Domino vs Amy Poford- Let the Good Times Roll

Amy wobbled a bit when she was let down, but she managed to stay upright by her own power. “Thanks-” but the teen was already stalking purposefully toward the backstage area. Amy paused, then sighed. She’d heard the weight behind the word “talk.” She was fifteen steps from the arena entrance. She started to follow.

Was a confrontation something that she’d have the energy to handle? All she wanted now was to shower, then sleep; maybe just sleep. And since she didn’t know the Drake that had left her behind on this ramp, she had no idea what to expect once she was past those curtains. Would he attack her? She winced. A stiff breeze could've knocked her on her ass right now.

Ten steps. She replayed their match in her head. A good portion of it was static, but she thought she could pinpoint the moment that Domino had broken- it was in the bearhug; a taunt that elicited, not a comeback, but a violent physical response. She wasn’t completely sure, of course, but she bet that Domino would only be too happy to tell her. Upon review, she didn't feel as though she'd done anything wrong; not in that moment, anyway. She was going to make Drake understand that.

Five steps. At the same time, Amy didn't want to lose Drake as a friend. They'd had a lot in common, and they found the same things funny. He was sweet, he was thoughtful, he was from her hometown; plus, he was one of the first people here that she'd made a real, nonphysical connection with. She'd enjoyed their time together, and even enjoyed their fight, despite its one-sidedness. The ending was not the one she had hoped for, but she'd fought hard, and she'd learned a lot.

One more step. Amy took a deep breath, and walked through. “Hey,” she said cautiously.

"Hey," is the response she's met with.

Then there is a period of silence, wherein Drake simply stares at her with an unreadable expression. But thankfully, that doesn't last. "What's your deal? First you're scared I'm going to put you back in the hospital, then you want me to work you over harder? You got me pissed off enough to knock you the Hell out by accident, so what's up? Is that success for you? Help me understand what's going through your head."

Okay, it wasn’t as bad as she was expecting; she could even understand Drake's confusion. But Amy didn't relax much. She settled in gingerly against the opposite wall and chose her words carefully, not meeting Drake's gaze. “I guess we still don’t know each other all that well. I will say anything and everything during a match. Some of those are gonna be truths, some are gonna be lies, but everything's gonna be trash. I appreciate that I won’t be wasting my next week in the hospital, thanks for that, but I don't usually want for an opponent to go easy on me. Not unless I’ve tricked them into backing off." Here, her eyes looked up directly into Drake's, a tiny bit of ice in them. "And I'll never want them to lay off because they feel bad for me.”

Drake nods along, seeming to settle a little as she explains herself. He isn't satisfied, though, and he plans to explain why. But that gets shelved when she adds that last tidbit. She pulls up the fresh memory of her insult, how she told him to screw himself. Irritation enters his voice.

"That's the reality of having someone give a damn about you. It wasn't pity. When it starts to look like I might be going too far and seriously hurt you, I'm gonna pull back. You won't improve by taking brain damage, and I'm not interested in being the cause of ruining your career. I'd rather you get pissy at me," he gestures indicatively - like this, "than have to relearn shapes and colors."

He leans off the wall at this point. "I can kick your ass without going overboard. But you pushed me past that anyway."

Amy's features softened at first. It hadn't been pity, and he was still talking like their relationship was still salvageable- with work, to be sure, but they’d be back to trading verbal jabs in little to no time at all. But then a specific word in his response made his whole argument seem less than respectful.

"'Pissy?' We’re trying to have a talk, and you wanna start calling names, Drake?" When historians looked back at the Poford-Vyril family feud, let no one say that it was the Pofords that decided to escalate.

"It’s actually not your job to decide that I’m biting off more than I can chew, whether you give a damn about the person or not. You beat me until I’m seeing stars, then you drop down for a pin- that’s your job. If I’m ever getting worked over too bad, it’s up to me to tap- that’s my job. I’ve always got that in my back pocket, so you just keep on going until that happens."

"Listen, injuries happen, I get that, especially when I’m tangling with bigger guys like you. But I get in the ring anyway. Wrestling is a dangerous fucking sport, and this is not going to be the last time I’m gonna get crushed. I knew that coming in, and I did it anyway.” She slammed a fist against her wall, and fresh pain shot up her arm, but she kept it off her face- it would only have helped Drake’s argument. “I’m here because I want to be, Drake. If you see me as a human being, learn to respect my goddamn decisions, and never give me less than your 100%.”

When she saw Drake come up off of his wall, she stood up straight, too, though her ascension was a little more achy than his. “Yeah, let’s talk about that. Something I say set you off, Drake?”

Those amethyst eyes narrow as irritation increases, her snap doing nothing to settle the growing tension. His frame tenses, fingers curling in towards his palms. First she tells him he's not champ material just to set him off, and now she's claiming she didn't get pissy? That she isn't pissy now?

