Skirmish
I'm lying on the ground and he is straddling me. His shiv is pressed against my neck. Both of my hands are caught in a vice grip between his thighs and my hips. His face is mere inches from mine.
In a quietly menacing tone he asks how I plan to get free. Staring into his ethereal eyes with a look of defiance, I refuse to speak. He repeats the question. In response, I buck my hips to throw him off balance—it doesn't work. He laughs in mockery of my futile attempt to escape his grasp.
My breathing is labored and I have grown weary from the struggle. I relax my body letting him think I have submitted. The moment I feel his grip loosen and his body relax, I make my move.
Again I buck my hips, this time succeeding in shifting his balance. As he leans forward, I bring up both knees, kicking him with enough force to flip him over me and onto his back. With cat-like agility and speed, I unsheathe the dagger in my boot holster, spring to my feet, spin around, and land on top of him—trapping him in the same position he held me just moments earlier.
My knife is pressed to his neck. His shiv, still in his vice-like grip, is held immobile by the position of my body straddling his.
With a look of mild curiosity he calmly utters the words, "How interesting".
Then he smiles at me with pride and admiration—my training was now complete.
