Obestan is long gone.
Clang.
"...Shit."
John muttered as he got up, frowning, and tossed the championship belt disdainfully next to the corpse — flesh and brain matter were embedded in the ornamental details, making it slippery and emitting a nauseating stench.
The gamblers slapped the bars, like baboons in heat.
They hadn't seen such a thrilling execution in a long time. Word had it that in some darker illegal venues, there were bets on cyberpsychos and mercenaries fighting one-on-one, equally violent and bloody.
John stood amidst the cyan-green smoke.
Red alert lights flashed, and quite a few members of the Black Gold Gang streamed out of the tunnel to clean up the scene and maintain order; unused rubber bullets began to fire into the crowd.
Violent suppression was necessary.
Those cramped into the low-end arena weren't the wealthy, and if this atmosphere persisted for a few more minutes, the audience seats and barriers would be dismantled.
"Fucking squid!"
