He held the fish in his hands, turning over and from side-to-side. It was covered in leather, had been for a long time, wrapped tight like a present with little glass baubles were the eyes should be: an unholy glow lingering behind them. Someone had made this. A long time ago. The wind blew the dust about his feet as he gazed down and the stream, a slow flow of sludge. The fish needed to be sturdier to survive in this stream and someone had, during the plague, possessed the foresight to wrap more than few in leather. He looked down at his own body, encased in steel. Not too dissimilar from the fish. Though he was clunky, and the armour made in haste. He looked at the fish and admired it. His own body was marred by desperation. But the fish was a work of art. Still, the world was dead and he was hungry, and with a bright flash the fish was reduced to a limp, empty slip of leather.