He's resilient. Bringing my elbow down on his head feels more like coming down on a block of metal than it does flesh and bone, a numbing sensation traveling up the length of my arm, though I've trained myself to move in spite of a loss of feeling. He grabs on before I can pull myself entirely away, the grasp strong, but more importantly, constricting— if I don't move soon, the loss of feeling might spread, forcing me down a slippery slope. Thinking fast, I wonder if he's taken his gaze off my belt.

If he has, then that might be my saving grace.

I have no idea how this might play out, were we to continue. For all that he's unarmored, this chump seems to be taking each hit far better than I am. Taking advantage of his next maneuver, I put up just enough resistance to have my hand swipe by the proper pocket of the belt, slipping a small pellet out and crushing it with my fingers.

Knock-out gas. If I remember correctly, I only brought three with me; this needs to count. Or at least earn one or two seconds' worth of distraction.