The Sprawl

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

High above the smog layer, monolithic corporate arcologies loom like glass and steel gods, their pristine spires utterly untouched by the filth below. Down in the lower wards of the Boston-Atlanta Metropolitan Axis, the rain never stops. It falls in a heavy, synthetic sheet, slicking the cracked concrete and reflecting the bleeding neon glare of endless black-market tech stalls and late-night noodle stands.

Somewhere in the labyrinth of alleyways below, a scream cuts through the mechanical static—though in the Sprawl, it's usually impossible to tell a dying street-samurai from a cackling stim-jockey. The city is a massive, indifferent machine, but it is also a blank slate. It doesn't care if you're a disgraced corporate suit looking for a second chance, a hotshot decker chasing the ultimate hack, or just a nobody trying to hustle your way out of the gutter. The Sprawl offers a million different ways to burn out or build an empire. The grid is yours to navigate.