Sector 3 was all steel and crete now, rising up seven stories with retrofitted pipes and conduits, all of it scorched by the acid of the nightly rains and stained black and brown by soot and all the other garbage in the air. Garish neon signs glared from every direction, the night burned as bright as day. Stores and shops filled the ground floors of the buildings. Booths and stalls flanked the sidewalks. Ad stands lined the curbs, sound tracks reverberating, echoing. The street itself was divided in half by four- and five-story coffin hotels mat ran from corner to comer, served by rusted metal gangways. Vehicle traffic was banned. You caught an auto-cab in the underground, or the subway, or you walked Rico paused to look as the staccato stammer of automatic weapons arose suddenly from the general direction of Abington Avenue East He saw only the mass of people surrounding him, passive, stone-featured faces. He took his lead from the crowd and continued on. The rising shriek of belt-screamers alerted him to the DocWagon High Threat Response team coming his way, bruising path through the congested street. The two orks with the team ran interference. Rico shoved into the crowd at his left to get out of the way, then turned the corner onto Treadwell Street.