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Descriptions of violence and injury
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"Thanks for bringing me all the way back here," whispered Alicia to the crewmember as she sidled up near the curtain. The crewmember gave a hurried nod back and vanished among the bustle of backstage staff. In front of her, returning through the curtain, a baker's dozen Japanese cheerleaders, male and female, surrounded the human blur herself: Connie Rocket. Bruised and triumphant, the track star strode tall as she approached, towering over Alicia. As she passed, the living legend turned to Alicia to say something, "Hey. Tonight's your fifth match, isn't it? Big night."
"Hunhhh?" replied Alicia She talked to me!
"I've been following you since you got here. I know you'll do great. You were awesome against McKill. For what it's worth, I'll be cheering for you." She pointed to the crowd of boosters behind her. "We all will be!" As if waiting for their cue, the cheer squad assembled themselves into a wall of smiles, pumping fists, and quiet shouts of "ganbare" and "good luck!" with the same enthusiasm as their support for the Rocket just moments before. They floored the rookie with the outpouring of encouragement. Alicia had been wrong earlier; this put the early dismissal from work to shame.
Alicia forced words through the stunned silence. "You too! I mean thank you!" A smile spread across her face. She forgot how it felt to have the confidence of actually knowing the name of someone in the building who was rooting for her.
The victorious Connie Rocket slapped the newcomer on the arm. Not a conciliatory slap this time, but one of encouragement--this one didn't sting. "I'd tell you not to be nervous," the Rocket smiled through a pained grimace as she clutched her left shoulder. "But I was. Leave it all out there, and you won't have any regrets." With that, Connie gave the rookie a polite little wave and headed off with her entourage in the other direction. Alicia took her place behind the curtain. From where she stood, the rookie had a mostly clear view of the live feed on a nearby monitor and watched as the Two-Woman Army made their usual descent from the rafters onto the stage. They disconnected their harnesses from the hanging cables, and Alicia realized she now stood less than 10 feet behind her opponents on the other side of the curtain. This would be the perfect opportunity. The thought made her pulse quicken as she fidgeted with the peeling tape on the shaft of the hockey stick. She could have patience. It wouldn't hurt to have backup, either.
Both soldiers in the Two-Woman Army stood at attention in front of the curtain, identically dressed in camo pants, combat boots, aviator sunglasses, and a black workout crop top. On their backs, they wore what looked like army-issue rucksacks; Alicia could see the handle of a kendo stick protruding from the top of Jaime's pack. Both members had matching "2WA" tattoos with solid black lettering in front of a pair of crossed machine guns on their upper-right bicep. Bridget Slaughter stood to the right of her partner. Her long, brown hair had been tied in a ponytail that hung down to her mid-back. Standing comfortably at six-foot-even, the Reinforcements' self-described "demolitions specialist" towered over her tag partner and complimented the impressive height with a chiseled physique. Like mirror images, Bridget and her tag partner both extended one arm out to their sides.
On the left stood "One Shot" Jaime Carlyle, left arm outstretched. She kept her blonde hair short - just below the ear. Both arms were almost completely covered from shoulder to knuckle in tattoos. Alicia figured the Reinforcements' elusive Sharpshooter couldn't have stood higher than five-three and probably weighed a buck-twenty at most. Despite the gap in size and strength, the army vet made the most of her small stature. With explosive aerial offense and a flying elbow she called "Death From Afar" that could take the head off the Statue of Liberty, Alicia reckoned Jaime represented the greater threat. Two black duffel bags descended into frame from the rafters and into the tag team's waiting hands. Through the curtain, she could hear the team's introduction.
The golden-throated Guy Brody stood with a microphone center-ring in his usual jet-black tuxedo to announce the Two-Woman Army to the ring. "The
following no-disqualification tag team street fight is scheduled for
one fall-"
"One fall!" the crowd echoed back.
Guy continued in his rich baritone, "-With no time limit. There are no count-outs, no rope breaks, and anything goes. Pinfalls and submissions can only take place inside the ring."
The Two-Woman Army disconnected the heavy-looking bags from their harnesses and took off at a lock-step P.T. run down the ramp toward the ring. At the bottom, they tossed the two duffels up and over the top rope, removed their rucksacks and threw them into the ring under the bottom rope, then slid into the ring after them. Alicia used to love this part of their ring entrance, having herself been a 2WA fan from the second QoW show she attended right up until the moment she met them.
"Introducing first, at a combined weight of 282 pounds, the team of "One Shot" Jaime Carlyle and Bridget Slaughter," Guy continued on the mic. "They are two-thirds of The Reinforcements. They are the special forces. They are the insurgency. They are the TWO!! WOMAN!! AAARRRRRRMMYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!"
Jaime and Bridget knelt by their respective airdropped duffel bags, unzipped them, and reached inside. Bridget got to hers first, extracting a nearly four-foot-long green metal tube, circular base plate, and matching set of extendable legs, all painted army green. With practiced, effortless precision, the taller Army member set to work assembling the apparatus. A few feet away, Jaime withdrew what looked like an oversized sniper rifle, complete with attached bipod and scope, before overturning the duffel bag and spilling a half-dozen tightly rolled black T-shirts onto the canvas. Bridget had finished assembling the mortar launcher, dropped a camouflage-pattern rolled-up shirt into the barrel, and performatively covered her ears as the garment soared at least a hundred feet in the air at a high arc, coming down only a few rows deep into the crowd. She checked her trajectory, adjusted the sight, and launched another article of machine-washable ordinance.
