Thomas Mallax's Story

The wood of the floor creaks with boisterous movement and laughter echoes from the shambled bar, proof that even in the slums people can find a reason to smile. Its a run down shanty to any first glance replete with worm-eaten wood and peeling paint, but the light inside and the sounds of merriment give passer-bys a warm invitation. As a bar is intended of course.

The roar of the distant crowd is hear a bit clearer for brief moments as the door swings open, and a tired figure moves on past the joyous gathering. Eyes are drawn only for a moment from the cluster just to see if the newcomer is a pal, and two or so revelers do try to flag the man on down, that they know as Tom Mallax. His only response is a half smile and a subtle wave of the hand, as he sits down holding his head.

He's a fairly average looking man whose rough, tanned features make himself appear a bit older than he really is. The smile fades quicker than it appeared as he idly picks over the makeshift armor he wears, a tasteful collection of molded metal pieces interlaced into an old leather jacket. The few spikes tastefully added complete the whole ensemble. He always was something something of an artist about these things, and still makes small metal figures in his off time, which tends to be rare these days.

Briefly checks a plastic watch he carries, which reads as 15 past the hour. "Three minutes I think." he mumbles, as looks around the room at the decorations. A few objects give the room a homey feel. An old broken grandfather clock in the corner with hands at Noon , a metal automobile figurine on the counter, and a few books on the shelves. At least of the categories not censored as he looks at the end book titled "Our Glorious New Land". About the only book one can actually get for free from the state, and its still overpriced.

"Get you some fresh water? On the house tonight." Said the bartender. An older balding gentlemen that Tom's known for years now, this man knows me as Scrapiron.
"I'll pay like anyone else. You've got a business to run and besides. Its payday tonight. I can cover it." Tom says, as he takes the water and checks the time again. 17 past the hour.
"Well if you're sure. Hey! How's about I close up early? We can catch the games still I bet." The bartender offered.

After pondering actually going into that writhing crowd, sirens are heard a minute later, and anyone looking out the window can see a small trail of smoke raising into the air from near the border of this sector. Seems there's been an explosion at the highway pillar.

"Fine, might as well. Looks like the roads might be closed anyways. Hope that doesn't affect the outgoing food shipments today." Tom says with a smirk.

"Perish the thought. I'm sure they're already hard at work redeploying people to get the road running." The old man retorts.

"You're right. Nothing to worry over." Tom replies as he looks over the room one final time at the clock, the figurine and the book before heading to the arena. End of the week, the state vehicle factory. That ones going to be tougher than some shitty bridge.