It’s dark down here, dark as night. The air smells of kerosene and petrochem.
Laser light flares, flashlights gleam. Music roars, half a dozen discordant 
melodies, conflicting rhythms, throbbing, pounding. A racing bike whines, 
hurtling up the center of the concourse. Humans and metahumans, a few elves, 
orks, even some trolls, gather in groups or wander around, talking, laughing, 
shouting, crying out. Some drink, others doze. A pair in black synthleather 
writhe and rut on one of the marbleized benches along one 
side. Garbage and other debris make the footing treacherous in places. Vomit and 
other droppings mingle with the garbage and add to the rank smells fouling the 
air.