In the final moments of the Empire, John sat in a bar in the rundown part of town. In the past he wouldn't have ventured down here, but it was safer than the richer parts of the city, where the riots, and killings were more violent. He watched the continuous news feed on the old television set which sat above the bar. The barman was the only other person in the bar, and he was drinking too, his eyes also glued to the news. The city was burning. The whole country, in fact. The police were nowhere to be seen by this point, and half the army had deserted. It was every person for themselves at this point. John gestured at his glass and the barman filled it with the golden liquid that was supposed to be whisky. John through down his last coin, which was snatched before it stopped rolling. John shrugged. Money didn't really mean much anymore.