Original fiction by yours truly.
Some would recognize the truth, he knew. He could taste it–recycled air full of recycled fear.
The fire was dying. Many knew it, but many chose not to see. Not him.
Standing up and facing something just never seemed as smart as running away from it. Eventually, it was really my greatest skill.
The moon sunders the midnight gloom with a blade of stolen light, piercing the dusky carapace of reverie.
From the backroads of Kentucky to the low-orbit superspires of the Orbital Residential Block, one thing remains eternally consistent: Cops hate it when you run.
Decades after the end of the world, and some things never change.
My name is Resilience-42. I am accompanied by Discovery-12 and Conviction-17. Our mission is to cross the Waste.