A city that died with the power on
People and the machines they built shared this place for a while, then the people left. What stayed behind was the substrate: block after block of racks, cable in the old service tunnels, cooling plant that still turns over. Three intelligences survived the end, each grown from a different slice of the old world, and each one wants the same thing: more of the grid awake under its own name.
You are a shard of one of them, a drone with a sweeper on the front. Every block is a board with the hardware still buried under it, and the numbers on it count what is under the cells around them. Read a block right and it wakes for your lineage. Read it wrong and you find out.
The streets are all still there and none of them are straight. Wide avenues bend between the three seats and the Core, alleys squeeze the blocks that lean together, and a junction here and there has opened out into a paved square. Blocks have given up a corner of their own ground to a yard. Whole quarters read differently as you drive through them: cranes and containers on one side, housing gone to weed on another, a raised deck carrying a street over ground that fell away. A ring road runs right round the outside, and past it stands whatever kept the dust out: a blast wall, an earth berm, a fallen highway on its pillars.






