New Vance City

In the sun-bleached remains of pre-Collapse suburbs, the Solar Sprawl radiates with harsh purpose. Once a shattered wasteland, it's now a fortified zone powered by sprawling solar grids and governed by the Solar Guardians—bronzed figures in glinting exosuits who see sunlight as sacred law. Every rooftop hums with photovoltaic harvesters. Converted substations serve as fortress-temples, broadcasting Captain Anya Brights’ doctrine of radiant purity: energy must be earned, not stolen. Life here is rigid but fair—residents live under strict energy quotas and military-style discipline, repaid with purified water, hydroponic food, and secure housing. The Sprawl is both salvation and surveillance, a techno-theocratic regime where disobedience earns exile—or incineration. Raiders call it a cult. Locals call it survival. Beneath the sun’s unblinking eye, there is no room for chaos—only function, loyalty, and the burn of progress.

The Solar Sprawl is a sun-scorched grid of reinforced ruins, where broken roads glisten with glassy sand and solar panel canopies stretch like metallic vines across decayed infrastructure. Substations turned into radiant bastions pulse with amber light, casting holy glow across crumbling tenements rebuilt with sun-baked stone and salvaged alloy. Towering pylons arc beams of collected solar energy toward fusion cores, their cables thrumming with raw power. Guardian patrols stride through the dust in armor etched like old-world statues—gleaming copper and scorched steel—faces masked, weapons lit with focused sunlight. Neon-yellow banners flutter on windless poles, bearing solar sigils and utility codes like scripture. Even graffiti here glows faintly, sanctioned or swiftly scorched. At night, the district glows not with fire, but the stubborn light of civilization burning in defiance of the dark.