New Vance City

Once a cutting-edge maglev-construction mech built to pave New Vance’s high-speed future, Roadstop was a marvel of pre-Collapse engineering. But when its grav-core catastrophically overloaded during a track-laying operation, the titan crashed headfirst into a transit corridor, leveling an entire section of the Rust Belt. Now rust-locked and tilted in permanent sprawl, Roadstop’s mangled frame has become sacred ground for the Gear Rats. They call it the “Saint of Steel,” a martyr of motion halted mid-stride. No salvage is taken without Cog’s blessing, and rituals of oil and fire mark attempts to commune with its machine spirit. Raiders from outside the Rats’ ranks have tried to strip it for tech, only to be repelled—or left hanging from its outstretched fingers as warnings. In a world where the line between worship and warfare has blurred, Roadstop remains a broken god of the rails—respected, feared, and never forgotten.

Roadstop’s body sprawls across a collapsed railyard like a rust-drenched cathedral in ruin. Its spine, once a reinforced transport chassis, now arches through scorched scaffolding and warped train cars. Steel plating has decayed into streaks of oxidized bronze and seeping iron rot. From its ruptured chest spill charred coils and carbon-blasted cables, looping like gutted intestines across the cracked ballast. One titanic arm—originally a hydraulic pylon-setter—pierces the asphalt, fingers bent into a clawed grasp. Its shattered cockpit tilts sideways in the rubble, its visor a spiderweb of fractured glass coated in soot. Totems cling to the frame: melted circuitboards, wrench-chain necklaces, old world helmets scorched with glyphs. Gear Rats patrol the base like priests on vigil, while raider graffiti clashes with oily prayers scrawled in weld marks and flame-etched rust. Above it all, the mech looms silent—a holy wreck of ambition and annihilation.