18

---

I don’t normally spend Sundays training with the Young Defenders. Normally, Sundays are when I take the day off nowadays, and put in an active effort not to do things.

Today, I got a message from Rampart asking me to come in, which isn’t normal, so I’m coming in. The locker room is bereft of adults, suggesting that they’re out and about, and there hasn’t really been a sign of Liberty Belle either, which should worry me, but I calm myself by assuming that she knows how to handle herself. You know, as the leader.

I shouldn’t worry about what the leader is off doing, and yet here I am, unable to think about anything but.

The airlock hisses behind me, always catching me off guard. I jump a little bit, despite myself. I take a couple of minutes to change into workout clothes, and unceremoniously enter the massive gymnasium that the headquarters centers around. Rampart awaits me by the mats, while everyone else is busy working out – I catch Gale practicing archery, which wasn’t something I was aware she did, and spend a moment staring. Rampart’s hands clap right in front of my face.

“Houston to Bloodhound,” he says, grabbing my attention and jerking it around like a cat grabbing a mouse by the neck.

“Isn’t it ‘Earth to Bloodhound’?” I ask in reply, hands on my hips.

“Sure. Earth to Bloodhound. If you’re going to stare, do it from behind the weight rack,” Rampart advises me, turning my entire face bright crimson.

“I-I wasn’t staring. And how do you know where the best staring spots are?” I retort, trying to reclaim the upper hand in the conversation.

“That’s not the best staring spot. The best staring spot is– Hey, hold on. Don’t get me off track,” Rampart tries to reply, falling into my entirely intentional conversational trap. He folds his hands over his chest and I try not to stare at him. I don’t really like beefy men, but I can’t help assessing him – his boy scout face, his mid-2010s spiky haircut, and the fact that he’s built like a linebacker. “It’s take things seriously time.”

I fold my arms over my chest, mirroring him. “Has it ever not been take things seriously time?”

“Yes. Before, it was Boy Scout time, and we were content to teach you all about civic service and getting in contact with the community. Now, there are three supervillains who know your face and costume and who have an extremely vested interest in shooting you in center mass with real, actual bullets. Now is extremely take things seriously time,” Rampart chides me, like a teacher telling me about the virtues of turning in homework on time.

I feel my face flush with shame. This wouldn’t have happened if I just didn’t break the floor under my fat feet.

“Are you saying you’re going to send me out? I thought Fury Forge–” I start, before Rampart brusquely cuts me off.

“No. We’re not sending you on any sort of missions or investigations yet. But we are going to be accelerating your self defense training,” He starts, slapping his chest with his hands. He’s wearing the same sort of athletic clothes as I am – white, sleeveless top, soccer shorts. None of his body armor today. He’s bare-footed, his face a morass of complex emotions I’m having trouble picking apart into their individual components. Is that… concern? It looks like concern. “I’m similar in size and shape, if a bit exaggerated, to the people you will commonly encounter trying to kill you. Particularly Mr. Nobody.”

“Mr. Nothing,” I correct him.

“Right,” he says, looming over me. “So you need to learn how to use both your powers as well as traditional martial arts to effectively take down opponents much larger than you. Even if you get a growth spurt, you’re 5’6″ right now. I have about nine inches on you. We’re going to teach you Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.”

I fold my hands into my pockets. “Not boxing?” I ask, feeling a slight pang of disappointment in my chest.

“You don’t have a big armspan, Bee. You’re small and fast, and, realistically, will be on the ground easily. I can teach you how to throw a punch, but I don’t think boxing is the right skill for you,” he explains, and I find myself nodding along, a little sad. “Additionally, I’m going to teach you techniques from Aikido and Judo, as a means of redirecting a larger opponent’s momentum.”

I take a step back and get into a fighting stance, arms raised in front of my face. Rampart smiles at me. “Man, I didn’t expect you to be such a martial arts nerd. Are you even qualified?”

Rampart laughs. “No. I have books, and all of us here are trained in at least one form of martial art. Luckily, you and I will have the same fighting style. We can hook you up with a real dojo if you want the full experience, but my main concern is getting you up to speed fast, and we don’t have enough funding to hire you a private tutor.”

