The attacks were always the same.  A continual stream of references to a masculine physique, to being a dyke or to being a she-man haunted her each place she went.  Back home she had heard such jibes till rage nearly took her and even in traveling here the whispers continued.  That the cheerleaders and their boyfriends laid such things at her feet was simply another barb to an already painful arrow.  Fists curled beside her body, yet she did not raise them in defense.  Instead she only moved forward to pass her larger frame before that of the other woman.  Shoulders rolled back to emphasize the strength she could bring to bear, knowing few of these girls had ever phased such a physical threat.<br/><br/>When the hand came to invade her space, to interfere with her new ward, a reaction was taken.  People often equated muscles with slow.  More than likely from Hollywood tales and kung fu films.  Yet muscles meant speed more often than not and such was demonstrated when her hand lashed out to intercept.  Fingers curled around the more delicate wrist of the other woman.  Like steel her hand centered on those frail bones, snaking around them to clamp shut.  Without a hint of effort she twisted the offending limb so that the woman’s body had to come along as well.  A crash of bodies was meant to ensure to put the small group off guard and end the conflict with as little damage as possible.<br/><br/>“I….this…we don’t have to do any of this.”<br/>