Two out of three standard falls. After a fall, the winner of the fall can take "creative control" of the opponent for three minutes, ordering her to do whatever the fall's winner demands, excluding hentai. The loser of a fall who refuses these demands forfeits the match.
The girl in the mirror looked the part.
She was dressed in emerald green, the synthetic fabric hugging every curve of her athletic frame, a faux-necktie pinned perfectly in place to give her that "writer but make it anime" aesthetic. Her ponytail was high and tight, her makeup flawless. She looked like a superhero.
But Gabby Soto knew better.
She leaned in closer to the glass, staring into her own brown eyes, and she could practically hear Alicia’s voice screaming from the reflection. “What the fuck are you doing, Gabriella?”
It was a fair question. Actually, it was the only question. She had agreed to a match - no, she had suggested a match - where the rules explicitly stated that her opponent could tell her to do whatever the heck she wanted if she lost a fall. "Creative Control," she had called it. It sounded so empowering in the writer’s room of her brain, a fun narrative device to raise the stakes. In reality? It was terrifying to be at the precipice.
She buried her face in her hands, letting out a muffled groan. This could go so wrong. This could be humiliating. She could end up clucking like a chicken, or stripping, or... doing things that belonged in her private drafts folder, not on live television. But beneath the nausea of nerves, she retained a spark, that treacherous little flicker of invigoration. She was doing it. She was living the kind of bold, ridiculous, high-stakes scene she usually only typed out for strangers on the internet.
“Okay. Okay, Chapter One. The Protagonist enters the scene. She is brave. She is not going to throw up.”
She shook her hands out - a gymnast’s habit to loosen the wrists - and marched toward gorilla before she could talk herself out of it.
The first beats of Amaranthe hit the speakers. Gabby stepped through the curtain, and the wall of sound hit her. It wasn't a stadium roar, but it was a solid, appreciative swell for a still relative newcomer. They liked the look if nothing else. She paused at the top of the ramp, stopping to pop a hip and wave, before she advanced. Drawing on her dance background, she moved with a rhythmic, gliding grace, spinning a slow pirouette that flared her hair out like a cape before pointing a dramatic finger toward the ring - her stage.
She slid under the bottom rope, popped to her feet with a fluid kip-up, and hopped onto the turnbuckle to pose, extending her arms wide as if opening a book for the audience. See? Confident. Poised. In control. But as she hopped down and the music faded, the reality of her opponent settled in. Gwen.
Gabby didn't know much about the woman, but she had seen the pictures. Black leather. Lots of it. In Gabby’s experience - which, admittedly, was mostly with Alix - leather told a specific story. Alix was nice. Alix was a professional. But Gwen? Gwen was an unknown variable in a match designed to exploit variables.
Gabby bounced on the balls of her feet, shaking out her legs, trying to look ready for a fight rather than a flight. She had written this plot. She had challenged the narrative. Now she just had to hope she hadn't written herself into a tragedy.
Spoiler
