Where the Future Is Bought
The Brass Spires rise above the smog line, their towers clad in polished brass and glass. Steam here is filtered, perfumed, and aesthetic. This is the district of invention, capital, and curated progress—where innovation is celebrated publicly and controlled privately.
A grand rotating exhibition space showcasing new inventions.
Truth: Promising designs are quietly seized under “strategic patent review.”
A private council chamber where leading industrialists meet.
Truth: They don’t debate morality—only risk and return.
A fortified archive of designs, claims, and legal ownership.
Truth: Inventors’ work is buried here to prevent destabilizing innovation.
Vertical transit platforms linking the Spires’ upper levels.
Truth: Workers without clearance are restricted to lower platforms.
Luxurious housing for engineers, executives, and favored inventors.
Truth: Rent is subsidized to ensure loyalty and silence.
Sound-dampened labs where prototypes are refined.
Truth: Failures—and their creators—are erased from public record.
A political-social club hosting debates, dinners, and negotiations.
Truth: Policy is shaped here long before it reaches Crownrise.
Hidden dormitories for laborers, technicians, and cleaners.
Truth: Workers are contractually barred from discussing their work.
Private docks for experimental and executive transport.
Truth: Some flights never appear in official ledgers.
A bureaucratic office deciding which projects receive funding.
Truth: It quietly determines which futures are allowed to exist.
Industrialists in the Brass Spires believe they are stewards of progress. Politics is treated as an engineering problem: instability is inefficiency, dissent is friction, and ethics are adjustable variables.
Workers here are better paid than in Foundry Ward, but far more constrained. Contracts are airtight. Surveillance is subtle. Advancement requires obedience, not brilliance.
Innovation thrives—but only in approved directions.
This district shows players the soft tyranny of progress. No chains, no smoke-choked slums—just incentives, contracts, and doors that quietly close.
The Brass Spires teach a chilling lesson:
The future isn’t stolen.
It’s managed.