Insofar, Katsumi has had scheduled matches arranged by the management. Tonight, she was simply in the wings, waiting for something, anything. She'd be fine with finding her own entertainment if she had to. Maybe pick at another girl who didn't seem to have a match, either. She wasn't about to let herself be overlooked by management. She had a goal, and that meant the audience needed to keep their eye on her. Love her or hate her, they needed to feel
something in her direction.
As the night dragged on, she began to feel more pressed to find someone to agitate. So she went ahead and got changed out of her streetclothes, and into her ring gear. Sleek black boots, black short shorts with cat-themed belt, black sportsbra-style wrestling top, black choker, and pink long-sleeved shirt overtop. A light coat of pink lipgloss later, and she's good to go!
Just in time, in fact. A stagehand was just about to beat down her dressing room door when she emerged, nearly smacking face-to-face with him. "
Oshiro-san! Something's happening!" The information is received with a blink, and she makes her way to the entrance ramp to peek through the curtains.
She heard the challenge. It didn't offend her. No, it got a wicked grin.
"
Hit my music and give me a microphone."
The music she'd selected to be in the wings was a more smooth roll with a good beat, and despite it being one she'd never used before, the audience already knew what it meant. Katsumi's musical choices had a distinct techno-gamer quality to them; fun, no matter what the tone of her match would be. Blue and purple laser lights begin firing off immediately in sync with the music, arranged along either side of the entrance ramp. They were the same laser lights she'd used in her last match, and while she prefers to fuss over the details, the fact that they were already in place was pretty convenient. It's the small touches that really got an audience's attention.
When the synth baseline kicks on, smoke begins building around the curtain. And with the addition of the drums, the Punk Princess steps out through the fog and into- what? The audience is
cheering? Insofar, Katsumi had gotten accustomed to entering with a crescendo of inconsistency. Some people loved her in-your-face brassy attitude, others thought she was a terrible cheater. But Valentina, somehow, some way, had earned more ire than her. She didn't let it break her from her stride, however, as though it were a simple matter of course. Her head tips back, eyes closed, arms raised to pull her slender body taut, confident smile on her face, and boot tapping to the beat of her music, she basks in the unusual feeling of overwhelming encouragement from the audience.
It's a different kind of stimulating; not one she'd gotten to experience often in the other federation.
Her head cants again, expressive dark green eyes zeroing on the blonde in the ring. Her hip cocks to the side, the microphone hanging in her left hand while the right bobs its index finger side-to-side in an impishly chastising manner. She turns to her left and raises the microphone. "
Ladies and gentlemen!," she begins, the music lowering in volume but not going away, "
We have our first official challenger!" She motions her free hand towards the ring, then turns around to address the other half of the arena. "
What do you think? Should I tear this bitch apart!?"
The crowd pops their approval, and Katsumi turns to face the ring again. Her arms bob to either side, encouraging the volume level of the crowd to rise. A bright laugh escapes her, erring a little more girlish than she'd prefer - though it's out of her control! The audience is leaving her a little giddy!
"
Hahahah, oh shit! Sounds like it's about to suck to be you tonight!"
With that, the Punk Princess starts a spirited trot down the ramp. As she nears the ring, she tosses the microphone to a security guard standing by the guardrail. Hands now freed, she grabs onto the lower hem of her shirt to draw up and over her head, exposing her toned waist to the open air and audience.
The shirt is tossed to the corner of the ring, and she leaps up onto the ring apron. Spinning around to face the audience, her arms drape over the top rope and she arches her back, body drawing taut before simply back-rolling over the top rope to land neatly on her boots. She backs into her corner to be inspected by the referee, her eyes narrowed and locked onto her opponent's big blues. The near-trademarked confident smile has yet to leave her face, but it's taken on a wicked, predatory tone, visibly anxious to get things rolling.
Vs. 
