Cyborg's home was in Detroit, once the city of automobiles, now as desolate as a ghost town.
Even without an event as catastrophic as Earth's Submergence, people had long since fled the city. Now, nine out of every ten houses on the streets stood dark, their doors hanging open, with only rats scurrying across dust-covered floors.
But they could not find food either. Aside from occasionally improving their lives by eating addicts who had died of drug overdoses on the streets, they had a hard time of it too.
"I like it here, Barry. This is the city with the fewest cockroaches I've ever seen." Su Ming said this to The Flash, who had just dropped his two passengers off at an intersection. There was not even a streetlamp here, and it was pitch-black.
"I don't have night vision, that's true, but there really aren't any cockroaches. I just checked a few dumpsters, and they were all empty." The Flash had actually gone to verify Deathstroke's words. He did not know why Deathstroke had brought up cockroaches, but he felt he ought to find out.
Several figures resembling zombies shuffled past the street corner, making unconscious moaning sounds as they staggered across the deserted road and vanished into another patch of darkness.
But they were not zombies, merely ordinary American addicts.
Perhaps they had once been workers at an automobile factory or truck drivers, but what about now? America's auto market had long been saturated, and the Motor City was no longer what it used to be.
Those with any ability had left long ago. The ones who remained were people immersed in their own dreams, unwilling to wake up.
"Is there a football game today?" Su Ming got his bearings and headed toward Cyborg's two-story house.
The homes of