At the corner, a stoplight loudly changed, and a trio of bikini-clad blonde bikers frantically peddled through the honking traffic, all trying to reach the ocean alive. A remote-controlled truck rumbled by with no driver or markings. It didn’t need one since trucks like these usually carried machine parts or tox chems for dumping into the swamps up north. Could be anything. Two orks, probably a married couple, were screaming at each other in some foreign language. Wafting steam carried the overly spicy aroma of soydog from a cart operated by a blind norm, her snarling hellhound keeping away fast fingers and fake credsticks at the same time. Sunlight glittered off the ancient three brass balls of a pawnshop that dealt in everything and anything that could fit through the black steel doorway. Resting against the rough louvered trunk of a palm tree, a leggy slot-machine girl in a stained white sailor suit yawned widely, trying to stay awake at the ungodly hour of noon. A snoring Japper toff—in a fragging tuxedo of all things!—was lying atop the rusted wreck of a wheelless Jackrabbit in the middle of a weed-filled lot. The drunk was getting expertly stripped by a bunch of troll kids, while amused passersby stopped to make wagers on whether he’d wake up before they finished the job. Odds were running six to two in favor.