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Sometimes I look down the street and feel absolutely nothing. Sometimes though, I'll take a drink. I think most people in this game feel that way. There's no sign of movement and the uniform grey of the sky doesn't so much suggest a universe enshrouded as it does a universe expired. Or a universe that was never out there to begin with.

There is no order to Willesden Junction. There is a brotherhood but there is no order. Exactly when the group first moved in is unclear. The warren of warehouses and workshops must have suited. The tracks provided easy access to the city or to the wilderness but after a while trackblocks were erected; huge heaps of scrap iron piled high to form industrial gatekeepers.

The expansive compound was the first to be granted official independence by the national authority, already long in retreat, though the brotherhood never made any such claim. Their internal structure was hidden from those on the outside but it appeared not to be formed on the basis of religion or race or discernable culture even. Not that those on the outside showed much interest; anthropology was dead, had died with the future.

I maintain a precarious grip through a forced, obsessive curiosity. It didn’t come naturally. I drifted through my youth in search of whatever highs were available. Most of those are gone, only the occasional stash of alcohol provides any relief, so I nurture my curiosity, build myself a need beyond mere sustenance.

Willesden is the greatest prize for us wanderers. The holy grail, I once heard it called. Of course it’s contentious what the nature of this prize really is, or indeed whether it’s just an illusion. No one ever leaves to tell. It’s a black hole in a heat dead city. Some say there’s a huge stockpile of food, drink and drugs there. Some say there are women there, and even that they outnumber the men. I can’t let myself believe that, or even consider it. I just need to know.