Out with the Old [open]

Out with the old.

A splatter of blood across the cold pavement. The sound is of coughing vehemently as the roar of a crowd drones on. A fist slams down against the pavement just above the blood and from it rises a frail form with all the strength of a broken twig snapping again and again. His face was unrecognizable by this point from all the fights he was forced into entering.

Forget this is happening, forget it.

He had won quite a few fights and this one, this was his last fight. He built up all the wins for this, this one glorious fight. The fight he would lose in. Deaths were discouraged but he couldn't help but feel like that was going to be what took place here if he didn't do something. He owed a lot of money, a LOT of money. Thankfully, he tipped off the people he owed money too and even if he wasn't throwing this fight he didn't think he could win it anyway. It gave him some sense of comfort that he could throw a fight by trying his hardest and still failing.

It's better than giving up Trev. It's better than giving up a healer for their asses...

It was a long story involving a mission he had taken, not for the gang, but off the boards. Due to his actions of leaving in the middle of the mission someone high up in the government type business had been hurt quite badly in business and got rolled by some thugs they were in bed with (metaphorically speaking of course). The agreement was he would either find a way to magically fix the guy so that he wasn't paralyzed, or he would repay ever red cent the business had lost.

Stay alive... just stay alive...

So he was kidnapped. Not a thing gangs did, but this wasn't a gang. These were men of business in high places with friends in higher places. Hoss was just some young punk so they warned him if he tried to run they'd kill him and everyone he'd ever known in hopes of killing someone he loved. So Hoss started copying money and depositing it quickly or using it to gamble. This got him some quick cash but not enough to cover damages. So then he started fighting, using his abilities in ways he never thought possible under a different name with a different look.

No one would recognize me this way, this way they couldn't find someone I cared about...

There was more than one undercover fighting area to be honest. Smaller more exclusive areas existed and the truth was Harbinger Bloodsport was quite a hobby for the bored and rich.

Hoss exploited this for quite some time.

And now he was getting pummeled by someone who quite literally had impenetrable skin. Hoss put this to the test and well, he couldn't use the skin as a material to transmute. This was different from previous opponents.

Here comes the last punch. I can't take this anymore...

A haymaker took Hoss by surprise, sending him down over that spray of blood with another spreading across the concrete further off in a crescent shape. His instinct was to run, to run before finishing this fight. To leave before he got hurt more. Flashes of his life hit him after each hit to the head brought another wave of panic and confusion. Until finally something snapped.

ENOUGH RUNNING

A fist came and Hoss grabbed the wrist, tugged as he drove his shoulder up into what felt like a brick wall as the body came crashing over him, it's own strength sending it in a roll to the ground before hoss forced his hand into the mouth of the man, grabbing his tongue, his free hand reaching up as if grabbing the very air above it.

“Guess I'll win this one after all...”

The scream that erupted was quickly silenced by the blood gagging the behemoth of a harbinger. Hoss, whose hand was covered in blood, stood and faced the now silent crowd. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a cigarette, and lit up. On his way out he began to whistle the same familiar tune.

In with the new.

As the blood covered Hoss took a step outside, he kept an eye for anyone or anything familiar. He was going to get back into his old life by force if he had to.

The cigarette was sweet to taste, too sweet. He felt like maybe he should stop smoking the things or at the very least changing to cigars. It was a little different than what he was used to but it would probably give him a much longer lasting buzz than these pathetic sticks. It was a weak enough thing to allow him to ignore the smoke long enough to recognize someone walking quickly as if in avoidance of him. He didn't really think twice since he had blood on him and he was in a rich neighborhood but his eyes caught a familiar hue as he grinned.

A small laugh erupted from him as he whistled slightly, the same tune he always did before announcing himself with a simple "Haze."

Harvey wasn't dressed like he normally was. In place of a coat and a hat he was wearing a hooded sweatshirt that was zipped up to the neck. His hair was a mess and he didn't have his bag that usually sat against his side. No, this Harvey was very much naked of the things that used to define him, leaving behind something far less dressed up.

"Didn't see me there, eh?" He shot her a wink and slowly approached her, wondering just what luck he had to come across a fellow member of the gang he hadn't been active with in far too long. He wondered if maybe they thought he had left for another gang by now.