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            "They're not toys." Diego curled his lip, offended. A nerve had been struck. "These," he unsheathed one of the throwing knives from his harness, "are tools. You gotta respect 'em."

          With a flick of the wrist, he sent the knife spinning expertly into the wall calendar, dead center of the little "o" in October. Bullseye.

          "You can't just pick one up and use it," he said. "You have to understand them first. Feel the weight of 'em in your fingers, know how that's gonna change the throw..." And maybe have an unnatural ability to control the trajectory of most moving objects. Diego unsheathed another knife, smaller than the last. He held it out to them. He didn't make a habit of letting anyone touch his knives, much less share them, but he'd make an exception this once if it kept them from accidentally cutting off a finger in the future.

          (And maybe he secretly enjoyed impressing them. Hey, he's kind of a show off. Sue him.)

          "Here. Hold it like this, yeah..." Diego carefully arranged their fingers around the blade. "Feel it? The way it's weighted there? Okay. I want you to try to hit the calendar. Shoulders square to the target." Rounding them, nudging their shoulders, tapping their hip. "Now, lock your wrist, keep that elbow tight... and throw."