James placed his shoulder against the door, his right hand gripping the handle and turning it as he pushed lightly, walking into the establishment vaguely sidelong. The 5'8" boxer-brawler had heard a tournament was being hosted in this establishment, a tournament of
the fist and the foot, something rare in these days. The former gang leader looked tired, his form thinner and less muscular then when he first burst onto the scene of Gaia Primus, so full of confidence and vicious efficiency. His thin form drifted toward the bar, his a** setting itself on an empty stool.
His blonde unkempt mohawk was stained with blood, almost entirely his own, giving it streaks of caked red. His dull grey eyes drifted around the establishment with a lazy curiosity, but also careful to keep its gaze directly off individuals. Something James was not known for, he seemed
timid. His attire was plain, a white t shirt, old and beaten; and a pair of jeans with some simple black sneakers. His normal motorcycle inspired attire left wherever his ferocity was.
James liked what he saw from what brief flashes he allowed himself, it had an atmosphere of brawlers, not unlike The Yard. Though perhaps a bit more inviting then the latter. His right metal hand drifted into his pocket, drawing out the last red cigarette he owned. He slide the old thing into his mouth, the lighter he palmed lighting the end with a puff of sudden red smoke. He inhaled deeply, his tired baggy eyes glazing over as the potent mix of tobacco and some off world drugs mixed together, giving him a light, calming high.
James wasn't much of a drinker, but he was ready to drink today. Drink himself into enough confidence to ask to sign up for The Beatdown. His eyes briefly laid on his solid metal arm, from shoulder down and far more advance then anything he could design. A gift from Makar, a gift from Marcus the Mad. For Marcus, a creature that could only be explained as a 'bone beast' had devoured it, tore it from his body with ease controlling him without a problem.
With the arm went his confidence, went his desire. The James that sat at this bar today would get beaten senseless by anyone standing in this place, where but a month ago he would have been the best. The false confidence he had built himself from the trial by fire he was given was fragile, and without he was back to the man who got KO'd in the first round of every National Amatuer boxing tournament he competed in, the man who gave up fighting to be a motorcycle mechanic.
But like the coward he was he wasn't ready to let go of the short life of violence he lived, he didn't want to look back on these days ten years from now as the good old days. Even if that's what they were.
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