The screech of the train's brakes is the high pitched sound of metal grating against metal as the transport shudders with deceleration till it comes to a halt. The doors to the car slide open, the electric expenditure causing the overhead lights in the car to flicker, as an electric bell chimes. Stagnant foul smelling air rushes into the car, bringing with it an icy chill.

The acolytes step out of the car, escorted and assessed by a squad of heavily armored enforcers carrying souped up Autoguns. Waiting for the acolytes on the other side of the wall of enforcers is a pair dressed in moldering furs and openly carrying primitive looking shotguns. The space is a walled off polygonal enclosure made of ferrocrete. Painted on the far wall in official lettering is "Hexagon AA1". The space is lit by dim fluorescent lamps hanging from a high ceiling dripping with stalagmites of what may be frozen sewage. The ground itself is littered with an assortment of garbage; mostly disposable nico tubes, dirty clothing, and bullet casings.

The older of the two men steps forward. He has receding grey hair, and deep lines across his square face. The younger is apparently his son, a taller, thinner version of his father, carrying more muscles and a face pocked with a number of hairy moles. The father locks eyes with the acolytes knowingly, his eyes trailing momentarily to their luggage and equipment bags. "Em Url Garret," he says in a heavily accented Low Gothic, "dis' is me' son Ziek. You the Credit Guild, right?"