After that he really started to feel it happen. Every strike of hers, he saw coming... but it still came fast enough that he could barely parry it. Every counterstrike of his, the same thing on her end.
Raleigh had thought before that she moved like an athlete, and now he was seeing it. He outweighed her by maybe eighty pounds and had decisive edges in reach and strength, but he could hardly touch her. Together they covered every inch of the mat, hanbōs snapping into each other and tearing through the spaces vacated by the opponent’s ankle or shoulder an instant before. Every fall became a rolling spring into a defensive posture, every parry became a strike, every advance met its perfect countering retreat.
It became a dance. It became a kind of union. Mako and Raleigh were breathing in unison, finding the same rhythm in their steps and postures. They struck and parried and dodged, and it was a... not a game. It was like fighting yourself, when the other you could read your mind because your mind was his mind.
