The killing excites them, though they would never admit to it. They sit back to back at their control panels, squinting at black and white screens. On those tiny monitors it looks like nothing more significant than crushing a bug. And yet they know it is more. They can almost feel the vibrations when they thumb the button, when the screen blushes white.
When bored, they make love on the instrument panel. Naked bodies nudge joysticks and crush buttons at random. The computer bleeps and whirrs in protest. On the screen, explosions blossom. Whole villages disappear into whiteness, into nothing. As the fire dies, the operators find their own oblivion.