He admired his engineered body. He was success, perfection; he was to be the template for the new breed.
Humanity had lost its way, stepped outside of evolution. The weak were allowed to thrive; the meek had already inherited the Earth. That would no longer be tolerated.
He flexed his weaponry, watching sharpness shift beneath his inky, black skin. Spikes of bone clawed at him from the inside, thirsty for freedom, for the fight, for a bite of human flesh.
He was just the first.
War was coming. To the victor go the spoils.
To the victor go the planet.
(Originally written for Lily Child's Friday Prediction)