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your journey. Perhaps you can amuse us with some stories. My personal favorite is when you played Christ and got all those humans to blindly follow you, even when you were gone. That was so mischievous of you. Of course no more mischievous then when you played Loki against Oden," the wolf smiled, amusing himself in memory.

"Christ? Loki? Who the hell do you think I am?" he screams back at the wolf.

"There is no need to be so rude, Great One," the wolf calmly replies.

"Stop calling me that! My name is, is...I do not know who I am. Who am I?" he asks, not wanting an answer.

"You are nameless. You are every name. Does it matter?" came the reply.

"I am the last survivor of man. Go away. Leave me," he speaks softly with uncertainty.

The wolves howl, louder and louder to the moon. "You believe you are human? What nonsense is this? You need not insult myself and my pack. We will leave you for now if that is your wish. We will be passing on this road again tomorrow, if you decide to change your mind. Until then."

The Alpha, Kimbahla, turns and begins leading the pack on it's journey into the city. The last wolf, who had been watching the rear, stops and looks at his brother, the one who thinks he is a man.

"I have seen you like this before. It will pass. You always seem to have a harder time than I, but your role is always too ingrained in the end. You really should try to pull yourself out sooner next time. Do not worry brother, it will pass, the pain, the confusion. It always does," then Tyr leaps away after his friends.

As the wolves fade from his sight, he begins to look around, but for what he does not know. Then he sees it. Just out of his reach lies a rusted tire iron, abandoned to the Earth. He tries to reach the iron but it lies just beyond his grasp. Holding his chest, he rolls toward it, feeling the cold iron as it comes to rest at his side. His waiting is over, he can wait no longer. He raises the tip of the iron to his chest, grabs the end firmly, and plunges the tip into where his heart lies. He feels the flaking iron enter his flesh. He looks down at his chest, wondering if the sight of the blood will make him ill as he dies, but there is none. Unbelieving, he pulls the iron out and shoves it in again. Still no blood appears. He rips the iron from his chest and screams in terror. An inhuman howl echoes off the wasteland. He reaches to cover his mouth in vain as he impales his finger on the new spikes that hang over his lower lip. Grabbing the iron again, he begins stabbing himself again, and again, and again, and again...