Rampart clears a space on the mat area, signaling for me to come closer. The soft padding beneath us gives a little under our weight, but it's firm enough for our movements.

"First, grappling isn't about brute strength. It's about leverage, positioning, and technique. If you find yourself using too much force, you're probably doing it wrong," he begins, setting the tone.

He moves into a basic stance, his feet shoulder-width apart and his knees slightly bent. "There are three primary components we're going to cover today – takedowns, ground control, and submissions. We'll start with the basic principles, and then move on to specific techniques."

Watching his movements carefully, I try to mirror his stance, adjusting my feet and bending my knees. Rampart nods in approval, then demonstrates the first technique.

"Let's start with a basic takedown. The double leg takedown. This move is used a lot in BJJ as well as in wrestling," he says, motioning me to stand in front of him. "The idea is to change your level, shoot in, wrap both arms around the opponent's legs, and use your momentum to take them down."

I gulp, looking at the significant size difference between us. "You want me to try and take you down?"

He chuckles, "Don't worry, I'll be going easy on you. The point isn't to succeed in taking me down but to get the technique right. And remember, this move isn't about strength, but about timing, speed, and leverage."

Rampart then crouches slightly, demonstrating the change in level. "You want to be low, so you can get beneath their center of gravity. Shoot in with your leading leg," he says, lunging forward with one foot while reaching out with both arms, as if trying to grab the back of my knees.

I watch a few times, trying to memorize the movements. A bit hesitant, considering Rampart's considerable size advantage, I give it a try. My momentum isn't enough, and Rampart stands firm, like a mountain. My arms flail, and I practically fall into Rampart rather than shooting in with precision. Plus, I'm pretty sure he isn't using his powers.

"No, no," Rampart observes, "you're diving. You need to shoot forward, not downward. Again."

It takes several tries, with Rampart patiently adjusting my posture, teaching me how to pivot my foot for maximum propulsion, and where to place my hands on his legs. Eventually, I manage a passable attempt, getting low and wrapping my arms around his legs. Rampart, obviously allowing it, topples backward, a broad grin on his face.

"Not bad for a first try," he comments, getting up. "But takedowns are just the beginning. Once on the ground, the real fight begins." Rampart lays down on the mat, patting the space above him. "Come on, get in position," he says, and I hesitantly lower myself, settling on top of him.

"This feels extremely weird," I mumble, trying to keep it too quiet to be heard.

"Modesty and combat aren't in the same category," he begins, his voice muffled slightly from below. "The principle here is simple. When on the ground, always aim for a dominant position. Control your opponent, keep them beneath you, and always be one step ahead."

As he talks, he shifts, guiding my body with his hands. "This," he explains, his voice patient, "is the guard." My thighs are flanked against his sides, my knees pressed into the floor. My hands reach forward, fingers lightly clasping onto the stone bricks of his biceps. From this position, I can feel his every move. "Here, you can control my arms, prevent me from striking or grabbing you. It's a balanced position, both defensive and offensive."

Then, he shifts us again. "Now, side control." He turns slightly, guiding me to lay perpendicular across his chest. My arm wraps around his head, pulling it in snugly, while my opposite hand pins down his closest arm. I feel strangely dominant despite my size, with Rampart effectively trapped beneath me. My pulse quickens. I don't like it. "From here," he grunts, "you can limit my movements, making it harder for me to escape or counter. It's a strong position if you maintain control."

Finally, he directs me again, tugging my legs around like a marionette. I find myself sitting on his chest, looking down at his face, my knees driving into the mat next to his shoulders. "This," Rampart states, slightly winded, "is one of the most dominant positions in grappling, the full mount. From here, you have a range of attacks, and I have limited defenses. Keep your weight centered, and always be aware of their hips. They'll try to buck you off."

"For someone of your size," he explains, "maintaining these positions will be tough against larger opponents. But BJJ is great for smaller fighters because it's designed to utilize leverage over strength."

