skybird82
His world was rather more deadly than ours, a hodgepodge of smog and unending darkness and half-feral animals clawing at each others' throats. The sun was some vague myth from before The War, from the age of humans, repeated only by the foolish old wives, the sort who still believed in happy endings. Skybird was a practical beast, dressed in combat gear and sturdy boots, mask perpetually in place as a fragile shield against the toxic air. He did and stole what he had to to survive, and didn't regret much. The dead, after all, needed no food. He was not given to sentiment; that was a luxury or a weakness, and he had no room for either. But there was one useless object he kept, for no reason whatsoever. If he had been pressed (if the others who ran in his pack had cared), he would have said it was to protect his ears. Without electricity, it was certainly useless for its intended purpose. But sometimes he reached up and touched the tiny suns resting on his head, bright and somehow untarnished, and the blackness seemed to recede a little.
