***
Match Type: Standard Handicap Match
Victory Conditions: Pinfall, Submission, Knockout, or Disqualification
Victory Conditions: Pinfall, Submission, Knockout, or Disqualification
***
Earlier That Night...
"What do you mean, a handicap match?!?"
and had come here tonight under the impression that this was going to be a tag team match. A hoity-toity bitch and her dumbass brother, both of whom walk around acting like they're God's gift to wrestling, turning up their noses at people who don't fit their little definition of worthy? Yes, please! People like this were among those she looked forward to seeing in the ring the most: That little bit of back and forth that Ami did with her man on Twitter and the footage they reviewed throughout the week before had taken them both back to high school. For the both of them, those were tougher days.
Severin and Keira were matching, to boot. The leather and latex materials, color scheme -- he let her dye his hair. And the man who had once balked at the idea of putting anything in his eyes, even drops to combat a bad allergic reaction during travel to Japan, would give contacts a try.
They knew something was up when they were directed to the Showrunner's office. It was as soon as they entered the arena, right after they left the parking area. That was where they'd find , who was put in charge this week and left with the task of sitting them down to deliver the bad news.
"This was sprung on me too; I wasn't aware of the change in plans until earlier today. The orders came from higher up the chain, and I've been prohibited from making any further changes of my own. If this were my show, things would be different, but..." Her sympathetic eyes travelled between the two. "I'm sorry, guys. My hands are tied here."
Severin breathed a deep sigh and sat back in his chair. "Oh, I should've known they were gonna pull some shit like this."
"Fuckers!" The profanity was punctuated with a fist pounding the wooden desk that stood in front of them, hard enough to make some paperwork leap out of what was once a neat pile. Keira's first instinct was to put it back together, but she stopped herself when Alix beat her to it. She shrank in her seat when she realized: There was probably some kind of specific, required order to it all that she'd just ruined.
"Sorry."
The shame would cut even deeper when she felt Terrell's arm wrapping around her shoulder. He was the one who was going to be walking into the fire later on tonight, and he's giving her comfort? "I'm sorry." She'd bring one of hers around his waist.
"It's alright."
"Yeah. You have every right to be angry. That said, I do have a little bit of good news to report."
"What's up?"
There was a conspiratorial glint in her eyes when she spilled the beans. "There's nothing stopping you from bringing a plus-one to watch the match at ringside."
And just like that, the fire was back in Keira's eyes. This is going to be a tag team match, damn it! Just with extra steps. So close on the same page were the lovers that they'd deliver the same line: "Bet!"/"Bet!"
"Good luck!"
Alix would see them off with a smile. She might not have been able to do much for them, but she was glad to be able to give them something. It was too bad that she likely wouldn't be able to catch the match when it's officially underway; other pressing business beckoned.
Now
The darkened arena would be illuminated by it: On the screens, a bright 3D plasma ball that contained a swirling miasma of vibrant purples, pinks, and blues (with a red warning note for flashing lights in the corner). Each drone would trigger another explosion of light within it, electronic shockwaves that radiated for just a second before it faded, only for the next to spark it back to life. White lightning would flash in the background. The arena proper would be lit up with flickering purple strobe lights, in the same manner would be. Smoke would obscure the stage.
The two would step through it, the purple lining and effects of their gear -- the emblems on the sleeves of their jackets (a domino mask enveloped in electricity), the contacts they wore, the highlights in their hair -- glowing in the darkness that had been beaten back just enough to reveal their shapes, but not their features. Not until a few seconds before the beat came in; that's when the spotlights started flashing. Severin stood in place, hood up, with Keira hanging just a few steps behind him. Those few steps deviated from the entrance they'd gone over days before, the reasoning for which was very simple in her head: This was his match, so he should be getting more of the spotlight.
A camerawoman working the stage came in for a close-up shot that would replace the plasma ball for the viewing pleasure of those in the nosebleeds. Starting at his booted feet as Keira stepped to his side, pulled closer by her waist. Following her beckoning finger to a slow crawl when it reached his chiseled abs and traveled to his chest, eliciting some appreciative hooting and hollering from the ladies, and even some of the fellas. Keira's hand would trail just behind the camera, gradually rising into view. Saying to them all without words, "You can stare. You can ogle. You can drool. But you can't have him." One hand would remove the hood, and the other would cup his chin in between her pointer finger and thumb, guiding his head to the side for a loving smooch before they continued down the ramp, clapping any hands that were held out for them.
"The following contest is a handicap match that is scheduled for one fall! And introducing first, standing at five feet and eight inches and weighing in at one hundred and eighty-five pounds...! From Milwaukee, Wisconsin...! Accompanied by Keira Robinson, Blaaaaaack! Seeeeveriiiin!"
She would take to ringside while, with a few running steps, Severin slid beneath the bottom rope, then kipping up into a three-point landing. Timed just right with the build-up to the beat drop, his hood flying back into place for maximum style. He held the pose. Waited for the second pulse in the build-up, then threw his head back, flipping the hood back off his head, and his dreads from his face so he could make eye contact with the camera outside of the ring. And then some footwork to set up the move that's become a staple of his entrances in the arena: The windmill.
The drop finally hit, and the hard beat and clublike visuals had some fans busting a move, to varying degrees of success. To match the amped up energy the arena had taken on, Severin transitioned to eventually finishing up with a sweet to make his way back onto his feet. He slid his jacket off, brought it around to one side, and tossed it over into the crowd.
Take a deep breath...Then his eyes turned to the stage.
Note
Keira Robinson is being written with permission from ThurmanMermanPlx.