I flex my fingers. “You have the same fighting style as the one you want to teach me?” I parrot back at him. “But you’re huge. How do small people martial arts benefit you?”

Rampart bends down into a sort of crouch, arched over, his hands open in front of his chest. “Because of my powers. You and I both have bruiser powers that work best in an extremely close range. I can’t be moved by an external force that I’m aware of – it’ll just channel out of my feet, which means I’m essentially impossible to remove from a grapple or a pin once I’ve got someone in one. You, on the other hand, want to be close in so you can leverage your biggest asset in a fight – your teeth.”

“I thought you guys didn’t care about my teeth?” I ask, taking a step around him. “It’s really the blood sense that’s the important thing for superheroing.”

“Would you rather bite someone or get shot?” Rampart asks, circling me the other direction. “For the record, I didn’t want to start with a demonstration, but if you want to swing at me, feel free to give it a shot.”

I lurch forward, my shoes hitting the mat. My entire body swings out counterclockwise as I try to left hook him. I barely have the reaction speed to even understand what happens next, as he grabs my arm, puts a hand under my armpit, and brings me to the ground in a fraction of a second, sitting on top of my hips. “And now you’re grounded.”

“Ok, Dad,” I joke, trying to wiggle free. It’s like there’s a stone on top of me – he’s not crushing me with his weight, but I also can’t make him budge even a millimeter. Like trying to lift a brick made out of, I don’t know, made out of like… steel. That’s heavy, right? I think it’s hard to express in plain English just how impossible moving him is proving to be.

“See, if you were in this position, you would have your pick of biting locations anywhere on the upper body. You could disable one or both shoulders, or, God forbid, go for the neck. You could also bite out elbows or important organs. You could also do the same from a rear lock, and if we can teach you how to choke people out, then you’re an A-grade apprehender,” Rampart explains to me, in a scholarly, almost fatherly tone. I keep trying to wiggle out, to no avail. My chest feels weird and I don’t like the sensation. “Plus, your regenerative powers give you an advantage here, too.”

“They do? Please get off of me,” I reply, straining my hips. Rampart un-kneels and stands back on his feet, folding his arms back over his chest. “They do?”

“Take your shoes off, by the way. Barefeet on the mats, please. And yes, they do,” Rampart instructs, and I follow, pulling my shoes and socks off so I’m as barefooted as he is. “I mean, besides the extremely obvious fact that you are hard to put down, and injuries do not stick, I have a feeling that your regeneration also applies to muscular hypertrophy. Have you ever had Delayed-Onset Muscle Soreness since your activation incident, Bee?”

I think about it. Then, I really think about it, scanning through all the prior workouts here, and all the physical activity I did, the one week of physiotherapy after the boat accident. I’m obviously used to soreness after a big game, and there hasn’t been any soccer since, so I just assumed that my lack of soreness was from a lack of soccer, but Rampart’s words make me wonder. I roll my arms and stand back up to my feet. I shake my head.

“I figured as much. Plus, you can strategically injure yourself for both the obvious purpose of psychological warfare, but also for illegal techniques that normally aren’t used for fear of self-inflicted injury. You could dislocate your own joints to change your body’s profile and escape grapples. “Sacrifice throws” are throws that put you in a disadvantageous position or might injure yourself to perform, but if you don’t need to worry about that as much as the other guy, you can pull them off with advantage. Plus, you can use elbow drops, knee drops, and breaking techniques to throw all eighty pounds of you from on high,” Rampart continues lecturing.

I cut him off. “I’m one hundred and twenty pounds, thank you very much!” I shout, hands on my hips. “But I’m listening.”

“Good. I think we can also start doing bone conditioning training, as long as you don’t mind a little pain,” Rampart says, smirking, leaning back, and cracking his back.

“Bone… conditioning?” I ask.

