[ Fortunately, the woman has sense. She drops her hands, and just like that, the fight is over. He nods to her remark. ]

Strong punches, [ he says in return. ] I actually felt them.

[ It's not the backhanded compliment it might seem—it genuinely takes a lot of concussive force to feel anything short of a blaster round through solid beskar. He's still not sure how the woman had mustered such strength. His gaze lingers on her for a moment longer, considering. Then, he turns away, searching for his helmet.

He finds it some meters away, lying against one of the half-finished edifices that dot their surroundings. He picks it up and checks it for damage. ]

That arm of yours is flesh and bone, as far as I can tell, [ he says, turning the helmet over in his hands. There are no new dents, fortunately, though there's a new scuff in the paint. That's fine. It hardly stands out. He places the helmet back over his head, the black visor rendering him anonymous once more. ] You don't act like someone on combat stimulants, either.

[ He doesn't ask, but the unspoken question hangs in the air all the same: how the hell is she that strong? ]