In the grim neon-drenched sprawl of Neo-Vegas, the old Strip has been swallowed by megacorp overlords, chrome-plated facades, and endless holographic ads promising escape from the dust-choked badlands outside. Every bet is tracked, every win feeds the corps, and the house almost always wins—unless you’ve got luck on your side, the right deck or the nerve to burn it all down. Chrome up, choom. The neon never sleeps.
“What happens in Neo-Vegas… usually ends up on a bootleg BD sold in Night City for half price.” -Kid the Fixer
GAMBLING
Roll 1D10
1-4 = Fail (bet lost)
5-7 = Even (bet remains)
8-9 = Win (bet doubled)
10 = Jackpot (bet x 1d10+100)*
*Casino Jackpot Protocol
Land the big one in any Neo-Vegas casino and the party ends fast. The pit boss and a couple of chrome-jawed handlers appear before the lights stop flashing—Militech or house sec, depending on who owns the floor. They’ll flash you a smile (or a glare), escort you straight to the payout cage like honored guests, dump your eddies in a black chip, and then very politely suggest it’s time to leave the building. Some crews keep it smooth: free synth-drinks, a back-slap, “great run, choomba, see you next week.” Others skip the act and slap AI-forged BD footage or Kiroshi-captured “evidence” right in your face—proof you were running ghost programs, card-counting with a neural link, or whatever lie the house needs. Either way, the message is the same: cash out and bounce. Because in Neo-Vegas the house rarely loses… and when it does, it makes damn sure you don’t stick around to celebrate.
LAWS & RULES
Neo-Vegas isn’t a city anymore—it’s a corporate fiefdom wearing Nevada’s corpse like a cheap skinsuit. Thanks to a mountain of Arasaka and Militech lobbyists back in ’22, the sprawl got “independent city” status on paper while still technically squatting inside the Free States. In reality the only laws that matter are the ones the casinos and their corpo sponsors write in the back rooms of the Cosmopolitan and the Red Rock.
NVPD? A joke in blue uniforms. Maybe two hundred badges for the entire Strip, mostly there for tourist selfies and to look busy when the news drones swing by. They’ll ticket a joyboy for littering or break up a bar fight, but anything bigger gets handed straight to the private sec teams. Most casinos outsource to Militech kill-squads in matte-black Riot Pacifiers; a few (like the Bellagio and the M Resort) keep their own chrome-heavy enforcers—Arasaka Shadows, Biotechnica Reapers, whatever flavor of death they bought this quarter. Cross the house and you don’t get a trial; you get a visit.
Skies above the Strip and anywhere within ten klicks are hard no-fly zones. The only things allowed up there are the endless parade of holo-ads, drone swarms, and corporate aerozeps blaring 24/7. Neon holograms the size of city blocks, thumping bass from floating sound rigs, and those massive glowing zeppelins dragging casino jackpots across the night—non-stop, brain-melting, never sleeping. Try to sneak an AV through and the automated Militech flak batteries will turn you into expensive confetti before you clear the first billboard.
Everything the tourists come for is 100% legal at 18+: booze, designer combat drugs, real-meat prostitution, full-sensory BD rentals, the works. The casinos want you loose, happy, and spending eddies. Black markets, midnight bazaars under Fremont, and off-grid ripperdocs selling hot chrome? Officially illegal. In practice nobody gives a damn unless you’re stealing from a casino vault or dealing in something that hurts the house’s bottom line. NVPD and sec teams only move on threats to the money flow; everything else is background noise.
Murder? Depends. Slot a tourist and the corps will make it disappear by morning—pay off the family, memory-hole the footage, call it “natural causes.” Slot the wrong edgerunner or nomad and you might wake up with a monowire necklace. It’s the Wild West with better chrome: the fastest gun, the smartest netrunner, or the richest sponsor decides who lives and who gets fed to the desert. The badge is just theater. The bullet is the law.
Welcome to Neo-Vegas, choom. Play nice with the house… or don’t. Either way, the Strip always collects.
On the main grid, Neo-Vegas Strip: 500-1000 per night
- Bellagio — A towering megacorp palace owned by Arasaka-Luxe, infamous for its massive kinetic water displays now laced with synchronized laser grids and drowning in augmented-reality overlays. Chrome elites chase high-stakes neural-linked blackjack while the iconic “O” show has evolved into a brutal, full-immersion VR circus of drowning performers and glitch-art acrobatics, all streamed live to the corpo feeds.
