Unlike the atypically empty Welcome Center, Apollo Square is rife with citizens of the unlucky middle- or working-class variety, flooding the tram lines and the metro station as they depart for whatever meager jobs they’ve managed to hold onto. Yet a sizable chunk of those denizens seem to have broken off from the dense-packed majority, drifting to the southern end of the city where some nameless activist seems to have mounted an impromptu protest, or possibly an advertising campaign in front of a derelict building. Despite its apparent state of disarray, the sign labeling it as Fontaine’s Home for the Poor is starkly visible above his head.

"You think Ryan's gonna be there for ya when you're down n' out?” hollers the man to the accumulating crowd. He scoffs. “No - Fontaine, Fontaine's the man with the helping hand!"

Incensed, many of them begin to nod eagerly. Others depart much the same way they arrived: scornfully, mouths turned downward in distaste as the train rattles on, indifferent.