He laughs a little at that, though he knows for a fact that she can kick ass. Maybe he hasn't seen her punching any giants but he knows what kind of world she comes from, has watched her fight through an amount of emotional trauma that no one should have to go through, watched her deal with everything this city has managed to throw at her. He knows she's strong, but he still doesn't want to picture he with a black eye.

"Oh, you wanna bet?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. She's undoubtedly had to shoot a zombie or two in her time, but so has Nate. He shot his first gun when he was a teenager and he's had a gun in his hand more often than not since then. It's not necessarily something he's proud of, but somewhere along the way it became something of a necessity.

If he stops to think about the amount of blood on his hands for too long he starts to lose his mind, so he doesn't. But he knows he's a good shot. Better than good. "When my face is less broken," he starts, nudging her, "you're on."