“Is there an echo in here or something?” Rampart asks the empty air, and then turns back to me. “Yes. You will punch, kick, and otherwise interact with heavy, hard objects with the intent of damaging your bones so that they grow back harder. It’s muscle conditioning, for your bones. While I know you can heal from a broken bone, I think we should be working on making sure they don’t happen in the first place, since they probably hurt like a motherfucker. Plus, developing harder bones, especially your shins and hands, will appreciably increase your striking power. Haven’t you ever wanted to break bricks like those guys in the old Wuxia movies?”

“I have never watched a Wuxia movie in my entire life,” I answer truthfully.

“Shame. We’ll have to correct that. What sounds like a better first option – punching, or grappling?” He offers.

I get into my usual exaggerated, sloppy boxing stance. “Punching.”

“Bone conditioning it is.”

---

With that, Rampart vanishes into the hallways surrounding the gymnasium, returning moments later carrying a bundle of rolled-up magazines bound together with duct tape, and an old sandbag that had seen better days. The sand appeared to be bulging out from a broken seam that had been covered up in more duct tape. I’m sure it must be incredibly heavy, but I’m just impressed by how he’s slinging it over his shoulder like it’s nothing.

“You ever punch a sandbag before?” he asks, hefting the bag onto the mats and sitting it down. It lands with a dull thud, spilling a little bit of sand onto the floor.

“No, but I’ve punched my brother. Does that count?” I reply with a smirk.

“You have a brother?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.

“No. I don’t know why I said that,” I reply, feeling an immediate pang of guilt that forces the truth out of me.

Rampart chuckles, “You need to get better at lying. Anyway. Starting with a sandbag is the first step. It’s more forgiving than other surfaces but will still allow for gradual bone conditioning. Some places usually start with kidney beans, but sand is cheaper than the equivalent volume of kidney beans, last time I checked.”

“Great, now I’m hungry,” I mumble.

He unravels the bundle of magazines, revealing they were tightly wrapped around a thin wooden rod. “This, on the other hand,” he twirls the rod in his hand, “is for more advanced conditioning. But we’ll get to that.”

Taking a deep breath, I approach the sandbag hesitantly, like it’s a dog about to bite me. I reach out to feel it – the texture is rough and the weight heavy under my touch. “So, just… punch it?” I ask, trying to move it around with my hands to get a feel for how much it actually weighs weighs, how much force it’ll take to move it. It shifts, but doesn’t budge, just like Rampart when he was sitting on top of me post-throw.

Rampart shakes his head, smiling softly. “Not just punch it. I want you to focus on your form. Plant your feet, pivot with your hips, and drive your fist through the bag. Don’t just hit the surface; envision going through it. That’s how you generate power. Remember to align your wrist and strike with the front two knuckles. If you do it right, it’ll sting. Do it wrong, it’ll hurt a lot more,” he explains.

I glance skeptically at the sandbags. “This is going to make my bones stronger?”

“In time, yes,” Rampart assures me. “The impact causes microfractures in your bones. They’ll heal and become denser. Think of it as push-ups for your fists.”

Nodding, I try my first punch. It’s awkward, and the sandbag absorbs the blow easily, mocking my efforts. My knuckles sting a little.

“Harder than that. Imagine it’s someone you really don’t like. If I was a real sensei, I’d tell you not to strike in anger or something like that, but I’m not a real sensei, and this isn’t a real dojo.” He says, standing, watching, judging.

I take a step back and throw another jab. My wrist hits it straight on and sends a shooting rope of pain all the way from my knuckle tips up to my shoulder, and I yelp, loud enough to draw looks from the rest of the gym.

“You’re doing great, Bee!” Gale yells from her impromptu archery range.

“Thanks!” I shout back, shaking my hand out.

“Remember when I said if you do it wrong it’ll hurt a lot more, not even thirty seconds ago? That’s what I mean. Do you need me to show you how to throw a punch?” Rampart asks.

“Yes please.” I squeak.

Rampart chuckles, rolling his shoulders back as he approaches the sandbag. “Alright, first things first. Stand with your feet shoulder-width apart, and your knees slightly bent. You want a strong foundation.” He demonstrates, his stance looking natural and rooted to the ground.

