A Hardcore Proposal

Styx hated the AFW’s emergency ward. Going there was always a pain - she had to sign all these wavers, ask all these questions, listen as people rattled off facts to her and tried to keep her calm and placated. She hated having X-Rays done, hated having her body felt up, hated that stupid little plastic hammer they tapped your knee with. She hated the gloves, the smells, the nurses - except that weird one with the eyepatch, not sure what her deal was. The entire package just annoyed her, and she wanted to be out of the place as soon as she entered it.

Which was kind of a ‘too bad, so sad’ situation, because she found herself spending so much time in the damn place. As a hardcore wrestler and now as a hardcore champion, it was one of those things that just sort of came with the territory - had a match, visit the infirmary. It was to the point where they always had a team on standby whenever she entered the ring, and she had never not needed them after a match.

That was the case on this particular day, too. Especially this day. Her championship defense had left her brittle bald bag of battered and broken bones, aching all over. Her ribs were busted, she needed some stitches, and her leg was a mess of fractures, more than she was willing to count or cared to hear. She was set up with a crutch for support, and as much as she loathed the thing, she was eventually convinced into using it - not by the doctor, but by the immense pain she experienced with every step. Not that she minded pain, naturally, but this was the kind of pain that got old fast and kept her awake all night. Fuck. That.

So she went with it, rolling with what they wanted jumping through all the hoops they threw her way. When she was a regular wrestler, she could brush them off, but now that she had a belt, she had to take what came with that. Styx was a commodity, and they wanted that commodity up and running for the next match, whenever that was.

When it was all over, she came out of the doctor’s office with the crutch tucked under her shoulder, taking tentative steps with it. It was clearly meant for someone not six feet tall and weight more than most men on the roster. Awkward, but better than nothing, and she’d get used to it.

No, the main thing on her mind right now was Abattoir, who was waiting outside leaning up against the wall with the Hardcore belt on her shoulder for safekeeping. She started to take it off and hand it over, but Styx was quick to wave it off. ”Fuck it, too weird with this crutch. You hold onto it for now.” She gritted her teeth and took an aching step forward, then another, then another. ”You find her?”

Abattoir nodded as she followed alongside, pointing down the hall. ”Not far. Room 10-A. I think she’s alone.”

”Good. Come on, then.” Styx picked up the pace a little, getting more and more used to handling on the crutch. ”Let’s see how Ms. Myers is holding in there.”

This would actually be the first time Christie had ever been in the emergency ward at the AFW. She hadn’t ever really needed to come here before. Most of her matches were fairly one sided in her favor, and the one fight against Liberty didn’t get so bad that she couldn’t just be sent over to the Nurse for some bandages or simply walk it off at her discretion. Obviously that wasn’t the case today. Christie and Styx had beaten the stuffing out of one another, and with the numerous cuts and bruises Christie accumulated throughout the fight the simple fact of the matter was that she needed treatment. The only issue was that the Grave Keeper wasn’t that big a fan of the idea.

The second the doctors and nurses found Christie, she put up a fight. She barked and cursed at them to leave her alone, but they simply insisted that it was their jobs. The doctor pointed out they found her by following the steady blood trail coming from her leg. The Grave Keeper’s response was to throw one of the lighter folding chairs nearby. A nurse pointed out that she could hardly stand on the wrecked limb, to which Christie made a clever retort in the form of her favorite finger. Every plausible reason she needed their help was beaten down by her sheer stubborn and nihilistic behavior. Security had arrived to make sure she didn’t physically harm anyone, but the doctor seemed to think forcibly restraining her would only make her injuries worse. Thankfully, a stagehand managed to drop by and bring along her jacket, which the medical staff quickly ransomed for her cooperation.

Hours later, Christie was sitting on a gurney. Her leg had been stitched up and bandaged with gauze. The cut across her stomach was treated, and the Nurse was listing off all the damage Christie got during the fight, much to the disinterest of the woman sitting in front of her. Her leg apparently was beaten to the point of incurring a thin fracture, with the severe bleeding and bruising not helping the condition. Paired with some seriously bruised ribs, one of which was cracked, a swollen cheek and a cut in her mouth, they couldn’t stop explaining how lucky she was they helped her. But Christie just wanted to go home. Get in her own bed and sleep the day and damage off.

