The Southbend Strip Mall sits just off the cracked remains of Old Hickory Road, where the neon still flickers even when the power grid doesn’t. Rainwater pools in broken asphalt potholes, reflecting faded signs and buzzing holo-ads that haven’t updated in years. Folks around here call it “Southbend” because the highway curves hard around an old drainage canal nearby, though some runners joke it’s because everybody who comes through eventually bends the rules.
The mall survives because it offers things people in the wastes always need: food, medicine, clean clothes, batteries, and someone willing to buy stolen junk with no questions asked.
The electronics store, SparkTek Salvage, deals in stripped drones, cracked agents, bootleg memory chips, and scavenged Nanyte-era tech that may or may not still work. Half the shelves are empty, the other half are deathtraps waiting for the wrong fuse.
Spin Cycle Laundry runs all night. Travelers sleep in plastic chairs while their clothes tumble dry beside mercs washing blood out of synth-fiber jackets. The owner keeps a shotgun under the counter and pretends not to notice illegal deals happening between the machines.
Red Rooster Chicken serves hot food. Both the temp and the spice level. The grease traps smell like industrial runoff, but nobody complains because the spicy protein baskets are cheap and filling.
DocWag Clinic patches up gunshot wounds, cyberware infections, and bad street chems. Officially they’re licensed. Unofficially, they’ll install black market chrome in the back room if you have enough credits.
The final storefront is empty, boarded up after a gang execution three years ago. Locals say the lights inside still turn on some nights. Nobody rents it. Nobody even breaks into it anymore.