"Alright, switch," Rampart says, pushing himself to sit up and motioning for me to lie on the mat.

I hesitantly lie down, immediately self-conscious of the position. Rampart takes a knee beside me, waiting for a moment as if giving me a chance to change my mind.

"Now, I'm going to get into your guard," he explains, looking into my eyes as he says it, his tone matter-of-fact. It's clear he's done this a thousand times, and to him, it's just another day at the office.

As he positions himself, his legs bracketing my body, I try to remind myself to focus on the technique, not the awkwardness. I fold my legs, placing my heels near his hips, my knees brushing his sides. My heartbeat quickens, not from exertion but from sheer discomfort.

"Now, when you're the one trapped in the guard, your main objective is to break free and improve your position. To do that, you'll need to control my legs and posture. Hands on my biceps," Rampart instructs.

Doing as he says, I gingerly place my hands on his arms, trying to establish some semblance of control. The difference in our sizes makes the task daunting, and I can't help but think of a kitten trying to hold back a lion.

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"You'll want to push my knee down with one hand and slide your leg out, posturing up as you go. But always be wary of my legs, they're my tools to control and submit you," he explains. Taking a deep breath, I give it a try. My first attempt is clumsy, my movements too slow and hesitant, allowing him to easily pull me back down. I groan in frustration.

"Remember," Rampart says, his voice calm and reassuring, "it's not about strength. Use leverage. Use your brain. Think about what you're trying to achieve and what I'm trying to prevent."

I nod, taking another moment to mentally prepare. Then I try again, pushing on his knee and quickly sliding my leg out, posturing up as he'd shown me. But with Rampart's size and experience, he's easily able to sweep me back into position.

He pauses, seeing my frustration. "Try it again," he offers gently - less a command, more an instruction. Here's your mulligan. Do-over.

Lowering my stance slightly, I begin the attempt to pass his guard. It's a game of leverage and balance; I push on Rampart's knee and quickly try to slide my leg out, just as he showed me. But he's quick too, and with a subtle shift of his weight, he sweeps me back into his guard, making me feel like I'm caught in some sort of trap.

"Gotcha," he says softly, with a hint of amusement in his eyes, but not mocking.

My cheeks flush, a mix of exertion and embarrassment. "I'm so bad at this," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

Rampart releases his hold and sits up, his gaze serious but kind. "It's going to be hard, especially at first. Everyone struggles in the beginning – that's part of the process. Every single move you make, every failed attempt, is a lesson. And I promise you, the day will come when you'll be able to pass my guard with ease."

His words are reassuring, and I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is just the beginning.

"Alright," I say, determination renewed. "Let's go again."

We go back and forth for what feels like hours, transitioning from guards to side control to full mount. Each time I think I have him, Rampart manages to slip out or reverse our positions. Yet, with every repetition, I start to understand the mechanics a little better. The movements become less foreign, though they remain challenging.

Once we've thoroughly exhausted the positional drills, Rampart sits up. "Now, let's switch gears. As for submissions," he starts, pausing briefly to make sure I'm following, "these are techniques designed to end the fight. In a sportive setting, it makes your opponent tap out – signaling they admit defeat. But in the real world, it's to get someone to surrender, incapacitate them, or even render them unconscious."

He eases himself back onto the mat, looking up at me with an expectant gaze. "Come, position yourself above. I'm going to teach you how to put someone in an armbar."

Gingerly, I follow his instruction, trying to recall all the previous lessons on positioning. There's a noticeable difference in our sizes and experience. Everything feels foreign, and his large frame under me feels like a coiled spring – powerful and dormant.

He breaks down the steps for the armbar, making sure I understand the importance of each move. "Your grip on my wrist," he instructs, showing me how to hold firmly without squeezing, "is essential. Now, focus on your legs and hips. The power to control comes from there."

Following his guidance, I maneuver my legs around his arm, pinning it between them. He gives a nod of approval, "Good. Remember, the leverage comes from your hips. You're not trying to wrench my arm, you're controlling it."

