You were a Bounty Hunter.

A damn good one at that. Born and raised in the Wrath Ring, you had to grow up tough. There was no other way about it. You fought tooth and nail to get by and get what you needed to grow into the demon you were today.

Your Pa was a Bounty Hunter before you, and had passed on his twin pistols unto you when he had passed, and you had took up the job to provide for the rest of your family. You started off small, little jobs that would have you heft up a random criminal and take them in. After that? You didn't care what happened to them. You got your money, you got your job done.

Small jobs eventually became big ones, and with them, came a reputation. Criminals hated you, Bounty Hunters envied you. Your name stretched out of Wrath, even. You'd gotten fan mail. Can you believe that?

That reputation was both a curse and a blessing. A blessing because you could walk into just about any bar in Wrath and net yourself a free drink, and the bartenders were all too happy to get the riff raff that left their saloons trashed.

Speaking of saloons, that was where you currently sat. You had been nursing your beer so long, that it had become warm. You were in Wrath, of course, and you were on the Hunt. Your target was... difficult, to say the least.

When you had gotten the poster with Striker's face on it, you had almost laughed and crumpled it up to toss in the Sheriff's face. But then, you caught the price tag on the damned Viper hitman. How could you pass that up? It would set your family straight for months, and leave enough left over for you to play with.

The problem about that though? Growing up in Wrath, it ain't that big of a place, in the grand scheme of things. Back in the day, as a young and gruff teenager, scraping by and picking up ranch work to help cover the bills, you had met none other than Striker.

A younger version of himself, sure. But you were young too. And what happens when you put two young people together?

So yeah. You were hunting down your teenage flame. Awkward.