I mimic him, trying to copy the exact position.

“Good. Now, your non-dominant foot should be slightly forward, with your dominant foot back. This gives you a better angle to pivot from.” He pauses, looking me over, ensuring I’ve got it right. Once he’s satisfied, he continues. “Your hands. Keep them up by your face. Like this,” he says, raising his fists to cheek level, elbows tucked close to his body. “If I was teaching you boxing, I would say that this is to protect your face, which it is. If you’re really dead-set on throwing punches, you want to throw them from here – but also, this is just good positioning. It’s where you want your arms to be.”

I copy the stance, feeling slightly more comfortable with my fists raised, ready to strike.

“Now, for the punch. When you throw a jab, it’s not just about your arm. It’s about your whole body. The power comes from your legs, travels up through your core, and is delivered through your fist.” With that, he slowly demonstrates a punch, his back foot pivoting, hips turning, and fist moving forward. He torques his entire body, not just his hand and arm like I’ve been doing. His first two knuckles make contact with the sandbag, a little, gentle love tap, and he pulls back.

He repeats the motion a couple of times. “Follow me,” he says, and I do. I match his speed, and make contact with the sandbag, slowly tapping it from another angle. “Switch feet,” he orders, and I do so, watching him go first. His motion is smooth and unblemished, feet shifting right through, soles skidding against the ground until he’s mirrored. I do the same, a little slower, a little sloppier. “Slowly, still.”

We practice the motion, a couple of times per arm, switching it up. No punching yet. Five minutes pass, and I don’t fail to notice how he’s steadily speeding up, the tap going a little more thump-like as his knuckles increase in velocity. “Alright, now let’s put it all together and do it fast, like this.”

I barely see his fist move. The jab lands square in the center of the sandbag, crumpling it’s shape inward a little bit, and his fist has already retreated to his face. I watch in awe as he switches feet and lands another in the span of what could only be a second or two. There’s a smooth coordination to it, and the sandbag thuds satisfyingly upon impact.

He turns back to me. “Now, your wrist. Keep it straight. You want a direct line from your forearm to the top of your hand. If you bend your wrist, you’ll hurt yourself. And like I said earlier, hit with the first two knuckles, not the middle of your hand.”

Nodding, I throw a punch, trying to incorporate everything he’s said. It’s a little better than before, but still lacks the power I’d hoped for. It still only seems like a love tap compared to his concussion-inducing jab.

Rampart smiles, not unkindly. “Better. But don’t overthink it. Sometimes, it’s just about repetition. The more you practice, the more natural it’ll feel. Also, remember to exhale when you punch.”

I try again, and this time, there’s a better connection. My wrist doesn’t shoot up, and my knuckles sting like I just got sunburnt on them.

Rampart claps, a broad grin on his face. “That’s it! Remember, it’s a process. We’re not looking for perfection on day one. Or even day ten. But in time, you’ll get there.”

I nod, feeling a spark of determination. “Again?” I ask.

Rampart nods, stepping back. “Again.”

I throw a few more punches, each one feeling slightly better than the last, my confidence growing. Rampart occasionally corrects my stance or the angle of my punch, but for the most part, he just observes, the gymnasium’s chorus of noises joined by my knuckles making impact with the sandbag.

“Better,” Rampart comments. “But remember, it’s not about force but repetition and technique. You’re going to hit this thing hundreds, thousands of times over the next few weeks. Each time, your bones will adapt a little more. You’re going to be hitting it with your palms, you’re going to be hitting it with the sides of your hands, your forearms, your shins. We’re going to put your skeletal system through its paces.”

After what feels like hours, but was likely only a few minutes, I’m panting and sweating, my hands reddening, my knuckles throbbing with pain. The monotony is broken by Rampart’s sudden instruction. “Switch to kicks. Same principle, drive your shin through the bag. I want to see what you know about throwing a kick before I teach you.”

“Are you assuming I don’t know how to throw a kick? I play soccer,” I mock, taking a couple of steps back. I run forward and swing, making contact with the top of my foot just like a soccer ball.

