Falconer hits you so hard that you fall. "Come on!" she jeers, while you slap the mat and grunt through the pain. "Get up! You can't get up, can you? You're just gonna lie down?"

The gym crowd's laughing at you. It seems really stupid that Fedayeen operators, invaluable human assets, are allowed to punch each other. But maybe if you're dumb enough to get hurt sparring you don't deserve to be Fedayeen.

Falconer doesn't like how long it's taking you to get up and so she kicks you in the ribs. You can see the callus on her bare brown heel before it crushes your stomach. You're angry now, angry that Falconer is here in the sparring ring alongside memories of Lorna Simms, angry that she smells like acrid sealant spray and garlic, angry that you're about to throw up tonight's masala all over her because she stomped your guts.

You grab Falconer's leg and punch her in the groin. She catches the blow on a turned hip but now you're both on the mat, both down, she's laughing, grappling and rolling until you get her in guard and she's strangling you. Her black braced gloves burn your neck.

Looking up at her, haloed by the harsh low lights, you can see the curiosity in her eyes. Falconer's just a front. Whatever's in there is smart and sharp and it throws itself at things to see how they react.

She digs a knee into your thigh. You lose the guard, your legs unwrapping from her waist.

You want to put your hand up like a gun. You want to say: bang. You're dead.

But Falconer does not forgive any form of defeat. Falconer wants you to win. She wants it so bad. She wants to be the bad guy so bad that you have to get better to beat her.

She fucking stinks of garlic. "Mng!" you grunt. "Yuh stink!" And you bite her fucking throat.

She tastes better than she smells. You get a little blood. Afterwards, in the infirmary, she slaps you on the back and grins. "Cut your hair," she says. "I could've grabbed it."