New Vance City

Array Node K-17 sits just inside the northern arc of the Solar Guardian Perimeter Bastion, where the order of the Sprawl thins into scorched emptiness. Once a primary relay hub for solar intake routing, it now functions as a silent monitor post, mostly automated, mostly forgotten. Power still flows—barely—through its cracked panels and corroded uplinks, enough to keep its signal flickering and its security protocols twitching. Guardian patrols pass it regularly but don’t linger. The Node’s isolation and redundant programming have made it prone to strange behavior: sporadic lens flares with no sun, heat blooms with no source, and solar flares that arc without connection. Engineers whisper of phantom errors—glitches in light, as if the Node is broadcasting something it shouldn’t. Some scavvers call it “the Sunghost,” claiming to see human shapes within its mirrors. Whether it’s haunted code or just sun-sick hallucinations, no one’s been brave—or foolish—enough to dismantle it.

Array Node K-17 rises like a fractured spine of light from the irradiated dust—an angular structure of scorched alloy, its sides paneled with mirror-bright solar collectors veiled in dust and fracture lines. Golden light pulses intermittently from recessed ports, as if the Node breathes in slow, mechanical rhythm. Support struts arc outward like sun-flares frozen mid-burst, many bent or broken, casting jagged shadows across the ground. Cables snake from the base, partially buried, partially exposed, twitching faintly in electromagnetic pulses. The surrounding terrain is a dead zone: cracked earth, scorched pylons, and glassed soil reflecting warped images of the sky. Drones perch dormant atop the Node, their sensor eyes dim—until movement triggers a flicker of life, a brief scan, then silence again. The sky above always seems slightly brighter around the Node, though clouds never part. A lens flare lingers too long. A reflection shifts on its own. Something watches through the light.