Description
Rick Nasty, as the man calls himself, is an ectomorphic, slim-built individual that stands at six feet and one inch. His eyes are hazel, his nose is narrow and long, and his lips are thin. His skin is pale white, and his hair is kept styled in a tall, multicolored mohawk. Many describe him as an eyesore. For clothing, he wears a synthetic leather-composite jacket which combines the aesthetic appeal of natural leather with the tensile strength of spider silk, and is quite effective against bullets. His trousers are far too tight, and made of the same material, as are his combat boots. Rick delights in instigating and flaunting his coarse nature, and wears a shirt under his jacket, on which are scrawled multiple obscenities in different languages.
Personality
Rick Nasty named himself, and it is a fitting name toward his personality. Never does Rick pass up a chance to annoy, insult, or disgust an individual.
Equipment
Equipment
- Two high-powered laser pistols: Rick is a crack shot with these, and an expert in handling them. Unfortunately, he rarely takes the time to aim.
- Two deflector shields: Rick wears these on his wrists, and they extend along his forearms and three feet in both vertical directions. A leftover from his time in his home planet's SWAT squad. Designed for kinetic, energetic, and magical deflection.
- Various stimulant injections: Rick keeps a pack of stimulants with him, which are intravenously injected. They are standard medical-grade for SWAT teams on his home planet, and absolutely legal, though he does readily admit an addiction to them.
Abilities
- Weak Telekinesis: Rick has developed, as a sizable fraction of his native species, telekinetic abilities. Rick can manipulate certain objects if he concentrates hard enough, hence its weakness.
Other Statistics
Intelligence: Moderate
Spiritual: Very Low
Magic Resistance: Very Low
Stamina: High
Energy: Very High
Endurance: Moderate
Speed: Excellent
Strength: Below Average
Combat: Very High
Technique: Moderate
History
Rick Nasty was recruited into the SWAT Squad of the capital city of his main planet. A superior frequently remarked the only reason he made it was his quick speed, his combat scores, and telekineses; if not for that, he would have immediately been imprisoned. Rick is now on the run after a dishonorable discharge, after making various gross sexual comments toward a female superior. He has fled to Terra, as his home planet has no access rights on the planet, and they likely won't enter negotiations simply for a crazed punk.
So begins...
Rick Nasty kept his glare centered, but the android seemed to be powering down or whatever they did. It was likely he could escape, and the punk clashed his wrists together, powering his shields down, then making a break for the door.
Rick Nasty totally did that.
Rick Nasty - 1; Decency - 0.
Rick Nasty considered going to the bar, but causing trouble was so much better away from Gehenna.
Rick Nasty nearly rushed into James as he ran into the door, jumping up and delivering a skillful drop-kick to the aperture, sliding in like some baseball player in an old sports flick. Flying across the bar floor, his friction mitigated by the shielding, he crashed foot-first into the counter of the bar, his combat boots thunking against the metal surface as he did.
"He slides, and he's safe at home!" Rick cried out, "Ladies, line up to sign my bat!"
Rick Nasty loves James too.
Rick Nasty then leaves the bar as chaotically as he came in, his writer unable to properly read or make heads or tails of anything right now.
Rick Nasty came ripping back into the bar with the force of a hurricane. Well, he felt like a hurricane, at least. It was more of an almost calm jaunt, with all the worlds of possibilities for causing mischief, mayhem, and decent folk to cringe at his fingertips. The punk sauntered up to the counter, much more ready for action now he had picked up some stims from his secret hideout. The man's jacket hung loose, the leather-like black material revealing his shirt, littered with obscenities in many different languages. The skinny man's tight trousers rippled around his lower body inappropriately as he hopped up onto the bar counter.
Now, who could he target today? The punk pulled his laser pistols from their holsters at his hips, taking a not-so-careful aim just above the doorway, firing several uncoordinated and wild shots at it. He chuckled to himself when they were dispersed by the bar's shielding.
Rick Nasty blinked. He hadn't even noticed the firefight taking place in the bar. There was a slight sigh of relief from the punk as he realized that, while he had been casually sauntering, luck had chosen to lay with him in his bed of fate. That brought another chuckle to the skinny man's lips, before he frowned slightly.
