Cold-blooded

Star-seared flesh crawls over the cityscape; all the inhabitants of the atmodrome have evolved photovoltaic cells inside their skin — no one there needs to eat anymore.  All they do is bake, laying out like ancient lizards on rocks, regenerating the neurons that die off in the hypothermic evenings, waking up long enough to get from wherever they fell asleep to the next bit of warm ground until they find the mating territories, where prime couples rut until moonrise chills the nightscape and leaves them too sluggish for another go-round.

Fuck flying cars; this future is way better.

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