"You got mad at me. For not going overboard on you. Over what? Ego? Some people can't be trusted to know when enough is enough. Those people have very short careers that usually end right where I met you. Hell, that's why the body shuts down under too much pressure - the brain hasn't worked out that it needs to swallow its pride. That's why there's that 'throw-in-the-towel' rule."

"How much does this budding career matter to you?," Drake furthers. "Your last match, you refused to tap out and got injured. You pulled off a win, yeah, and that's impressive. But you're being stupid with how you're handling things. From how it looks, you're gonna push every opponent you go up against to destroy you. And some day, you're gonna get your wish. They'll obliterate you, and you won't bounce back."

"Pick and choose your moments. Tonight was not one of'em. Nothing about tonight demanded you risk everything just for the sake of having me slaughter you. Tonight should've been fun." His hands then lift. "But I can't fight you if I can't trust you to use some sense in the ring. I refuse to be the one who ends your career, no matter how much you think that's my job."

Amy grit her teeth. Why was it so important to her that she win this argument? Coming into the AFW, she had all of one goal- to have a good time. She had resolved to never get caught up in the petty squabbles, personal feuds, and overarching drama that she had come to expect from professional wrestling franchises; this resolution was a big part of why she had no interest in competing for the title.

So why was she fighting so hard now? She could have laughed it off, apologized, and gone back to the bantering and teasing and joke telling. Or hell, she could have told Drake to go fuck himself and kicked him out of her life entirely. There were plenty of other people at the AFW, men and women, who wouldn’t think twice about giving it their all with her.

Maybe it was because she had expected her relationship with Drake to grow beyond just the AFW. She'd believed that she'd found a genuine, honest-to-goodness friend. She’d have had no problem being insincere like that with a stranger, but Drake was no stranger. They’d talked, they’d shared things about their lives. She knew his hopes and dreams; he knew her favorite foods. She’d hoped that they could reach an even deeper understanding with each other, and arguing was a good way to get there.

But it seemed as though they’d reached an impasse. Drake wasn’t going to ever unload on her like she wanted. And Amy was never going to admit that giving and getting anything less than 100% could be okay. Maybe they’d already come to an understanding, and maybe what they’d seen of each other was simply… incompatible. Maybe this was as far as they were meant to get. Maybe it was time to give this up.

Amy sighed. She was getting a headache, and her vision had been drifting in and out of various states of blurriness, only made worse by the tension between them. “Yeah, well, I don’t actually need you to trust me, Drake. I’m not interested in fighting some asshole who doesn’t respect me enough to give me his best, either.” Amy leaned back against the wall again, hands behind her, and looked away. “I need to go get my iPod back from the guy. I think you should probably take off first.” The discussion, it seemed, was over.

Ironically, much of what Amy felt mirrored Drake's feelings. But he's adamant and admittedly very raw over her remarks and attitude. There's some hope that things will turn around, that she'll at least get what he's saying; to protect her career so she actually has one in the future. He can't expect her to suddenly be calm and chill when the heat's on, and maybe their budding relationship - whatever it may have been - is trashed now, but as long as she understands what he's saying, he'll at least know she isn't going to get herself crippled or killed.

When she sighs, he has a tiny moment of hope. Sighs are resignation. It could be a good thing. He's hanging onto it. And it's summarily dashed when she speaks.

It's his turn to sigh.

"Yeah...," says Drake, his voice dropped to a sullen level. "...Alright. It's your choice how reckless you wanna be. Just.." He hedges. Could she be so stubborn? He doesn't have it in him to continue the anger. He won the match, but he feels very defeated. "...just don't kill yourself."

He decides to take her advice and be the first to leave. The young model turns to continue down the hall to exit her line of sight, and as he suspects, her life.

Amy waited until the echo of Domino’s footsteps had faded away. Then she pulled herself up off of the wall. She was on autopilot for a while- it took her to the sound technician so that she could collect her iPod, and it pulled the edges of her mouth up into warm smiles for supportive staff members ("Tough break, but you did great out there." "Hey, thanks!" "You’ll get ‘em next time." "You know I will.") before it finally brought her to her dressing room. It was autopilot that opened her backpack to pull out her street clothes, and autopilot’s reflexes that caught her phone before it could fall to the floor.

She had a new text. Autopilot read it. Then Amy looked up at the ceiling for a long moment, the pain in her body growing distant as a fresh stinging started to burn her eyes. She put down her phone.

Then she ripped off her gloves- first from her right arm, then her left, - and threw them violently against the wall. Amy then buried her face in her bare hands. She hated this fucking outfit.

Winner: Domino by Knockout