- Caesars Palace — Militech’s Roman revival fortress, a sprawling neo-classical monolith wrapped in holographic laurels and patrolled by armored centurion drones. The casino floor is a labyrinth of massive gambling pits where high-rollers bet on live gladiator sims and real-time stock crashes. The Forum Shops are now exclusive corpo arcades hawking black-market cyberware, while celebrity dining pods serve synth-steak to execs under constant surveillance.
- Caesar’s Arena squats just west of the main Palace, connected by numerous skywalks, built atop the adjacent affordable living community. Imminent domain was declared just days before the gold shovel ceremony to break ground. Night after night, the floodlit sand hosts gladiatorial bouts—cyber-enhanced fighters, drone swarms, and chained monstrosities tearing into each other for the roaring crowd. Special events—championship executions, sports competitions (Roller Derby, Powerball), corporate-sponsored blood feuds, themed massacres and more—pack the stands even tighter.
- The Venetian — Controlled by a shadowy Euro-Asian syndicate, this flooded replica of old Venice pulses with toxic-glow canals navigated by autonomous gondola pods piloted by chained AIs. The casino sprawls under artificial starlight, packed with high-limit tables and luxury suites wired for full-sensory netrunning. Gondola rides double as smuggling routes for data-chips and black ICE. There’s a perpetual “sunny day” within the venue and moving tables and slots, making it very difficult to tell what time of day or night it actually is.
- Wynn Neo Vegas (and Encore) — The pinnacle of ultra-luxury decay, run by a reclusive trillionaire AI/Synth collective. Stunning bio-luminescent gardens engineered with gene-spliced flora glow under perpetual night skies, while high-limit gaming happens in private zero-grav chambers and other themed rooms. Premium entertainment streams from neural implants—mind-bending holograms and forbidden pleasure sims for those who can afford the soul-tax.
- Cosmopolitan — A sleek, ever-mutating corpo playground owned by a consortium of fashion-tech giants. Trendy and volatile, with a chaotic atmosphere fueled by rooftop infinity pools that double as aerial drone-racing tracks. Panoramic views glitch with overlaid ads, and the nightlife throbs with underground raves where chrome-enhanced fixers cut deals amid pulsing synthwave beats.
Off the main grid, in the shadow sprawls: 50-100 per night
- Red Rock Casino Resort & Spa — In the fortified Summerlin enclave, a Militech-subsidiary outpost with panoramic views of irradiated mountains. Upscale but tense, featuring spacious gaming halls guarded by auto-turrets and pools shielded by a fleet of drones—perfect for mid-tier execs unwinding after a corporate raid.
- South Point Hotel, Casino & Spa — South of the fortified Strip, a gritty survivor holdout favored by nomad crews and low-level fixers. Friendly but paranoid vibe, with equestrian sim-races, ancient bowling lanes retrofitted with haptic feedback, and value-focused slots rigged just enough to keep the chrome-poor coming back.
- M Resort — Henderson’s corporate retreat zone, modern and cavernous under constant drone patrols. Solid table minimums for street samurai, excellent dining synth-farms serving vat-grown delicacies, and a laid-back feel masking heavy netrunner surveillance—ideal for discreet meets.
- Neo-Orleans Hotel & Casino — West-side locals’ den, affordable bolt-holes with massive casino floors buzzing under flickering neon. Bowling alleys wired for augmented tournaments, live music from glitch-bands playing in smoke-filled halls—still a go-to for edgerunners dodging corpo heat.
- Silverton Casino — Southwest badlands outpost fused with a colossal Bass Pro Shops megastore now selling military-grade gear alongside fishing sims. Relaxed gaming for desert rats, solid perks for loyal chrome-junkies, and a vibe that’s equal parts outpost and black-market bazaar. Owned and operated by Continental Brands managed by the Silverton family. (little known other than a past crime family turned legit)
Between the strip and off-grid: 100-200 per night
Circus Circus — Perched on the frayed Northern edge of the Neo Strip, flanked by hotels for the victims of love and money, is the crumbling relic from the pre-corp era clings to existence under the thumb of a low-rent syndicate (rumored to be a Phil Ruffin AI ghost running the show).
