New Vance City

Tucked within a sun-baked alley of the Solar Sprawl, Njara Quinn’s Memory Mender Clinic operates on the fringe of official protocol and outlawed practice. Once an engineer specializing in neuro-data retention, Njara now runs a discreet sanctuary for the psychologically fractured—those suffering memory burn from solar overexposure, shambler trauma, or corrupted neural augmentations. Using scavenged Citadel tech and retrofitted solar nodes, she “reweaves” memory threads, reconstructing identity fragments or isolating pain like bad code. Guardians permit her practice—barely—since it aids in keeping Sprawl citizens functional. But Njara walks a thin line. Too many recovered memories spark unrest or forgotten crimes. And in a place where obedience is survival, unearthing the wrong past could burn brighter than the sun.

The clinic is wedged between a scorched relay station and a collapsed overpass, marked only by a sun-faded mural of a human head fracturing into light. Inside, pale gold light spills from repurposed solar mirrors, casting dappled warmth across glassy white walls patched with scavenged polymer. A mix of salvaged furniture and Guardian-grade recliners line the treatment bay, each fitted with a makeshift neural crown—copper prongs and fiber-optic veins glowing faintly blue. Shelves brim with improvised tools: soldered EEG caps, cracked AR visors, a surgical tray holding memory-thread chips, each labeled with a patient’s alias. Njara works behind a wall of feedback-dampened screens, her silhouette flickering in soft light as data flows through tendrils wired to a solar battery core. The room hums like a beehive—part clinic, part confessional, part forbidden lab. And always, in the background, the distant thrum of Guardian patrol boots reminds patients of the price of remembering too much.