The locker room air hummed with tension as Sequana glared up at Ivan, her fingers twitching toward the baseball bat he held just beyond her grasp. Her neck hurt a little as she tilted her chin upwards to the taller man, that familiar smirk playing at the corners of her mouth even as irritation flickered in her eyes.
"Mon Dieu," she purred, her voice dripping with mock offense, though the French accent did little to hide the genuine annoyance beneath. "You really are no fun, vous savez?" She shifted her weight onto one hip, the motion deliberate—as if posing for an imaginary camera rather than standing in this cramped, fluorescent-lit space. "What kind of partner denies his teammate proper... protection?"
Ivan let out an exasperated sigh, his blue eyes narrowing as he stared down at the diminutive French girl. The bat was still held firmly above her reach—she'd have to jump if she wanted it back, which seemed unlikely given the significant height difference between them.
"A protection? You little shit," he muttered, the nickname slipping out easily. His free hand came up to rub at the bridge of his nose, a gesture that spoke volumes about how much he was already regretting this partnership. "Standard match means no weapons unless approved. You think I wanna get docked pay 'cause my partner can't follow rules?"
Sequana's eyes lit up with a mischievous glint, and she took a small step closer to Ivan, tilting her head with practiced coyness. Her hands clasped behind her back in a deceptively innocent pose.
"Oh, mais non..." she protested, her voice taking on a pouty lilt that could charm most men—and certainly had before. "Surely we can come to some arrangement, n'est-ce pas?" Her fingers drummed against her spine in what appeared to be idle habit, until one hand slipped something cool and metallic from the her sleeves, clattering into the floor.
She began sweating.
Ivan's eyes widened slightly, tracking the metal object as it clattered to the linoleum floor. A knuckle duster. Of course it was a fucking knuckle duster. He looked down at the object, then back up at Sequana with an expression that could only be described as utter disbelief mixed with growing amusement.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," he said before lunging at her.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The sound of objects scattering across the locker room floor accompanied each shake as Ivan hoisted Sequana upside down by her ankles like a sack of potatoes.
"Mmmph!" she squeaked, her arms flailing as she tried desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. One hand grabbed at the floor for purchase, the other reaching upward in a futile attempt to grab Ivan's leg. "Put. Me. Down! This is très impolite!"
Despite being suspended off the ground, upside down, she somehow managed to keep that infuriating smirk plastered across her features. Though it did waver slightly when several more items tumbled out of her pockets—another set of knuckledusters, what looked suspiciously like a switchblade, and finally, wrapped carefully in a small cloth...
A bottle of pills. Probably from the clinic.
"Just one," Sequana bargained, her voice strained as blood rushed to her head. She dangled helplessly, watching her stash scatter below like confetti. "I promise, mon cher. Just le petit chose."
When Ivan didn't immediately relent, her cheeks flushed deeper—for reasons that had nothing to do with the inverted position.
"And... et bien..." she added quickly, voice dropping lower as memory colored her words. "You owe me, non? From the audition? When you... when you took—"
Slip...
Another item tumbled free from beneath her sarashi wrap—the telltale bulge of more concealed weapons, now visible to anyone looking closely enough.
A strip search ensued.
"A FREAKING CHEST PLATE!!!"
Ivan's voice cracked with incredulity as he lift up the hidden piece of armor. The thing was heavy, clearly military-grade, and somehow this slip of a girl had been hiding it beneath her chest bindings without him noticing.
"How?! HOW?!" He waved the plate around frantically, nearly smacking it against a nearby locker. "Did you bring a goddamn bulletproof vest to a wrestling match?!"
Sequana answered with a punch to the face, she didn't appreciate being stripped bare even if it's her fault.
A few minutes later....
Ivan walked alongside Sequana down the ramp, his jaw tight with barely contained frustration. That black eye she'd given him during their pre-match warm-up—"accidental," my ass—was already swelling nicely, darkening from purple to deep plum.
He kept a firm grip on her wrist, partly to make sure she didn't pull any more surprises out of thin air, partly because he knew she'd try to slip away the second she got a chance.
Little shit, he thought grimly.
The crowd roared as they stepped through the ropes, and Ivan couldn't help but notice how different they must look as a pairing. Him, tall and broad-shouldered, and street scuffles turned scars. And her... tiny, elegant, probably hiding three more weapons somewhere under that outfit despite his best efforts.
"This is gonna be a disaster," he muttered under his breath, loud enough for only Sequana to hear.
Before Ivan could even finish speaking, Sequana had already slipped past him and darted across the ring with surprising speed. The crowd roared as she launched herself off the ropes, giving Ivan a smirk.
She's fighting first.
