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Flavour Story - Mishkin

The British city of Coventry had been targeted heavily during World War II, and history had repeated itself during the Martian invasion. The city centre had been abandoned but the old industrial estates on the outskirts had become an unlikely hive for death race teams, lured by the prospect of salvage. One of the many teams trying to make it big called themselves the Dynamos. They had built a reputation off the back of a fleet of rugged ex-construction vehicles, able to take a pounding, stay in the race and then claw their way ahead with a variety of tricks from nitrous-powered crane rigs to EMP harpoon guns. And because they weren’t stupid, they kept their location in the ruins near an old sports stadium a closely guarded secret. Not as closely guarded as they’d have liked thought Nestor, the lanky man with the shock of blonde hair leaning back in his seat as the convoy of 3 blacked-out SUVs left the relative safety of the main roads and drove down the rubble-strewn dirt track. ...
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Flavour Story - Rutherford

“Now listen here boys. Mr Rutherford wasn’t kiddin’ around.” The voice had a distinct southern American drawl, but it was also clearly used to being listened to. It belonged to Antioch Gayle, a lean man in a cream suit that was already picking up dirt from the filthy downtown Atlanta garage. “Hey Ant man. We told you. There’s no room on our cars for cannons or rockets. That’s not how we roll.” The drivers and mechanics for the Brotherhood team had formed a protective semicircle around their matt green vehicles, keeping themselves between the stripped out racers and the Rutherford agent with his burly minders. It was their leader Ryan who spoke up, all tattoos, spiky hair and attitude. “An’ we told you all nice. You take our money, you run what we tell you to run. An’ we want you to show off the new rocket systems we takin’ orders on.” Antioch would not be forgetting ‘Ant man’ in a hurry. “We’ve repainted our cars to your specs. We only use your machine guns. What more do you want...
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Flavour Story - Slime

A thick cloud of red dust was kicked up from the Australian desert as the cars thundered round the corner. The sharp cracks of gunfire and the howls of pain from the wounded were lost amidst the fans’ screaming their approval as the death race sped round the dilapidated bowl circuit. The woman they called Suso watched on impassively from the pit wall, all tanned skin and worn leathers with a machete hanging off her back. She was a scout for Slime, watching for any racers that she thought could cut it on a bigger stage. She had her eye on one this time, an angry little firecracker called Ro. This girl was no more than 5’4” on a good day, but she scrapped and battled with men who towered over her even before she got into her car.   Out on the track, the supercharger whine and the roar of the big V8 drowned out any other sound in Ro’s big muscle car. She was jealously guarding her lead, and as a stripped out dune buggy tried to slip past on the right she swung her car towards...
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