Blaise Cameron vs. Makoto Takeda: Time to Say Goodbye...

Mako stumbled away as Blaise finally let go of her hair and gave up some much needed breathing room. It wasn't much, but she was just glad she could do something to stop his momentum from getting out of control. Now, she just had to get her own back.

She backed away to get some space, then charged forward at full speed towards Blaise, her boots stomping along the canvas as closed in. She leaped forward right before they collided and tried to hit him with a spear, looking to hit him right in the stomach.

Blaise can see her. He can see the cogs turning. He can see her charging. He just can't get his body to cooperate fast enough to counter her offensive. His arms lash out to try to catch her, but this manages only to leave his body more open to her boney shoulder. The teen is borne down to the mat with a thunderous impact and pop from the audience. They may hate Mako, but they love brutality, and that last hit, if anything, was brutal.

Blaise writhes under her, anguished and breathless. In his squirming, he manages to grip ahold of her hair, but fails to do anything with it yet. "Nngh..."

The two crashed in a glorious impact, as Mako turned her body into a human missile to bring Blaise down to the floor. She heard the screams. She heard the calls. Finally, the audience was moving her way. Not exactly on her side, but they were calling for blood, either way. They'd get it.

She started to pull up, hoping to get some ground and pound action going on, but she was kept in place by a solid grip on her hair. Her hair. Again with the fucking hair. "Get off!"

She brought her leg up and tried to drop her knee right into the middle of his stomach, hoping that would give him enough incentive to let go.

Little Miss Makoto is giving Blaise more credit than he's due here. He doesn't have the mental wherewithal to realize he's preventing her from doing anything. His clutch is one of pure desperation and tenacity, determined to keep a grip on her and not let go; it's like being bitten by a bulldog. But it isn't enough to maintain control, and he finds that out in short order.

The teen's midsection is solid and sturdy, toned and sleek through rigorous, disciplined training. But her full weight is dropping over it, with a pointy knee as the focal point. His abs cave around her limb, forcing a choked sound out of him and his eyes widening to saucers. Her hair is instantly turned loose, pushing wildly at her thigh to attempt shoving her off of his torso for the sake of breathing again.

Mako's first instinct after Blaise lets go is to just start wailing on him. That would be satisfying, but it wouldn't be enough. She'd been wailing on him since this fight started, more or less. Knuckles alone were not going to take down Blaise Cameron.

No, her second instinct was much better for that. This was an I Quit match, which meant there was only one way to win, which meant there was only way to lose, which meant that she couldn't lose if she did anything else. No DQ.

Mako got shoved off Blaise and kept rolling under the bottom rope. She dropped to the floor and started scrambling towards the announcer's desk, pointing right at the timekeeper. "Move. Now!"

The timekeeper wisely moved her ass off the seat, and Mako took the chair she was sitting on. She folded it up, loving the sound of clashing metal. She'd love the sound of metal on bone even more.

Blaise twists onto his side as soon as Mako's weight releases from his midsection. He doesn't expect the onslaught to end, though. He's certain she's going to come at him with something else, and likely continue hammering at his increasingly-tenderized midsection. Yet it doesn't come. Instead, when he drags himself to all fours, he spots her outside harassing the announcer's table.

With a wincing groan, the anti-dynamo drags himself to his boots. With her distracted, he's got some options. His immediate impulse is to throw a plancha, but at this point, that might do him more harm than her. But he knows he's going to do something. He doesn't have a plan, but he's got to get his body in motion. Somehow, it makes him feel less like a target.

Blaise backs himself up against the ropes, stretching them taut across his frame. Suddenly, they snap him forward, sending him into a sprint with one arm still supporting his middle. And as he nears, Mako appears to have folded up a chair. Reckless and on snap judgment, Blaise drops back to let himself rocket beneath the bottom rope in a baseball slide, hoping to slam into the chair and, in turn, slam the chair into the girl. There's a solid chance this last-second decision could end him prone before an unhurt Makoto!

"Cheater!"

"Put it back!"

"Look out, Blaise!"

Mako groaned as her 'people' jeered her way, a few of them even looking at the ref like they expected her to do anything. Idiots. People always liked to bitch about American wrestling, but at least they would've appreciated a proper chair shot. This wasn't some high-concept, technical battle between two master wrestlers. It was a war, and Mako aimed to win by any means necessary. In particular, she planned to break Blaise's bones until he screamed 'I Quit' so loud that Amy could hear him without her television, and she also planned to break a few more after that. Just for spite.