This is not a soccer ball, however. It is a sandbag. My ankle immediately yells at me, and I go hopping, grabbing for it and balancing on one foot before shaking it out.

“That’s… one way to do it,” he comments, still grinning. “Don’t break your ankles on my behalf. This may surprise you, but most people you’ll be fighting are not shaped or sized like a soccer ball.” Rampart motions for me to stop and reposition myself. “Alright, soccer star, let’s make some adjustments. In soccer, you’re striking the ball with the top of your foot for a broad and powerful impact. But for martial purposes, especially bone conditioning, we want a more focused point of impact – the shin. Your shin is a lot stronger and can take, and give, a lot more punishment.”

He demonstrates slowly, lifting his knee up and extending his leg, rotating his hips and pointing his toes down to keep the foot out of the way. His shin gently taps the sandbag. “You see? You’re turning your hips, engaging your core, and driving through with your shin, not your foot.” Without any wind-up, Rampart throws a slow, deliberate kick, driving his shin into the bag, which shudders on impact. Even at the reduced speed, the strength behind it is evident.

He gestures for me to try. “Start slow, focus on form. I’d rather you throw a hundred proper slow kicks than a single wild, fast one.”

Nodding, I give it a try, but my movements are far from fluid. It feels more like a robotic leg swing than the swift, fluid motion Rampart demonstrated. Still, my shin makes contact, giving it the tiniest of taps. He stands on the opposite side of the sandbag and shows me, slowly, while I mirror him again until my shin touches the sandbag. “When do I get to learn how to do a full 360 jumping spin kick?” I ask, switching feet along with him and doing these soft little baby touches with my other shin.

“When you can kick this sandbag over,” Rampart says, flexing his fingers. “That’s a joke, don’t take that as a challenge. Spin kicks aren’t good in a fight. Really, kicking isn’t good unless you’re desperate, I’m teaching you form so that we can work on conditioning. You learning how to break someone’s ribs with your shin is sort of a side benefit here.”

I grunt, exhale, and give it a wild, twisting swing, my shin stinging on impact. I hop back a little bit, resisting the urge to cuss.

“Better,” Rampart observes. “But think of it less as a swing and more as a push. You’re pushing your shin through the target.”

He moves closer, positioning himself next to me. “Watch my hips,” he says, throwing another kick. This time, I pay attention to the way his entire body moves. It’s not just a leg movement; it’s an entire body motion. His hips pivot, his supporting foot rotates, and even his upper body leans back slightly for balance. He does it two more times, slowly, cautiously, before throwing an unfairly fast kick that sends the sandbag shuddering, throwing loose grains every which way. “Incorporate your whole body. It will not only increase the power but also reduce the strain on individual parts. And remember, a properly thrown kick starts from the ground up. Your foot, your calf, your thigh, your hip – they all play a part.”

Feeling a bit overwhelmed, but determined, I try again, focusing on integrating all the elements Rampart mentioned. It’s a challenge, and my first few attempts are clumsy. But after a series of slow drills, gradually increasing in speed, I start to get the hang of it. With his guidance, my kicks improve. The sandbag, like a silent judge, accepts my blows without complaint. Every kick sends a jolt of pain up my shin, like electricity, leaving them tingling and warm.

“Much better,” Rampart praises after a particularly solid kick. “Soccer has given you good leg strength, but this is about harnessing it differently. Martial arts is about efficiency and precision as much as it’s about strength.”

I take a moment, catching my breath and absorbing all I’ve learned. The sandbag stands unfazed before me, but I feel different – stronger, more aware of my body’s potential. I smile at Rampart, “Alright, coach, what’s next on the lesson plan?”

“I’m giving your bones a break. I’m going to teach you how to grapple me,” He says, cracking his knuckles and rolling his neck. “Need water?”

“I’m good. Let’s roll.”

---

Rampart clears a space on the mat area, signaling for me to come closer. The soft padding beneath us gives a little under our weight, but it’s firm enough for our movements.

