Once again, the ground. Once again, the taste of dirt and defeat. You lie there for a second, staring up at the stifling California sky. Sweat stings your eyes. When Kobra extends his hand to help you up, you don’t take it. Instead, you spring to your feet, shoving his shoulder roughly.

Enough! No way!' you exclaim, pointing a finger at him that trembles from the exertion. 'You’re cheating. There’s no human way you could have predicted last move.

Kobra arches an eyebrow, maintaining that stoic expression you love so much and that, right now, you absolutely hate. 'It’s called technique, not cheating,' he responds, crossing his arms.