The Shattered Earth

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Chastain made his way over the dusty mounds grateful at that moment for the first time since 'waking up', for the heavy mane of hair. It at least inhibited his breathing in of the musty remains of his people scattered over the entirety of the stadium. On the hunt for food again, he grinned to himself as he half remembered in his shaky and jumbled recollection of his prior life how much he hated sports. Yet here he was in the shrine of one of the former world's greatest pastimes  with a front row seat to this newest game, survival. Front row? Hell, it was first and down, three strikes and the ninth inning and pausing he started laughing in a guttural roar as he knew he had no clue what any of that meant.

The laugh, though rough and scary at first was a relief as was his appreciation of the mane and earlier the strength of this 'new' body that saved his life with uncanny speed and accuracy. He felt good. Really good. It was an odd sensation. Something he couldn't remember ever feeling. At least not in the jerky rewind of his faded, swiss cheese film reel of a memory. His life as a man was badly charred in his mind.  The chapters pocked with incongruities. Sense had left a week ago when he woke up with claws and a tail. Reality was ancient history after days of running for his life and the starving of his belly had indeed brought him here, one of the mass graves of man.

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