Twelve hours ago, a thermobaric blast had annihilated the city, reducing its inhabitants to ash, skeletons, and dust. The streets were a grim mosaic of skulls and bones, the air thick with the stench of charred stone and flesh. Buildings stood as blackened husks, their concrete facades scorched, steel girders twisted like broken bones, and molten glass pooling amid flickering flames that still danced across the ruins. Master Sergeant Kratos led a squad of twelve, including himself—six men, including himself, on dirt bikes and six more in two armored cars. They had waited for the searing heat to dissipate before entering, their mission to retrieve a classified object from a bombproof secure room within a fortified government building. For Kratos and his men, though, the real thrill was the carnage they plowed through, their tires and boots ravenous for destruction.
The six bikers, led by Kratos, rode cream-camo military KTM EXC 300s, each a fetishized beast of engineering. The 2023 KTM EXC 300, modified for military dominance, was a snarling predator. Its two-stroke, 72mm bore engine roared with low-end torque, the power valve tuned for surgical precision, its guttural snarl echoing through the ruins. The lightweight chromoly steel frame, coated in matte desert camouflage, was armored with titanium skid plates. WP Xplor forks and shocks, revalved for military payloads, supported encrypted comms, reinforced panniers, and a quick-release M4 carbine mount. Kevlar-laced Dunlop Geomax Enduro tires, their knobby treads ravenous, clawed through debris, eager to crush bone or metal. Self-cleaning alloy footpegs locked riders’ boots in place, even when slick with ash and blood. This bike was a sadist’s dream, every bolt and weld pulsing with dominance, built to conquer and destroy.
The other six men, split evenly between two armored cars—hulking machines with reinforced plating and run-flat tires—followed the bikes. All twelve, Kratos included, wore the squad’s uniform: wheat-colored Fox Racing MX gear, a menacing blend of function and fetish. Their Fox Racing V3 helmets, wheat-hued with secure comms, gripped their skulls like a possessive lover, brown-tinted goggles cutting through the haze and smoke with predatory focus. Wheat MX jerseys and pants, reinforced with ballistic nylon and armor plating, hugged their frames, accentuating their lethal builds. Carbon-fiber-knuckled gloves clutched handlebars and triggers with equal ferocity. The Fox Racing Instinct 2.0 boots were the crown of their kit, a brutal masterpiece. Crafted from microfiber synthetic leather, they molded to the foot, supple yet unyielding, like a second skin bent on domination. The ULTRATAC rubber outsole and burn guards gripped bike pegs with sticky, almost sexual tenacity, unyielding even when coated in gore. TPU plating on the shin, toe, heel, and calf, paired with a metal Achilles insert, formed an armored fortress. The patented hinge lockout system locked the ankle, defying injury, while four forged metal buckles with extended levers snapped shut with a commanding click, sealing the wearer in a cocoon of control. The slim medial design and low-ride chassis fused rider to bike, amplifying precision, while the polyurethane tongue added stiffness, perfect for crushing obstacles—or skulls. These boots were a sadist’s extension, built to dominate, to grind, to revel in destruction.
All twelve carried M4 carbines, the bikers’ guns slung across their backs, their weight a constant promise of violence. Kratos had hand-picked his eleven men for their shared fetish for killing, men who joined the army not for honor but for the ecstasy of death. Under his command, they thrived in war’s merciless chaos, this mission their playground, the city’s remains their canvas.
The convoy tore through the streets, tires crunching over skeletons and skulls, the bikes’ knobbies and the cars’ heavy treads pulverizing bone into dust. The sensation was intoxicating—each crunch sent a surge of raw pleasure through Kratos, the vibration of his KTM’s tires grinding skulls to powder resonating through his Instinct 2.0 boots and up his spine. It was a rush, a sadistic communion with destruction, the bike and boots merging to obliterate the dead. His men felt it too, their laughter crackling through the comms, a depraved symphony. “Feel that snap?” Kratos growled, swerving to crush a skull under his front tire, the sharp crack sending a thrill through his body, like breaking a toy but infinitely more satisfying. “That’s the good shit,” he said, his voice thick with hunger. Jenkins, a biker, plowed through a pile of ribs, the snap echoing through his bike’s frame. “Like crushing fucking candy,” he cackled, his tires scattering bone fragments. “Bet this guy was sprinting like a coward when the fire ate him.”
The armored cars followed, their tires rolling over a cluster of skeletons sprawled across a crosswalk, the crunching sound a muffled but gratifying pulse. “Oh, man, you hear that grind?” driver Martinez laughed, his voice buzzing through the comms. “Like chewing gravel, but these idiots were hugging their kids when the blast turned ‘em to ash.” The gunners whooped, their boots tapping the floorboards, itching to join the bikes. Stryker, a biker, targeted a lone skeleton, its arms outstretched as if begging. His tire crushed its pelvis with a satisfying pop, the vibration buzzing through his boots. “This one’s doing the worm now!” he mocked. “Probably thought he could pray the bomb away. Pathetic.”
The squad’s laughter filled the comms, each crunch fueling their sadistic high. Crushing bones wasn’t just destruction; it was power, a fetishized ritual that made their blood sing. Kratos, leading with unyielding authority, felt it most acutely—each skull shattered under his tires was a trophy, a testament to his dominance. “Keep rolling, boys,” he barked, his bike plowing through a pile of ash and bone, the dust billowing like a victory cloud. “This is our fucking playground.” His men roared, their bikes and cars weaving through debris, seeking more remains to crush. Jenkins aimed for a family of skeletons tangled together, his tires obliterating their skulls in a rapid-fire series of pops. “Family reunion? More like a bone buffet!” he howled, the crunch sending a shiver of pleasure through him. “Bet they were crying ‘save us’ when the flames hit.”
