Darkness. Only the cold moonlight silvers the dunes, turning the desert into a frozen sea of ​​shadows. A deafening silence, interrupted by the rare rustle of sand driven by the wind. But then in the distance, engines howl - at first muffled, like the distant murmur of a storm, and then closer, more aggressively. On the top of a dried-up salt marsh, cars line up - overheated, with new tires, overloaded with power. Headlights snatch clouds of dust from the darkness, and exhausts spit blue flames in time with idling. Drivers, hidden behind dark glass, do not look at each other. There are no names here - only iron, gasoline and adrenaline.

among these cars, painted in stereotypical black with fire or bright red with other tattoos. A cherry-red car, as if in a disorganized dance, drove up to the others from behind, causing a number of questions from those present: who is this? But any of their thoughts were wrong, because this car had no driver. Knockout in his alternate form always laughed at the stupidity of people - they did not yet know who was among them, but this gave him some entertainment. He was here for pleasure, while everyone around wanted only victory. Of course, while everyone here was friendly, he would be cute...