He didn't know the carpet factory, but he knew Wakefield.  It was the site of one of the zoan factories–though not his birthplace–that had stood empty the first years of his life before being portioned out for smaller stores and offices.  People talked about it in mystical terms, but by the time Geir had ever made the pilgrimage, it was just one dingy commercial neighborhood among many.  Probably had been before, too.  Only in the few short months between the leak of the manufacturers' plans and the zoans' emergence had it been a special place.
It looked like a lot of the city did, now.  Built up but still poor.  The original factory had been an unassuming single-story building the size of the entire block; it had three more levels to it now, all blocks of full buildings built onto its roof wherever urban planners could find space.  Fewer overhead walkways though.  The evening sun made it hot.  Geir could see one of the Stampers in the distance, planted at the southern end of Uptown to print some new luxurious hotel.
The carpet factory was on a block adjacent to the old one.  Its face was a concrete slab hunkered between more inviting office blocks on either side, with the name Baniff Textile over a pair of metal doors in the middle.  An airtruck lifted off from a landing pad above it while Geir cased it, presumably bringing a load of fresh carpeting to one of the Uptown towers.
Something lavish, no doubt.  High quality but not flashy.
A little after the sun went down, someone came out to lean against the wall by the metal doors.  Looking casual, but obviously a door man.  It was Thursday night, just Geir's luck.  He hadn't had to worry about days of the week in years.  Geir approached him.
The doorman was a big human, wide in the shoulders and hips, heavy, shaven-headed and bearded.  He eyed the barbatus without acknowledging him.
"I was hoping to see a broken jaw," Geir said.
The human laughed, a single huff whose content of mirth Geir couldn't guess at.  He looked the vulture over and decided, like Cranberry had–though probably for different reasons–that he wasn't a cop.
"Forty," he said, offering a pay block.
Geir thumbed it.
"You only had thirty-eight," the doorman said, but shrugged and waved Geir on with a tilt of his head.
Geir had a few thoughts on what he might find in the factory.  He wouldn't have been surprised if it were a labor trafficking operation he was walking into, that gave Cranberry a cut for every passer-through that he tricked into it.  If so, he was ready to take a big chunk out of the doorman's neck on his way back out.  Once he was through the vestibule, though, he relaxed.
The hallway leading into the factory's offices was blocked off for the night, and a side door labeled Employees Only was propped open across it.  That led to a stairwell down, from which the sound of cheering and shouting emanated.  Past a human strung-out on the stairs, and a couple more sitting on the lowest steps and shouting, there was a thick crowd in the factory's basement.
The center of the basement was depressed, and had been roped off.  A canid zoan leaned against the ropes, breathing deeply and brushing blood out of his eyes with gauze-wrapped hands. Someone else was being carried off.
Geir found a place to stand and watch.
A few minutes later, a squamate zoan jumped the ropes and stirred the audience up for the next fight. It would be Local Ben versus Mr. Grouch’s Left. Local Ben was a meaty human with beady eyes and a hairy back. He climbed into the ring and rested his arms casually against the ropes.
The audience parted to make way for his opponent. On the far end of the basement, near the boiler, another human sat, brooding in a folding chair, with a hardened and contemptuous scowl. He had several toughs with him, but he was flanked by two very large zoans. The one at his left, a rhinoceros model, made for the ring with a businesslike stride.
The lizard shouted for the fight to start, and leapt out of the way as the two combatants closed in on each other. Both were large and muscular, thick but not flabby. They jabbed experimentally with their wrapped fists, feigned kicks at each other’s knees. Local Ben took the first serious swing, catching Grouch’s Left in the face. The rhino took it easily.
The market for rhinoceros zoans had originally been for rugged heavy lifters: rubble clearers, porters for construction materials. Prototypes had been tough and dumb, extremely strong and scarcely sapient. The rhinoceros features had been a signifier of their role, mere packaging. They would have competed with another biotech company’s ox model. Then the UN ruling had come in, forbidding the limiting or manipulation of an artificial humanoid’s capabilities. After that, zoans’ respective species had to be effectively cosmetic. The rhinoceros in the ring had no innate advantage in strength, size, or endurance.
Though the thick skin counted for something.
Local Ben kicked Left in the stomach and hit him in the eye with a headbutt. The rhino was staggered, but came back to grapple his opponent at the waist and throw him off balance enough to lift him off his feet for a suplex. The human rolled out of it skillfully and rained quick punches against the other’s abdomen, while Left brought a powerful elbow down on his back.
There didn’t seem to be any broad restrictions on the fighting, except maybe against piercing or cutting; Left didn’t seem to make any use of his horn. Still, the combatants gouged and bit, and weren’t shy about aiming for the groin. Both were well bloodied by the end. Which came when Left threw Local Ben to the ground and scored a powerful kick on the human’s chin.
The audience celebrated as Left rested briefly against the ropes, smoldering. There was no activity from Grouch by the boiler, only whispers exchanged by some of his toughs. The rhino didn’t wait to be announced as the winner before ducking the ropes and returning to the scowling human’s side.
Geir stuck around for several matches, late into the night. His attention was on the crowd. He watched for who took and handled bets, who handed out winnings, who kept track of fighters. Mostly he watched Grouch.
The human didn’t seem to be affiliated with the organizers of the fight, but he was clearly given a certain respect by everyone involved. The way he cast glances at the toughs behind him, Geir guessed that they were hirelings and not Grouch’s own. An organized crime figure, maybe, or maybe a wealthy Uptown visitor with a taste for violent thrills.
The contests were going strong at midnight, but Geir had seen enough for now. Back outside, he looked for a sheltered spot away from the street; he was completely broke, after all. Many alleys were occupied, and he had to back off from more than one promising spot at knifepoint. Downtown Terrace had been like that in his time, too, but not quite as much.
He was closer to the bus station than to the carpet factory when he found a safe place, just inside the window of a vacant storefront. He wouldn’t mind the walk in the morning.