Even with its high ceilings, Emperor Ouroboros’s throne room feels crowded. Maybe just for Club. Maybe because of the thirty odd guns pointed at him.
“Hey big fella,” says Ouroboros. “I hoped the bears would get you.”
“Nope,” says Club.
“What about their grafted titanium plating?”
“I thought it was a nice touch.”
Ouroboros sighs. “Put your guns down, boys. This guy’s old school. Go fight him one or two at a time.”
Later, Club walks out of the palace, cracking his giant knuckles. His phone rings; he fumbles with the tiny buttons.
“Get back here,” comes Diamond’s voice. “Now.“