Sector 3

The veil of darkness swept through the city like a plague of locusts on an unsuspecting crop. Night had fallen, which meant the denizens that were attuned to such a time were on their way to becoming active in their nightly routines. The streets were soon rampant with the sounds of roaring engines from the biker gangs as they began their races at the Drag. Everything seemed as it would on average. It wasn't long until the Pits were filled with citizens who enjoyed the fights. The stadium thundered with anxious patterned stomping as the gathered crowd cheered for the first bout. A wired fence is all that divided the gathered onlookers and the encirclement that served as the ring of the Pits. On the West and East sides of the ring were cage doors in which the contestants entered from the barracks below, filled with the nights current participants. The crowd burst into even further uproar as a lone female figure stepped into the center of the Pits ring decorated in mildly tattered maroon leather trench coat with a swallowtail bottom. It wasn't buttoned thus revealing the simple black wife beater with goldenrod accents concealing most of her torso which bore multiple tattoos of tribal design and followed a rose and skull pattern. A leather light brown belt, nearly beige, with a copper skull held up her torn black jeans and her steel-toe boots with a skull engraving at the front. Her hair was short and curved in accordance to her jawline and facial features on the right side, slightly obscuring her golden right eye. They knew this woman as Volatile.

She took a moment to slowly reveal a smirk on her face and her eyes shift around to overlook the crowd. She allows them a few moments more of cheer and applause before she held up both hands and the crowd eventually fell into a silent suspense. She put her hands down afterwards, both slipping into her pants pockets momentarily to produce a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After lighting one she placed the cigarette between her index and middle finger and inhaled the toxic fumes into her lungs before exhaling them outwards via her nostrils.

" Fellow ladies and gentleman of Sector Three. I welcome you once more to the Pits! We've got quite the line-up tonight. We have your average two man dance, where its a one on one until the grand finale where we'll have an all-out battle royal! I figured tonight was a special night. Does it seem a special night to you!? "

She would smirk once more as the gathered roared in agreement, shaking the very makeshift arena in their eager wake. She would once more allow them the time to let their voices be heard as she turned to the other gate and nodded once, taking another drag. She pivoted to head towards the adjacent descending stairwell into the barracks below passing by the currently waiting Anex. Her golden eyes wandered over his form as she did so, which caused him to get a boost of confidence before heading into the fray with the opposition, and the crowd cheered on.

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.