New Vance City

The Broken Reservoir is a forgotten limb of the Waterworks—a ruptured filtration basin that once supplied clean water to half of New Vance before the Collapse turned order into overflow. Now, it’s a contaminated relic, officially condemned by the Hydro Hegemony but still visited daily by those too poor—or too desperate—to qualify for rationed hydration. Its cracked ceramic walls leak brownish runoff into the streets, creating fetid pools that lure both scavengers and shamblers. Locals call it “The Bleeding Bowl,” a place where thirst and infection mingle freely. Leak teams rarely patrol this area unless enforcing a “dry list” with brute force. Rumors persist of rogue purifiers squatting inside, filtering drops of life through scavenged tech, and charging tribute to the Hegemony under the table. In truth, the reservoir is both a humanitarian failure and a battlefield—one bottle at a time.

The reservoir yawns like a shattered crater in the heart of corrosion. Once ringed by chrome railings and blinking sensors, it now lies in grim disrepair—its bowl fractured into deep fissures, with blackened water festering at the bottom. The surrounding architecture slouches inward: rusted catwalks dangle from half-melted scaffolding, filtration pipes coil like dead serpents across broken tile, and graffiti-covered kiosks rot in the sludge. Floating atop the water are clumps of algae and trash, illuminated by flickering industrial lamps rigged with jury-rigged solar panels. Above, hollow window frames leer like broken teeth in the concrete shells of monitoring towers. Old signs read “Purity Begins Here,” now scratched out or replaced with anarchist tags and crude jokes. Fires burn in nearby camps, casting long shadows across the cracked basin where life and death soak into the same poisoned puddle.