[center][img]https://see.fontimg.com/api/rf5/R99PA/NjQxYjhjYWMyMTRhNDJmY2IzYzY5MTIyN2UxYzBjZjUudHRm/U211Z2dsZXIncyBCbHVlcw/sterion-italic.png?r=fs&h=42&w=1000&fg=EDBA12&bg=E91515&tb=1&s=42[/img][/center]

Down below, under the flyovers and the transit arches. Below the neon lights of the adver-sizes and the skybridges of the upper spires. Below the armored patrols of the Iron Fists, under the watchful eye of the Federation navy blockade miles above the tallest skyreachers. Down into the beating heart of the megalopolis of Neo-Elam. Where the bridges connecting the trunks of the habs and spires were used for soliciting and narcotics rather than mere causeways. Where the hazy glow from the vibrant signs of private clubs dominated the gaping maws of pirate dens and cartels, and the scent of wyrd sticks and shisha mingled with the wet heat of human sweat. Men, women, mutants, and even a few xenos accosted passersby, clamoring like suitors vying for affections in order to sell their wares or lure hapless innocents into a scam, or worse. The undulating thrums of aircar engines intermingled with the rumbling of transitcars flying along rusted railings. A hundred thousand conversations drowned out the lesser sounds of the burgeoning night, haggling traders, the sighs of lovers, and the muffled cries for help from victims of crimes that would disappear before discovery every occurred.  

They say that on Allur Sahar, a man's fortunes were limited only by his imagination, no doubt to help sell their 'imagination enhancers,' but any approaching ships would feel there was some truth to the old claim. One look at the swirling domed tops of the cities, the magnificent minarets, the great statues of Al-Rahid, the planet's prophet and founder, could not help but stare in wonder. It was said the world used to be temperate in climate, but the greenhouse gases from the incessant pollution had made turned the planet into the arabian desert of old. Endless dunes of sand and dried riverbeds covered the planet between each megalopolis. Oases of debauchery in gilded paint, surrounded by a land devoid of all but the hardiest of life, including the desperate desert dwelling raiders. A small, golden world of banditry and vice. 

Neil felt right at home. Even as the sun drew down, and he walked unfamiliar paths in the night, his jacket staving off the mingling pollutants, he felt a wary comfort. He had arrived three months ago, slipping past the perpetual blockade with a clever landing code to bypass the security patrols, making his small craft invisible. He had delivered on his promise to Ibn-Bashir, but his spacecraft had been flagged and impounded before he could skip and flee off-world. Luckily, he had found his true calling as a delivery man. 

"Care to help a man under the watchful stars?" A beggar asked, his eyes tired and face lined from the constant wear of a hard life. Neil knew his life was hard from other concerns than money. The plant could use a better cover, and hiding the scent of a recently eaten supper from his thin facial hair would help. Neil ignored him and stepped under the blinking sign of old terran script المنزل الساقط , translated as 'Fallen Home.' The automated camera lens turned to focus on him, and Neil grinned at it. His lateral incisor glinted, breaking the code that indicated a non-member. It wasn't his own genius, it was a top of the line incision granted by his employer so he could make these runs. 

Immediately, Neil was met with a long hall of Raquaad players, a digital card game on softly glowing tables made for the specific purpose of playing it in the den. The multitude of players were of all walks of life, some sporting expensive fiber-lyte suits from the upper spires, others in cartel fatigues, and even more were gangers of all different styles and ink. Opium and alcohol and hashish was heavy in the air, and Neil walked down the wide corridor, casually perusing each game. A mutant with huge, serrated teeth glared at him with yellow eyes, and Neil backed up in fear, catching himself on the shoulder on a tall, lean ganger who cursed at him. Neil gave a 'my bad' face, lifting his hands up after having discreetly slipped him the card of credit. Hal played the part well, but the delivery had been made. Neil hid a grin as he continued on his way, continuing into central bar. The people were packed and mingling as dancing girls swayed their hips on islands of warm, coruscating lights that accentuated their figures and silhouettes. The music beat rhythmically, accompanied by a traditional ney instrument that wound through the instrumental beat like a serpent. 

He felt a hand land on his shoulder, the smell of spirits wafting into his face. "I no see you in here before!" A piercing laden drunkard said over the din, as if it was the most fascinating thing under the sun. The men he had been speaking to hardly looked away from their own drinks, and Neil shrugged with his carefree smile. "I no be here before!" 

The man paused, and before long he began to laugh. Neil joined him, and after a few long seconds of laughter, Neil pat him on the shoulder and went on his way. The music shifted, the lights grew more red, and Neil navigated through the tides of people until the press became less obstructive. He found a lounge of quasi-velvet couches and low tables where the more casual roosted and were entertained by the ladies of the establishment. Under a chromatic light fixture, he noticed multiple men speaking softly to one another in a clandestine business deal and made a show of deciding to steer clear, before settling down next to a salaryman and a few voluptuous women in silks. 

"Mind if I cut in?" Neil asked, poking his head between the shoulders of two of the girls. Three heads turned to regard him with dagger-like glares, and he kept his eyes away from the third woman in the back, who slipped something into the fellow's Vyqol spirit. 

"Another lowbody," the balding salaryman muttered. Two of the heavily rouged women rolled their eyes in agreement, and stuck their tongues out at Neil. "Space yourself, pal. We're busy." Neil complied with another shrug, and slid away, idly listening to two freightermen grounded by the blockade for a good ten minutes before he felt slim fingers sliding into his pocket, replacing a card of credits with the salaryman's access card. Once again, he hid his grin, though a careful watcher could spot the twinkle in his eyes. The rogue meandered around the club for another hour, flirting with a few of the girls until they inevitably realized he had no money and spurned him. 

By midnight, he had slipped out of the Fallen World and found a (relatively) smaller club called Smuggler's Blues in galactic standard, with warmer lighting, less oppressive music, and people played old fashioned billiards alongside a few tables of raquaad. He did buy a drink then, and finally slid the access card into his portable data-slate, scanning for the code. The card would be decommissioned by morning, but all he needed was to extract the code and tweak it a bit for him to make a custom version for himself.