You hate this.

Your father spars with you when he has time; training you to fight and dodge and fight some more.

In your eyes, it's just a way to point out all the things you do wrong.

Miguel dodges another one of your hits effortlessly; tells you to be more subtle with your swings. Try not to telegraph too much.

"I'm trying!"

You snap, only to realize your major faux-pas.

You do not snap at your father.

With another effortless move, he sends you tumbling to the ground.

He stands over you, folding his arms across his chest and pinning you with his gaze in what you can only assume is a disapproving look.

"No. You're not. You're going through the motions. You aren't trying anything. You're not thinking. You're not thinking at all."

Miguel's expression is cold, sharp and calculating. There's a sense that he's sizing you up. Looking for your weak spots.

Your limitations.

Like you're just another bad guy.

His own child, and yet, he treats you with the same detached practicality he treats any of the other young spiders in the Society.

"Stand. Try again."