New Vance City is a post-collapse RPG where survival means customizing everything—classes, skills, races, and gear are all unique. Set in 2070, a year after the world cracked and the infected rose, this cyberpunk dystopia pulses with story-rich factions, brutal politics, and unforgettable characters. Forge your path in a smog-choked ruin where the line between savior and syndicate blurs with every shot fired. Fight zombies, raiders, and mutated creatures and test your survival in New Vance City!
Played | 5554 times |
Cloned | 200 times |
Created | 124 days ago |
Last Updated | 3 days ago |
Visibility | Public |
Coordinates | (249, 239) |
H.O.B. (Hydraulic Operations Bot) stands as a hulking relic within the Waterworks district—one of the few remaining massive construction machines from before the Collapse. Originally designed to assemble New Vance’s gargantuan water reservoirs and subterranean cisterns, H.O.B.’s reinforced hydraulic arms once shifted tons of concrete with precision and raw power. But the Collapse brought a devastating flood that severed its control systems and drained its power core, leaving H.O.B. inert and silent. Now, this rusting giant is more than just abandoned tech; it’s a contested treasure trove. The Gear Rats, obsessed with machine worship and scrap, revere H.O.B. as a godlike titan of metal and oil, frequently raiding its carcass for salvageable parts and holding brutal contests to claim the most valuable spoils. Though near the edge of Hydro Hegemony’s fortified Waterworks, the Titan remains a symbol of power and a source of critical components for those daring enough to challenge Valve.
H.O.B. looms over the Waterworks landscape like a rusted colossus, its massive frame composed of dented steel plates, exposed pistons, and tangled cables hanging like vines from skeletal limbs. Layers of grime, rust, and algae colonize its joints and armor plates, giving the machine a mottled patina of decay and neglect. Corroded pipes protrude from its back, some broken and dripping water-stained residue, while its once-brilliant control panel glows faintly with intermittent sparks of failing circuitry. Around its feet, twisted scrap metal forms a chaotic shrine: piles of worn gears, shattered conduit pieces, and crude talismans fashioned from scavenged bolts and wire. Flickering neon graffiti tags—some marking Gear Rat raids, others warnings—paint parts of its hull. The surrounding area smells of chlorine, rust, and old oil, mixing with the distant hum of hydro pumps and guarded filtration towers. In twilight, H.O.B. casts a long shadow over the district.