Two Enter...

Friction, like any show, ran on a tight schedule. Certain things had to happen at certain times. Since there was no way to tell how long a match would go, they had to be extra strict with what they put on the air and how long people were allowed to speak. Sponsors had to be appeased, after all.

Liberty Vella didn’t care.

They didn’t play her music as she came from the back with a microphone in hand, stomping down to the ring and swatting away some of the ring crew as they followed behind her.

Liberty Vella didn’t much care about that, either.

She only cared about one thing, really, and she was coming into the ring to explain exactly what that was. She gave the microphone a good tap, making sure it was on, then went right on.

”Friction! TOKYO!” Liberty raised her gloved fist into the air as she stomped around the ring. It didn’t make the crowd any less confused, but at least they rallied behind her a bit. ”This one’s gonna be short and sweet, so listen up, and then you can get back to watching your live porn.”

That last bit got more than a few boos. Liberty pressed on.

”Couple of weeks ago, I came down to this ring and had a match. A crazy, crazy war of a match with two other wrestlers. Bones were broken. Tables were crashed. Blood was spilled.” She proudly pointed to her forehead, where a scar could still be clearly seen. ”It was wholesome fun for the whole family, and even though I didn’t come out on top, you know what? I’m not bitter at Alicia Wells. She took the opportunity, won the match, good on her. She won, we lost, that’s a fact.”

There was a brief round of applause, suddenly broken when Liberty’s fist shot up in the air. ”But here’s another fact: I should’ve won that match. I could’ve won that match. I would’ve won that match, if a certain goth chick hadn’t gotten in my way. I’m the best hardcore wrestler in the AFW, and I’m willing to prove that by beating down the second best.”

Liberty pointed to the back and brought the microphone close to her lips. ”Abattoir! Come on out! Bring your skinny butt out here!”

Twenty long seconds went by - just enough time for the crowd to start wondering if the object of Liberty's ire was even in the building, much less interested in answering the challenge - and then half a camera crew (really just a handheld and a boom mic) managed to get back to the gorilla position and it became evident that all hell was about to break loose.

"Listen," a producer was saying frantically, panting for breath as if backpedaling all the way, "you can't go out there."

"Move."

"I'm serious.  You can't; we've got a match scheduled in a minute thirty--"

There was a crash of glass and a cloud of mercury vapor, and then Abattoir - with half of a newly-shattered lighttube in one hand - stormed out onto the ramp, entirely unhindered by production staff.  Scarlet eyes locked right onto Liberty and she was all the way to the ring in a matter of seconds with blood in her gaze and obvious purpose in her stride.  But when the nak muay reached the ringside area and took a moment to survey the situation, she found herself in an unfamiliar scenario.  Liberty still had the mic.  She wasn't here to fight, at least not yet, and the crowd seemed to have some kind of expectation that Abattoir would respond with something other than immediate, appalling violence.  

After a moment's thought, she turned to a warily-approaching tech and exchanged the broken tube for a microphone of her own.  The crowd's interest rose to a new peak - they'd never heard Abattoir speak before, except for the occasional exclamation picked up by the hardcam, and between that and the mask there was perhaps a certain mystery to her that they were quite interested in seeing dispelled.

"Mmm.  I'll give you 'could've'."  The arena was silent, save for her vaguely smoky rasp - the remnants of an old throat wound, greatly amplified by the mask's reverb.  Abattoir climbed up onto the steps and gradually ascended the apron, keeping her gaze locked on her enemy.  "'Should've' and 'would've', though - got a pretty strong claim I could press on those."

There was a persistent jangling as she stepped through the ropes and circled around to the other side of the ring; this week's coat was festooned with chains, some of which had distinctly barb-like hooks on the end.  It was really more like an elaborate restraint than an article of clothing.

"But you've got me now."

Abattoir came to a halt at last.  Her head listed slightly to one side, like an owl about to swoop.

"Speak your piece."

As she stood there in the ring, all alone and waiting, it briefly occurred to Liberty that this might not be the best idea. Sure, it wasn't all that odd for wrestlers to be hanging around backstage, even for a show where they weren't scheduled to fight, but there were no guarantees. Abattoir didn't strike her as a social maven. She could just wind up standing there like an idiot.

Fortunately, Abattoir seemed to be within screaming distance, because she did, in fact, come out not long after. She also did something Liberty didn’t expect: talking.

Liberty knew the little demoness could speak, of course - she’d remembered their lovely little exchange of words from the match. And given how these promos typically went down, it was sort of expected. But hearing it over a microphone was new. The two of them were having some semblance of a real conversation.

Granted, she didn’t say all that much, but she got her points across.

Liberty folded her arms and followed Abattoir around the ring, turning around to keep her in sight. When she finally stopped, the former champion stepped forward and got within striking distance, sizing her up. She was the bigger woman, by a small margin, but how much that mattered was up for debate. Didn’t keep Abattoir from rocking her clock quite a few times before.

