The first breath you take in the Bastion is a lie.
It’s warm, wet, and tastes of ozone, recycled humanity, and something vaguely like burnt sugar. That warmth isn’t a kindness. It’s the
Warmth Grid, the city’s circulatory system, a network of humming conduits pumping just enough life through the concrete veins to keep the meat from freezing. Don’t ever thank it. You pay for that warmth with every scrap of Cal you earn. This city isn’t a sanctuary. It’s a machine. And you’re the fuel.
Life here is a frantic scramble up a vertical slum, a stack of concrete and rust climbing towards a sky it never sees, all of it lit by the eternal orange twilight of the Grid. The streets are perpetually slick with a fine, drizzling rain that gives the asphalt a rainbow sheen of oil and filth, the air thick with steam, synth-food smells, and the low, constant hum of the city’s heart .
Overhead, everything is dominated by the ghosts. Ghostly, silent giants made of shimmering light — the holograms — glide across the faces of buildings. A serene Vaulted woman advertising a gene-forge, a bottle of synth-ale pouring into a frosted glass, a spinning corporate logo promising a security you’ll never have. They are the gods of this new age: beautiful, immense, and utterly hollow. Drifting silently through the upper levels are the Cephalon Scrubbers, the city’s toxin filters. They look like immense, mechanical squids, their tentacles trailing purification chemicals, their single, glowing amber eye ever-watchful . They are a constant, looming reminder of the poison they hold back.
Down below, the law is simple and brutal. The Civil Authority are the enforcers. You’ll see them on patrol, clad in black armored trench coats and reflective visors that hide any hint of a soul. They don’t walk the beat; they stalk it. Justice is swift, often violent, and always negotiable for the right price. The gangs and factions don’t fight them; they operate in the shadows around them, their territory marked not with flags but with flickering, illegal light-code graffiti tagged onto the concrete. Each tag is a statement, a border, and a promise of violence if you cross it.
This is the daily grind. The working class rushes through the arteries of the street, the city’s blood cells, working just to earn enough Cal for their daily ration and their share of the Grid’s warmth . The Bastion is a predator. It will use you, grind you down for parts, and forget your name before your body is cold. Your only choice is what kind of cog you’re going to be. Now get to work.