The buildings they passed were ablaze with lingering fires, flames dancing across blackened concrete and twisted steel. A high-rise stood scorched but upright, its windows Alban, embers glowing in the rubble at its base. A charred storefront sagged, its sign dripping like wax, while an apartment block loomed with blackened walls, flames crackling through shattered windows, doors fused into slag. The squad thrived in the devastation, their tires hungry for more bones. “Check this loser,” gunner Torres pointed at a skeleton slumped against a melted lamppost, its jaw hanging open. “Bet he was snapping a selfie when the boom cooked him. Smile for the ashes, dipshit!” The comms erupted in laughter, the squad imagining the victims’ final moments—running, screaming, cowering—all reduced to dust.
The government building housing the secure room stood defiant, its reinforced structure unyielding to the blast, though everyone inside had perished from the intense heat. Kratos led his six bikers toward it, their KTMs snarling as they approached. The armored cars halted outside, their six-man crews standing guard, engines idling. Kratos and his five riders roared through the building’s shattered entrance, their tires crunching over the charred bodies littering the marble lobby. The heat had blistered and blackened the corpses, their skin cracked like dry earth, mouths frozen in silent screams. Kratos’s bike plowed through a body, the ribs snapping under his tires, the sensation sending a jolt of sadistic pleasure through him. “Like riding over a speed bump,” he growled over the comms, his voice thick with glee. Jenkins followed, his tires crushing a corpse’s skull, the pop reverberating through his bike. “This one’s head’s flatter than my ex’s personality!” he cackled, the squad roaring with laughter. Stryker swerved to hit a body sprawled across a hallway, its spine cracking under his treads. “Bet this guy was running for the stairs when the heat fried him,” he mocked. “Now he’s just road rash.”
The bikers descended a ramp into the building’s underground levels, their headlights cutting through the smoky darkness, tires grinding over more bodies scattered across the concrete. The underground corridors were a slaughterhouse, corpses piled where they’d fallen, their skin charred and peeling from the heat. Kratos led the way, his KTM’s tires pulverizing a corpse’s chest, the crunch sending a thrill through his boots. “Keep up, boys—this is better than a shooting range,” he said, his voice dripping with sadistic delight. The squad’s bikes tore through the remains, each crunch a burst of euphoria, their laughter echoing off the walls. “Look at this dumbass,” biker Collins sneered, his tire snapping a corpse’s arm. “Thought he could hide down here? Fucking idiot.” The comms buzzed with mockery as they rode deeper, their tires leaving trails of ash and bone fragments.
At the secure room’s entrance, a pristine steel door stood in stark contrast to the carnage. Kratos dismounted, his boots crunching on a body as he stepped off, the ribs giving way with a satisfying snap. The walkway to the door was littered with more corpses, their heat-ravaged forms sprawled in desperation. Kratos stomped on a corpse’s skull, the bone shattering under his Instinct 2.0 boots, the vibration a rush of dominance. “Look at this crispy fuck,” he sneered, grinding his heel into the remains. “Thought he’d make it to the vault? Pathetic.” His men followed, their boots crushing bodies with glee, the sounds of snapping bones and squelching flesh filling the air. Jenkins laughed, stomping a corpse’s arm, the snap sending a thrill through him. “Pancake city!” he cackled, pulling out a ruggedized phone to snap a photo of the mangled remains beneath his boot. “This one’s going on the wall.”
Stryker smashed a charred skull, the fragments scattering like broken pottery. “No face, no problem!” he mocked, snapping a picture, the flash illuminating the crushed remains. “Smile for the scrapbook, bitch.” Chaz, another biker, ground his boot into a corpse’s spine, the vertebrae popping like bubble wrap. “Thought you were safe this deep, huh? What a fucking joke,” he said, posing for a photo with his boot on the body, grinning through his goggles. The comms buzzed with humiliating taunts. “Bet they were pissing themselves when the heat hit,” biker Torres laughed, stomping a corpse’s pelvis, the crunch a satisfying punctuation. “Now they’re just my doormat.” The squad reveled in the act, each step a sadistic assertion of power, their photos a twisted gallery of their dominance under Kratos’s approving gaze.
Kratos keyed in the passcode at the secure room’s panel, the locks disengaging with a heavy thud. The door swung open, revealing a pristine interior, untouched by the chaos outside. The classified object—a sleek, metallic cylinder with biometric locks—sat on a pedestal. Kratos secured it in a reinforced backpack, his gloved fingers handling it with a lover’s care. “Worth more than this whole damn city,” he grinned, the thrill of the mission mixing with the high of their cruelty. He led his five bikers out, their boots crunching over the same bodies as they remounted their KTMs.
The ride back through the underground corridors was another gauntlet of destruction, their tires pulverizing more corpses, the comms alive with mockery. “This one thought he could crawl to safety,” Stryker laughed, his bike grinding a body to paste. “Now he’s just grease!” Kratos led them back to the surface, their bikes roaring through the lobby, crushing more bodies as they exited to rejoin the armored cars. The convoy took a detour through a street thick with skeletons, their tires crushing more bones. “Like popping popcorn,” Martinez said from a car, the crunch vibrating through the cabin. “Whole city’s a snack bar!”
Kratos, leading from the front, glanced back, his wheat helmet gleaming amid the flames, the dust of crushed bones swirling around him. “Hell of a ride, boys,” he said through the comms, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Let’s find another tomorrow.” The city stayed silent, its dead offering no resistance, only dust and broken bones beneath the squad’s relentless tires and boots, all under Kratos’s merciless command.
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