for the drink and the thrill of throwing his fellow Gnomes about like ragdolls was hardly worth living, but he rarely went hungry and on a good night could manage to drink his fill off of what coin he could scrounge together, even if all he was really doing was passing one more day by in a delirious haze.

Eventually, his childhood friend moved back to the shithole he had escaped from, why Billuh Bob never could say, and started inventing things. Wild, crazy things. Baskets of wood and cloth that could fly through the air, machines that could record sounds and play them back, liquids you could drip on crops to kill the bugs that got on them without hurting the plants, and made a lot of money doing it. Within twenty years the middle of nowhere shithole was a bustling little town, known for its resident mad scientist and its local wrastling champion, good ole’ Billuh Bob. Gnomes from all over came to watch, and try their luck at Wrastlin’ Billuh, most of them faster, smarter, better mechanically, more talented, but none of them weighed more than sixty or so pounds, and there were not many that could face a giant like him and hope to meet with much success. The money started flowing in, and as the years went by the friends started the process of building dual mansions on the same property, with a pond, some woods, even a small brewery they operated themselves, and continued to hunt, drink, pick up on women at the same shithole bar they had so long frequented, and wrastle for near a century.

At the ripe old age of one hundred twenty four, around seventy relative to human physical age, Billuh Bob had too much unicorn steak and thick Gnomish ale for one night celebrating his fourteenth Wrastlin’ victory in so many days, his stomach burst, and he died laughing within minutes, with his last words asking for another drink and some more steak, and challenging his distraught friend to the, “Old and Venerated Gnomish Tradition of Head Wrastlin’,”. That was the story of Billuh Bob, one of the greatest Gnomish Wrastlers to have ever lived, or so it should have been. Neither Billuh nor the scientist had ever married, had kids, or anything like that, and besides each other they basically had no one in the world. The scientist decided he would not leave Billuh in the ground, would not live out the rest of his days without his friend. Six months he spent revising, inventing, pondering. Through a mixture of magic and engineering he finally created a metal skeleton which contained a steam engine and some form of artificial brain, and clothed it in synthetic flesh, muscle, blood, shaped it to look like his friend, and threw a switch. The machine woke up.

The first iteration of Billuh Bob the Automaton died within three days in a boating accident on the pond in the property upon which they had built their mansions, turns out two hundred pounds of steel cannot easily be fished out of the water or swim very effectively. Steam vents to allow for sudden, rapid movement were added to the second model, and though Billuh never again went near a large body of water, theoretically he could get out of one assuming he wasn’t being held down in it by more than just his own weight. This second model lasted months, before the scientist introduced him to the public, at their old watering hole. Within minutes it got into a bar fight and killed everyone in the establishment, except the scientist who he knocked out and carried back home. The scientist deactivated this model and, after several months, devised a cruel and unfortunately necessary alteration. He put provisions in place that effectively drove Billuh insane, but ensured that he would never again kill anyone. This third iteration of Billuh couldn’t stay in the village, wouldn’t even if it could, and now wanders the world drinking and, when his pony keg runs dry, challenging people to Wrastlin’ bouts for drinks and coin to keep the ale flowing on his travels, returning only to get patched up after serious injury as per his programming.