03-02-2018, 02:39 AM
“True as they come, pretty boy.” spat the man who had just appeared out of thin air, his tone venomous.
His true name was Reginald Bennerton, though he was known to most of his associates by the moniker ‘Shotgun Steve’. He was a grizzled old man, with ice-blue eyes and tanned skin stretched over bones and whipcord muscles like taut leather. His hair was of a pale grey shade, long and loose, whilst for a beard he wore a short, wispy goatee.
As was customary for him, Steve was dressed in an unbuttoned grey leather waistcoat, tattered, baggy, white jeans, and a pair of scuffed, black, steel-toed leather boots. The grey and white represented the gang of which he was part – the Northside Wolfpack; the most powerful gang in all of Coruscant Tier Five’s northern quadrant – whilst his boots were black simply because that was the colour most boots tended to be.
Just moments before he spoke, Steve had been reincarnated himself and had promptly tossed aside his death shroud with no more hesitation than would be demonstrated by any person with more common sense and freedom of thought than a concussed goldfish upon being presented with a propaganda pamphlet proudly professing the many virtues of Palpatine’s government.
It had been a pleasant surprise, to say the least, to return to the land of the living just in time to pick up on some would-be villain monologuing to himself about travelling to the city to go mess with the very people who had killed Steve just a week past. Back in his world of origin, the old guy would have called this too good to be true… here in the Omniverse, though, dumb shit happened all the time. There was rarely any need to look too deeply into things.
“And who might you be?” the young man demanded in a sceptical tone of voice, turning to face him even as Steve’s own eyes drifted to his right; his attention arrested by the spectacle which had previously distracted his younger counterpart. By this point, the clown was busy gnawing hungrily on a screaming stormtrooper.
The gangster fought down a shudder and sneered instead. It was revolting and unnerving, but he put it out of his mind; any new-born Prime could slaughter stormtroopers… they were about as effective as training dummies filled with straw. Just because it could harm them, that didn’t mean the ugly jester could in any way pose a threat him... besides, it seemed to have chosen some little girl for its victim in any case. She’d probably keep it entertained for a time.
“Shotgun Steve,” he held his head high and looked down his nose at the kid, “one of the Four Claws of the Northside Wolfpack. One of Tier Five’s toughest gangsters. If you wanna fight that bunny-eared freak and his little plastic-coated soldier buddies, then you can tag along with me or get in line.”
“Oh really?” Steve could hear the amusement in the blue-haired Prime’s tone. He frowned, his jaw clenching. Did this little, ribbon-wearing bitch really think he could hope to best him in a fight? He must have, surely, to speak so disrespectfully, right to his face. Even without his guns, the gangster was confident that he could’ve taken this loser no problem. With them? It’d be like taking candy from a baby whilst on a walk in the park. How much damage could a few lengths of floating fabric really deal, after all?
“Yeah,” the old man growled, “that fucker killed… well… sorta was involved in killing me, anyway. Point is, I owe him and them EPD swine a lotta payback, and I intend to get it. So here’s yer choices, kiddo: you can come with me, accept a place under me in the gang, and get to fuck with the police all ya want… or, you can refuse, and make me put you down. Hard. It’d be nothin’ personal, of course, but I couldn’t have you screwing up my revenge by getting there first, y’know?”
He gestured behind him. As was generally the case when a Prime respawned, his weapons had rematerialised with him. Just a few feet from where he stood was a massive pile of double-barrel shotguns, along with plenty of ammo for them; some shells still in their little boxes, others strewn haphazardly at the foot of the mound, “So tell me… do you really think I ain’t got the firepower to manage that, ribbon-boy?”
He would’ve liked to grin smugly at this juncture, but the young man before him seemed utterly uncowed by his threat, which was more than a little irritating, to put it mildly, and so in place of a broad smile, Steve's visage was twisted into a sullen glare.