“First, grappling isn’t about brute strength. It’s about leverage, positioning, and technique. If you find yourself using too much force, you’re probably doing it wrong,” he begins, setting the tone.

He moves into a basic stance, his feet shoulder-width apart and his knees slightly bent. “There are three primary components we’re going to cover today – takedowns, ground control, and submissions. We’ll start with the basic principles, and then move on to specific techniques.”

Watching his movements carefully, I try to mirror his stance, adjusting my feet and bending my knees. Rampart nods in approval, then demonstrates the first technique.

“Let’s start with a basic takedown. The double leg takedown. This move is used a lot in BJJ as well as in wrestling,” he says, motioning me to stand in front of him. “The idea is to change your level, shoot in, wrap both arms around the opponent’s legs, and use your momentum to take them down.”

I gulp, looking at the significant size difference between us. “You want me to try and take you down?”

He chuckles, “Don’t worry, I’ll be going easy on you. The point isn’t to succeed in taking me down but to get the technique right. And remember, this move isn’t about strength, but about timing, speed, and leverage.”

Rampart then crouches slightly, demonstrating the change in level. “You want to be low, so you can get beneath their center of gravity. Shoot in with your leading leg,” he says, lunging forward with one foot while reaching out with both arms, as if trying to grab the back of my knees.

I watch a few times, trying to memorize the movements. A bit hesitant, considering Rampart’s considerable size advantage, I give it a try. My momentum isn’t enough, and Rampart stands firm, like a mountain. My arms flail, and I practically fall into Rampart rather than shooting in with precision. Plus, I’m pretty sure he isn’t using his powers.

“No, no,” Rampart observes, “you’re diving. You need to shoot forward, not downward. Again.”

It takes several tries, with Rampart patiently adjusting my posture, teaching me how to pivot my foot for maximum propulsion, and where to place my hands on his legs. Eventually, I manage a passable attempt, getting low and wrapping my arms around his legs. Rampart, obviously allowing it, topples backward, a broad grin on his face.

“Not bad for a first try,” he comments, getting up. “But takedowns are just the beginning. Once on the ground, the real fight begins.” Rampart lays down on the mat, patting the space above him. “Come on, get in position,” he says, and I hesitantly lower myself, settling on top of him.

“This feels extremely weird,” I mumble, trying to keep it too quiet to be heard.

“Modesty and combat aren’t in the same category,” he begins, his voice muffled slightly from below. “The principle here is simple. When on the ground, always aim for a dominant position. Control your opponent, keep them beneath you, and always be one step ahead.”

As he talks, he shifts, guiding my body with his hands. “This,” he explains, his voice patient, “is the guard.” My thighs are flanked against his sides, my knees pressed into the floor. My hands reach forward, fingers lightly clasping onto the stone bricks of his biceps. From this position, I can feel his every move. “Here, you can control my arms, prevent me from striking or grabbing you. It’s a balanced position, both defensive and offensive.”

Then, he shifts us again. “Now, side control.” He turns slightly, guiding me to lay perpendicular across his chest. My arm wraps around his head, pulling it in snugly, while my opposite hand pins down his closest arm. I feel strangely dominant despite my size, with Rampart effectively trapped beneath me. My pulse quickens. I don’t like it. “From here,” he grunts, “you can limit my movements, making it harder for me to escape or counter. It’s a strong position if you maintain control.”

Finally, he directs me again, tugging my legs around like a marionette. I find myself sitting on his chest, looking down at his face, my knees driving into the mat next to his shoulders. “This,” Rampart states, slightly winded, “is one of the most dominant positions in grappling, the full mount. From here, you have a range of attacks, and I have limited defenses. Keep your weight centered, and always be aware of their hips. They’ll try to buck you off.”

“For someone of your size,” he explains, “maintaining these positions will be tough against larger opponents. But BJJ is great for smaller fighters because it’s designed to utilize leverage over strength.”

“Alright, switch,” Rampart says, pushing himself to sit up and motioning for me to lie on the mat.

