The year is 2089.

Skyscrapers stretch toward a haze-choked sky, their chrome exteriors alive with shifting holograms and animated billboards that beam corporate propaganda through the smog. Neon signs buzz in every language, flickering with half-finished transactions and subscription alerts. Elevated railcars screech overhead. A thousand voices drift through the air, mingling with the aroma of street food, coolant leaks, ozone, and the constant burn of recycled air.

Civitas Vega is alive, not with freedom, but with function. With survival.

Drones glide along patrol routes, scanning crowds with passive menace. Towering mech-lifters stomp down side corridors, carrying freight containers tagged by invisible RFID. Augmented pedestrians flicker through augmented reality overlays, eyes aglow with datafeeds. Surveillance orbs hover under every overhang. Cameras blink from vending machines and streetlights. Even the pets of the Zenith elite carry trackers.

Above it all, the Zenith gleams—skyborne sanctuaries of the ultra-rich, where luxury is custom-coded and the air is filtered twice over. Below them, Luminaries pace sterile corridors of corporate towers, faces lit by glowing interfaces and retinal scans.

Functionaries live in small, simple apartments within industrial buildings, overlooking the streets below, grinding through long shifts in clinics, schools, and systems control hubs. Their lives are measured in quotas and biometric compliance. The Grindcore below groans with heat and motion—endless factory halls, neon ramen stalls, cracked alleyways slick with steam and debt. The grind never sleeps.

And deep beneath it all, in the forgotten veins of the city, exists the Subcurrent. There, the Unmarked make lives from scraps, dodging drones, building networks from salvage, and slipping between systems never meant to be seen.

The Digital Imprint tracks all. Unless you were never meant to exist.

There is no outside. Civitas Vega is your home, your prison, your proving ground.

Where you stand in it is up to you.