The winner must force her opponent to verbally submit with the words "I quit" spoken into a live mic.
Brigitte would hate to tell the moron who had "warned" her that her first night, first bout, that her "nerves" would get the best of her once she felt the atmosphere and saw the crowd had been entirely wrong. Brigitte merely appreciated just how much she belonged in a place as enthusiastic about violence as she herself was. Intimidation conquered lesser women, not her.
She didn't need a crowd, but she still accepted their worship as she strutted out of guerrilla and onto the stage, "Judas" pounding through the speakers. She posed from the front, one long leg outstreched then whirled to give them the rear view, peeping back over her shoulder like a lover ready to be taken. Squeezing out some poor strumpet backstage for no crowd short of a fortunate Peeping Tom would have satisfied her just fine, no fanfare needed. But she had always held the belief that if they paid and promoted her for squeezing out whatever strumpet they placed in front of her, like Dixie Dion, she would never utter a peep of complaint.
Spoiler
Delicate steps carried her up, and she, content to torture them with what they couldn't have, threw her head and shoulders back and kicked her leg high to pose beside the ropes. But the show ended shortly after. Brigitte, in the ring, went straight to some practiced stretching, limbering up her lean muscles to better prep them for torturing the woman they planned to feed to her - in an "I Quit" match no less. Intimidated by that? Not in the slightest.
They knew the kind of violence she liked.