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had been fighting; time had a way of stretching out in the circle. It didn’t matter, anyway – no one left until Miss Aoki was satisfied.
    It was funny without being funny, the way a crudely painted red circle on the floor of an empty room could become his least favorite place to be.
    For the most part, though, Alex liked what he was seeing now, through hands wrapped in blood-smeared tape to protect his knuckles. Steve was bigger and stronger, and they were about the same height, but Alex’s arms were a few inches longer, and he had learned to use that to keep Steve at bay, working his jab from just outside Steve’s range, peppering him in the face with fast shots and then stepping back. The jabs weren’t particularly damaging individually, but their cumulative effect was displayed on Steve’s face, from his swollen, bleeding nose to the mouse rising underneath his left eye. Moreover, Steve’s bulk was starting to work against him, stealing oxygen from his blood faster than it could be replaced. He was sweating like a fountain and sucking wind, his face red from exertion.
    “You can’t win on points, Alex,” Miss Aoki chided, from where she sat at the periphery of the circle, Margot off to one side looking bored, Renton on the other with a smug expression. “You actually have to hurt him.”
    He didn’t rise to the bait, and he didn’t let her distract him from what he was doing. Contrary to popular belief, Alex had a plan.
    Actually, it wasn’t really his plan, because Michael had helped him formulate it. After two weeks of getting beat by Steve, over and over, being taken down and battered until Miss Aoki decided he’d had enough, Alex was frustrated enough to ask for help. After all, telepathic simulation or no, it still hurt. Michael’s competitive spirit fired up, and as a result, he had spent the next week drilling him exclusively on the techniques that he was using right now.
    His jab wasn’t enough, not by itself, more so when Steve was still energetic. Steve could simply walk right on through it, eating a couple of shots before he got close enough to do damage, but nothing that would actually stop him. However, Michael had pointed out something else that Alex had going for him besides long arms; namely, he had sharp, protruding elbows. A week of practice had taught him the peculiar strike-and-drag motion that turned a close elbow into a cutting tool. Alex learned how to shift seamlessly from the jab to the elbow, so that he could switch from one to the other in the same motion when his opponent came forward.
    He had started using the elbow strike in the circle two days ago, and he’d turned Steve’s face into a bloody mess. Steve tried to bull through the jab and get inside his guard. Alex’s third short elbow had opened a big cut above Steve’s right eye, blinding him and allowing Alex to batter him mercilessly from his blind side until Mitsuru called a stop. Clearly, the big asshole wasn’t as stupid as he looked, because today he was more careful about stepping inside or shooting for a takedown.
    “What is this, modern dance? I’m falling asleep over here. If this was a real fight, you’d both be dead by now.”
    Alex ignored the criticism and stuck to the plan. Steve came forward cautiously, and he ate a quick right jab that caught him on the cheek, while his own wild punches fell short. Alex stepped back outside his range and resumed circling, throwing jabs whenever Steve was close enough. He wasn’t trying to wear Steve down. He was aiming to hurt him, but for the plan to work, he needed to goad him into going for a double-leg takedown, a scoop-and-tackle maneuver that was the favored method of putting an opponent on the ground in freestyle wrestling, where Steve had an extensive background. Frustration was evident on Steve’s face, and his increasingly rushed and wild movements. Everyone gets tired of being punched, after all.
    More patient footwork, pumping his jab into Steve’s