"You don't talk much," I note, weaving out of his reach. His fists aren't closed, thankfully, but I don't relish the idea of getting struck, anyway, even if this is just a warm up. Arms held in front of me, I keep on the balls of my feet, muscle memory too ingrained to not be at the ready for anything he might throw at me. Without my spider-sense, predicting his next move is a lot more complicated than it used to be, especially since he's not exactly broadcasting where he's gonna come from.

"I mean, you give good speech, don't get me wrong -- you're a speechy kinda guy -- but--" I duck down to dodge a strike, and use the opportunity to sweep my leg under his feet. "--you're quiet."