Once a family-friendly big top, it’s now a glitchy, decaying carnival fortress wrapped in flickering holographic clown faces that sometimes scream instead of smile. The iconic Midway is a chaotic black-market arcade where faded carnival games spit out bootleg cred-chips, live circus acts have been replaced by cyber-augmented freakshows—chrome-jointed acrobats dangling from rusty trapezes while glitch-drones project vintage clown shows.
The massive Adventuredome (still 5 acres of indoor madness) is a derelict thrill-park lit by failing neon, with roller coasters jury-rigged on salvaged parts: the Canyon Blaster now screams through zero-g sections hacked by rogue netrunners, haunted zones pulse with AR jump-scares that fry cheap neural implants, and “Neon Nights” events turn into underground fight clubs under strobing blacklights. Cheap bolt-hole rooms (dirt-cheap even by sprawl standards) are wired with outdated surveillance, bingo halls run vintage paper-card sessions for nostalgic boomers and low-level fixers betting on rigged coveralls, and coin-operated slots (a rare retro holdout) clink with physical creds in a world gone fully digital.
It’s the last bastion of old-school Vegas grit—paranoid, affordable, and family-unfriendly in the worst way—perfect for edgerunners laying low, nomads passing through, or anyone too broke for the corpo palaces down the Strip. The clowns watch everything, choom, and the house still always wins… unless you rig the ring toss first.
The Stratosphere — Jutting 1,149 meters above the radioactive sand like a middle finger to the old world, the Stratosphere is the single tallest structure still standing in the entire sprawl—and half of it belongs to the biggest, filthiest BD casino on the West Coast.
From the 50th floor up, the tower is pure braindance real estate: floor after floor of blacked-out pods stacked like coffin apartments, each one jacked straight into the house net with full-sensory tables for blackjack, roulette, and the illegal “Deathrun Derby” sims that leave half the players twitching when they jack out. You can lose your soul in there without ever leaving your chair—Kiroshi overlays, haptic feedback so real you feel the bullets, and house ICE that’ll flatline your credit chip if you try to count cards.
The bottom half of the tower? Renovated hotel rooms, every single one upgraded with its own private multi-user BD station. Four jacks per suite, voice-activated, soundproofed, and wired so you and your crew can run the exact same high-stakes games from bed while the Strip burns outside your polarized windows. Ripperdocs on speed-dial in the lobby, room service that delivers synth-blood and fresh stims, and a no-questions policy on what you plug in.
At the very top, the old observation deck has been gutted and reborn as the Skybar Event Deck: a 360° ring of armored glass floating above the clouds, packed with velvet lounges, floating holo-stages, and a bar that serves real pre-Collapse whiskey if your credit’s black enough. Corpo sponsors throw private shows, and every night the deck pulses with strobing neon while the badlands stretch out below like a burning sea. Security is Militech-tight, but the view? Worth flatlining for.
Welcome to the Stratosphere, choomba. Gamble in your room, lose your mind on the casino floors, or drink yourself stupid at the top of the world—either way, the tower always wins.
Top-End Restaurant
- Eclipse Prime (on the strip, atop the Bellagio Tower)
Ultra-luxury molecular gastronomy spot run by a celebrity chef who’s half-cyborg (rumored to have custom neural links for “perfect flavor calibration”). Signature dishes include vat-grown wagyu seared with plasma torches, hydroponic caviar spheres that burst with real citrus essence, and dessert foams infused with designer hallucinogens for a “controlled high.” Dress code enforced by armed bouncers; reservations via exclusive app only.
Price range: 500–1,000eb+ per person (Expensive to Very Expensive). Perfect for closing a big corp deal or impressing a high-roller mark.
Mid-Level Restaurants
- Neon Noodle House (Strip-adjacent, near the Fremont reboot zone)
Classic Sino-Japanese fusion joint with glowing ramen counters and AR menus projecting holographic dragons. Noodles are mostly synth-protein but spiked with real chili oil smuggled from old Mexico. Popular dishes: ghost-pepper tonkotsu (burns so good it clears chrome-induced sinus issues) and yakitori skewers grilled over recycled fuel cells. Booths have privacy screens for discreet meets.
