He couldn't dodge. It never occurred to him to try.

It didn't keep him down for long; Sam was fighting on nothing but reflex and instinct, and those were always the first thing to come back after a hit, before wits. Without wits left to fall back on, his style had gone from the moves and the tactics Rich had been helping him hone to anything that worked.

But it was still enough to give Rich the opening he needed, to get behind Sam and pin his arms.

Sam thrashed wildly, twisting, trying to break free. He tried to turn far enough to nail Rich again with the ragespew, tried to duck his head enough to bite anything he could reach. Brought one foot up behind him to kick Rich hard between the legs. His fighting could hardly be called a style anymore. These weren't the moves of a warrior trying to come out on top; these were the moves of a caged, cornered animal that had no thought beyond getting out. The sounds he was making weren't any better, incoherent snarls that barely sounded like they should be capable of coming from a human being.