I hesitantly lie down, immediately self-conscious of the position. Rampart takes a knee beside me, waiting for a moment as if giving me a chance to change my mind.

“Now, I’m going to get into your guard,” he explains, looking into my eyes as he says it, his tone matter-of-fact. It’s clear he’s done this a thousand times, and to him, it’s just another day at the office.

As he positions himself, his legs bracketing my body, I try to remind myself to focus on the technique, not the awkwardness. I fold my legs, placing my heels near his hips, my knees brushing his sides. My heartbeat quickens, not from exertion but from sheer discomfort.

“Now, when you’re the one trapped in the guard, your main objective is to break free and improve your position. To do that, you’ll need to control my legs and posture. Hands on my biceps,” Rampart instructs.

Doing as he says, I gingerly place my hands on his arms, trying to establish some semblance of control. The difference in our sizes makes the task daunting, and I can’t help but think of a kitten trying to hold back a lion.

“You’ll want to push my knee down with one hand and slide your leg out, posturing up as you go. But always be wary of my legs, they’re my tools to control and submit you,” he explains. Taking a deep breath, I give it a try. My first attempt is clumsy, my movements too slow and hesitant, allowing him to easily pull me back down. I groan in frustration.

“Remember,” Rampart says, his voice calm and reassuring, “it’s not about strength. Use leverage. Use your brain. Think about what you’re trying to achieve and what I’m trying to prevent.”

I nod, taking another moment to mentally prepare. Then I try again, pushing on his knee and quickly sliding my leg out, posturing up as he’d shown me. But with Rampart’s size and experience, he’s easily able to sweep me back into position.

He pauses, seeing my frustration. “Try it again,” he offers gently – less a command, more an instruction. Here’s your mulligan. Do-over.

Lowering my stance slightly, I begin the attempt to pass his guard. It’s a game of leverage and balance; I push on Rampart’s knee and quickly try to slide my leg out, just as he showed me. But he’s quick too, and with a subtle shift of his weight, he sweeps me back into his guard, making me feel like I’m caught in some sort of trap.

“Gotcha,” he says softly, with a hint of amusement in his eyes, but not mocking.

My cheeks flush, a mix of exertion and embarrassment. “I’m so bad at this,” I mutter, more to myself than to him.

Rampart releases his hold and sits up, his gaze serious but kind. “It’s going to be hard, especially at first. Everyone struggles in the beginning – that’s part of the process. Every single move you make, every failed attempt, is a lesson. And I promise you, the day will come when you’ll be able to pass my guard with ease.”

His words are reassuring, and I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is just the beginning.

“Alright,” I say, determination renewed. “Let’s go again.”

We go back and forth for what feels like hours, transitioning from guards to side control to full mount. Each time I think I have him, Rampart manages to slip out or reverse our positions. Yet, with every repetition, I start to understand the mechanics a little better. The movements become less foreign, though they remain challenging.

Once we’ve thoroughly exhausted the positional drills, Rampart sits up. “Now, let’s switch gears. As for submissions,” he starts, pausing briefly to make sure I’m following, “these are techniques designed to end the fight. In a sportive setting, it makes your opponent tap out – signaling they admit defeat. But in the real world, it’s to get someone to surrender, incapacitate them, or even render them unconscious.”

He eases himself back onto the mat, looking up at me with an expectant gaze. “Come, position yourself above. I’m going to teach you how to put someone in an armbar.”

Gingerly, I follow his instruction, trying to recall all the previous lessons on positioning. There’s a noticeable difference in our sizes and experience. Everything feels foreign, and his large frame under me feels like a coiled spring – powerful and dormant.

He breaks down the steps for the armbar, making sure I understand the importance of each move. “Your grip on my wrist,” he instructs, showing me how to hold firmly without squeezing, “is essential. Now, focus on your legs and hips. The power to control comes from there.”

Following his guidance, I maneuver my legs around his arm, pinning it between them. He gives a nod of approval, “Good. Remember, the leverage comes from your hips. You’re not trying to wrench my arm, you’re controlling it.”