The doctors gave her a routine of medicine and rest they wanted her to follow, but she hardly listened. She read the pill bottle, and figured that was all she would need as she stuffed it into her jacket pocket and moved to leave. The second she put weight on her leg, it felt sore. The Nurse was telling her not to stand, that the pain medication would wear off, but Christie was going to walk out of here. Not limp, not wheel away. She valued her pride more than anything in this world, and she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her like that…

The Nurse constantly told her the adverse effects, but Christie simply kicked her out. She was done wearing this shrimpy bikini and wanted to change into something normal. Once the Nurse was gone, the Grave Keeper was alone. She took her time changing into her regular clothes, cautious of her wounds and unaware of the duo standing just outside her door.

Mario Yageuchi hated hardcore matches. He’d hated them ever since he joined the AFW.

Before his tenure as one of the AFW’s physicians, he’d had little opinion of them. Heck, he’d had little opinion of wrestling in general. They were just some crazy thing that wrestlers did from time to time, and he didn’t watch too many of them, being more of a fan of the lewder matches, if he were being perfectly honest. He’d heard things, seen the occasional picture of some wrestler losing far too much blood on a canvas, but aside from those little tidbits he was blissfully ignorant and had no qualms staying that way for as long as possible.

But then life took a weird turn. An unexpected pregnancy from his wife, an unexpected car crash, and very expected college tuition for his eldest daughter. The AFW put out feelers for medical professionals, they paid well, and he was qualified. No brainer.

Only so far, it had turned out to be more of a hassle than he could’ve ever imagined. Ordinary hospital patients could be a pain, but when they were capable of bench pressing over 150 kg and could knock you out with a single kick? Much different. He was having to deal with some many eccentric personalities, navigate all this craziness…

Like the woman he was on his way to see right now, Christie...Myers? He had to check the clipboard to be sure, was never good with names. Real piece of work. She’d gotten banged up fighting the hardcore champion, had a laundry list of injuries to go along with that, and the nurse he’d sent to look after her was trying to get her to take it slow. But no, she had to be a pro wrestler about it - stubborn and stupid, probably about to try and walk out on her bad leg. So it was his job to convince this stubborn and stupid that no, putting weight on an injured limb was the last thing you wanted to do if you didn’t want to spend a long period of your life in a wheelchair.

He’d just rounded the corner to where she was holed up, when he saw an unwelcome sight - namely the hardcore champion herself, and the woman she ran around with, a menacing looking woman in black with a respirator on for some reason.

Mario looked at them. They looked at Mario. Mario adjusted his glasses, turned around and went back the way he came.

That little interruption over and done with, Styx shrugged, set the crutch aside and opened the door, letting it creak open slow. Abattoir slid in first and she followed right after with folded arms, taking slow steps to keep the pain at a minimum. Abattoir closed the door behind them, leaving the three of them alone and isolated in the quiet room.

Styx didn’t say anything at first, didn’t move much, didn’t even bring out more than a calm, stony expression, studying the woman before her. When she finally broke the silence, it was with one word: ”Hey.”

It must have been some time after the match with Styx, longer than Christie realized. It wasn’t like her outfit covered that much up, but even taking off the gloves and the stupidly skimpy outfit the Maximilian guy made her wear revealed even more damage she had sustained. Her naked body was covered in bruises and scrapes. The bandages on her leg and stomach stood out even more against all of the black and blue that dotted her body from head to toe. Any place she looked had a bruise on it, save for her neck. No wonder her body felt like a wreck. The swollen cheek on the side of her face was probably the only noticeable injury once she put her clothes back on. She wasn’t a doctor, but she wasn’t here by choice and felt justified in taking some of the bandages in the drawers. It wasn’t long before the medicated band-aids were cooling the annoyingly sore cheek and helping to hide it from view. One might not notice at a casual glance, but that was the best she could do.

The Grave Keeper had just finished slipping the last of her clothes on: Her arm filling in the final sleeve to her leather jacket when she heard the door slowly began to creak. Christie had no idea who it was, be it the Nurse or the Doctor. Her hand simply slipped over towards the glass jar that held cotton swabs and popsicle sticks and grabbed ahold of it, ready to do something violent should her nasty temper decide that she didn’t want to hear their nagging anymore.

With eyes like a rattlesnake and a glare that was just as friendly, Christie peered over her shoulder. Her movements were slow, she was being careful of her bad leg, but upon seeing Styx’s pet walk through the door the atmosphere in the room drastically changed. Christie turned to face her, the jar still in her hand as she looked at the masked freak that wandered into her room. Before, Christie was being cold and rude, but the apathetic expression on her face as she played with the jar in her hand suggested she was about to grow hostile.

