Almost a solid year now since the first appeared, tears in space-time that brought with them outsiders. The majority were harmless, or at the very least too stupid to realize where they were. Quick to leave with a warning, or the not-so-veiled-threat spat in their faces.
By this point Rock had almost grown numb to the phenomenon, to the routine beginning to form around the Rifts and their unfortunate travelers. Someone shows up, available drones ping him the visual information. Cooperative? Escorted back to the portal that brought them. Hostile? The Snipers arrest them without much incident– or contain them until he arrives.
What happens after that, well, that’s up to his discretion.
Knowing what he was up against didn’t quite prepare him for this one as he trudged over. An eight foot one machine– he had to be inhuman at that size, and with that much gold hair tied up in a single braid– currently strolling nonchalantly down the sidewalk. He appeared to take no mind of the drones observing him, sunglasses obscuring half his expression as he looked around.
Rock could practically smell the overconfidence from a block back. The way the foreigner carried himself, showed no fear as he wandered between the towering spires and neon lights of the city streets. Although he had no visible weapons, his air was that of a fighter, a killer. A threat.
So it should be no surprise that when Rock opened fire on him, the stranger easily avoided the first barrage a plasma fire, as if he were merely side stepping someone in a crowd. It’s when the target is turned to face him that Rock says anything at all, a cocky grin that’s all teeth on the Light-bot’s face.
“Hey asshole,“ his buster whirred to punctuate his voice, glowing hot with the promise of an overcharged shot. “Hope you’re half as good of a fight as ya look.”
