"Calculate the trajectory of a ball kicked at a 45-degree angle with a velocity of 30 meters per second, accounting for air resistance."
Alex smiled. He didn't need a calculator. He needed his right foot. Or Mark's right foot.
He wrote down the answer. He checked his watch.
He was eighteen. He was a World Champion. And he was worried about getting a B in Physics.
"Pens down," the invigilator called out.
Alex dropped his pen. He let out a long breath.
It was over. School was done.
He walked out of the hall. He felt lighter. The backpack on his shoulders felt empty.
He walked to the school gates.
There was a noise. A very loud, very deep rumble.
It sounded like a tank.
It was a tank. Or close enough.
A giant, matte-black, six-wheeled military truck was parked on the yellow lines. It was bigger than the school bus.
The window rolled down.
Mark was sitting in the driver's seat. He was wearing a camouflage tracksuit. He had painted black stripes under his eyes.
