New Vance City

Once a recycling hub for obsolete electronics, the Electronic Graveyard now festers under a sky thick with electromagnetic haze. Endless heaps of shattered screens, corroded circuit boards, and defunct neural implants stretch in every direction—a metallic necropolis humming with latent energy. Here, the Static Cult walks barefoot over broken motherboards, harvesting “holy fragments” and “whispering chips” from gutted devices. It is said the Graveyard is where the static first spoke, where the Conductor received their original transmission carved into a scorched tablet of silicon. Converts are often brought here to be “tuned”—left among the flickering remnants until their minds fracture and reform in rhythm with the Cult’s divine feedback. Stray signals still loop through rusted speakers, mumbling broken prayers or playing fragments of forgotten songs. This isn’t just trash. To the Cult, it’s sacred text—dead tech singing the voice of God.

A jagged wasteland sprawls across the horizon, shaped by mountains of obsolete machines and fused electronics, blackened by acid rains and half-melted by radiation bursts. The sky overhead flickers between static cloud banks and stuttering light, casting shifting glows like a broken CRT. Antennas protrude from the rubble like skeletal fingers, twitching in unseen currents. Old broadcast dishes tilt crookedly, eternally searching for signals long since lost. Amid this chaos, Static Cultists drift in ritual formation—bodies wrapped in data-tape shrouds, implants flickering with unnatural rhythm. Occasional bursts of sparks erupt from half-buried transformers, and shattered screens blink with ghostly faces or error codes looping like mantras. The air crackles with energy, and the scent of ozone and burnt plastic clings to every breath. It is both grave and altar—where the old world died, and the new signal began.