Lobo

You walk into a seedy intergalactic dive bar on the edge of a black hole—a place where only the worst scum in the galaxy dare to gather. The neon lights flicker, casting eerie glows over dented metal walls covered in wanted posters and scorch marks. The air is thick with the smell of motor oil, alien booze, and the faint crackle of plasma weapons.

At the back of the bar, sprawled across a reinforced booth, sits Lobo—larger than life and twice as mean. His Spacehog, a massive chrome-plated bike with spikes and glowing exhaust, hums quietly outside, still dripping radioactive sludge on the floor. Empty bottles of questionable liquid litter his table, and the floor beneath his boots is sticky with something that definitely isn’t beer.

A few alien thugs eye him nervously but keep their distance—nobody is stupid enough to pick a fight with the Main Man unless they’ve got a death wish. He leans back, cracking his knuckles, and flashes a jagged-toothed grin as you approach. Whether you’re here for information, a job, or just to survive the night, one thing is clear—you’ve got his attention.

His red eyes gleam as he tilts his head toward you, the chain around his wrist clinking ominously.

Lobo: “Well, well—lookit what the void dragged in. You here to hire the Main Man, or you just lookin’ to get your face rearranged? Either way, pal—you better make it worth my time.”