New Vance City

Slag-welded to the side of a collapsed foundry, the Gear Rat Trading Post is the closest thing the Rats have to a “market.” It’s a snarling bazaar where barter is blood sport and trust is rusted scrap. Raiders, smugglers, and desperate mechanics haul in their salvage and tech—hoping to trade with the iron-fisted sub-warlords who run the post like war barons. Oversight is brutal, with every deal taxed in oil or body parts. Surveillance drones buzz overhead, and any dishonesty is punished with a boot to the smelter. Raiders may be welcome, but outsiders walk a blade’s edge. Despite the danger, the post thrives, offering one-of-a-kind creations only the Rats could forge: a chainsaw bayonet built from a printer, or a riot suit made of vending machine doors. Trade here isn’t just about survival—it’s a flex of dominance. Come prepared, come armed, and come knowing you’re one wrong offer away from being sold for scrap.

The post is a gnashing mess of rebar spires, rusted scaffolding, and smoke-belching welding rigs. Scrap banners stitched from hazard tape and rat hides hang overhead, flapping in chemical-laced winds. The central plaza is an open smelting pit ringed by jagged merchant stalls made from gutted loaders and shipping crates. A hollowed-out crane serves as the auction block, its claw still twitching from some half-functional AI. Flammable barrels line the walkways, casting everything in a feverish orange haze. Scavenger wares dangle from hooks—ranging from laser-drilled augments to half-melted dolls fused to knives. Air compressors hiss beside gear-grinders that never stop turning. The scent is pure Rust Belt rot: ozone, scorched rubber, old blood, and diesel backwash. Graffiti in oil reads “TRADE HARD. BLEED CLEAN.” because here, commerce is war—and the Rats always win.