New Vance City

Wedged in a collapsed loading bay on the fringe of Gear Rat territory, where the Rust Belt chokes on its own fumes, Darius Kael’s Clinic is the last stop for the mangled and the mad. Known as The Steel Surgeon, Darius is a disgraced Citadel biotech dropout turned battlefield butcher. He’s infamous for mending what most would scrap—fusing metal and flesh with industrial savagery and zero concern for bedside manner. Raiders limp in on makeshift crutches, scavvers beg for upgrades, and few ever walk out the same. His services run on barter: scrap, cores, rare biotech, or fresh salvage. Rumors swirl that Kael’s pushing boundaries—experimenting with shambler remains, or worse, mimicking Silent Walker physiology. Whatever his methods, his allegiance is to the grind—of bone saw on vertebra, of gears clicking where tendons used to be.

The clinic is grafted into a sunken auto garage, its signage a half-melted relic of an old-world tire chain. Rust streaks down the walls like dried blood. Inside, chaos reigns: bolt trays spill across an oil-slicked floor, tarps mask unrecognizable patient remains, and old spinal columns serve as surgical brackets. Fluorescents buzz overhead, filtering through haze from solder smoke and burnt antiseptic. The centerpiece is a crude operating rig made from forklift parts, mining drills, and cannibalized hospital tech. A cracked monitor pulses with life signs—some Kael’s, some not. The walls are cluttered with blueprints and failed grafts sketched on ration sheets. The reek of ozone, sterilizer, and burnt flesh fights the industrial stench of the Rust Belt outside—a grim perfume that says: you might survive, but you won’t come out clean.