“The Masked Mute Mutt…”

That was all Christie said before intentionally dropping the jar to the floor, letting it explode and shatter all over the floor just as Styx squeezed her way in. If Christie’s hostilities weren’t clear before, they became blatantly obvious as the Hardcore Champ wandered in and closed the door behind her. Those demonic rattle snake eyes narrowed at the duo that stood in front of her. A smirk that looked almost like a sneer slithered its way onto Christie’s lips as she eyed Styx from head to toe. The Crypt Keeper was well aware of what was about to happen...because she’d been in this situation before.

Christie was already devising a plan on how to keep the both of them at bay in such small, tight quarters with a badly damaged leg. Christie figured Styx wanted to beat her head in for all the damage she caused...because honestly, that's what Christie probably would have done in her shoes. The biggest problem was the Styx hunted in a pack. While the Masked woman didn’t seem like much of a threat, Christie couldn’t take her too lightly with her bad leg. As Styx finally broke the air of silence with her curt greeting, Christie already had a plan to push the gurney into Styx’s leg, hoping the doctors couldn’t patch up all the strain it had to endure during the match before lashing out at the masked woman, tackling her to the glassed part of the floor. If that didn’t make an opening, then Christie would be happy to take her pound of flesh before these two did her in…

That twisted smile didn’t go away as Christie eyed them both. She wasn’t scared, more like...prepared. Styx wanted a dialogue? Fine, Christie would bite. She wouldn’t admit it, but she wanted to pick Styx’s brain. The Champ wasn’t what she had expected in that fight, and that piqued her curiosity. The worst thing that could happen was Christie didn’t care for what she had to say, and kicked her plan off a bit early.

“Well, isn’t this just a cute little surprise. Did you bring me a card too?”

Christie’s tone was just as laced with venom and sarcasm as when she wandered out onto the ramp of the ring. The Grave keeper kept an eye on Styx, but her expression softened somewhat as she shifted her position to better hide the bandage on her cheek.


Christie's gaze flicked over towards the masked Abattoir, chuckling to herself at the sight of the mask.

“Though I bet you’d jump at the chance, wouldn’t you? Stuck to her side like a shadow...and just about as helpful.”

Christie poked at Abattoir with purpose, petty as it was. While the Grave keeper still thought of Styx as the true threat even in her battered state, Christie was curious about the masked woman’s voice. She knew the girl could speak, but held her tongue more tightly then even the walking wall of a woman that went by Styx. The Champ, Christie could understand...but the mute’s silence was both curious, and annoying. Something she hoped to satisfy with her admittedly petty and passive aggressive insults.

"So Styx, I'm left wondering...is your pet finally going to join us here, tonight? Or is this just another You and me type of thing?"

Abattoir was being poked. Moreover, she knew she was being poked. As Christie regarded her, teasing and taunting she held her position, only moving to fold her arms and level her gaze at the woman. She honestly wasn’t sure what to make of this woman any more than this woman could make anything of her. She was definitely impressed by her performance against Styx, managing to not only survive against the champion, but get the better of her on numerous occasions. She was capable. Strong. Tough. Had everything she needed physically…

...but mentally? Abattoir was still trying to work all that out. And as she worked that out, she had this woman trying to suss her out, as well.

There was a part of her, a real part, that wanted to clash with Christie right now, to let this room explode in a mist of violence. A part that warned of a threat and urged her to take immediate action...but she silenced that part. For now. It would have its place and time, just not now.

Now, they had business.

Styx looked on, quiet for the moment, reading Christie’s eyes. She knew what the woman was thinking, because it was about the same thing she’d be thinking. Figuring out the best way to approach this, whether she should take the initiative, figuring out if she was thoroughly fucked. The two of them were in crap shape, but Abattoir was daisy fresh, so taking the two of them head on wouldn’t work out. Maybe thinking about what weapons she could use, how effective they would be.

Styx stepped to the side and kicked a chair that was against the wall, making it turn to face Christie. She sat down in it a moment later, easing her way onto the seat and grinding her teeth to hide the pain in her leg. Getting up would be a bitch, wasn’t looking forward to that.

”Something like that, yeah.” She propped her chin up on her fist as Abattoir moved between them and laid the belt on the floor, placing it face up. It was a rusty looking thing, looking like it had been stitched and welded together from several different titles, but that was sort of the point. Broken down, beat up, rough and trashy, just like the matches that Styx craved.

She leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms as she scanned Christie, up and down. ”You put up a good fight, won’t take that away from you. Came close.” She tilted her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, curious. ”You want to try again?”’

Of course the Masked Mute didn’t bite the bait. In fact, she pretty much did exactly what Christie would have expected from someone like her in the situation, crossing her arms and cutting herself off. Christie wanted her voice, and still the stranger held her tongue. The Grave Keeper didn’t like how this freak just watched everything, and despite getting away with petty insults the two were likely developing a sort of friction against each other. A gut feeling of mistrust and uncertainty each woman held for the other. Abattoir hid her emotions via a mask,giving nothing to outside observers. Christie played a trickier game, giving bits of information through violence, sarcasm, and apathy, letting others try and sort out what was actually going on beneath those snake eyes.

Before Christie and Abattoir could get comfortable enough to start attacking one another, Styx brought the room to attention by loudly kicking a spare chair dead center of the room in front of Christie. At least that silenced the Sadistic Spectre. Whether she liked it or not, this was Styx’s show, at least for the moment. So she sat back and watched like a good spectator as Styx watched her from her seat and Abattoir gently set the belt down on the floor. Christie’s eyes only looked down to see what the masked woman set on the floor, but otherwise didn’t give the belt a second glance. Christie had made it clear what her stance was on the AFW belts, and seeing one up close didn’t change her mind.

Styx responded to her question genuinely, leaning back into her chair before admitting that Christie had gotten close. To what didn’t need to be said, but it was clear neither of them took pride in that statement. “Close” wasn’t close enough as they say. As the two women stared at each other, the nagging feeling of how easily their situations could have been reversed nagged at them. That was why Christie figured Styx was here. To reinforce her own sense of power, and the idea that she deserved to be the Champ. Christie didn’t care either way. She just wanted another shot at the only capable woman she’d fought since arriving here.

Which is what made Styx’s offer all the more suspicious.

The Grave Keeper still wasn’t convinced this wasn’t some weird sort of set up. She kept the Masked Mute in her peripheral vision the entire time, waiting for a move or a signal or anything that might be a sign to start a fight. But the girl had not moved since setting the belt on the ground. Styx had proven herself to be rather crafty and clever in their fight, and Christie was once again pondering what this woman might have on her mind.

“You're the first person in this shit show that managed to take me down at my own game Styx. And it wasn’t like the scripted fights management props up to make their darling show girls look good. It was close!”

Christie’s tone was cold, but for once it wasn’t directed towards Styx. It was clear some of the same thoughts Styx had been stewing with were jumbled around in Christie’s mind. What If I’d dodged this? What if I did something just slightly different? It wasn’t so much she was mad that she lost, but frustrated at how close she was to beating the wall of a woman in front of her. The cold, serpent eyes that glared at Styx watched her with purpose...bordering on desire.

“Yeah, I’d want to try again...but not until I hear the whole story. Quid pro Quo: Something for Something. What do you want? And why are you here? What’s your Something?”

This room was tense, bottled up with emotions, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. It was always hard to tell with Abattoir, but she’d been around the nak muay long enough to know some of her tells, to see through the icy layers she always walked around with. The woman wasn’t mad - she didn't really do ‘mad’ anymore - but there was some heat there, sparks flying with her and Christie. It hadn’t yet reached the point where fire warnings needed to be issued, but it was a safe bet that they would hit that milestone fairly soon. Every moment they spent here, the higher the chances.

And to be 100%, Styx wouldn’t have complained if it did come to that. Seeing these two go at it would be a pleasure.

Just not here. Not now. Not like this.

So far, though, this was looking promising. Now that they weren’t actually trying to murder each other and having a dialogue, Styx could see a lot of things she liked in the Grave Digger, get down with things she said. She saw the AFW for what it was - a pathetic little flesh show, prepackaged wrestling sold to the mass at discount. What the two of them had in that ring, around that ring, all the blood they’d spilled and bones they’d broken, it was a work of art. And that was the great thing about art - it didn’t matter if the crowd was too stupid to appreciate it, if they’d rather have watched shitty porn than actual competition. That didn’t make it any less of a gem.

Styx had been sitting on the fence before, but hearing her speak now cemented her decision. So when the question of what she wanted came up, she knew the answer.

”You.” She brought her level gaze on Christie. ”I want you.”

