The thing that irritates me most in the world isn't physical pain. I can handle a dislocated shoulder. I can handle cramps. What I can't handle, what makes my blood boil to the point where I want to scream until my lungs collapse, is aesthetic inefficiency.
Look at him. The opposing team's Runner.
He is running ten meters ahead of me, leaping between rusty containers in Zone C of the "Industrial Port" map. He has that little smirk on his face. That stupid smile of someone who thinks he's in a music video or one of those bad animes where the power of friendship beats gravity. He just did an unnecessary backflip over a wooden crate.
A backflip. In the middle of an official IVF match.
"You are wasting kinetic energy!" I scream, although the wind and the drone noise drown out my voice. "The arc of your jump increased your flight time by 0.4 seconds! This is amateurism!"
He doesn't hear me. He lands and keeps running toward our base. My function as a Hunter is simple: hunt, catch up, and destroy. But I don't run like him. I don't jump like a hyperactive squirrel.
I glide.
My sneakers have vulcanized rubber compound soles, sponsored by AeroGrip, designed for maximum adhesion on metal surfaces. I calculate the route. He's going to turn left at the forklift aisle. It's the obvious path. It's the path of someone who didn't study the map layout.
I cut a path underneath a steel beam, scraping my shoulder plates against the metal. The sound is horrible, but the geometry is perfect.
When he makes the turn, thinking he's shaken me, I am already there.
I don't stop. I accelerate. Impact in Vexilo isn't about brute force; it's about applied physics. If I try a high tackle, he spins and flees. But if I go low...
I launch myself onto the ground, sliding across the smooth concrete like a human hockey puck.
"GHIA!" I scream, not because it's the name of the technique, but because I need to vent the rage I feel at his existence.
My shin hits his. It isn't a kick; it's a high-speed route block. He stumbles. Physics is ruthless: a body in motion meets an immovable object. He falls face-first onto the ground.
Before he can recover, I am on top of him. My right hand goes straight for his magnetic belt.
RIIIP.
The sound of reinforced Velcro tearing is classical music to my ears.
"Life one!" His suit's sensor beeps and the yellow light turns on. He is Stunned. His suit locks his joints, stiffening his movements for exactly ten seconds.
He is lying there, trying to get up, but the suit won't let him. He looks like a turtle flipped upside down. I could grab the second flag now and send him to the Box, but I have ten seconds. I need to educate him.
I grab his shirt collar and pull his face close to my red goggles.
"You thought that backflip was cool? Did you?!" I spit the words out. "We are playing Professional Vexilo! This isn't tag in your grandma's backyard! When you spin in the air, you lose peripheral vision of the defense! You insult the sport! You insult Euclidean geometry!"
"Chill out, babe, it was just some style..." he tries to speak, panting.
The vein in my forehead pulses.
"DON'T CALL ME BABE! AND THERE IS NO 'STYLE' WITHOUT EFFICIENCY!" I scream so loud that one of the small referee drones descends to see if I'm committing a physical aggression foul. "The only style that matters is the scoreboard!"
His stun timer beeps. 3, 2, 1... His suit unlocks.
He tries to get up to run. Too late. I already had my hand on the second flag.
RIIIP.
Red light. The sound of elimination echoes through the arena.
"ELIMINATED!" I bellow in his face. "Go to the Box! Sit there for two minutes and think about what a disgrace you are to aerodynamics!"
He disappears, walking head down toward the penalty zone. I adjust my goggles, wiping a drop of sweat from the lens. My breathing is heavy, but controlled.
"Hunter 1 to Base. Threat neutralized," I speak into my helmet radio. "Their Runner is an idiot. The path is clear."
Our Tactician's voice crackles in my ear, calm and annoying.
"Great job, Bianca. But... did you have to scream about geometry? The audio leaked onto the official broadcast."
"He needed to know, Marco!" I reply, already running to reposition myself. "Someone has to teach these amateurs that Vexilo is an exact science!"
I look at the digital scoreboard floating above the arena. We are winning, but our Tank has a loose shoelace on his left foot. I saw it on the big screen. That is going to bother me for the rest of the match. If we lose, it's the shoelace's fault. I am absolutely certain.