Price range: 50–150eb per person (Costly to Premium). Great for edgerunners grabbing a quick bite between gigs. - Dust Devil Diner (Outer Ring, Combat Zone edge)
Retro-futurist American greasy spoon with chrome counters, flickering holos of vintage Vegas shows, and a jukebox playing remixed 20th-century rock. Serves massive plates of synth-burger stacks, chili fries dusted with synthetic “cheese,” and black coffee strong enough to wake the dead. It’s got that gritty charm—booths scarred from knife fights, but the food hits hard and cheap.
Price range: 30–100eb per person (Everyday to Costly). Ideal for crews blowing off steam after a dusty run.
Cafés
- Chrome & Caffeine (Central Hub, near the big casinos)
Sleek cyber-cafĂ© chain with auto-brewers pumping out hyper-caffeinated synth-coffee blends (try the “Adrenal Surge” for +1 REF for an hour, -1 INT for an hour after). Pastries are printed on-site: flaky croissants with fake butter, nano-glazed donuts. Free Wi-Fi (heavily monitored), charging ports for ‘ware, and quiet corners for netrunning or plotting.
Price range: 10–40eb (Cheap to Everyday). Edgerunner staple for stakeouts or hangover cures. - Mirage Mocha (Mid-Strip, hidden in a casino basement)
Cozy, dimly lit spot with velvet booths and mood-lighting that shifts to match your biomonitor stress levels. Specializes in artisanal (read: expensive imported bean) lattes, herbal teas laced with nootropics, and small plates like truffle-dusted bruschetta on vat-bread. Attracts fixers, solos on downtime, and the occasional celebrity sighting.
Price range: 20–60eb (Everyday to Costly). Good for low-key meets where you want to look classy without breaking the bank.
Famous Food Cart
- Scorpion Sting Cart (Mobile – location changes daily)
Legendary wandering street cart run by “Scorpio,” a grizzled ex-nomad/fixer with a scorpion-tail and a cyberarm modded to flip multiple tortillas. He is the one in Neo-Vegas to get any info or tips from, but it requires very expensive meal purchases. Serves authentic desert tacos: slow-cooked synth-meat (or real if you’re connected), cactus salsa, ghost-pepper crema, and fresh (smuggled) cilantro.
Tastes incredible—spicy, tangy, addictive—but the risk is real: poor hygiene + questionable meat sourcing means ~20% chance of food poisoning (IB symptoms: Intense Bowel distress, -2 to all REF/DEX for 1d6 days, or worse if CRIT fail – GM or Chat decides).
Best to visit before or after the high noon heat or risk Intense Bowel Distress, -22 to all REF/DEX for 1d6 days, or worse if CRIT fail – GM or Chat decides).
Check his Garden page every morning for the day’s coordinates—posts cryptic desert landmarks or neon signs as hints. If he’s in your zone, lines form fast; skip it if you’re on a tight timeline or have weak guts.
Price range:
10–25eb per taco plate (Cheap).
Worth the gamble for the flavor high, but bring antidiarrheals or risk a bad night.
Fixer price range:
Locate an item or “friend” – 25-50 Tacos
Word on the Street – 10-50 Tacos
Conversations Discreet – 50-100 Tacos
All other inquiries – 10-100 Tacos
The Red Light District (Red Circuit or Neon Vice)
Officially unnamed (everyone just calls it the Red Circuit or Neon Vice), the district pulses under kilometers of cracked holo-billboards and looping sex-ads that glitch in the desert wind. What remains of pre-Collapse casino hotels has been gutted and repurposed: ground floors house dollhouses running everything from classic meat-hook joytoys to full neural-interface braindance suites where clients jack in for hours-long custom fantasies. Upstairs floors often double as black-market ripperdoc clinics specializing in black chrome “pleasureware” implants—synthetic pheromones, tactile-overclocked skin, remote-controlled nervous systems.
The streets themselves are a permanent crimson haze: red neon tubes run like veins along building edges, cheap AR overlays paint every passerby with floating price tags and kink tags, and street vendors hawk disposable stims, knockoff endorphin boosters, and “fresh” Kiroshi optics in lurid pink packaging. Gangs like the Chrome Vipers and Silk Syndicates control turf blocks, while independent edgerunners and nomad-escort crews work the fringes. There isn’t much you can’t find here, including things that require medication.
