Red Zone
Cold autumn wind blows through the Red Zone, picking up the smaller, less sapient pieces of refuse that crowd near alleyway corners. Regardless of the season, the Red Zone's winds always seem to be cold and cluttered with refuse. Perhaps the hobos sitting around waiting to be murdered by a villain during their grand introductory moment sap the heat from the air? Who knows. It's still darned uncomfortable. Even for machines, apparently, as
this robotic fellow has wrapped himself tightly in his hooded scarf, hunched over and shuddering as he half-jogs down the sidewalks of the Red Zone, an electric violin case in one hand, a paper bag in the other, and an oddly bright and varied little trail of autumn leaves following him everywhere he goes, seemingly coming from just outside the observer's peripheral vision, and disappearing when they hit the ground if looked away from.
Grumbling something about poverty and weather, the transient trans-sentient makes the mistake of passing a dark alleyway...