Winner only by 5-Count Pin
Softcore Moves Allowed
PoW Stipulation - Winner Keeps Loser for One Day
Katsumi had to reflect on things. To be specific, her old look. Her short, choppy hair, all in stylish disarray. The pink shirt she would wear. The black sportsbra beneath. Her shorts. Boots. It all felt so low effort, so natural to her punky style. Back then, she wrestled just to wrestle, to chase a dream of living large, being herself, absorbing all the energy an audience could give her. But it didn't feel so good to feel like the ugly duckling in an ocean of pretty people. Sure, some might embrace it, or even rail against the notion of being pretty, but Katsumi felt she had enough problems on her own to add 'uninspiring lackluster look' on top of it.
So when LAW set her up to get a makeover, her heart had skipped a beat. She had to play it cool and aloof, of course, but it was like an eggshell trying to house a hand grenade. The uptick in training aside, she couldn't believe how she looked. She'd never let her hair grow out before, never knowing it was luxuriously thick and silky. Just the right amount of eyeshadow made those already brilliant green eyes pop. And the dazzling new attire, the black hip-hugging and belted trunks, the gold-studded bralet, the cool designer elbow and kneepads, the punky boots... she finally felt like she had a look that was distinctly her.
And the crowd, before they even saw her get back in the ring - they went wild for it. She felt incredible.
"So how do ya feel about softcore?"
And look where it got her. Frigging Hell. They didn't used to ask her about things like that. No one wants the ugly duckling in titillating, skanky grapplefests. They want the beautiful girls doing it, the ones the audience swoon over. Apparently even if they're the badguy. Or Hell, maybe it's because she's the badguy. Bunch'a perverts.
Katsumi needed more exposure - and no, not in that way! She needed more opponents. She needed to look strong. She desperately wants gold, and that means taking every opportunity to prove she deserves it. But at this limit?
After being assured there'd be no nudity, just... the opponent might try to kiss her or something, no big deal, Katsumi grudgingly agreed. And then she was told it's a swimsuit match. As soon as she asked if he meant like a one-piece, the look on his face told her what they were expecting.
Fiiiine. She agreed to the match.
Oh, and it's a five-second pinfall. He had to add that. And she immediately knew why. Devious little-
-Also, it's a Prisoner of War stipulation.
Katsumi started to protest, but was cut off. She'd already agreed! It'll be fine! just think of it like hanging out or whatever! No big! ...She slammed the door on the way out.
And here we are, on the very night of the event she's been dreading. She's been too worried to even look up her opponent. She's figured it's probably some gross, massive ogress, bulging with rippling muscle, with even worse social skills than her. And no doubt coming out with basically two pasties and a G-string. This is going to be a nightmare. An unequivocal nightmare. Well, news flash, LAW! This princess's name is Katsumi! Not Fiona! And there's no way she's going to let herself be taken home by a swamp monster, no matter how many improbable sequels it gets!
The lights in the arena dim low, and a hush falls over the crowd in anticipation.
The heavy strums of an electric guitar begin to pulse through the speakers, and laser of vivid green and purple begin to dance on beat like runway lights along either side of the ramp. The titantron fades in a moonlit sky, and soon, a pair of striking feline-like eyes appear. Katsumi's name logo sparkles into being around them... and her sizzle reel hits.
Her intro video.
"The following contest is scheduled for one fall!," begins the ring announcer. "And is an extended pin, prisoner of war, softcore match!"
The audience pops. Katsumi dies a little on the inside.
"Making her way to the ring! Standing at a height of five foot, seven inches, and weighing in at one hundred and twenty-four pounds! From Osaka, Japan! The Punk Princess!"
"KATSUMIIIII! OOOSHIIIROOOO!"
Upon reaching the ring apron, she foregoes her typical entrance in favor of popping her hip up onto the ring's edge and rolling under the bottom rope to stand again. Doing her normal flip would probably give a flash of the attire she wears underneath, and she's supposed to keep that under wraps until the other girl's present! It feels dumb, but at the same time, she kind'a appreciates the theater of it, as well as not having to march out amongst the crowd in what feels like undies. Her regular attire isn't much more concealing, but it's different, dammit!
She races up the furthest turnbuckle to perch upon the second ropes, leaning out to clap her hands over the audience with a smug expression. The crowd's reaction is mixed, to say the least. Half of them bathe her in scorn and admonishment for past behavior, and what they fully expect will be continued villainy and barbarism. The other half fully endorse her particular brand of savagery and viciousness, enjoying watching her dismantle opponents both physically and psychologically. And there's a good smattering of those mixed in who just deeply approve of her strictly for her looks.
It all washes for Katsumi. It's all energy. She loves every bit of it, and she doesn't differentiate. On the rare times the entire audience has been behind her, it's felt amazing, but it's never happened enough for her to get a real taste for it. So she encourages both sides by cupping a hand over her ear one way~, then the other.
Hopping back down, she moves to the center ring to hit a power stance, deliberately flashing bare leg from beneath the robe. Her index finger shoots into the air high above her head, the confident, predatory smirk returning in force with lips parted just enough to show off pearly whites. The pose is held long enough for the cameras to get a good sweep of her before she relaxes the stance and retires back into a corner of the ring to wait for...
...sigh...
...fucking Shrek.
She slumps against the pads with a small pout, arms crossing against her modest chest. The poofy sleeves of the robe aren't helping.