Underneath the glamour runs the usual Time of the Red rot—addicts twitching in alleys, discarded disposable BD wreaths, heavily armed bouncers turning away anyone who looks too poor or too chromed-out to pay. The corps keep the core Strip clean for high-rollers, but out here in the Red Circuit, anything goes as long as the eddies keep flowing.
Don’t forget choom! “What happens in Neo-Vegas… usually ends up on a bootleg BD sold in Night City for half price.” -Kid the Fixer
Shops and More!
The Stripped Jackpot Pawnshop – Tucked between two derelict megacorp billboards on the edge of the Old Strip, this place looks like any other chrome-scavenger hole: walls lined with dusty Kerenzikov boosters, second-hand Militech pistols, and racks of “pre-loved” braindance chips labeled with faded “WIN BIG” stickers. The owner, a one-armed tech named Roberto “Scrap” Valdezo, runs a clean front—legal trades only, cash or eddies accepted. But locals who know the password (“???????”) get buzzed into the backroom. There you’ll find the real inventory: black-market Delta-grade implants still warm from the last owner, hot data shards pulled from corp executives, and untraceable weapons that haven’t been logged since the last DataKrash. Roberto doesn’t ask questions; he just smiles and says, “Everything’s got a second life in Neo-Vegas.”
The Grid Gambit Netcafe – A converted parking garage under the flickering Neon Boulevard, the Grid Gambit is the unofficial headquarters for every netrunner who can’t afford a private bolt-hole. Dim red lighting, rows of battered interface couches, and the constant low hum of cooling fans. You can rent a braindance rig by the hour (legal tourist stuff up front, the good illegal ones in the back), jack into public dataterms, or pay extra for a hardline access point that bypasses the city’s worst ICE spies. Fixers post gigs on the corkboard (actual cork—old school), solos nurse synthahol while waiting for a decker to crack a target, and everyone trades rumors over overpriced “Victory Voltage” energy drinks. It’s the one place in Neo-Vegas where a runner can walk in solo and walk out with a crew.
The Velvet Vortex Lounge – On the 47th floor of the rebuilt Arasaka Arcology (neutral ground by long-standing truce), the Velvet Vortex is where execs and high-end fixers actually close deals. Floor-to-ceiling smartglass shows the entire glowing Strip, private booths have white-noise fields and built-in jammer arrays, and the drinks menu is printed on real paper because “tactile luxury sells.” Synthcognac flows, holographic dancers perform on command, and the staff are all vetted ex-corpo. You don’t come here to get drunk—you come to spend 5,000 eddies on a single round while quietly hiring a crew that can take down a rival’s orbital server farm before breakfast.
The Spike & Swill Dive – Down in the Combat Zone sprawl near the old freeway ruins, the Spike & Swill is pure gutter chrome. Sawdust on the floor (to soak up the blood), a bartender who’s more scar tissue than skin, and a permanent haze of cheap cigarette smoke and ozone from overclocked cyberarms. Solos and low-end fixers pack the barstools trading war stories, swapping ammo clips like currency, and picking up wetwork gigs scribbled on napkins. The back alley is unofficially reserved for “quick negotiations.” If you need cheap muscle that won’t ask for references—or a fixer desperate enough to take a 2,000-eddie job—this is the place.
The Phantom Sovereign Plaza (2AM–4AM only) – In the middle of the abandoned Fremont district stands the 30-foot chrome statue of “Sovereign” Silas Kane—the fixer who supposedly ran Neo-Vegas for six weeks during the last corporate collapse before vanishing with half the city’s liquid assets. The statue’s eyes are cheap AR projectors that normally just cycle old gambling ads. But between 2AM and 4AM the plaza turns into something else. The eyes switch to a private, untraceable frequency. Netrunners ghost in via public overlays, solos meet for off-grid handoffs, and certain fixers leave encrypted data shards hidden in the statue’s hollow left hand. Locals call it “Sovereign’s Hour.” Show up outside that window and it’s just a statue. Show up inside it and you’re either making the deal of your life… or you’ll never be seen again.
