Post-Apocalyptic

Survival in New Vance

Pollution

In 2070, a zombie virus threatens mankind. A futuristic, dystopian, cyberpunk test of survival!

Author's Note: The year is 2070, one year after the Collapse. The place? New Vance City. Skeletal remains of skyscrapers pierce the smog-choked sky. Patches of overgrown desert flora claw at cracked asphalt. Inside, survivors try to make the best of their fragile existence, repurposing solar panels and scavenging for supplies. Kids growing up in this hell hole play amongst the ruins of the city, their laughter a thin, hopeful melody that just isn't strong enough to pierce through the grim ambiance of the city. Life here is filled with nothing but scarcity and fear. Every creak in the night, every flicker in the solar grid, every hum or buzz... It's all enough to send shivers down your spines. Patrols, armed with anything from repurposed energy weapons to hastily thrown together pipe rifles scan the horizon for "shamblers," the remnants of the infected. Yet amidst the hardship, the community is still blooming. New Vance City still stands, at least for now. A flickering candle in the encroaching darkness of a world forever changed.

Played	3165 times
Cloned	117 times
Created	84 days ago
Last Updated	Yesterday
Visibility	Public

Arena District

Area

Details

Size	0
Type	Combat Sector

Description

Nestled just beneath the shattered remains of an old transit hub, the Arena District is New Vance City’s blood-streaked theater of chaos. It’s not officially sanctioned by any faction, but the Shadow Syndicate’s fingerprints are all over it—encrypted betting networks, cloaked fixers, and neural-feed fight streams that beam straight into the Black Market. Here, gladiatorial battles erupt daily in makeshift cages, shattered courtyards, or rusted train stations repurposed into death pits. Combatants range from desperate scrappers to modified enforcers, all hungry for coin, clout, or just the thrill of not dying. Crowds gather like moths to carnage, their cheers masked by synth beats and neon haze. This is not a place of honor—it’s a meat grinder where survival is currency and violence is the lingua franca. In the Arena, blood buys freedom… or buries it.

Appearance

Floodlights glare through rising smoke as rusted fences cage in snarling fighters. Walls are tagged with Syndicate glyphs and glitchy ads for stim-injectors. Holograms flicker above the pit, broadcasting odds in real-time. Blood spatters mingle with old oil stains on cracked concrete, while roaring spectators—faces half-lit by neon—chant like addicts awaiting their next fix.