That would need a little clarification, so she leaned back and went on. ”I joined the AFW six years ago, and ever since then I had two goals: Get this belt…” She pointed down at her prize, then back up. ”And burn Friction to the ground. I want to wreck this company, I want to break all the little sluts and shitty wrestlers to pieces, I want to take out all the pudding matches and kissing contests and fuckfests and I want fights. Real, hardcore fights. I want there to be blood in that ring every single night. I want violence like no one’s ever seen before.”

She closed her eyes and chilled for a moment, just basking in the idea of it all, seeing the mayhem in her head. It was a glorious thing.

”But,” She shrugged with a sigh, throwing her hands up. ”I can’t get this done. It’s why I made WAR, my own stable. Abattoir was a part of it, and the last hardcore champ was, too. Now she’s gone, and I want you to take her place. Get us back up to three and start expanding from there.”

Styx reached down and lifted up the belt, holding it beside her head as she stared Christie’s way. ”You do that, you join up? You get another shot at the belt. Any match you want, any place you want, and all I’ll ask is that you wait a little while, let me smash through one or two new contenders before you have a second shot. How’s that sound?”

“You.” Styx said as she brought her gaze level with the Grave keeper. “I want you.”

Christie’s eyes narrowed considerably as she stared Styx dead in the eye. Clearly, there was a bit of miscommunication between the two. If it had been anyone else...hell, if it wasn’t for that hidden ember of respect for Styx’s abilities hiding deep inside the Malicious Marauders being, then she would have already let her razor tongue and terrible temper take the lead! She could already see herself telling Styx to go fuck herself, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to. Perhaps that not-so subtle annoyed expression that unknowingly grew on Christie's face gave it away, because Styx leaned back and properly explained what she meant.

The hardcore champion explained her goals and aspirations for what the AFW should really be. No more models in underwear, no more sex fights or bedtime matches. An arena where actually fighters entered and bloodied their knuckles to prove once and for all who was superior, the strongest, the most talented. Even though Styx was beginning to sound a bit like a super villain, Christie understood the core of her message. But just because Christie understood it, didn’t mean it struck a chord with her. Christie wasn’t so daft as to not put two and two together and realize that Styx has been at this goal for six years and has so far only managed to collect a trinket. Something Styx herself would go on to admit. Her solution was to make up a team called WAR, the name Christie had heard the Audience chant during her fight with Styx. A part of Christie was relieved that she had been calling Abattoir “Mute Mutt” instead of War the entire time, since she had originally thought the name belonged to her.

The hell is an Abattoir anyway? Some sort of church or something?

But that wasn’t what held Christie’s attention. The story of the previous hardcore champ being a former member did not slip by unnoticed, as fast as Styx was to gloss over it. There was a spot open on the team, and Styx was offering it to her. The Grace Keeper’s venomous gaze lingered in Styx’s eyes, not even caring to give the toy she held in the air a second glance. She’d seen it, a rusted, beaten piece of metal made by an underpaid nobody and given meaning by fools. The only reason Christie would want it was to take it away from Styx, show her its real value by tossing the damn thing in the trash bin right before her eyes…

Styx’s offer was generous if Christie was being honest. Hang around and help, and she’d get her rematch. The possibility the Styx might lose the belt was farfetched, but still existed. The thought only lingered in Christie’s head for a moment as she decided that a win over Styx was what she was truly after, and the whole Belt in the bin thing was just a sweet bonus.

But rather than respond immediately, Christie instead maintained her glaring mask as she watched Styx’s eyes. A solitary finger reached out and pointed toward the belt, the atmosphere on Christie’s side growing chilly as she held her gaze with the champion, not even looking at the belt she was pointing at.

“You said that the previous Hardcore Champion was a member of WAR, and now you hold the title. I don’t understand all of the mechanics of how this place is run, but I do know they don’t just transfer titles without some sort of contest. And with the Hardcore belt, I can only assume that would be a Hardcore fight. You must have won, but what I want to know is simple, but could sway my answer.”

Christie paused for a moment, letting Styx understand she was being serious and giving her some time to mentally prepare.

“Before you were told that you would be fighting them for the belt, did you still think of this person as a partner? A friend maybe? And did they leave ultimately because you took the belt from them?”

Styx had to give this woman credit for one thing, if she didn’t acknowledge anything else - she had a talent for taking her off guard.

