Bruce stepped out into the padded field, to the place where Guardian designated he should fight. It was his turn, him and this Press.

This guy was kind of hard to read. Didn't say much, or hadn't said much to Bruce, anyway, and was just a bit odd in general. Bruce decided to play tough, and try to finish this quickly. He pulled his coveralls back over his shoulders, shoving his arms into the sleeves and zipping it up. The top flapping around was just a hand hold in a fight. He stood with his hands up and watched as Press approached. 

Press had been watching the previous spars with interest, and made mental notes on their moves. Eventually, though, his name was called, and apparently he would spar with someone named Bruce. He gave a command to Horus and the falcon took off, out of the training room to the living room, where he landed on a table. He took off his metal glove and placed it in his storage cube, then removed his cube from his belt and place it on the bench where he was sitting. He gave the cube a command to shock anyone that tried to touch it, just so that no one would steal it, and walked onto the padded field. He stood in front on him, smiled, and said, “Let our match be a good one,” raising his hand, as if for a handshake.

Bruce was a bit taken aback. But he took a step forward and grabbed Press’ hand to shake. “Huh, yeah, let’s kick each other’s asses.” He took a few large steps back, to get some distance, and then when Guardian called for the match to start, he charged forward, closing the distance as fast as he could, and presenting his well practiced football tackle. 

Press had taught himself to never make the first move, to get a feeling on his opponent's strengths. When Bruce charged toward him, he raised his arms as if to defend himself, then, as Bruce made skin contact with his hands, proceeded to try to roll onto his back while moving his hands to Bruce's chest. At the same time, he stuck his left leg in front of him on the ground to try to trip Bruce while moving his right leg to Bruce's lower area (perhaps around the stomach region) to push Bruce up and send him flying. This was a trick that involved using an opponent's momentum against him, and Press was once surprised to see how far one flew. A charge, of course, was perfect, since the charger only had a narrow field of vision and carried a lot of momentum that couldn't be easily stopped by himself.

Tripping is illegal in football, and for a second, Bruce forgot that that wasn’t what he was playing. His legs were kicked out from under him, and he was falling forward over top of Press. He grabbed around Press’ neck, meaning to pull him to the ground with him. If it came down to who could take the most full body hits, Bruce was confident he could win this one. He’d bring the both of them to their backs together, and keep pulling them down until the other guy was too battered. That’s how he’d have to fight without his powers to give him an advantage. 

Press felt hands grab around his neck, and only had time for a mere "Uh oh" thought before his body continued with its planned motion of kicking outward, sending Bruce flying, but forcing Press' body to slightly move with it. This resulted in Press' disorientation as he was flipped onto his stomach in an awkward fashion, and the power of his kick reduced somewhat. Bruce would still be undoubtedly flying, but not so much as if Press' maneuver had been successful.

Bruce rolled on his shoulder and scrambled quickly to his feet. His head was spinning from the blow, but he was already moving, in spite of his shaking vision. He had meant to keep his hands on Press, but was now mentally kicking himself for letting go. He needed to close the distance again. But something was wrong. He realized as he moved toward Press that the other teen was moving much too fast. He was already back on his feet and ready to intercept Bruce when Bruce realized that the shock of the blow had disoriented him, and his time was desynchronized, making him slower than everyone else. To Press he must have looked like he was moving in slow motion. 

Press shook his head as if to clear his mind, then rolled onto his side and pushed himself back up, jumping onto his feet. He suspected that Bruce had merely grabbed him due to instinct, but wasn't entirely sure. He got into a defensive position, palms open. He did not make fists, as they were only capable of breaking his own fingers, plus he could never make decent fists.

Bruce stopped for a second, and concentrated on the flow of time. He brought it back up to what seemed like a normal level. 

“Thanks,” he said across the mat to Press, “You’re a good guy for not taking advantage of that.” 

Press was slightly dumbfounded by Bruce's comment, then realized how he seemed to move in slow motion. He mentally kicked himself, but he also knew that sometimes going on the offensive was dangerous as he couldn't tell how the opponent would react. "No worries. After all, this is a spar, not a death match," Press replied. "Now come on, unless all you can attack me with is a dimwitted charge," he said, trying to taunt Bruce into attacking again.

“Pft, like I’m doing that again,” he moved forward without hurry this time, hands up and ready to get in the way of anything Press wanted to throw. But Press was still intent on not making the first move, so Bruce threw a quick jab, and followed it up with a straight punch. 

Press blocked Bruce’s jab with his left hand and dodged his punch, then immediately counterattacked and tried to hit Bruce’s face with his right palm. If that failed, Press would proceed to spin using his momentum and try to land a low left kick.

Bruce’s hands kept Press’ first strike at bay, but he took the kick to his hip with a grunt and a wince. He retaliated by throwing his leg out in a vicious kick to Press’ chest.

Press lowered his leg after the kick had landed and barely saw the kick headed toward him. He reacted by raising his arms in a cross position and partially blocked Bruce’s kick, sending him back a few feet onto his back, knocking the wind out of him. He did his best to recover from the blow, taking a deep breath and trying to get back up. Press immediately had an idea and pretended as if the blow took more out of him than it actually did, grunting as he pushed himself up with one arm, raising himself slowly. If Bruce approached, Press would attack with a sweep kick to Bruce’s feet, then try to pin Bruce down by placing his foot on his chest. Otherwise, he’d get back up and resume his defensive position.

It looked like Press might be down for the count, so Bruce walked towards him to extend a hand and let him up. He was sorely surprised to have a swift kick sweep him well off of his feet and onto the ground. While he was winded, Press jumped into action, and pinned him down with a stomp to the chest, further winding him, and holding him in place with the threat of added weight. Bruce grabbed at the leg and tried to push it off, twisting and shoving but he couldn’t shake him, and every time he tried Press would step his foot down harder. 

He had fallen for a little trick, and he was considerably embarrassed for it. 

Press did his best keeping his foot on Bruce without causing any serious damage, like broken ribs and such. Eventually, though, the struggle ceased, and it seemed like Press had triumphed. "Do you surrender?" Press asked, smiling.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bruce said, hot in the face from the exercise and the embarrassment. “Get off me.”