He hadn't be laid for awhile.
Still, this didn't matter, there was the firefight, Ilse -- who, he was still convinced, plotted against him with that android -- and Jade. Oh, the choices, the choices. Rick would choose the fourth option, roll back along the bar counter, falling behind it and then popping up, snatching a whiskey from the shelves deftly.
Rick Nasty eyed the man suspiciously. There were two kinds of people where he came from, that wore leather masks. The first kind he got along alright with; they were into the darker side of relationships. The other kind, he wasn't so fond of. They were usually after what he pocketed, what they could take and sell on the black markets; he had usually been a popular target, thanks to that entire SWAT business he had joined up with.
Rick took a step back, his pistols still in his hands, the whiskey kept under his arm, hugged tight to his chest. It was utterly possible for him to drop it, if need be.
"Yeah, makes two of us," he replied. "Couple dozen light-years for me."
Rick Nasty kept his gaze on the man in front of him. So the guy had two of his own weapons, as well. Ignorance to the arcane abilities used on the cloak, yes, that was a given; the punk didn't even understand how his own lasers really worked. The skinny man opened the arm cradling the whiskey, letting it drop to the floor with a solid 'thunk'.
Rick's wrists came together, a light static hum filling the air, and the feel of humidity filling the atmosphere around him. The sensation was a deflector shield emanated from both forearms, three feet in length both vertical directions. Whatever this guy was trying, the punk figured that any assault by a dagger could be sent back with the repulsor shift of the field.
Rick Nasty clicked the side of his mouth, lips screwed up in a little smirk. That was something new; he didn't have to fire a single shot to dissuade someone from nabbing from him. Still, Rick kept both pistols trained up on the man, his eyes narrow slits looking down them, pupils contracted heavily in barely-concealed eyes.
"I got two questions," he snapped, and didn't wait for permission to go ahead. "Are you a Gimp, or a thief? If we fight, and I beat you, will you accept a free night at Casa Nasty?"
Rick Nasty almost retorted. 'Free lodging'? The only lodging there would be was --
That was something else entirely, the skinny man kept his attention straight on the man, his pistols training up, directly at his face. Master thief, huh? How many master thieves did Rick meet back on his homeworld? The number wasn't one he could count on both his hands, and his combat boots got in the way of his toes right now, so he figured the number was somewhere between ten and more than ten.
"Forget Casa Nasty, Slip." The punk growled, "I got one more question for you: are your pretty little fingers after my ass, or my wallet?"
Rick thought that was a tough choice: his empty wallet was wedged pretty close to his ass, in his back pocket; it would be pretty easy to answer 'both'.
Rick Nasty cocked his head up slightly, looking down past his arms and pistols toward the bottle that lay on the floor. It had, indeed, shattered; its contents now made a dark soup in which little pieces of glass swam. The skinny man frowned, as his eyes returned to regard the other man's. The conspiracy was becoming absolutely clear to him now.
The thief intended to make him drop the whiskey all along.
That would, otherwise, be fine with the punk. It was easy to snatch more whiskey from the ever-filled shelves behind the counter. This was an affront to him, though; someone had manipulated him into doing it. Oh boy, Rick did not like being manipulated.
"I just figured," he started, "I'm not really into the whole headdress thing. You got pretty eyes, but I'm bettin' your face is uglier than a pig-dog's."
The punk nodded inwardly: yes, pig-dogs were ugly.
Rick Nasty snapped his head back down.
"That's my hair!" He shouted, "Okay, fucker, go time!"
That final insult from the one who had made him drop his whiskey, who was uglier than a pig-dog, and was probably even into the inane flirting Rick offered to, well, anything with or without a pulse -- that just crossed the line. Even the skinny man had a line, even though he crossed everyone else's.
His mohawk was a badge, in his stim-addled mind.
The deflectors hummed as he brought a pistol pointed toward the shelves of alcohol, firing several chaotic shots from the weapon as he dropped the other to his hip. This, hopefully, would spray a distracting spew of liquor about the man. The second pistol was fired as soon as it reached its point at his joint, firing three poorly-aimed shots toward the man's kneecap. One of the bolts might hit true, but the other two were doing what they wanted to do.
