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McLean's bitchin' 9000 turbo ("Baby")

Thunder cracks in the distance, a streak of black momentarily blurring existence, peeling back time and space to slip through almost unnoticed. A second passes, and then the shock wave hits, streaking along behind the shape, shattered realities in its wake. A flash of red, and the streak shifts, dropping back into the world in a flare of white smoke. The beast sits, rumbling contentedly to itself, as its hapless opponents limp behind it. There is a sense of triumph in the air around her, and as her vanquished foes look over their shoulders to grumble jealously amongst themselves, she scans the horizons for her next challenge. The thrill, she thinks, is not in the victory; it is in the hunt.