Michigan

Michigan is littered with Envirotron Orbs — cold, mechanical sentinels dotting the sky and waterways; hovering in silence except for the soft, relentless hum they emit, like dying machines trying to whisper secrets to a world that’s stopped listening, except for The Caste.   Suspended in the air or half-submerged in murky canals, they cast an eerie glow that reflects off broken glass and oily puddles. At night, they flicker with sickly light, casting long shadows over the wreckage below, just a reminder that THEY are watching.

The major cities lie in ruins. Skyscrapers are gutted husks, windows shattered, facades scorched. Streets are warzones of filth — choked with rotting debris, rusted-out transport husks, and the stench of a world decomposing in real time. Whatever beauty once lived here has been scraped away by time, fire, and neglect.

The air thrums with the guttural sounds of survival. Hoverboards snarl past like wasps, trains scream across elevated tracks that tremble under their weight, and low-slung boats churn through sludge-thick canals with coughing engines and makeshift armor. Every sound is layered with menace, urgency, and rust.

The slums breathe, but barely. Dogs bark like alarms. Fights break out and fizzle fast — blood hits pavement, then vanishes beneath the next rainfall. Children wail in back alleys, play in broken lots, chase each other through rubble with the manic energy of those too young to understand despair. Laughter still exists here, but it’s sharp-edged, desperate, the kind that dies quickly when the wrong patrol walks by. People still live here, still dream here, even in the shadow of ruin.

This is life after the fall — not a second chance, just the long echo of collapse.