In the near future, Austin was undone not by tech billionaires or sun-scorched grid collapses, but by good intentions grown in a petri dish and subsidized with enthusiasm. What had once been stucco and shingles was replaced by a movement—an aesthetic more than a science—called BioModular Affordable Dwelling Units, or B-MADUs. The acronym alone should’ve been a warning.
They sprouted on every corner like oversized kudzu pods with porches. Hexagonal skeletons, lightweight and compostable, topped with thermally adaptive skins that looked like taut yellow tofu. “Organic, Ergonomic, Economical,” claimed the signage, printed on vertical polymer banners that flapped like dying fish in the dry wind. One, warped by the sun and time, resembled a bus sign but was more totem than transit guide—its double-decker symbol always upside down or smeared in digital glitch. People called them “the Wasps’ Condos” for their uncanny resemblance to insect nests—and their occupants’ tendency toward defensive passive aggression.
The city, too overwhelmed to protest, adapted. You couldn’t argue with housing under $400/month, not even if it smelled like compost in the summer and emitted low, wet hisses when the humidity rose. But B-MADUs were never meant for permanence. Their corners softened, their edges slumped, and after two years, entire neighborhoods looked like melted candy caught under a magnifying glass.
That’s when the aesth-evolution happened.
Nobody knows who first introduced the Floravores—a collective name for a cabal of invasive species as beautiful as they were disruptive. Rumors said a burned-out landscape architect released them after losing a zoning dispute to a smug guy named Craig. Others blamed a TikTok permaculture influencer from Pflugerville.
The plants came in quietly—just wind-borne spores at first, whispering into the creases of those sagging homes. Within days, glossy fronds began unfurling like egos at a group therapy session. Delicate vines bore blooms shaped like hands, cupping light with a neediness both charming and relentless. The exteriors were overtaken by iridescent creepers that adjusted hue based on proximity to human emotion—deep purple when envy bloomed, sickly green in the company of showoffs, warm amber near acts of true humility (rare, but not extinct).
They called the most aggressive species Vulnera narcissia, a floral climber that mirrored its surroundings, but only in a slightly more flattering way. If your B-MADU sagged, it would arc itself in a dramatic counterpose, as if saying, “See? We’re both imperfect, but I am interesting about it.”
Vulnera narcissia fed on visual contrast. It consumed dullness and regurgitated form. It made everyone feel slightly judged and slightly seen, which in turn made them desperately want to nurture it. Some residents began watering it with expensive mineral water, whispering affirmations to the pods each morning. One woman allegedly gave up her children’s college fund for an exotic graft that would sprout bioluminescent bell-shaped fruit when she played Tchaikovsky.
At first, the takeover was hailed as a miracle. Housing beautified itself. Tourists returned. Influencers wept live on rooftops. But like many beautiful things, the Floravores demanded more.
Soon, the plants began editing. Entire doorways disappeared under luxurious mats of ornamental foliage. Kitchens vanished into petal thickets. The plants, perhaps sensing the mediocre design beneath their roots, began overwriting floor plans. A man in East Austin awoke to find his living room had been gently digested and replaced with a tangle of wet pink arches and a low drone that sounded like a Gregorian chant from inside a seashell.
Some compared it to narcissistic grooming: the slow, unprovable erosion of autonomy in exchange for flattery. You didn’t need that old sofa. It was ugly. You didn’t deserve the cluttered bookshelf when you could have a cocoon of scented silence.
City Hall tried regulation, but the plants had already rooted themselves into the city’s bylaws—literally. Vines choked the charter. Bureaucracy dissolved in pollinated fog.
A subculture emerged of “Relapsers”—people who yearned for the honest decay of the B-MADUs, the authentic mediocrity of human-made error. They met in gutted garages, hoarding scrap drywall and cursed IKEA furniture, trying to rebuild homes too unremarkable to be eaten. One man grew a patch of artificial turf indoors just to remind himself what true aesthetic negligence felt like.
And yet, the plants thrived. They softened the world. They told it what it wanted to hear: You are beautiful, just… with a few tweaks. They whispered, “I love how authentic you are,” while weaving a more flattering version of your life just beneath your windowsill.
So Austin leaned in.
And the city bloomed—not with pride or defiance, but with a quiet hunger to be noticed and improved.
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