I can feel the delicacy of the armbar, how it manipulates the elbow. There's a brief moment of panic – the realization that in a real situation, the power to harm lies in my hands. I falter, holding back.

He senses my hesitation. "It's alright," he murmurs politely. "I'll let you know if it's too much. The key here is control, not pain. In a, you know, in a situation, you decide the intensity."

Taking a steadying breath, I adjust, applying just enough pressure. My technique isn't perfect, and he easily moves out of it. But instead of a reprimand, he smiles. "Again, technique over strength. You'll find the right balance with practice."

His encouragement, free from any hint of condescension, fuels me. We move through different submissions, each one an exercise of control and release.

The rhythm of the session is meditative, almost hypnotic. Each shift of my body, every slight repositioning of my grip, becomes a small dance in itself. Rampart, for all his size and power, shows an almost monk-like patience, guiding me through the motions, allowing me to understand the mechanics, the whys and the hows of every movement. We move from one technique to another, the pace set not by the clock but by my progress, my understanding.

Every pin, every twist, and every maneuver I execute becomes a lesson in precision and control. While I anticipated the exhaustion that would come with the physicality, I hadn't quite accounted for the sheer mental exhaustion. With every new technique, my brain works double-time, processing the information, trying to just internalize it into muscle memory, usually failing.

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By the end of the session, the weight of the hours (two of them almost exactly) bears down on me. My entire being is a cocktail of sweat, exertion, and a mind teetering on the edge of overload. Peeling my soaked shirt away from my body so I can put some room for air in it, I let out a long, weary breath. It's only then that I notice the group of onlookers. Eyes from the Young Defenders, all present with the exception of Puppeteer, observe us. The realization that they've witnessed every falter, every mistake, sends a rush of heat up my neck.

From the crowd of five, Gale steps forward, her powers subtly stirring the air around her. A bottle of water floats my way, and I catch it with a grateful nod. "You've got some impressive moves, Bloodhound," she says, her eyes sparkling with genuine admiration. "It was really entertaining to watch."

My heart stutters. Gale, the person I've tried so hard not to make a fool of myself in front of, had a front-row seat to my training debacle. The thought of her watching me be repeatedly pinned, grappled, and generally manhandled by someone as massive as Rampart makes my stomach churn with a mixture of embarrassment and dread. The weight of her gaze and the hint of a smile playing on her lips make it difficult for me to find my voice. All I can manage is a sheepish, "Thanks."

Gale smiles and twists her finger around, summoning a gentle whirlwind around me that threatens to take my breath away. Not from a, like, smothering or suffocating point of view, just that it's really comfy to have your own personal air conditioning. "Don't mention it."

I sit down on the mat, while Rampart joins the rest of the group, Gale splitting from them. "I didn't know you… arched."

"It's good exercise for my arms and works well with my powers. Throwing things like darts or ball bearings are usually too massive to easily alter the trajectory of. Arrows are just right," Gale says, sitting down next to me. She looks me up and down. "You're sweaty," she observes, and I consider suicide for the first time in my life as the more bearable alternative to whatever this emotion is.

"Thanks, I try," I blurt out before I can think about it. I am going to do a backflip and land on my neck so that I can die instantly.

Gale giggles. I retract the idea of doing a backflip. "Want to go flying after you're all cooled down? You know, recreationally."

"Like, on patrol?" I ask, looking anywhere but at her. I watch Rampart high five Crossroads, and then go into a complicated series of hand motions, like a secret handshake. It's easier than looking at Gale.

"Nope! Just flying. For fun. We can get Rita's, you know, before they close down for the season," Gale offers, smiling with her lips closed.

My heart thumps quietly but firmly. "Oh, uh. Sure," I say, not bothering to tell her that I had Rita's yesterday. "But I don't have any money or anything like that."

I flop backwards against the mat, splayed out, letting the wind overtake me. Gale laughs. "Don't worry about it. My treat."

I successfully resist the urge to begin yelling.