It's another glorious day in San Francisco, California. The large screens paint the streets in flashing color, advertising futile products as life necessities, or promoting the goodness of the government for taking care of the ones that give back. It's paradise for the successful, living as the angels of society and going about as they wish. However, little did the rich know, despite small centers to help the less fortunate, it's a completely other story on the other side of the wall that protects them from the dirty heathens and keeps the scum of the world from littering the pristine roads. On this side, the worn streets reek of garbage and spoiled water supplies. Broken screens illuminate the graffiti between the flickering, trash barrels stuffed with lighted trash warm the ragged sheets many call home. If they are lucky enough to have purchased a home, it is either rundown or about to topple over. Word of rebels begins to stir in the street, first starting with lighthearted conversations on the fractured skyrail rides for those who have preliminary jobs, then small hidden messages painted on the sides of long-evicted business and under bridges left to fend for themselves against the forces of nature. Indoors, many buildings are family-owned and on the brink of being put out of business, or pubs filled with the effluvium of stale alcohol and sweating bodies fighting it out in the middle of makeshift rings for entertainment when belly dancers weren't moving to bawdy tavern songs, or when younger girls aren't escorting drunks to the back rooms for some extra money. 

Khaleesi gives a feral grin, blood leaking out of the side of her mouth. The man in front of her is a crowd favorite, but she restrains beaming at the chanting of "Boa! Boa! Boa!"