The tram rumbles and shakes, the lights flickering. It's a tight, cramped affair inside the cab. Spray paint violates the windows and ads running above. Blue and black seem to be the most prominent colors, followed by a washed out red so faded it looks pink. Men and women hunker together, trying to avoid eye contact with each other. They're a solemn, mute bunch, their personalities taxed by the toils of their work. The majority of them are headed home from Centra to the slums downtown. Markov stands in the midst of the crowd, holding on to a dirty, faded metal pole running from floor to ceiling. It keeps him sturdy when the tram lurches. His clothes hang damp and loose around him, his button up shirt sticking to his skin. Outside the rain hasn't stopped in the hour since he left the Gunz store with failing neon lights. [i]I was tired. It had been a long day. I was soaked through, and all I wanted was to sink down on my cheap couch and have a finger or two to drink. I wasn't going to get that, though. Not yet. Something was about to disrupt my train ride home.[/i] (( Open ))