Lightning arcs between the combatants.
The first of them—an octopus of a man—immediately breaks his hold on his opponent, limbs retreating as he attempts to escape the lightning that has begun to dance around him. His opponent—a young man with hair like flame clad entirely in leather—laughs and throws his arms open wide. Electricity chokes the air around him, a shell of power that crackles and pulses and simply oozes a promise of pain.
“There it is!” screams the announcer, as the octopus races for the haphazardly built cage around their arena. “Thunderking’s serious now!”
Yamato turns away from the spectacle going on below as the audience descends into chaotic cheering. He starts for the exit, recalling the entryway to the back of the arena that he’d spotted on his way in.
He has seen enough.
Something lingers in the air backstage, away from the crowds and the glamour of battling. Enjyu doesn’t turn his nose up at it anymore. He knows he too carries that sickening, fermented scent of terror and unease that washes over the arena’s hallways.
The Boss of Vega City’s underground arena is some squat and unidentifiable animal, features long warped into a shapeless form by the privation running rampant in the city. Enjyu finds him in his office at his blackened desk, on his throne of ill-gotten ivory, in his gaudy silver suit.
“Good work tonight.” The Boss flashes him a pointed smile and reaches for the glass of suspect liquid on his desk. “Foreman’s got your pay, as usual.”
Enjyu does not look or turn away when the Boss drinks. There is little room for disgust right now. He stands in silence and lets the Boss take his time. Cash is all that keeps him before the Boss, dignity as a battler long shed in the face of many a hungry night.
He simply stares at the Boss expectantly. There is something else. There is always something else.
“Oh right, before I forget,” says the Boss as though Enjyu were already on his way out. “You’ve got a date tomorrow. Foreman’s got the details—you know the drill.”
And again, silence. Boss’s rules are simple, after all. No one speaks unless he allows it, and Enjyu had mouthed off enough early on to know better now.
“All right, scram,” adds the Boss.
“Sir,” is all Enjyu says, and he turns on his heel and marches out the door without another word.
The Foreman occupies his thoughts. Another shapeless man, another foul enforcer of the city’s underworld in the Boss’s name. Where the Boss sits and makes orders from his blackened desk, the Foreman moves efficiently through the streets with a silver gun and a list of names.
And he has the money promised to him, together with his next job. Enjyu manages a frown as he stomps through the halls of the arena’s backstage.
“Hey Enjyu, long time no see.”
The voice stops him in his tracks. When he looks up the stairs, it is who he dreads most. Yamato stands there, radiant as ever, clearly untouched by the darkness that rises from the pit of Vega City.
Enjyu’s breath catches, and he is suddenly aware of the sharp and rancid scent of his own state of affairs. He has turned this exact scenario in his mind before. He needs only walk away, pretend he didn’t see Yamato at all. He needs to find the Foreman and get his pay and find out about his client tomorrow and just go.
”…Yamato…” falls from his lips before he can stop himself.