Standard rules apply, but with a 20-count for ringside action and no disqualifications enforced outside the ring.
One of the wrestlers beyond the black curtain hit something big, something that made a CRACK! against the mat.
"Oooooh!" And there's the crowd's sickened moan of sympathy. Shimmerlace leaned against one of the concrete walls at the back of the gorilla position, peering over the shoulder of some tech towards a screen that projected the show...which seemed to be quickly approaching its final act.
Other wrestlers milled in and out from backstage, stretching, pacing, muttering, completing their semi-private pre-match rituals. It was a full card, and the night was only halfway through.
Shimmerlace's face sagged against the wall as she dully watched the match conclude. As the referee counted ONE, TWO, THREEEEE, she felt...tired.
She had collected enough matches that she could no longer feel like a green recruit with an endless field of possibility ahead, yet at the same time, she could count the number of matches she began from the gorilla position on one hand. The others, it was always...something. Her favorite was to manifest from nowhere in a plume of pink mist that smelled of roses, though that one time she had sailed from the rafters with a big plastic pair of butterfly wings (and an artful bit of bungee) had been a Hell of a lot of fun.
—And there's the gesture from ol' Mizuno-chan. When it came time to usher the wrestlers forward, the small girl in the big headphones liked to extend her whole forearm towards the ramp, open-palm, like she secretly dreamed of being an air traffic controller. Shimmerlace had always meant to pin her down for coffee after this or that card; she had a cute face, for a techie.
But. Toe on the mark, Shim! She breathed deep, pushing down hard on the weight she felt in her chest, forcing up the old smile.
"AT FIVE FOOT EIGHT AND ONE HUNDRED AND FOOOOORTY POUNDS..."
Yes, yes. Ye olde rigamarole. What would she have to pay the announcer, she wondered, for something more interesting? The idea felt more like numb speculation, an instinct, more than the warm, living scheme it might once have been.
"SHIMMERLACE...SNUGGLEBLOSSOM!"
The music played. She charged down the ramp, hands up, beaming.
The Feychild
Huh.
If her grin hadn't been so stiff, she might have squinted. Her eyes swept the audience, and there, in about row seven (if she had to estimate), to the left of the ring from Shimmer's perspective, was a crocus-bloom of purple and pink in the midst of the sea of fans. One of them was standing and shouting into cupped hands.
Her stomach twisted, but not unpleasantly. Warmth shot to the tips of her ears as she counted them. One, two, three... Five. Five coterists, unmistakably.
Shit. Of all the fucking days to not have a special...something—
Well, but she could at least pop a genuine grin at them. Point at 'em! One of the girls squealed. At least she assumed it was a girl. It was hard to make out in the light and from this distance, but boys didn't squeal like that? Right?
Her head felt light as she trotted down the ramp to her groove in Jefferson Airplane's discography, the little goblin at the back of her mind slammed open some files and started planning. She had some toys on her. Always. Always always always.
First, let's give the gents something fancy on the ropes. She jumped the apron, caught the bottom rope, bounced and — there was that fuckin' handstand she'd been working on! Her legs were straight as a ballerina's, kicked, then back together, and she flexed her arms, and pushed herself into the sky. She corkscrewed once, then landed gently, center-ring.
When she rose, here eyes glittered. "GOOOOOOOD EVENING! Sweetling Children of our eastern hemisphere!"
"SAL-U-TAAAAATIONS!" Came five voices in unison from the midst of the crowd's din. Well that was...new. Shimmerlace exhaled as her tight grin collapsed into something that felt unnervingly goofy. Her throat felt tight.
Think quick, goddam gunk-brain pixie liver—
Well, she did have the teacup. You know, in case she wanted to sit on her opponent while she sipped tea. And theeeeen there was the—
OK! Shimmerlace's smile widened, and she pivoted to face her fans directly. She bowed low, hand out, twirling her fingers like she was some Viennese conductor taking her encore, then—snap! Watch her hand all you like, kiddos, but you wouldn't see how that teacup POPPED into her palm. She stood, drawing a canteen from the cleavage of her blouse, which she emptied into the cup. She sipped deep—swallowed.
Keep your eye on the cup, kids. With a sudden jerk, she lifted it up high, spinning by its handle around her index finger, while she cupped her lips with her other hand and shouted: "A gift for the coterists!"
And they better think quick, those fans, because from there Shimmerlace tossed the cup like a pitcher from the mound, hand over head, and it went spinning, a glittering white point in the stagelight, right for the fans. They reached! Caught it! But as soon as the tallest pinkette touched it...Poof! A plume of pink smoke. And when that cleared, she was holding the cup, yeah, but also five paper roses besides. A little something for each fan in the group.
It was almost perfect—would have been perfect, in fact, had only anyone beyond those six coterists been watching. But that would have been tricky, on account of the way the lights shut down and Yuki's entrance theme roared to life while the cup was still mid-arc.
Shimmerlace grimaced. Even she couldn't see the moment the fan caught the cup. She hissed her breath, too quiet to be heard, through her teeth, and backed into her corner.