New Vance City

The Bleeder’s Bastion is an abandoned pressure regulation tower squatting near the southern rim of the Waterworks. Once a critical node in New Vance’s water distribution grid, it's now sealed off, written out of official maps, and whispered about with a mix of fear and grim humor. Locals claim the place "bled itself dry" after a catastrophic backflow ruptured its main tank, drowning an entire maintenance crew in chemically tainted water. Since then, it’s been repurposed unofficially as a shelter, trade spot, and hideaway for the desperate. Crates of moldy rations, old world memorabilia, and scrawled warnings coat the interior like layers of sediment. The Hegemony occasionally sends leak teams to “flush it,” but they never stick around long. Too many say the pipes whisper at night—like they're still full of screams. To the right kind of scavver, the Bastion is an opportunity. To everyone else, it's a broken relic of a system that was never meant to fail.

A looming cylinder of tarnished chrome and oxidized bulkheads, the Bleeder’s Bastion towers over the surrounding filtration runoff like a rusted sentinel. Its lower walls are etched with faded blue Hegemony insignias, half-covered by graffiti tags and mineral staining. Cracked floodlights hang like broken teeth from reinforced scaffolding, their filaments long dead. A steel walkway winds up the outer shell, its railings twisted by years of thermal stress and overgrowth. Near the top, shattered glass slats expose an interior catwalk bathed in cold, filtered light. Inside, it’s a cathedral of corrosion: dangling pipes leak slow drips into murky puddles, and ventilation fans turn with a lazy, groaning rhythm. Moss creeps up the sides of the control consoles, while rust-colored water seeps across the floors like dried blood. The air is heavy—thick with copper, chlorine, and silence, broken only by the low, rhythmic thrum of ancient water still pulsing somewhere deep below.