Born in the neon-drenched underbelly of a Gallente pleasure hub, Nasty Person grew up dodging drones and dodging rules, a street rat with a knack for hacking holo-feeds. The Federation’s “liberty” was just a fancy word for chaos, and he loved it—until he stole a Tristan frigate from a drunk senator’s hangar and blasted into the stars. Rumor has it he once ran drones for his mom’s illicit gas-harvesting gig in lowsec, only to jet when Sansha goons showed up—her last transmission was a slurred “you ungrateful bastard.”
Nasty Person made his mark in the wilds of nullsec, a scarred vet of the galaxy’s dirtiest brawls. Around YC119, he rigged a salvaged Incursus into a streaming rig, beaming his roams and rants to a rabid pack of capsuleer degenerates via jury-rigged Intaki Syndicate relays. He co-founded the Kings of Chaos alliance, a motley crew of rebels and psychos who live for the fight and laugh at the wreckage. Their turf’s a patchwork of smashed stations and shady deals in bootleg holoreels—word is he’s got a stash of banned taco-flavored stims hidden in a wormhole.
A maestro of mischief, Nasty Person’s got a mouth that’d make a Brutor blush. He’s been blacklisted from Caille’s trade districts for howling about “highsec snowflakes” and CONCORD’s “drone-spam tyranny” in public channels. His motto? “If it’s still breathing, you’re not shooting enough.” Once dared a rival FC to a knife-fight in a deadspace pocket—guy ghosted, but Nasty Person still claimed the loot.
His signature ride, the Taco Tormentor, is a battered Gallente Navy Comet decked out with garish murals of serpents and half-dressed dancers. He flies it with reckless glee, piling up killmails that’d make a Serpentis capo jealous. When he’s not ganking or griefing, he’s crashed in his pleasure yacht, surrounded by empty food packs, plotting his next big middle finger to the galaxy.