"C'mon, Kira. You can do this."

Scott stood across from her, braced for the next blow. They'd reserved the school's boxing ring after hours just for this; Kira, brandishing a blunted practice sword. Him in his lacrosse gear, well equipped to take whatever she could dish out.

"Don't think about it, just hit me again."

Kira's striking stance didn't waver, but she didn't move. "Scott, I really don't—"

"Kira," Scott's voice was empathetic, earnest, "I trust you. You've got to learn control. We all had to. I had Stiles chuck lacrosse balls at me when I was first starting out—it's all about learning control in a controlled environment." He nodded at her, inviting her to charge. "I'm your controlled environment."

At that, Kira steeled up. Her brows drew together in focus, but ticked up in the slightest right before they dared to meet. Uncertainty. It wrought a direct but frail swing of her sword, ending in a dull thud when it made contact with Scott's block. When she didn't follow up, Scott straightened up.

"You can't control it if you don't have access to it—to that part of yourself, I mean. You have to really get into it, like it's a real fight."

"But it's not." Kira said back, shoulders slumped, "You're just standing there, looking like a lacrosse superstar, and all I'm doing is hitting you with a stick."

"What if I try to hit you back?" Scott asked, taking his helmet off to reveal sweat-slicked hair. As slow and tedious as their sparring had been, working out in full gear was a sweaty nightmare. "I'm not good with a sword, but it might kick-start your mojo."

From over on the bleachers, Stiles chipped in. "Dude, don't call it mojo. No one says mojo." He, like Scott, was armored up in his school's colors. He had a half downed bottle of water in one hand and his helmet in the other, and was considerably more sweaty than either of them.

Scott looked over at him, "Plenty of people say mojo." Back to Kira, "Right? Tell him plenty of people say mojo."

Kira gave a noncommittal nod-shrug, "Maybe?"

Scott made a huff that fell somewhere between amused and exasperated, "Alright, alright—sounds like you caught your breath," He looked to Stiles, shooting him a challenge disguised as a smirk. "Ready to tag back in?"

"Are you kidding me?" He ran a hand through his hair and it stuck where he left it, "You forget: I don't have crazy werewolf stamina- as fun as that's gotta be." He looked between the two of them, and then finished the rest of his water.

Scott missed the joke, but Kira was so embarrassed she had to look away.

Stiles stood up as he set his empty bottle down, "But I can go another round." He stepped into the ring, and Scott patted him on the shoulder in passing to take his seat on the bleachers.

Stiles got himself ready, standing stern to take whatever Kira had to dish out. "You got this," He said it aloud quietly, and whether it was to Kira or for himself was up in the air. "Youuu got this."

Kira took up her stance again, but there was another awkwardly long stalemate before she relaxed. "I can't just hit you."

"Sure you can," Stiles nodded, "You've been doing it all afternoon."

"No, I mean… it's not doing anything. I don't feel it—I don't feel the kitsune. I think Scott's right. You have to fight back."

"Oh—oh, yeah. Alright." Stiles stood up properly, looking around before leaning over the side of the ring to grab one of the firm foam rods off the equipment rack. "We'll try Scott's idea, make it a fair fight. Your sword against a foam noodle. Y'know, give you that real adrenaline rush." He rolled it around in his hand, waving it at her like a pool noodle.

It was, in fact, a metal rod cased in foam, so it didn't have much give at all.

Kira smiled at him, just barely, and took her stance. Stiles's response was to call upon every kung-foo movie he'd ever seen and pull something together. It was laughably bad.

Kira took the first swing, though it was weak. It hit Stiles's shoulder guard, and he stumbled a bit, "Come on, Kira. Bring it on! I've got enough padding on me to take a tackle from an entire NFL team. You couldn't hurt me if you really tried."

"I doubt that," She tried to smile—it was a joke, after all—but it came off as sad.

"Come onnnn," He brandished the rod, tapping her shoulder in an attempt to annoy her to action, "I'm touching you. Boom. Boom."

She used her blade to deflect his, rolling them both to lean to the left, and Stiles barely managed to keep a grip on his weapon. Kira twirled next, her blunt blade coming within inches of Stiles who'd stepped back just in time.

A quick swipe from above followed and Stiles shut his eyes, fully expecting the force to ring his head in his helmet.

Before he realized he'd forgotten to put his helmet back on.

