illphated
In the shattered future, where cities blinked like broken circuit boards and the earth remembered nothing but war, there walked a Comanche warrior — not just of flesh and blood, but forged in light and thunder.
He was called Takoda, “friend to all,” though he bore the weight of many who could no longer walk beside him.
Each dawn, he rose before the synthetic sun flickered awake. The wind still whispered through the plains — if you listened hard enough, beneath the electric hum. His tribe, once mighty riders of wild horses, now lived in the shadows of chrome towers, their bones aged, their lungs fragile from the poison in the rain.
But they remembered.
They remembered the buffalo, the sacred dances, the drums like thunder. And Takoda? He remembered too.
So, every morning, he stepped out beneath the glitching sky, braids swaying, his body encased in armor etched with glowing symbols of his people. He walked the neon wasteland — where vending bots roamed wild and mutated flora grew through the cracks of forgotten highways. His spear was magnetized, his bow encoded with pulse tech, and his arrows sang with heat.
He hunted not for glory.
He hunted because the elders were too weak, their hands shaking with time, their eyes clouded but still proud. They gathered by the fire each night, their voices telling stories of eagles and ghosts and stars. Takoda sat among them silently, offering packets of purified meat, hydro-gathered roots, and clean water harvested from the undercity reservoirs.
They would smile. Sometimes they would cry.
And still, each morning, he would go again — through acid rain and electric wolves, past neon billboards of forgotten corporations, into the zones where scavenger gangs didn’t dare tread. They feared him.
They called him The Last Ghost of the Plains.
But Takoda didn’t care. He only walked for those who once ran. For those who sang before the world forgot how.
For his people.
For family.
For the fire that still burned.