She started to make her way back in, intent on making the dream a reality, when Blaise's feet crashed into the chair with monster truck force. The chair, because of the way she was holding it, crashed into her face with monster truck force. She was knocked away with monster truck force, and she slammed into the guard rail with monster truck force.

It sucked.

The chair flew from her hands as she flopped to her back. She covered her face and kicked legs as she screamed from between her fingers, and the paying customers loved every second.

The assault leaves Blaise prone in the air, and shortly after, hitting the solid ground like a sack of potatoes. But there was an extremely satisfying CLANG just before that; the sensation of planting his boots against unyielding metal, slamming against a more forgiving, yielding face. Blaise wouldn't normally revel in something like this, but in this particular circumstance, it feels like a guilty pleasure. He has to do everything he can to stay alive. Mako's out to destroy him.

The teen props himself up on his hands to assess the damage. And upon seeing Mako's condition, a wicked smile crosses his face. He lifts to his feet and retrieves the chair, at first expecting there to be a cartoonish Makoface-shaped dent in the seat, and angles it low to the side like a samurai.

And then, he has a thought. His gaze turns from Mako and drifts to the entrance ramp she used. "You want everyone around you to suffer?!," he shouts, suddenly looking back to her. "Let's get you in on some of that!"

Makoto is spared for the time being. Blaise turns his attention onto something else, something he's hoping is near and dear to her heart: her motorcycle. The chair is poised, angled on its side to maximize the striking force. "Hey!," shouts Blaise in address to the roaring audience this time. "Anyone ever play Street Fighter?!"

The initial strike is aimed at the headlight.

"BONUS ROUND!"

The bashes to follow will be aimed all around the body, applying as many dents, scrapes, and warping as he can. Somewhere in the middle, he'll lift a boot to kick it over and resume cavemanning it. This feels like vindication - more vindication than he could've hoped to get out of a straight match. And while winning this would ensure she's no longer terrorizing Tension, this is something he feels she deserves. Her whole game has been about breaking spirits. Let the tables be turned.

Sure enough, Blaise's streak of not being quite as dumb-fucking ignorant as Mako thought continued. He didn't leave her alone on the floor for long; no, he came after her, grabbed the chair, looked more than ready to do unto her as she'd done unto others.

Mako couldn't see the hit coming, but she knew it was. She braced herself, balled her fists, clenched her teeth, got ready to withstand the assault and hopefully get a chance to attack him when an opportunity presented itself. Blake was saying shit, but she was only half paying attention. Wasn't important.

...anytime now.

She opened one of her eyes and looked around, surprised when she didn't get the beating she knew she had coming. But the crowd was cheering, all the same. They were louder than ever. And, just over their cheers, she could hear the sound of glass being broken.

"No..." Mako grabbed the rail for support and stood up, looking just over the apron towards the entrance ramp. Blaise was there, with the chair in hand, next to the motorcycle. Her motorcycle. The motorcycle she poured hours into tuning every week. The motorcycle she'd ordered parts for, time and again. The motorcycle that had taken her all over every little dark alley in Kyoto. Her masterpiece. Her baby. And he was brutalizing it with the chair, just to piss her off.

Well, it worked. "You're dead!" Mako's banshee scream filled the arena as she dashed towards Blaise with full speed and fury, then pounced on him like an enraged tigress. Fists swinging all the way, not even caring which part of him she hit so long as she hit [i]something.

Oh, that shriek. It gets a fresh pop from the audience, because they know, they know they're going to see a level of savagery from Mako as-yet unknown.

And Blaise? Blaise hears it. He's in the middle of raising the chair again, preparing to drive it against the hull and adding a fresh dent. She collides with him like a 5' bullet, bearing him down against the unforgiving, unpadded floor. The chair flies from his grip, left to spin in the air in a comically cartoonish manner completely contrasting the violence and rage that has immediately befallen Blaise.

Blaise has no idea how to defend himself here. It's always been a failing of his, but in this case, anyone would have a hard time following and predicting the blows. The punches rain in with unbridled fury, frustration, and reckless abandon, from any angle his arms happen to not be defending. He weathers the storm as best he can, eyes squeezed shut instinctively, until he's outright hiding his head under his forearms.