New Vance City

The Hub is the flickering pulse of unaligned life in New Vance City—a last-ditch attempt at unity in a world shattered by infection, scarcity, and factional war. Once a sleek corporate AI command center, it now groans with age and adaptation. Beneath cracked ferrocrete domes and warped neon signs, the Hub operates as neutral territory for the city’s dispossessed. Here, bartering is law and ideology is checked at the door. The Solar Guardians fund power for clinics, the Hydro Hegemony leases ration flow in drips, and the Citadel monitors from afar, pretending not to interfere. It’s a pressure cooker of backroom deals, whispered alliances, and survival-driven compromise. Yet amidst it all, you’ll find children learning letters on rusted screens, doctors repurposing solar welders for surgery, and volunteers organizing food drives from scavenged pantries. It's chaotic. It's imperfect. But for many, the Hub is the only piece of New Vance that still feels... human.

The Hub towers like a bloated relic of the past—thick ferrocrete ribs hold up a shell pockmarked with old blast damage and hasty patchwork. Solar panels half-melted by past fires rest atop the roof in jagged lines, catching just enough sun to light its flickering signs and power its jury-rigged systems. Walls are layered with graffiti murals: some tributes to lost loved ones, others propaganda from rival factions quickly painted over. A central entrance—flanked by sandbagged checkpoints and twitchy volunteer guards—leads into a cavernous atrium bustling with improvised life. Inside, tarps and reclaimed furniture divide spaces into clinics, soup lines, repurposed classrooms, and market stalls. Overhead, exposed conduit veins crackle with inconsistent power. The air smells like ozone, copper, and stale bread. Security drones gifted from the Citadel drift silently above, while Solar Guardians post outside in radiant armor—watching, not intervening.