DROP FORTY-TWO
Phobos was half-cyborg. A powerful mesh of augmentations and armour, all in a deep shade of red. A smartrifle was on his back, even in the middle of a city full of civilians. Who’d even dare give him trouble for it?
“I approve of the plating,” Hector said, shaking the man’s hand.
The war veteran, and probably war criminal as well, shook his hand and catalogued him as not a threat. His expression, whatever little he could actually move, gave it away. “Blacksmith,” he wheezed.
“You could call me that, yeah. Let’s get down to business, shall we? I don’t wanna waste your time.”
“Wise.”
“My lovely athlete here, Patty Roo, says that I can rent out an entire team and play the next match. I have one enforcer only, so four more athletes per 2k each means I just send you 8k righ
