New Vance City

Once a logistical heart for the plant’s chemical exchanges, the Loading Docks now sit rotting at the southern fringe of the Chem Zone—where rust meets ruin and the air chews at your teeth. Here, trucks once hauled volatile compounds through reinforced bays and crane lines whispered across heavy slabs of synthcrete. But now? It’s an open-air grave for the industrial age. The place offers a rare stretch of flat terrain, making it useful for staging scav runs, ambushes, or ill-advised campfires. Raiders occasionally squat here between sorties, and Gear Rat expeditions have been known to use it as a forward post before diving deeper into the zone. Those who stay long report strange shifting in the fog at night—figures, reflections, the echo of mechanisms restarting themselves. Nobody works here anymore. But something still moves the crates. And it doesn’t like being watched.

Cracked concrete slabs stretch across the expanse like peeling skin, interrupted by the towering carcasses of loading cranes—tangled metal limbs frozen mid-lift. Their hooks dangle with rusted menace, some still clutching shattered crates lined with synthetic padding or chemical-stained foam. Containers lie gutted and warped, their sides collapsed inward like crushed soda cans, marked with hazard glyphs half-dissolved by acid rains. Thick vines—mutated by chemical runoff—climb between gear teeth and suspension rigs, pulsing with dull bioluminescence. Acrid puddles ripple with oily hues of green, orange, and violet, forming corrosive mirrors that twitch at every passing footfall. Overhead, faded signage peels like sunburn, bearing logos of corporations long buried by the Collapse. Wind carries the high whine of malfunctioning servo-arms still attempting to obey orders issued a decade ago. The entire place feels suspended between automation and abandonment—half-living, wholly lethal.