James Morgan had seen the peak of human civilisation, and, in an instant, had it snatched away from him. In the 600 years since that famous flash of nuclear fire and death, he had meandered the remnants of that golden age, picking up the pieces where he could. Both age and the innate background radiation of the pacific desert had stripped him of all his defining features, leaving a shadow of the brilliant mind that had once resided in the burnt out husk that he knows himself to be.
The one thing that had kept him from falling from the precipice of sanity that he had wavered for so long upon was the lack of any self image. To look upon him would surely send any man into the abyss of madness, let alone to realise that you had become such a monstrosity.

James awoke suddenly, living in a nuclear wasteland for over half a millennium does wonders for one's instincts. Swiftly and silently, he reached for his flint dagger, looked out of his cave, scanning the horizon for any sign of movement, malevolent or otherwise. There was nothing.