Competitors must complete three steps of a "bingo" card that will have a running tracker on the casino screens - earning one fall by pinfall, one by submission, and one by knockout. Falls count anywhere. After each won fall, the loser of the fall cannot retaliate against the winner for a one-minute domination round. The winner is awarded $50000 as a bonus from the casino sponsorship for winning.
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She came to LAW to fight, to impose order on chaos, yet here she stood, preparing to debut not in the adjacent MMA arena with its proper canvas and cage, but directly on the casino floor. The incessant ding-ding-ding of slot machines leaked through the walls, a cacophony of disorganized noise that threatened to drown out the focus she spent years cultivating. In fact, she ended up lightly kicking the bench as she passed it, but her tension broke with a sigh.
She stopped pacing, pinching the bridge of her nose. She needed to recalibrate.
She ran a mental diagnostic on the rules again. A "Bingo Match." One pinfall, one submission, one knockout. That part, her tactical mind respected; it served as a checklist, a mission parameter requiring the complete dismantling of a target. But the addendum - one minute of unrestricted "freedom" over the opponent after each fall - sat heavy in her gut. It veered dangerously close to the salacious antics Juno raved about. In fact, she had asked Juno to watch from the crowd so she wouldn't have to hear the younger woman rave about the merits of this match ahead of time.
"No, it's not indulgence," she whispered to herself, staring at the ceiling. "You break the spirit, you break the body. Practical." Was she lying to herself? ...Rather than unpack it, she shook her head, forcing the thought back into its box. Focus on the objective: The winner’s bonus. Wrestling had appealed to her for the chance to use her best skills - her fighting skills - to make honest, life-changing money. Tonight proved no exception to her rule.
Brooklyn halted before the full-length mirror to inspect her armor. The woman staring back looked carved from mahogany and granite, her skin oiled to highlight the deep valleys of her abdominals, like the makeup people had asked. A woodland camo bandeau squeezed her chest, offering minimal coverage but maximum mobility, while matching camo hot pants clung tight to her hips and thighs, leaving nothing to the imagination regarding the power stored in her legs. She adjusted the black gloves on her hands, flexing her fingers. She looked efficient. Lethal. But they told her she looked like a potential star, too. She supposed she would take the compliment.
"Showtime," a producer barked from the hallway.
She didn't turn, only slapping her own cheeks in the mirror. "Lock it in, Betts," she commanded her reflection. "No mercy."
"Walk" hit the speakers, the driving, sludge-heavy groove cutting through the casino’s ambient noise. Brooklyn marched through the curtain. Her expression remained locked in a permanent, stone-faced scowl, but her body language screamed ownership. She didn't tunnel-vision the ring; instead, she turned her head slowly, her black eyes sweeping over the high-rollers and tourists, intense. I am the shark, her posture said, and you are all just in the water.
She stalked past the roulette tables, ignoring the catcalls, and approached the ring. She grabbed the middle rope, giving it a violent shake to test the tension, the cables rattling in their turnbuckles. With a sudden burst of athleticism, she vaulted onto the apron and hopped over the top rope, landing in a wide, combat-ready stance. She slowly panned the room, soaking in the fear and the awe, before running over to the ropes and sinking deeply within them, firing a salute toward the hard cam before she bounced back to the middle of the ring and stomped one foot loudly enough to eclipse the cheers, letting them all - and more importantly, Tiffany - know that she came here to be loud.
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