You are the worst boy imaginable, my inelegant, haphazard failure of a rival. All the shame and rage of your gambler's heart, your knowledge that you forced yourself into this mech and into this life, finally finds its burning passage and erupts at me. You shower me with hatred. I am the monomaniacal focus of your febrile mind.
To me, you are nothing.
You are another Redgun among Redguns, all bluster and machismo with no skill to back it up. In our first sortie together, the sole accomplishment to your name is an infuriated G1 Michigan. In the arena, your rank is a dismal D.
It's only through your morose perseverance that I begin to notice you. Only when you throw yourself against me time and time again in battle, screaming at the injustice of my skill in the face of your ineptitude, do I register your existence. I see you, pathetic and insolent, nipping at my heels again and again as I kick you away.
Over and over, you die at my hands. It's never difficult. My heart never breaks for you. You are just next in the line of assholes who want only to get in my way. But you, only you, line up again and again. Six times I blast away the armor in which you trapped yourself and leave you bloodied, dying, bare before me. Even at the bitter end, you spit blood back at me, and in that moment I love you for the wretch you are.