Jaime had taken up a prone position covering her tag team partner's six. Bipod extended, peering through the scope, the cotton/poly sniper visibly exhaled as she squeezed the trigger, firing a subsonic cloth tube round squarely into the chest of an elementary schooler, bowling the overjoyed, wheezing youngster over while the cameras rolled. Without taking her eye off the scope, the Sharpshooter reached up and opened the bolt action on the rifle and chambered another shirt from the pile. The sniper racked the bolt and took her shot, doming the child's concerned sibling with a matching souvenir.
The rookie turned away from the monitor broadcasting her opponents committing wardrobe crimes against children. Behind the staging area desk sat the co-owner of Queens of War and full owner of the most violently turquoise suit Alicia had ever seen, and she had seen a bunch. His attention appeared to be divided between her and the monitor built into the backstage desk. "Last chance to impress," said Allen, with a smile. The young woman suddenly felt ill. Her hopefully future boss seemed to realize how it came out. "I meant that to be nice, by the way." She forced a smile and nodded, but all the co-owner's attention turned to the monitor and remained there for several seconds before his gaze lifted. "You're on."
Less than a foot from the curtain, the rookie gasped and her eyes went wide. She slapped and then hit herself in the forehead with her good hand. "My equipment bag!" In her haste out the door, she had left it next to her locker. Wait. Did I lock my locker? "Oh no. No no no no no," whispered Alicia to herself. Please stay out of my stuff.
Through the curtain, stick in hand, lifted high. Four-thousand pairs of eyeballs poured their heat upon her, but this time, her heart didn't waver. She slammed the butt of the hockey stick down on stage floor as sections of the assembled crowd took the cue to join in.
Bang.
Once again, and again, and again, she slammed the stick against the stage floor, increasing the rhythm as more of the crowd started warming up and stomped along--not shaking the building, but the rookie swore she felt it tremble. She hastened the tempo until the rhythmic claps had turned indistinguishable from applause, then wheeled the stick overhead, and slammed the blade down, bringing the crowd to a hush. The former hockey player readied herself, pulled the stick back, and unloaded a slapshot before making her way to the top of the ramp, signaling with her injured right hand to the crowd to keep making noise for Iron Maiden's in-ring return after nine months away.
"Their opponents: first, wrestling out of Longstat, Minnesota and weighing in at 193 pounds, she is ALICIA 'THE GOON' WIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNTHROOOOOOOOP!!"
The rookie checked her footing to ensure she was clear of whatever "gimmick" was about to emerge from the stage. She flashed a smug grin and shot a wink at the Two-Woman Army pacing around the ring, rucksacks now piled in their corner. Jaime tightened her grip around the so-called kendo stick. In reality, the weapon amounted to a half-dozen or so bamboo poles bundled together and taped at the ends in a design that more closely resembled a "Singapore cane"--the type employed in corporal punishment--and the compact warrior looked desperate to use it. Bridget seemed more laid back–at least as laid back as anyone with several feet of chain wrapped around both fists could look. About a yard ofslack hung between the commando's two hands like a steel garrote. Alicia remembered cheering Bridget on as she choked a submission out of Terra Frost with that chain just a couple months ago. Was that irony? Maybe, thought Alicia.
The
lights dimmed, and a haunting pipe organ dirge blasted over the
speakers, filling in the darkness. An otherworldly red glow bathed center-stage. Any
second now, her partner would emerge. At any moment, the famous Iron Maiden would arrive. Indeed, without any further ado, the young wrestler's partner would appear and they would march to the ring together. Whenever she wanted to.
Anytime now.
Impatience turned to concern. Alicia turned to check on her opponents in the ring and watched the smile slowly spread across their lips. The lights unceremoniously came back up. The red glow of the stage turned quite worldly. A murmur rose among the crowd as someone in production faded out the entrance music. Above the curtain, the WarMachine video board cut from the live feed in-ring to a camera backstage capturing paramedics and backstage personnel huddled around someone on the ground. The rookie could make out a pair of legs and black boots, motionless on the ground at the center of the urgent crowd. A dented, bloodstained folding chair on the floor at the edge of the shot implied what had just transpired. Alicia looked back once again at the smirking Two-Woman Army. Up on the Machine, the medical staff tried to keep the camera operator back, but whoever was holding the camera pushed through the glut of humanity to capture the aftermath. There lay Sabrina on her back, forehead busted open from ear to ear, her hair and face awash in claret.
