Everything

The tunnels underneath Old Town served as the orig­ inal dumping ground for the CyberRealm’s trash until it overflowed into the city above. Obsolete and often bizarre technology from every period of human history packs every corner of the Pit. Robotic golems — advanced by human standards but ancient here — lie in forgotten pieces next to Renaissance-era clockwork mechanisms. This labyrinth of technological refuse is lit by little more than the occasional fluorescent bulb and smells of battery acid and waste products.

The Pit is also where living trash winds up. Broken, wounded, or just plain faulty Weaver-spirits end up here, as do trapped Umbral travelers. Such unfortunates wind up as the next meal for scavengers after their juice, like sucking marrow from a bone. As in Old Town, Banes find their own meals in the Pit.

The Pit has its own native life, of a sort. Strange spirits made up of flesh, plastic, and steel crawl up out of the wreckage. They wander aimlessly like Frankenstein’s monsters with twisted iron support beams for limbs and melted plastic faces opening to reveal teeth of jagged, mis­ matched glass. They have nerves of burned-out wires and

scraps of steel wool controlling muscles of rotted leather and chain link. Nobody knows if some energy in the Pit animates these monstrous hybrids or if some maddened Weaver-spirit is building its own followers.