Fucking brackets.

Ion storms. Arenas. Piles of grunge stuck in a grid-locked wasteland. Gravity wells truncated the land like dragon-scythes, and the forests were flooded by the halogen shielding of skywalls and overpikes.
'Blasted marines!' yelled the drill sergeant, whose careless demeanor hearkened back to the era of Despise and Decay.

'And not a single fuck was given that day,' would be the chorus preached in the later days, where the key modicums of life benched on the ideals of Blood, Fire, and Death. 'Nations (See: clans)' the teleprompter would chirp, 'were equipped with nuclear powered weapons capable of mutually assured destruction.'

You'd see the whole city burn to fire in the blink of an eye.

Neon-orange sunlight ion-storms ripped the skin off ashes and. through the  the ones that sprouted up at random. The bridges of eternity were sticky like jutting studs of a pink bubblegum web