In Hindsight (Open)

Jab, Jab, cross

((Pix went M.I.A a few months ago...))

Sway right, right hook body

(Same goes for Haruhi...))

Parry, Left uppercut, right hook

((And I can't find Dar for the life of me...))

Jab, jab, cross, jab, right hook

((Why am I thinking this much when I'm fighting?))



During a fight, Dennis usually only had thoughts about the next move of himself and whoever he was fighting. This was the first time he had other thoughts in his head. Fighting was supposed to clear his head, not cloud it.

"WHY ISN'T MY $^&**&@ MIND CLEAR?!"

The question bellowed out of his mouth like a lion's roar to his opponent. His question fell on deaf ears however, as the man he was fighting was unconscious before he could even concieve of answering. The fallen foe crumpled to the loamy earth of the scrapyard along with the other three opponents that thought they could defeat the Red Hand. They were all underground fighters, one or two might have been metas, Dennis didn't know nor care. They weren't a challenge. Not like Dar. They didn't give him that rush of adrenaline, the surge of energy that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand like soldiers on duty.

They weren't Dar.

The fighters were veterans of the underground fight scene, and remembered Dennis and his past record. This was a rarity. Many more contenders had come and gone since Dennis' sabbatical while he joined up with various gangs and conducted in mook work. But they remembered him. Thought they could get a win off of him and get a name going for themselves. That dream was gone.

Of course Dennis had instigated the entire endeavor, prodding their egos with statements he knew would rouse them up. So in actuality none of that could be true. It was entirely possible they had no clue who Dennis was, and agreed to fight him simply to shut him up. He didn't know and he didn't care.

He left the scrapyard and the fighters, letting a heavy sigh escape his mouth. He adjusted his now weighted vest and leg weights and shoved his hands into his pockets and began his stroll back to Jump.

Dennis Miller missed most of the action that occurred in the Nation of California. He was in California on an incredibly bad lead on Dar. Long story short: He ended up getting involved in a metahuman Mexican Luchadore fighting tournament that was hosted by a large cartel. He might also be married. And if he was he might also be a widower. He wasn't sure he didn't speak Spanish. But the tournament didn't give him the thrill that it should have. He went up against some of the best metahuman sluggers South of the Border. He even had a decent record up until the military came through. But that was another story.

As Pax hit the outskirts of Downtown Jump, he began to realize why he was so fixated on Dar. It was his first crushing defeat. Sure he had lost a fight or two, but he could blame those an innumerable amount of things. But he gave his all in that fight, and lost spectacularly.

The O'Malley Gang had disbanded after the Russian attack.  And after his 'robbery' of the jewelry store, mook work just didn't feel right to him anymore. He only did it to for quick cash and cheap fights anyway. But random alley fights weren't going to sate him anymore. This he was sure of. But in a rare moment of introspection, he felt as though he wouldn't be able to compete with a real skilled opponent. But the prospect of fighting someone stronger than him gave him a tingle in his gut. But for him to
contend with bigger opponents, he would have to get stronger.

By this time he was on the sidewalk, almost plowing through bystanders as he stayed in his thoughts. His hands left his pockets and he stared at his scarred palms. He prided himself that he had barely scratched the surface on his hemokinetic abilities, but he wondered how long it would be until he had to use them more? Would it cheapen his wins that he would have to resort to cheap tricks like meta powers? Even if they were his? Even if he spent the same amount of time training his abilities as he did his fighting skills?

And even with these issues there was still his missing friends. Friends was actually too strong of a word. Haruhi was his sister, slightly estranged. And Pix...was a means to an end. But either way they were the only people in his life that were more than acquaintances, and they were gone. And his father was picked up by the Zydon apparently. 'Alone' wasn't the word to best describe his feelings, but it was the best word he could think of. And it pissed him off. He hated feeling alone. He hated feeling. He needed a fix. He needed to fight, punch someone, or something with a face. He needed to get out of his head. He hated being in his head, which was why he enjoyed acting on his impulses and instincts. It made life simpler for him.

But thinking about his next theoretical fight brighten his mood, however slight. He crammed his hands back inside his pockets and looked ahead. For the first time in a long time, Dennis had no clue what to do. What his next move was. It could that this was the shedding of his last vestiges of his mook-dom, he wasn't sure. But it was odd. Who was Dennis Miller now? Now that he wanted more than crappy bar fights? Now that his family was gone? Now that the person that made his life do a complete 180 was nowhere to be found? Who was he? He shook his head to clear it and sat down on a bench next to a bank, letting out a half-sigh, half-groan. He arched his neck back and looked aimlessly at the sky. "What the hell Dennis? What the hell?"

The young boxer left the confines of his depressing mind when the familiar sound of tire rubber on pavement skidded past him. They say only two things are certain in life: Death and taxes. But in Jump City a third was also true, and that was the Titans showing up to rain on a crooks parade. Always there in the nick of time to stop a ne'er do well just trying to make a dishonest day's work . When the vehicle came to a halt due to a scythe, it was hard for him to become excited.

As the young Titan (Or at least he assumed to be Titan. They changed their lineup almost weekly) relieved the villains of their weapons and dispatched them in short order, all he could muster was a sigh. It was the same old rigmarole he was used to. "The least you could do is pick up your trash Hero-Boy."  He grumbled.