Adrian Kytes vs. River Styx - No Guts, No Glory

The bell. Finally. Styx had never been more relieved to hear a goddamn bell in her entire life. There was a look of relief on her face, though you'd be hard pressed to notice it with the mask of pain that she was wearing. Every movement seemed to flare up some small ache, and her face was so messed up the simple act of frowning hurt. The tsunami of boos from the audience didn't do wonders for her headache, either, and it only got worse when she turned to one of the announcers and glared. "Chair. Now."

The announcer was a small thing, a little woman who'd probably never even set foot inside a ring. She hesitated, but Styx's eyes carried an unspoken threat with them. It was enough to get her compliance, and she tossed the chair over.

Styx caught it with both hands and brought her gaze down to Adrian. Thinking about all the people she'd fought and beat over the years. Women. Men. Criminals. The roughest, the worst, the demons of a dozen bars. All those fights, and none of them had given her as hard a time as this little filly from Philly. Styx didn't want to admit that, and she wasn't about to say it out loud. But she was a realist, and this was as real as it got.

Styx had to send a message. Had to even things up and show people what happened when they crossed her. She was going to break Adrian Kytes into pieces.

Later.

For now, she was mostly concerned with getting the hell out of this arena and finding a bed. Or a couch. Or something with cushions. She used the chair as a crutch and made her way around the ring, flipping off the sheep one last time before she disappeared into back.