Glitch & Glamour Event Syndicate – The only event company in Neo-Vegas that can throw a corporate launch party one night and an underground deathmatch rave the next without raising any flags. Run by ex-media queen “Glimmer” Voss and her silent partner (rumored to be an AI fragment), they handle everything: forged permits, rented security solos, custom braindance floors, hacked city light grids for the perfect light show, and discreet “afterparty” rooms where execs can sign contracts they’ll regret in the morning. Need a fake wedding to launder a nomad alliance? A black-tie gala to distract from a heist? Or a full-sensory gladiator spectacle for rich tourists? Glitch & Glamour makes it happen—for the right price and zero questions. Their motto, displayed on every holo-invite: “In Neo-Vegas, the show never ends… unless you pay extra.”
The Moonlite Bunny Ranch
The Moonlite Bunny Ranch squats like a chrome-plated mirage on the cracked salt flats of what used to be Lyon County, Nevada—now just another stretch of the Free State’s “anything goes” badlands, thirty klicks outside the flickering neon corpse of Reno. Dust storms whip rad-tainted grit across the parking lot, but the Ranch doesn’t care. Its holographic bunnies—ten-meter-tall, blue-pink-and-cyan pleasure constructs—twist and moan in the sky above the compound, visible from the maglev line that still hauls corpo suits and nomad fixers out from Night City when they need something the street clinics won’t touch.
The main building is a low, sprawling hacienda that survived the Collapse by sheer stubbornness and a few million eddies in smart concrete. Neon tubing the color of cheap candy runs every seam; the sign still reads MOONLITE BUNNY RANCH in the same looping script from 1995, only now the letters flicker with embedded ad-splicers that cycle between “LEGAL SINCE 1911—LEGAL PLEASURE 24/7” and discreet corpo logos for Biotechnica Pleasure Division and Raven Microcybernetics.
A double ring of electrified razor wire hums under the sign, patrolled by two combat-modified Kang Tao security drones that look like chrome bees with shotgun stingers. The gate guard is a seven-foot borg named “Mama” Delgado—former Militech heavy, now wearing a pastel-pink corset over her ballistic plating and a smile that costs extra.
Inside, the air is thick with ozone, synth-opium, and the faint copper tang of fresh chrome. The lounge is all black velvet and mirrored chrome, every surface running low-level AR overlays so clients can preview the talent in real time.
Holographic bunnies (the real ones, not the sky ads) glide between tables in fishnet bodysuits woven with reactive LED threads that pulse in time with your elevated heart rate. Most of the girls—and boys, and everything in between—sport visible cyberware: Kiroshi optics that shift color to match your deepest kink, subdermal LED tattoos that crawl across skin like living neon, and interface ports at the base of the skull for direct braindance hookup. The top-shelf talent have full sensory suites—Biotechnica “Eros-9” wetware that lets them feel exactly what you feel, amplified, looped, and sold back to you at five hundred eddies an hour.
Private suites branch off the main floor like arteries. The “Zero-G Pleasure Dome” is a sealed pod with grav-plates and zero-G harnesses; the “Black ICE Suite” has military-grade icebreakers so netrunners can jack in without fear of rival deckers frying their pleasure centers mid-session. Every room comes with a complimentary Trauma Team beacon and a discreet panic button that pages a fixer instead of the cops—because in the Free State, the only law that matters is the one that can be bribed fastest.
Down in the basement is the real Ranch: the “Meat Market.” Soundproofed, blacked-out, invitation-only. Here the implants get heavier—full limb replacements, pheromone emitters, even experimental Militech wet-drive rigs that let a bunny record and sell your exact fantasy for the black market. Rumors say a few of the oldest workers have been here since before the Crash; they keep their original meat under layers of chrome and swear the Ranch is still family-run.
Nobody argues. Not when Mama Delgado is smiling. Out back, past the solar array and the half-buried wrecks of pre-Collapse limos, nomad convoys sometimes pull up to trade spare parts and information. The Ranch doesn’t ask questions. It just charges premium eddies for “desert special” packages that include a private room, a clean chrome job, and the promise that whatever happens in the badlands stays in the badlands.
Welcome to the Moonlite Bunny Ranch, choom.
Still the oldest profession.
Just with better chrome and worse consequences.
