The place is fucking sweltering hot and smells like oil and alchohol. It's dimly lit except for the octagonal cage. A large battle droid with weird smart-gel material Razors for hands charges you $10 admittance in the narrow hallway leading to the club. There's a back-lined of inactive bots with cuts and deep, metallic scars about their frame. Two controllers, teched out grease monkeys with foggy goggles, sit on either side of the ring with large remote controls resembling something from an RC car, but multitouch screen equipped. They make frantic gestures with their fingers along these surfaces when battle ensues. They both have mechanically augmented hands and fingers.
You make your way past a horde of shady characters grunting, and smoking lining the outside NanoDiamond windows of "the cage" with their thick air of smoke, intoxication and belligerence; making your way over to the betting area. You lay half your cash on the the little tray on the booth, the slimely, scale-faced bookie on the other side hands you a ticket with some odd flake of skin he sheds passing it through the receptacle with his claw-like hand. You went with the underdog and shoot the long odds for more cash. Afterall - who knows how long you'll be stuck in these fucking tunnels? the first round and find yourself really taken in by all the dynamic action of the morphing, robo-battle that ensues. You root for your bot and to your pleasant surprise he wins. You continue gambling for hours on end, sometimes hitting streaks, sometimes loosing fat wads. The Controllers are taking drops out of a small liquid vial in necklace form every so often. The robots smashing, shocking, frying, excites you to no end. Those EMP-superplexes and cymatically tuned-fist hacks are awesome! About the 7th hour in, you reach into your pocket "Damn!" You're down to just 3 bucks. However will you keep gambling?