Rick complemented himself mentally: 'You did it, man; you defended ol' rainbow.'
Rick Nasty blinked in surprise as his opponent disappeared. There it was again, that little magic trick of his. Where did the other guy go? What was he planning? Damn, he was fast; lasers were lasers, and lasers are light, and light is fast. Rick was about a whistle a nice little note of surprise, and admiration at his opponent's speed before he felt daggers at his neck and...
"Ol' rainbow!" The skinny man blurted out, but kept stock still. "Aw, shit, man, why'd you have to get caught like that!?"
His whine was accompanied by a quick flip of his weapons on his fingers, a-la gunslinger. The barrels pointed under his arms toward the pectorals of the thief, his thumbs pressed against the triggers just enough that a little twitch would send them off.
"Cool trick," he snarled; Ol' rainbow could wait, the skinny punk would rescue him. "I wonder, can you do it again, and can you dodge a laser at point blank?"
Rick Nasty was...passed through? Well, if the stuff he saw when he was coming down from a stim hit was weird, that was even weirder. The same stims, military-grades he stole from back home, also attenuated his senses and flight-or-fight response. This was an important factor to consider when fighting a drugged up space punk.
The other important factor were his shields, something that, as his wrists turned in to flip his guns back forward to point toward his opponent, knocked into both blades. These shields were a lifesaver, and as they collided with the incoming blades, the kinetic forces repelled by the shields recoiled back into Rick himself. He stumbled back several steps, arms flying out as he took wild, unaimed potshots around the opponent.
There was also a burning and a freezing sensation along his arms. Any other, logical person would figure these weapons had innate properties of ice and fire. Not Rick, he just didn't really register the feelings, even as his forearms tingled from the impact.
'God,' Rick thought to himself, 'I sure hope no one else behind the counter gets hit; wonder how far back pig-dog'll fly.'
Rick Nasty was totally a skilled shot! Every shot he fired was guided by a trigger finger only rivaled by the best marksmen in the universe. Hell, the skinny man could hit a sparrow out of the sky from five-hundred yards, probably -- okay, an exaggeration, the laser would dissipate before then.
The only problem was, he didn't often aim.
Flying beer soared above his head, strongly-tuned senses catching the flicker of movement not only from that container of alcohol, but also from the motion his opponent made. Was that a crossbow? Rick decided it was time to prove a point, and aimed above the shield's range with his left pistol, bringing the right shield in front of his vitals.
Zip, bang, boosh. A laser bolt would likely, unless the thief was telekinetic or something -- 'Oh, right, I can do that...not right now, though' -- it would probably burst the alcohol in the air.
It was gonna rain suds and hops.
Rick Nasty grinned as the bottle burst into the air, little fragments of glass knocking against the repulsor field and flying back from his arm. Rick - 1; Budweiser - 0. Or was it Heineken? Coors? Zalbrak's Choice? Marlboro? That couldn't be.
Marlboro manufactured cowboys -- was that a crossbow bolt in his knee?
Yep, that was definitely a crossbow bolt in his knee. How fast did those things go? The punk howled in pain as his body slacked on that side, bringing him down onto his knees. Plus side, though; there were spilled cowboys on the floor of the bar, and he was fully covered on the front by his shields. Bad side was, a crossbow bolt in his knee.
Rick panted; even through a stim haze, that hurt like a bitch.
Rick Nasty screamed as he fell to his knees, realizing some vital fact a lot sooner than he would if the thief hadn't just disappeared.
He had driven a crossbow bolt deep into his knee. Holy shit that hurt.
The punk struggled up to his feet, leaning on his left leg as he pushed his wrists together, the static hum and humid atmosphere disappearing as soon as the fields deactivated. Rick quickly pushed his pistols back into his holsters. The beer was still spilled around his feet, and...what was that? Oh, that was blood.
"Aw, crap," he grumbled. "I thought these pants were supposed to stop bullets and stuff."
Then again, a crossbow bolt isn't exactly a bullet. Neither is a laser bolt. Well, the punk had to congratulate himself on something. He'd have a pretty little scar in -- oh, nope, nope, no congratulations there, not with that kind of pain.