One thought seizes me even as I keep on moving, keep on sparring, if that's what this actually is: I am in way over my head. I try to break down what he just did, but find I can't; it's all one move, no beginning or end, just smooth, fluid motion, a deadly ballet. Were I in any position to do so, I might take a minute to marvel at the human body's capacity for grace, but I'm not. I'm trying to hit a target who won't stand still, and I have none of my usual tricks up my sleeve; I feel like a chump.

"Okay," I say, annoyance creeping into my tone, "so my lesson is that I can... Not hit you? Is that what I'm supposed to be taking from this? 'Cause I get it. I am slower, weaker, and all around less amazing than I'm used to being. I got that memo when my ol' pal Norman nearly killed me, and I got it again when Tony did the same. My offense needs work." I flip backwards to put some distance between us, feeling better for the acrobatics, and settle into a more defensive position. "I know."