He was watching as much as I was. He timed his swing for when I closed the distance. I could hear it cut through the air. When I ducked, using my footing on still-clear ground to adjust my position and half-throw myself to one side, he brought the canister to his axe-hand. As I scrambled to my feet, he spared a finger to pull the pin, and then let it tumble from his fingers, dropping to the ground at his feet.

“No outside factors. Stuff like guns and explosives are a bad idea, so don’t think of surprising me with one. The sound and shock has nowhere to go but inside you. The circle probably thinks it makes it a level playing field,” he said. “Your problem is gonna be that I don’t believe in level. This is my arena.”

Something was hissing out, but I couldn’t see the vapor of it. Invisible gas.

“Take your time, time I spend in here is time I don’t have to be out there, and my side’s winning,” he said, his eyes narrowed as he reached with his free hand to get into his neckwarmer. He pulled out a tangle of tubes, with what looked like a pacifier sans bulb and a nose piece.

He began to put the breathing apparatus under his mask when I started forward again.

I’d fought big before. I’d grown up roughhousing with Uncle Neil. Manpower.

He took one swing as he backed up a step, in a way I would have called casual or lazy if it hadn’t been fast. No aim in mind, timing didn’t matter, it just forced me to get clear and get away. Keeping the distance between us while the gas accumulated. It bought him the time to get the breathing apparatus on. His thumb flicked something beneath the neckwarmer, and then he tucked it beneath his body armor.

I would have done something about the canister, but we were inside a confined space.

His weapon required reach. It had been the case with Uncle Neil when I’d been twelve, when he’d been grown, strong, and capable of keeping me at arm’s length.

My goal was to get inside that reach. I started forward, saw him react, ready to chop at me from the side. I found good footing, and lunged for real this time, a second after the fact.

He swung from the side, aiming for my midsection, and I dove, going low.

His foot came out, stopping me as I skidded on the surface that made footing so difficult. He shifted to a two-handed, overhead swing—and I went after his legs, tangling mine with his.