His true name was Reginald Bennerton, though he was known to most of his associates by the moniker ‘Shotgun Steve’. He was a grizzled old man, with ice-blue eyes and tanned skin stretched over bones and whipcord muscles like taut leather. His hair was of a pale grey shade, long and loose, whilst for a beard he wore a short, wispy goatee.
As was customary for him, Steve was dressed in an unbuttoned grey leather waistcoat, tattered, baggy, white jeans, and a pair of scuffed, black, steel-toed leather boots. The grey and white represented the gang of which he was part – the Northside Wolfpack; the most powerful gang in all of Coruscant Tier Five’s northern quadrant – whilst his boots were black simply because that was the colour most boots tended to be.
Just moments before he spoke, Steve had been reincarnated himself and had promptly tossed aside his death shroud with no more hesitation than would be demonstrated by any person with more common sense and freedom of thought than a concussed goldfish upon being presented with a propaganda pamphlet proudly professing the many virtues of Palpatine’s government.
It had been a pleasant surprise, to say the least, to return to the land of the living just in time to pick up on some would-be villain monologuing to himself about travelling to the city to go mess with the very people who had killed Steve just a week past. Back in his world of origin, the old guy would have called this too good to be true… here in the Omniverse, though, dumb shit happened all the time. There was rarely any need to look too deeply into things.
“And who might you be?” the young man demanded in a sceptical tone of voice, turning to face him even as Steve’s own eyes drifted to his right; his attention arrested by the spectacle which had previously distracted his younger counterpart. By this point, the clown was busy gnawing hungrily on a screaming stormtrooper.
The gangster fought down a shudder and sneered instead. It was revolting and unnerving, but he put it out of his mind; any new-born Prime could slaughter stormtroopers… they were about as effective as training dummies filled with straw. Just because it could harm them, that didn’t mean the ugly jester could in any way pose a threat him... besides, it seemed to have chosen some little girl for its victim in any case. She’d probably keep it entertained for a time.
“Shotgun Steve,” he held his head high and looked down his nose at the kid, “one of the Four Claws of the Northside Wolfpack. One of Tier Five’s toughest gangsters. If you wanna fight that bunny-eared freak and his little plastic-coated soldier buddies, then you can tag along with me or get in line.”
“Oh really?” Steve could hear the amusement in the blue-haired Prime’s tone. He frowned, his jaw clenching. Did this little, ribbon-wearing bitch really think he could hope to best him in a fight? He must have, surely, to speak so disrespectfully, right to his face. Even without his guns, the gangster was confident that he could’ve taken this loser no problem. With them? It’d be like taking candy from a baby whilst on a walk in the park. How much damage could a few lengths of floating fabric really deal, after all?
“Yeah,” the old man growled, “that fucker killed… well… sorta was involved in killing me, anyway. Point is, I owe him and them EPD swine a lotta payback, and I intend to get it. So here’s yer choices, kiddo: you can come with me, accept a place under me in the gang, and get to fuck with the police all ya want… or, you can refuse, and make me put you down. Hard. It’d be nothin’ personal, of course, but I couldn’t have you screwing up my revenge by getting there first, y’know?”
He gestured behind him. As was generally the case when a Prime respawned, his weapons had rematerialised with him. Just a few feet from where he stood was a massive pile of double-barrel shotguns, along with plenty of ammo for them; some shells still in their little boxes, others strewn haphazardly at the foot of the mound, “So tell me… do you really think I ain’t got the firepower to manage that, ribbon-boy?”
He would’ve liked to grin smugly at this juncture, but the young man before him seemed utterly uncowed by his threat, which was more than a little irritating, to put it mildly, and so in place of a broad smile, Steve's visage was twisted into a sullen glare.
Quote:In line with the new Rule on Death, as he has been deceased for over 2 OOC weeks, Steve is not experiencing Resurrection Sickness.
![[Image: Hijiri_Name_Sig.png]](https://image.ibb.co/k1H7Hd/Hijiri_Name_Sig.png)