We are eternal beings, crafted upon multiple budgets and stolen time, this era's largest warriors whisper to the dreamers. So we are the best. Multi-point articulated thrust-vectored creatures. Jet fuel poured beneath layered non-energetic reactive armor bricks, let your chain tread forth. On wings of flare and chaff, delivering clear borders. Felt, unheard, and then nothing else. We are the little green men. We are the first volley after the treaty. We are leather handled knives floating out of the woods.
Undercarriage bay photoshopped by skim over earthen fuselage.
Raise your chosen steel, because we are not people, We machines. Our greased warriors are without limit. Invisible, foreign dark blue, we shoot at ourselves from a far side of a globe. Low-tide wrath from automatons streaming rock videos. Vanish enemy. Kin to ice machines in a motel parking lot, rattling satchel. We are the seventh payload in a traffic-pattern narrative. Standing Japanese mecha tall with a white paper mask, fall no fear. Unconscious figures of our collective worthy aggression take on stamped-metal form, each a god of petty commerce, drawing witnesses to a tenth. Fixed wings. Displacing waves. Asleep in flight. We are a till with the smell of bulldozers.