A full second passed before he realized that nothing was happening, and when he opened his eyes again, he saw Kira's dulled blade caught on the rod. Barely an inch from his nose.

Kira's eyes were deeply focused, locked with his, and Stiles's brows were sky high.

Scott clapped once from the bleachers, "Nice block!"

Kira broke their stalemate, stepping back with a more open, more agile stance. Stiles stepped back, too, but was just as formless as before.

Kira's moves came faster this time, a set of four. It was measured, controlled, practiced, but much more serious than before. Stiles fumbled in response, driven back with each consecutive blow, but he managed to keep her from getting a hit in.

Kira only got more aggressive from there. A combo of four became a combo of eight, then twelve. Her control never wavered, but her speed—her speed rose exponentially. Scott could hear her blade cutting through the air, and stood to stand near the edge of the ring in anticipation of what might come next. Stiles had volunteered to help her learn control, but if she lost it—well, Scott would have to step in.

But Stiles kept up with her. As her offense became more direct, more lethal, his defense became more and more solid. Effortless.

In Scott's eyes, it looked like Stiles's skill rivaled Kira's.

"Fight back," Kira demanded, her Japanese as flawless as her golden eyes, "Fight back!"

Scott saw the look on her face, and leaned over the side of the ring. "Kira—Kira, you've got to control this. You've got to stay in control."

Stiles took advantage of the interim to stand properly, mirroring the circle Kira was walking. Neither he nor Kira seemed to be listening to what Scott had to say.

Kira's blade buzzed through the air as she leapt at him, a snarl on her lips, and Stiles dropped so quickly Scott thought he'd fallen, but—

His back hit the ground, but he rolled with the momentum and was back on his feet in the same second. He took his first swing at Kira, and she only barely managed to dodge. She looked ecstatic, enthralled, and the fighting paused again.

Stiles looked much more concentrated, much more collected, but his eyes were dark. "Since you asked so nicely."

His Japanese, like Kira's, was perfect and sharp. He took off the gear on his arms, letting it fall to the floor of the ring.

Scott tried to process what he'd heard, trying to match Stiles's words with anything familiar. He heard the gear hit the floor with painful intensity, and it felt like all the moisture had been taken out of the air. It was one of the most severe chills Scott had felt in his entire life—it was the feeling right before a lightning strike.

Kira's smile was toothy, not her own.

Scott knew something was wrong. It was a sense he'd long since learned not to ignore, and he stepped into the ring to break them up. "Okay, we're done. Kira, calm d—"

Kira approached him quickly, taking him by the front of the shirt, "Stay out of this, wolf-boy."

She threw him with remarkable force, sending him clear out of the ring. His back hit the wood floor with an agonizingly dull thud, and it echoed through the whole of the facility.

Stiles watched it happen, but looked back to Kira with indifference. They locked eyes again, fiery gold against amber.

"I knew you lived," Kira said, their menacing mutual circling beginning again, "I prayed you lived, so that I could have the thrill and honor of ending you myself."

She lunged forward with renewed vigor, shouting with each cut of her blade. None made contact with Stiles, but each swing bit away more of the foam covering his weapon. Their pace rose and rose, metal hitting metal at inhuman speed.

It was that clanging noise that brought Scott back to reality. He sat up slowly, shaking his head out, and got to his feet as quickly as he could.

He was greeted by his best friend trying to bludgeon his girlfriend to death. Kira's eyes were on fire, her voice a roar, and Stiles's movements were curt, bursts of energy and violence. It strained his eyes to follow them.

As far as Scott knew, Stiles was athletically incompetent. What was happening—what he was seeing—should have been impossible.

Even more so when he saw Stiles knock Kira's blade out of her hands with an impressively complex parry, followed by a sidestep that landed him behind her. He took the rod to the back of her knees in a pointed arc, driving her to kneel.

Both of them were breathing hard, but Kira seemed resigned. She held her head high, "You win."

Stiles swung the rod so it rested against her throat, his hands on either end. His voice was so low that only she could hear, "You thought you had a chance?"

"Finish it."

There was tension in the air, the threat that Stiles would pull back and hold, but it wasn't broken. They stayed there, Stiles's words the only thing breaking the stagnant air.

"No, I don't think I will." He said, voice barely above a whisper, "Our kind has to stick together, after all."