When she dropped all this on Christie’s lap, she hadn't 100% sure how the woman would react, but some things seemed certain. She would have questions, that was a given, but those questions would probably center around the way their group was run, what they would be doing, what they would be going after. Questions on loyalty, responsibilities, what all she’d be doing as a member, as a team. Reasonable enough to ask.

But that didn’t seem to be where the Grave Keeper’s interests lied. No, she had other concerns, a different focus, instead choosing to center her engagement on a more personal level. She wanted to know about the woman she was replacing. She wanted to know about Jessica Wright.

So. Styx had a couple of options.

One, she could lie about Jessica, make up whatever story she thought Christie would want to hear in order to get her to come over. The problem with that, though, was that it wouldn’t be too hard for her to figure out what the real deal was. It was all out there. Documented. She got the distinct impression that this wasn’t the sort of woman who dealt in gossip or checked Twitter feeds or anything like that - neither was Styx, for that matter. But, in this day and age, information had a way of finding its way to you whether you wanted it or not. Maybe sooner, maybe later, it would come.

Two, she could just lay it all out. No embellishment, no hiding. Not that Styx was a big proponent of the truth, but this was a time where it was the only play. Christie would either accept and they could move on from there, or she wouldn’t and...well, things would come along with that, too.

”Yeah. Jessica was a partner. Friend. We fucked. Not what I’m putting on the table for you, just so we’re clear.” She spoke plain, matter-of-fact, not letting too many emotions muddle the words. ”And no, she didn’t leave because of me. She was going to leave, anyway. Wanted to be a good girl, couldn’t stomach it anymore, would’ve been the outcome regardless. We had our fight, tore each other apart, I won. That’s the story.”

Of course Christie wasn’t a team player. She never really had been. Thinking about stuff like group dynamics, hierarchy, responsibilities and duties in a group sense just didn’t really land with her. She’d heard the very basic overview of the group Styx ran and took it at face value, which may have been a little insulting, but she was still acclimating to the idea of working with these two. Abattoir still frustrated her, but Christie found it helpful that she could easily block out the Mute’s presence so long as she didn’t look at her and Styx...well, she did want to break that leg of hers, but she could put it off for a while. At the moment, Christie didn’t care about WAR. She wanted to know the mindset behind it, which of course meant another test for Styx. One that was two fold, but relatively simple to figure out.

The Grave Keeper was testing Styx’s ability to seize opportunity. With this question, Christie would learn if Styx had the brains to think through a situation to try and obtain what she wants through either lying or telling the truth. Of course, Christie didn’t know or care what happened to the girl before. She wanted to know if Styx would lie about it. Those serpent eyes of Christie’s had grown accustomed to spotting a lie, and while Styx didn’t strike her as the type, Christie still kept them trained on the Hardcore champ just in case. Trust was important in a group, and Christie was going to gage just how trusting and trustworthy Styx really was.

And forthcoming she was. It was almost a little disappointing. The champ laid it out so simple even a child or Abattoir could understand it, giving Christie the details of her previous relationship with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. The Grave Keeper was a bit disappointed that it wasn’t Styx or the fight that fractured the relationship, but if anything that added some credibility to the story. Plus, it helped teach her an important part about Styx’s character.

Styx was willing to step on friends and sexual partners to obtain what she wants. That toy probably wouldn’t be in her hands were it not for her partner obtaining it first. She wanted it, they fought, and she had it now. Sure, it may have been something like a final “goodbye” but the fact of the matter is that Styx had to take her friend and beat the stuffing out of her. They would probably have bled, cut and smashed each other with chairs and weapons like she and Christie had done a few hours prior. Fact was, Styx had to live with the reminder that the belt she held was taken from a friend.

Something Christie could respect. If she joined, it would make them teammates, but not friends. Christie wanted to make sure that was clear, and by the sound of that short story, she didn’t think she would have to worry too much about that.

“And here I was, betting she dumped you because you took it from her...but that what happens when you go soft, I guess.”

Christie must have been talking to herself, because she simply chuckled to herself before sitting down on the counter to try and rest her sore leg. Her eyes seemed just a hint less hostile now, though she still only peered at Styx.


“So your club needs a member, and if I join I’ll get another chance to have a serious fight with you again...Alright, I’ll bite. Say I do join you and things get rolling. What do you want me to do? What's the first job, and...would I be working under her?” Christie said, jerking her head towards Abattoir.

“Because if strength equals rank in your little group...I wouldn’t mind trying to promote from within a little early~” She said with a smirk.