I can feel the delicacy of the armbar, how it manipulates the elbow. There’s a brief moment of panic – the realization that in a real situation, the power to harm lies in my hands. I falter, holding back.

He senses my hesitation. “It’s alright,” he murmurs politely. “I’ll let you know if it’s too much. The key here is control, not pain. In a, you know, in a situation, you decide the intensity.”

Taking a steadying breath, I adjust, applying just enough pressure. My technique isn’t perfect, and he easily moves out of it. But instead of a reprimand, he smiles. “Again, technique over strength. You’ll find the right balance with practice.”

His encouragement, free from any hint of condescension, fuels me. We move through different submissions, each one an exercise of control and release.

The rhythm of the session is meditative, almost hypnotic. Each shift of my body, every slight repositioning of my grip, becomes a small dance in itself. Rampart, for all his size and power, shows an almost monk-like patience, guiding me through the motions, allowing me to understand the mechanics, the whys and the hows of every movement. We move from one technique to another, the pace set not by the clock but by my progress, my understanding.

Every pin, every twist, and every maneuver I execute becomes a lesson in precision and control. While I anticipated the exhaustion that would come with the physicality, I hadn’t quite accounted for the sheer mental exhaustion. With every new technique, my brain works double-time, processing the information, trying to just internalize it into muscle memory, usually failing.

---

By the end of the session, the weight of the hours (two of them almost exactly) bears down on me. My entire being is a cocktail of sweat, exertion, and a mind teetering on the edge of overload. Peeling my soaked shirt away from my body so I can put some room for air in it, I let out a long, weary breath. It’s only then that I notice the group of onlookers. Eyes from the Young Defenders, all present with the exception of Puppeteer, observe us. The realization that they’ve witnessed every falter, every mistake, sends a rush of heat up my neck.

From the crowd of five, Gale steps forward, her powers subtly stirring the air around her. A bottle of water floats my way, and I catch it with a grateful nod. “You’ve got some impressive moves, Bloodhound,” she says, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. “It was really entertaining to watch.”

My heart stutters. Gale, the person I’ve tried so hard not to make a fool of myself in front of, had a front-row seat to my training debacle. The thought of her watching me be repeatedly pinned, grappled, and generally manhandled by someone as massive as Rampart makes my stomach churn with a mixture of embarrassment and dread. The weight of her gaze and the hint of a smile playing on her lips make it difficult for me to find my voice. All I can manage is a sheepish, “Thanks.”

Gale smiles and twists her finger around, summoning a gentle whirlwind around me that threatens to take my breath away. Not from a, like, smothering or suffocating point of view, just that it’s really comfy to have your own personal air conditioning. “Don’t mention it.”

I sit down on the mat, while Rampart joins the rest of the group, Gale splitting from them. “I didn’t know you… arched.”

“It’s good exercise for my arms and works well with my powers. Throwing things like darts or ball bearings are usually too massive to easily alter the trajectory of. Arrows are just right,” Gale says, sitting down next to me. She looks me up and down. “You’re sweaty,” she observes, and I consider suicide for the first time in my life as the more bearable alternative to whatever this emotion is.

“Thanks, I try,” I blurt out before I can think about it. I am going to do a backflip and land on my neck so that I can die instantly.

Gale giggles. I retract the idea of doing a backflip. “Want to go flying after you’re all cooled down? You know, recreationally.”

“Like, on patrol?” I ask, looking anywhere but at her. I watch Rampart high five Crossroads, and then go into a complicated series of hand motions, like a secret handshake. It’s easier than looking at Gale.

“Nope! Just flying. For fun. We can get Rita’s, you know, before they close down for the season,” Gale offers, smiling with her lips closed.

My heart thumps quietly but firmly. “Oh, uh. Sure,” I say, not bothering to tell her that I had Rita’s yesterday. “But I don’t have any money or anything like that.”

I flop backwards against the mat, splayed out, letting the wind overtake me. Gale laughs. “Don’t worry about it. My treat.”

I successfully resist the urge to begin yelling.

---

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