Most men talk a good game, from the most foolhardy apprentice to the master duelist to an assassin and beyond. Words aren't how you tell the seasoned from the unseasoned. It's in their stance, their moves, and Mizu's seen enough of Vergil's to know he can back them up. All the same, they are fighting words, and her stance shifts ever so slightly. Balanced weight, light on her feet, and ready to spring into action. Should his stance shift, Mizu will be ready for it.

Only to receive the tools and to scowl at the idea beating her like this wouldn't mean much. She's barely injured! In far better shape than when she infiltrated Fowler's castle, much less when she reached the top and faced him for the first time. Mizu stares defiantly at Vergil, convinced well enough of her own value. She has to be able to fight in any condition, not simply at full health. Life doesn't wait. She has half a mind to attack Vergil as he is, though she knows he's not as empty handed as he looks, as most people would be. Not while she's holding the tools. Those are too valuable to risk damaging and to force her to find decent ones herself.

With care, Mizu sets the pack of tools down by the door, out of the way of the main area in the living space. She eyes the bag, quite incapable of fighting back, and harumphs. "You can take whatever handicap you wish," Mizu says, "to make it mean something."

She holds her sword by its sheath. "I take it we try to leave the walls standing." She's smiling.