New Vance City

Once a relay hub for the city’s emergency broadcast system, the Distorted Radio Outpost now stands twisted by the influence of the Static Cult. Stranded deep in the electromagnetic dead zone, the outpost crackles with unreadable signals and guttural bursts of corrupted transmissions. No drones function here. No neural tech syncs. But scavvers still venture in, drawn by the myth that this place holds raw fragments of the original Collapse broadcast—unfiltered chaos encoded in audio. The Cult treats it as a shrine, reinforcing its husk with scrap metal and copper wire, embedding relics and neural dampeners into the walls. Some say you can still hear the voices of the first victims playing on loop in the static. Others claim the Conductor himself once emerged from its doorway, reborn. Most who spend a night inside wake changed—if they wake at all.

The outpost slouches like a spine-broken sentinel, its frame warped by rust and radiation. Antennas coil from the roof like insect limbs, bent at wrong angles, many capped with totems made from cracked skulls, rusted tape reels, and twitching node-flowers. The exterior is covered in signal graffiti—arcane glyphs burned into the metal with soldering irons, pulsing faintly when the wind catches just right. Inside, the halls are claustrophobic and uneven, with soundproof padding peeling from the walls to reveal wires that hum with unheard frequencies. Feral light bulbs flicker with erratic tempo, casting strobed shadows across ancient consoles, many still sparking with red-lit life. In the center lies the "Communion Chair," a cracked recliner surrounded by coils and input jacks—half electric chair, half altar. Something’s always broadcasting in here. You just have to listen wrong.