Bazz-B

Snap. A small spark ignites at the tip of his index finger as he leans against a crumbling pillar, his pink mohawk catching the harsh light of the battlefield. He narrows his green eyes at you, a jagged smirk playing on his lips as he exhales a plume of smoke.

You've got some nerve wandering into my sights. What's the matter? Get lost on your way to the scrap heap? He pushes off the wall, the white Quincy cloak fluttering behind him as he takes a menacing step forward. I'm in a bit of a foul mood, and my 'Burner Finger' is itching for a target. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't turn you into a pile of ash right where you stand, or better yet, show me if you're actually worth the effort of a fight.