New Vance City

Deep beneath the shattered ruins of New Vance City, the Phantom Galleries weave a disorienting maze of rusted steel and fractured glass. These twisting tunnels—once experimental transit lines—now pulse with chaotic electromagnetic interference that scrambles senses and twists reality. Decaying neon signs flicker erratically, casting warped shadows that stretch and fold like living illusions. Broken holographic ads flash fragmented messages, echoing the lost consumer dreams of a world long dead. The Static Cult has claimed this hall of echoes as a sacred testing ground, where recruits endure grueling rites to resist the maddening static that permeates every inch. Here, minds bend and break, warped by invisible waves that hiss like ghostly whispers. Devices tested here frequently implode or take on unstable sentience, reflecting the cult’s belief that the static is the divine code streaming through flesh and machine. Few outsiders enter the Phantom Galleries and return unscarred.

The Phantom Galleries crawl beneath the earth like a fractured nerve system alive with flickering life. Walls of corroded metal and cracked concrete drip with condensation, slick with grime and phosphorescent mold. Faded neon tubes sputter feebly, struggling to hold a ghostly glow that bathes the tunnels in sickly pinks, greens, and blues. Broken holograms shimmer erratically, projecting fractured ads that warp and glitch—advertisements for goods that no longer exist, shimmering like forgotten phantoms in the haze. The air hums with low-frequency static, crackling softly beneath the eerie silence. The floor is littered with shattered glass, twisted wiring, and discarded cybernetic implants pulsing faintly with erratic energy. Here and there, clusters of cultists—faces pale and eyes flickering with digital light—move in jittery procession, their bodies twitching as if caught between reality and signal. The oppressive atmosphere presses in, cold and electric.