Wandering: On My Way

Date: 8.27.2224
Coordinates: Unknown Sector | Formerly Known as Houston

I’ve been walking east.

This place still calls itself Houston—though time and trauma have carved new names into its bones. Some call it The Fuse. Others say Bayou Bastion. Names trying to make sense of what survived.

To me? It’s still Houston.
Still carrying what it tried to become… and what it couldn’t outrun.

Highways stand like grave markers now—cracked concrete stretching into nowhere. Old-world signs flicker like dying gods: Nuka-Cola, Sunset Sarsaparilla, BlamCo. Paint peeling. Promises expired.

Some have been repurposed—tin roofs hammered into stalls, neon turned into trade signals. Others just rot in place, surrounded by glass, dust, and memory.

Architecture leans Old West now. Quick builds. Hard edges. Survival first, beauty later.
Shanty saloons lean against collapsed strip malls. Billboards hang like paper ghosts, still preaching: Mirelurk Cakes. Mac & Cheese. Smile for the Vault-Tec Camera.

Echoes of a world that sold comfort like it was permanent.

The creatures here don’t hide. They announce.
Saw one—size of a truck, armored like an armadillo, moving slow but deliberate. Not mindless. Watching.
Brahmin still roam too. Two heads, steady pace. Adaptation made flesh.

Nature didn’t ask permission to continue. It just did.

Passed through South Union. Old liquor store still standing—still selling.
Rum. Tequila. Homebrew that smells like it could strip paint or heal wounds. No power grid. No oversight. Just agreements made in low voices.

Out here, trade ain’t about goods.
It’s about trust… or the illusion of it.

Kept moving. Reached what used to be Third Ward University....

I remember the merger—Texas Southern and University of Houston, forced into one body. 2072. One year after Project-Z launched—space ambitions tied to Vault systems and Houston’s aerospace spine.

They reached for the sky while the ground beneath them was already giving way.

Now the place stands like a fortress. Gates sealed. Guards posted. Movement controlled.
Didn’t press it.

Not every door needs opening on first contact.

The surrounding district breathes—barter, tension, low current energy.
Vendors selling broken terminals next to grilled meat that don’t ask questions. Jars of glowing brew—Hubflower Ale, they call it.

Saw a kid trade Jet for a copper kettle.
Saw a woman exchange “ancestor beads” for jerky.

Value didn’t collapse.
It just changed language.

This place ain’t dead.
It’s reforming.

But what it becomes—that’s still undecided.

And me?

I’m not here to claim it.
I’m here to read it.

Every structure, every trade, every silence—it’s all signal.
Noise gets people killed. Signal keeps them moving.

I carry New Orleans in my bones. Haven’t touched her soil since I woke, but she’s there—steady, unfinished.

Waiting.

The road doesn’t answer questions.

But it never lies.

— Big Chief Mike Marcel