You hit. Your claws dig deep, rending his flesh and making sure that he will never be able to back up such bluster again.  Then you send him flying, slamming back into a parked car in a way that most people just don't survive (and which give insurance companies a major headache).<br/><br/>Silence falls. The assembled Killjoys start restlessly stirring as if suddenly aware that maybe, just maybe, this was not a good idea.<br/><br/>He sits up, a silvery glow suffusing and emanating from his body. Then he stands, cracking his neck and working one of the arms that you're pretty sure you just shredded loose, limbering up. His glare fixes on you.<br/><br/><strong>"That. <em>Hurt</em>."</strong>