Their cars crash in whirlwinds of lead and flames, their rockets do not know how to miss, and six barreled machine guns cut armor as if it was butter. Their mad drivers are the best, and their cars are masterpieces of art, created for battle and show.
They fight in the shadows of the cities, in fritted fragments of ancient capitals, destroyed by nuclear blasts, in Coliseums, covered by oil and gasoline.
Crowds hail them, their images fly on neon panels in the sky, and satellites which were military some time ago, transmit their battles to all over the world.
They relics of the last war.
Their eyes replaced by optical sensors, saw the rise of nuclear suns above the states of the past and dozens of local conflicts smashed the world into pieces. Through smoke and dust they watched on orbital cities received some part of the mankind, and on stars of new war lighting in the sky. Without any fear and hesitation they fought in wars of the deserts and served for Barons of roads new masters of burnt Earth.
Fought and won.
Their battle cars were perfect, their armor was heavy, and engines didn t know what tiredness is. Fire of their weapon carved the way to a new order. They defended, they gave hope but now there s peace, and there s no need in them.
They were too mad their nerves directly connected with guidance systems, their hearts equipped with hydraulic boosters and adrenalin generators, their bones armored with titanium and wires run through their muscles closer to their cars than to the humans, they could only fight and win and were unable to stop.
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