I’m in it for the fenders, the shiny chrome, the subtle hue of the headlights. If all you’re giving me is a motor, there’s not enough to keep me dedicated to the road.
“RIP to Gorman and Vasquez,” you might find yourself thinking as your squad crouches behind a wall of sentry guns mulching waves of aliens, “but I really am different.”
They know, dimly, that most of humanity is abandoned beyond high-tech barricades, living in poverty amid the crumbling infrastructure of the 20th century, and they don’t care because those people don’t count.
