Dinner Companions (Roksana Liszka)

The catering area in the arena is actually pretty well-stocked and maintained for a wrestling arena's mess hall. All sorts of Japanese food is positioned along the line, delicately crafted to look as appetizing and appealing as possible. Dumplings, tempura, noodles of all sorts, sashimi and sushi, mountains snow crab legs, all sorts of fish and soups and seafood. AFW wrestlers come and go, all taking their trays to their prospective tables as they feast.

Sitting alone, like a high school outcast, is the resident Crazy Cajun of Tension. Johnny Flash is by himself at his table with a mountainous pile of snow crab legs and several crawfish rolls, eating messily, food hanging off his chin as he cracks the crab legs and removes the meat like he'd done so hundred of times before.

"It's not gumbo, but it'll do...could they have killed anything to put some decent fuckin' hot sauce here?" He says, snapping into his crustacean as he dines alone, a tall beer in front of him. He's wearing a silk black dress shirt and pair of grey dress pants with Italian loafers, a total 180 from his usual ring attire. I wouldn't say he looks civilized but rather like a child wearing a parent's clothes. A rooster with shoes. It's quite out of place and the immediate sense that he would be more comfortable in jeans and a t-shirt is apparent upon even the most striking or causal of glances.

She walked into the restaurant, strung out from the road. And it's obvious that she is wildly a fish out of water herself. But the catering itself looked fantastic, and her stomach growled fiercely at the sight of the food. Even if all of it was weird. She frowned, and glanced up and down the table as she growled out. "Not a fucking sandwich in the bunch. Who makes a catering line without-...At least there's fish." She mumbled as she poked at some sort of fish. It wasn't native to her, but she couldn't ask the catering group to give her what she wanted...yet.

She poked at it, her face twitching as she turned with her plate of unfamiliar fish. She glanced around...and only found one table with only one person at it. She sighed. She had hoped for no one, but she wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. At least this fool snacking on crab-legs wouldn't stab her in the back...if she could help it. She sat down, her plate hitting a bit hard as she cracked her neck. The new girl, of course, had to sit with the weirdo. Might as well see where that goes.

A study of contrasts; where Johnny looked horribly out of place in her clothes, she looked fitted in her green fatigues. No insignia, but it was obvious by the way she was sitting that she was used to being perfectly upright. And the clenching of her jaw was impossible; she was such a contrast that even her jawline was straight.

Johnny Flash wouldn't stab her in the back, but..it would be pretty interesting to see if he could stab her low in the belly with a broken crab leg. MacGyver-ing such a comical weapon would probably get his name into the record books at a minimum and it would give her some time to check her reactions as she bled out. No matter. His eyes moved slow, from his crab legs to the stiff and militaristically disciplined pole who sits in front of him. The movement of his corneas was almost reptilian.

Cracking another crab leg while remaining silent, his eyes didn't look at the food but rather stay perfectly fixated on the woman in fatigues.

"Hiya."

He says, in a voice that's more distant than anything else, like he's heard other people say it but never really mastered the nuance before breaking out into a double take smile.

"Not a fan of the cuisine? It's free. Can't argue with free!'

The nice dress shirt Flashy was is pockmarked by all sorts of food, like Jackson Pollock dipped a paintbrush in all sorts of seafood and noodles and just went to town on the dress shirt. He looks, simply, redic.