I'm actually hinting at less defense, not more. His armor's default state is an amorphous, tarry liquid with next to none electrical resistance, so unless it is hardened with an impact or Quebra makes a conscious effort to permanently transform it into crystal, it won't protect him from shocks; the only resistant parts of his body in that case would be the fully crystallized sections of his limbs.
I guess the blame's on me, 'cause i tacked this on at the very end of the ability's description, in a place where one wouldn't think to look for it, but here's the extra info:
As an auxiliary power, Quebra, at no cost, can transform parts of the armor into the same sort of crystal grown from his limbs, maximum toughness - the main reason to do this may be the fact that the liquid provides no heat or electrical resistance, unlike the crystal.
So it's pretty much anything but the legs/arms right now.
All in all, it was a matter of perspective: what seemed to Rook as an appallingly bad move came off as a negligible risk for Quebra. The first shot failed to impress with its impact, and he was certain he'd shrug off a second just as easily - as long as he kept the situation under control.
Judging by the end result, one could say he did a satisfactory job of it: a spray of crystalline shards once more spouted from atop his abdomen, imparting a momentary prick of pain in his gut and a slightly more permanent ache in the muscle, along with stripping away completely the weakened portion of his armor, leaving the lower quarter of his torso with a large gap in its protection. It didn't fold him over, nor did it halt his approach. Deliberately holding back from sprinting at his foe, the energy his own body contributed to the impact was minimized, and without any adjustment in aim from Rook, the beanbag hit at the same oblique angle as the shot before, slipping off before it could impart its full force and bumping into the discus fused with Quebra's right arm.
Even then, it still hit hard - but Quebra's armor too, performed its function despite being damaged.
If there was one thing he could fault himself for, it was failing to account for his damaged armor, resulting a little more damage than he should've taken: the few seconds between the shots was enough for the substance to revert back into liquid form, but not enough for it to mend back into one piece, tampering with the dissipating properties and simply compromising its integrity, allowing the shot to break through and tag its target with what felt like a solid, quick jab in the stomach.
Rook had him softened up, armor chipped away and abs bruised, a notch more sensitive to further strikes than they would be otherwise. Worse yet, he did so for free, Quebra having nothing to retaliate with at range - at least, nothing that could make the walking fridge of a man as much as flinch. Having no answer to his opponent's offensive was in fact the main motivation behind the wrestler's bullheaded charge. He hated being the underdog in a fight, the one with the odds stacked against him, struggling to turn the tables around. It wasn't the role he was yearned to be known for, and the sooner he was in the driver's seat, dictating the fight's flow, the more it'd please him. Frankly, it'd be hard to boss around a man almost two heads higher and with a tower shield in hand, but even as a passive player, the wrestler wouldn't settle for a game where his only option was to defend.
Thus, teeth clenched, a pained frown cutting creases into his forehead, he carried on fueled by pride and maintained the same pace as before. The same reason behind his sloppy guard also served to rid him of any hesitation: his focus the whole time was on the opponent, rather than himself, and the moment Rook lowered his shotgun, Quebra knew this was his chance to seize the initiative.
The method would be rather simple: rush in and get a good grip on the riot shield. With the way Rook presented it to him, it seemed like the merc wasn't going go anywhere, confident that he could easily weather anything thrown his way - rightfully so. And it was this exactly that Quebra decided to bank in on, reckoning that his opponent wouldn't acknowledge the grapple as a threat enough to avoid it - or perhaps, they'd even welcome it, seeing as the man was noticeably larger than Quebra himself.
Running in, he burnt through the last specks of his crystalbending charge to crack the discus and makeshift braces fused to his forearms, shards of ruptured glass crunching under his feet as they dropped, ridding him of excess weight. When no more than a yard and a half would be left between them, the wrestler would go in for his grapple, both arms snaking out ahead of his body, fingers seeking to wrap themselves around the shield's rim at just above his own shoulder height. If they found purchase, Quebra would then follow through with the rest of his weight, slamming his forearms against the plastic and leaning against it, as if to rest as he patiently awaited a response.
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. ------ Leading arm's fingers were raised up to cheekbone level; right arm stayed guarding its side of the stomach.
Especially when said projectile is aimed right for the same spot as before, where the armour is weak and your guard is too, the lower torso.
Just making sure we're on the same page, since i am intending the shot to hit Quebra's arm this time, and not the stomach. The right side of his armor got damaged, but his guard is there, with crystal-covered arm and discus protecting the area, and left side is still in good shape.
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.
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.
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.