Everywhere, traffic rumbles, from the elevated lanes of the interstate, barely a block away, as well as from the street immediately before him. Trucks and buses rumble; motorcycles whine and blare. Everyone is on the move and none of them are stopping here. He can understand that. The street is lined with garbage, some of it burning. The buildings rising five and six stories into the dirty sienna glow of the morning look like burned-out derelicts, well beyond salvaging. At one end of the block, synthleather-clad orks are beating on someone whose shrill screams briefly rise above the rapid thudding of fists and clubs. At the street’s other end, a Lone Star special tactics team lines gangers up against a wall, and, when one steps out of place, opens fire with autoweapons.