”Here’s the thing - you’re good. Can tell you’re probably one of the best hardcore wrestlers in this place.” Out of, maybe, ten real hardcore wrestlers. Sort of an unspoken caveat, but Liberty didn’t want to bring it up.

”But me?” Liberty pointed at her chest. ”I’m the best. I was the champion and no one ever beat me for my belt.” True fact, and it got her a small round of applause. ”And I want to show you and everybody why that title should be around my waist and why I should’ve had that match in the bag.”

Liberty leaned forward, daring to press her forehead against Abattoir’s, looking deep into those blazing red eyes. ”You. Me. Hell in a Cell.”

Abattoir was faced with the uncomfortable realization that, having come out here to play Liberty's game, she was doing so without a full deck.

Had she just hit the ring and started swinging, they would've engaged on her terms and, if nothing else, she would've certainly made a memorable statement.  But instead she'd come out and joined the conversation, and now, contemplating Liberty's side of the issue, it was clear that the facts did not support the nak muay here.  Liberty was a former hardcore champion, and she probably could've won that match.  There wasn't anything she could say that would disprove either of those things.

Fortunately, she'd always been one to let her actions speak for her.

"You might be right."  Her gaze followed Liberty, unflinching, as the other girl meandered up close - right into the pocket, perfect striking distance.  Daring her, by the looks of it.  Abattoir refrained from taking the bait, at least for the moment.  "Only one way to find out."

They were very close now - very close indeed, eyes centimeters apart, foreheads touching.  Hell in a Cell, huh?  She'd never done one of those before.  Could be fun.  Liberty was clearly game; if they went full-bore on the whole thing, there would almost certainly be an unfathomable amount of violence, which was basically Abattoir's sole passion in life.  The cell meant interference was a lot less likely, too.  They'd get a pretty definitive answer to the question at hand.

She raised the microphone to her side of her mouth, rather than separate the two of them with it.  "I'm in."  There was an understandable cheer from the fans, but apparently the nak muay wasn't done yet, because she didn't bother waiting for the noise to die down before adding a corollary.

"Be sure this is what you want," she rasped, eyes locked with Liberty's over the mask.  "I was sent back to judge the worthy.  If you're not worthy, you're ashes."

The microphone lowered again like a headsman's axe.

The moment was tense. Heated. Liberty and Abattoir were two of the most violent, destructive wrestlers in the AFW, with both of them proving over and over to have an unmatched capacity for wanton violence and reckless destruction. On top of that, Hell in a Cell matches were rarities in the company. There’d been only a small handful of them in their storied history, and an even smaller handful of them had been what most aficionados would call ‘good’. Certainly none as brutal or bloody as this one promised to be.

Liberty was into it. Her lips were curled in a devilish smile after Abattoir answered the challenge, like she knew she would. Things were looking good...and then the Abattoir just had to keep on speaking.

”What? The fuck're you-” Liberty cocked her head to the side, attempting to make heads or tails of Abattoir’s words and coming up short all the way. Brought back? Burning her to ashes?

”You,” She tapped Abattoir’s chest. ”Are all kinds of weird. In one week, I’m gonna come down here, let the cage fall, and just beat all that weird right out of you. Just. Wait.”

And with that, the gauntlet was thrown down. Liberty kept her eyes trained on Abattoir for a few more moments, before she dropped the microphone and abruptly walked off, stomping her way across the ring.

'All kinds of weird' was not a label Abattoir could ever realistically reject.

It was on now, though. They were going into a giant chainlink cube and one or both of them was probably coming out of it in a body bag. No beating around the bush, no chance to back out, no sudden attacks of conscience. Really, when she thought about it, it was remarkable how civil this entire conversation had been; neither of them were known for their ability to talk politely about violence without engaging in it, and the triple threat had gotten, well, quite heated. Abattoir supposed, inwardly, that she'd simply been keeping all the incoming unpleasantness in reserve for the actual match. Not unreasonable to think her nemesis was doing the same.

She stepped back to let Liberty pass, neither of them wanting to take their eyes off the other. There was a moment of tension as the other girl stepped through the ropes - a swell of murmurs in the crowd suggested they were wondering whether Abattoir would attack from behind - but it passed without incident and Liberty was free to leave.

Abattoir, feeling she should probably have the last word, raised the microphone to her mouth, tried to think of something to say, and came up with absolutely nothing. Repartee was not her strong suit; if she needed to elbow somebody's face off, that came easily enough, but get her into a war of words and the best she could generally improvise was 'the jerk store called and they're running out of you' long after it was necessary.

Then again, she didn't really need to say anything, did she? She'd accomplished what she came out here for. With a thoughtful shrug, she dropped the mic and exited the opposite side of the ring, then hopped the guardrail and meandered off. The crowd parted before her like the Red Sea, justifiably concerned about potentially being collateral damage if she had another episode.

No, no more talking, Abattoir decided. There were preparations to be made now, and then...mmm.

This'd be fun.