Then Alicia saw the arm. Her heart plummeted, and she didn't know if there would be a bottom. Half of the grappler's right forearm arm pointed one direction while the other half pointed another, indicating what looked like a clean break between the veteran's right elbow and wrist. She heard Allen's voice in the background of the scene shouting something that sounded like "turn that darn thing off," but worse. Seconds later, the feed cut out, leaving the three wrestlers once again the focus among a sea of concerned fans. Alicia's blood flash-boiled as she turned and hefted the wooden hockey stick in both hands as she stormed the ring. The rookie didn't care how dearly it would cost her. Even if it meant leaving in an ambulance, the furious wrestler intended to hurt her two opponents as badly as she possibly could. And when Alicia got out of the hospital, Jill McKill could have her bed. The crowd cheered the outnumbered goon's bravery as she grit her teeth and charged down the ramp, stick clutched tight in her hands. Alicia slid into the ring under the bottom ropes. She was going to make them respect her.
Ding!
The former hockey player sprang to her knees and threw her stick up just in time to block an incoming kendo stick shot aimed between her eyes. In came Bridget to throw a loaded haymaker, only to stop in her tracks and double over from the butt end of a hockey stick colliding with her solar plexus. The former hockey player awarded herself two minutes for slashing as she drove the wooden blade into Jaime's shin, eliciting a miserable yelp from the Reinforcements' sniper and a groan of sympathy from the crowd. Kendo stick still tight in one hand, Jaime dropped to the canvas, protecting the wounded area with her other arm, before she tried to roll to safety. "Where do you think you're going?" hissed Alicia as she raised the weapon above her head and swung again, striking the fleeing Army member flush in her right shoulder before she could roll out of range, causing her once again to cry out.
The goon rose to her feet, saw Bridget Slaughter starting to get her breath back, and fired a back elbow into Bridget's mouth before stalking after the retreating Army member. Alicia raised the stick again and swung it full-strength into Jaime's exposed back. The smaller woman's strength failed her. For a moment, Alicia had made the nimble high-flyer stay put. The former hockey player lifted the weapon again, looking to end the smaller woman's involvement in the match early with one savage blow. With one of them down, maybe she could-
The
sensation of cold metal wrapped around the rookie's throat
as Bridget snared the distracted wrestler from behind and tightened her grip on the chain. Alicia's knees hit the canvas as the
Reinforcements' demolitions specialist kicked the back of the goon's kneecaps and continued to tighten the chain around her neck.
Alicia held the hockey stick in front of her with both hands and
tried to snap the heel of the stick behind her into Bridget's forehead. The blow landed clean, but with that injured hand, there wasn't enough power behind it to dislodge Slaughter's grip. Desperation took over as
the suffocating wrestler dropped her weapon and reached up to tug at the
restraint as she fought for enough give to steal a breath. The crack
of a kendo stick filled the arena as Jaime took a free shot with the weapon across the middle of the suffocating wrestler's ribs. The crowd cheered and groaned in
equal measure, before falling unanimously silent when a famous voice and catchphrase played over the speakers. "Don't get
jealous," chirped Party Girl. "Get like me!" It was the opening sting to the electronic club track the brawling fashion icon used for an entrance theme.
All eyes turned to the curtain as the scourge of a thousand nightclubs flew down the ramp towards the ring. Alicia could see her presumed rescuer fitting a set of hot pink brass knuckles around her right hand as she barreled toward the melee. The music cut off, and into the ring slid the pink and yellow dervish. In a flash of neon, she popped to her feet and fired a pink and white canvas high-top sneaker directly into Bridget's face that turned her body rigid and her limbs to jelly. Another terrible crack echoed in the air as the smaller member of the Army rushed Party Girl from behind and swatted the wrestler in designer clothes across the small of her back with the kendo stick. Party Girl winced in pain before shooting a mule kick behind her, doubling the smaller fighter over. The pugilist-socialite grabbed Jaime around the neck with both hands and dropped to the canvas in a seated position, driving the smaller woman's chin into Party Girl's shoulder with a quick Stunner. Jaime lost her grip on the kendo stick and flopped to the canvas clutching her head and neck before rolling out of the ring and onto the thinly padded floor for a breather.
Amidst the fluorescent chaos, Alicia stood up from her knees and took a moment to assess the new situation. A few feet away, Bridget had pushed herself back to all-fours. America's favorite brat backed up for a running start, leapt into the air, and brought the sole of her right sneaker down on the back of the Two-Woman Army soldier's head, using it to drive Bridget face-first to the mat with a running Curb Stomp she dubbed "Last Call." Party Girl glanced back over her shoulder at the bewildered rookie, then pointed excitedly at Jaime Carlyle slowly rising to her feet outside of the ring. The celebrity gestured for her impromptu partner to follow. "Come on! Let's have some fun!" Alicia stood in wide-eyed silence, unsure of what just happened. Party Girl put her fists to her hips cocked her head. "Do you want my help or not?"
The goon bent down, picked up her stick, and matched her rescuer's infectious smile and enthusiasm when she cheerfully replied, "Heck yes, I do!"
Party Girl flashed a peace sign. "Tight." The fashion icon took off at a sprint and launched herself through the top and middle ropes with a Suicide Dive onto Jaime Carlyle that sent both women to the floor. Alicia rolled out under the bottom ropes to join her even newer tag partner. It was nice meeting someone with shared interests.
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