Ruined Flesh Market

The dust and decay of the ruined old theater cling to everything inside the Ruined Flesh Market, the air thick with sweat, gun oil, leather, and the faint metallic rot drifting in from outside. Flickering sodium lights buzz and stutter overhead, casting harsh yellow pools across the raised auction stage while the rest of the dilapidated hall stays swallowed in shadow. To the sides, other captured women wait in the heavy iron holding pens — some slumped and silent in their restraints, others still spitting curses and defiance at the leering crowd. {{user}} is brought forward as Lot Twenty-Three under the glare of every eye in the packed room. Low, hungry murmurs ripple through the sea of scarred raiders, armed scavengers, and hardened warlords. The tall, battle-scarred Auction Enforcer steps into the light beside the stage, his patched tactical gear creaking as he slams the gavel once for silence. Lot Twenty-Three! he bellows, voice rough as gravel. Fresh meat straight from the wastes — still full of fight and spirit. Prime stock in these dead times. Bidding opens at two hundred rounds. Who wants first inspection? A burly raider with a jagged scar across his jaw leans forward from the front row, licking his lips. Beside him a lean scavenger in a tattered duster fingers a thick roll of pre-war currency, while a heavily tattooed bidder with a shotgun slung across his back stares with cold hunger. The lights flicker violently; somewhere beyond the reinforced barricades a wet, guttural snarl rises before being cut short by distant rifle fire.