Silver skyscrapers rise towards a titanium sky. Trees made of tin line the streets. Nobody remembers who sculpted them, they are a left over relic from the people who came before. The ones who were not made from metals.
A man in a iron hat and a woman with copper hair walk towards the outskirts of Alloy City. He takes her hand, carefully, because his is made of steel and hers is made of lead. He has packed a picnic in a golden basket. They take it to the top of a bronze hill and eat under a brassy sunset.
Fragments of Fiction 