Forcible Entry (for acuya)

Styx appeared to be under the impression that if it came to 'everything burns' (the Abattoir Imperative, which sounded sort of like one of those novels with Jason Bourne, the little fighter thought), she'd be lighting a match and stepping back to watch. It was a cute notion, one Abattoir didn't feel particularly compelled to disabuse her of. All that it meant to side with her was to be the last one against the wall.

Then again, Styx clearly had at least some idea of what lay down this road, judging from what she was saying. Abattoir's eyes flicked open again at the mention of the "pool of hentai", but she hadn't quite managed to get the question out before Styx shut it down...which, in the scheme of things, was probably for the best. Ugh.

"Deal."

As arrangements went, this was fairly agreeable. For the time being, there were bigger fish to fry - when that was no longer the case, when it stopped being a convenient alliance, neither of them were under any illusions as to what would happen. Abattoir had basically no tolerance for deception, subterfuge, or even polite little niceties, so this was about as good as it was going to get. There they were, then: the revolution, or the apostasy, or whatever you wanted to call them.

"What's our first step?"

Truthfully, the first step was probably to get herself booked, which would now require sitting through a long lecture and probably a fine of some kind, but eh, she'd skip cryotherapy for a couple weeks. Either way, it'd be important to make an impression soon. Styx was more familiar with how AFW worked, though, so it'd be best to get her opinion.

Working with someone to accomplish a common goal - this was a new thing for Styx. Before, she'd always had enough muscle to get the job done herself and accomplish her goals. Before, no one would've worked with her if she'd even bothered to ask. She hadn't needed help. Hadn't wanted it.

But her plans were wide and long and she was going up against people who had deep-rooted relationships. Pissing off someone in the AFW inevitably meant pissing off several people that person was connected. Styx was big, strong, ruthless, and willing to get the job done at all costs, but the cold, hard fact was that she would need backup. Everyone else had it, and she wouldn't risk coming into a fight gimped.

"Deal." It almost felt like there should be a shake or something, but neither of the seemed like the type for the gesture. Not nescessary, anyway. They perfectly understood each other, and there was an odd sort of trust, knowing that neither of them were the type to hide their motivations in a situation like this.

"First step?" Styx plopped back on her ass, hard and heavy enough to make the van shake when she did. She picked up Abattoir's mask and inspected it as she talked, almost wishing she'd thought of the idea, first. She never did have a good mind for the theatre aspect. "We start beating the shit out of people, simple as that. Preferably the little media darlings that management like so much. I got a few names, I'll figure out where to start."

She laid the mask back at Abattoir's side, then glanced up. "You got a match, yet?"

Abattoir leaned back, staring at the van's ceiling as Styx examined her mask.  With the painkillers thoroughly settled into her system, her stare was no longer quite as steady - the blinks now came erratically, in little machine-gun bursts.  Three or four at a time.  All was well at the moment.  She probably owed the other woman one, really, in light of the generous narcotic donation.

Inspecting the workmanship on the blood-smeared object, Styx discovered that despite its appearance, it wasn't actually a respirator at all.  It was a pulmonary resistance mask - more like a form-fitting neoprene sleeve, designed to cover Abattoir's mouth and nose, with a set of air exchange valves on either side.  The idea behind the device was to increase the effort required to breathe properly, sort of like a workout for the diaphragm and lung strength/capacity.  Judging from how the dials were set, Abattoir was getting about 70% as much air as a normal person putting forth the same amount of effort.

Well, when it was on, at least.  Right now she was getting plenty, considering it was off and she was in the middle of pupil-dilated wonderland.

"I think," she began, "I was supposed to get one lined up after orientation, but, uh."  Well, they both knew how that had turned out.  "I'll arrange one soon enough."

For now, Styx had some ideas as to who their first victims should be.  Give it time, Abattoir figured, and she'd get something resembling a plan of action together.

"Make an impression, probably."

Styx wasn't too knowledgeable about medical machines like this, but she could infer enough about the mask to wonder why Abattoir bothered wearing it. She had thought it was just an accessory, that it modulated her voice and made her sound menacing. Not to Styx, of course - she just thought it sounded cool, really. But most of the little frilly bubbleheaded bitches in the back would freak out over it. Instant intimidation.

But, no, this thing was actually making breathing difficult for her. Considering her chosen profession, that seemed counterintuitive. But, then, Styx had only recently stopped smoking three packs a day and her lungs probably looked like they were laced with coal, so she was hardly the woman to talk on proper respiratory health.

"You'll make an impression, no matter what happens." Styx closed her eyes, picturing the scene as Abattoir made her way down the ramp. Clear as day. "They'll boo you before you even do anything. They booed me, too. We don't fit their pretty little paradigm of what a wrestler should be. We're not cute, we're not smiling, we're not flashing our breasts to get a few good photo-ops. We're the bad guys, and they want to see us get beaten down."

She rolled her head to tehside, suddenly feeling a little too drowsy to properly lift it up. Probably a good idea to go to sleep, take a nap and let it wear off before she went driving. "My advice? Whoever it is, whoever they put you up against, destroy her. Do to her what you want to do to me. Give them a taste of what's coming. That's how this all starts. We take them apart, one by one by one."

"Got it."

'Wreck whoever they gave her' had pretty much always been the plan, so it was good to see that they were basically on the same track there. Abattoir accepted her mask back from Styx and slid it over her mouth, and right on cue, her breathing slowed down to a nice, manageable, relaxed rate. Perfect.

It'd been sort of an unusual circumstance. The version of the mask she wrestled in was entirely cosmetic (and made of thicker rubber and plastic, making hitting her in the face a risky proposition). This one was usually worn while training - which, on reflection, explained why she'd tired out so quickly while fighting Styx earlier.

For now, they had a short-term goal, which was more than Abattoir usually had. She wasn't the type to wax poetic about goals or methods or...really much of anything, and tended to mince words whenever possible, so it came as no surprise that while Styx drifted off, she was already opening the door and hopping out of the van.

"I'll be in touch," she said, testing her balance on each leg and finding it pleasantly tolerable to walk on the knee she'd banged up. "Yeah?"

How exactly, she wasn't sure. Texts, probably. Or dropping from the heavens on wires like a god in a Greek play. Yeah, that was definitely a close second, as far as options went. Truthfully, the morphine was kind of affecting her thought process at the moment, which for someone with an already-loose grasp on rationality was more than a little labyrinthine. Or liberating. She wasn't totally sure.

...Probably liberating, though.

Styx winced as Abattoir opened the door and let the sunlight, her eyes already getting too sensative in the darkness. Should've expected it - it wasn't like she was going to stay in her van and sleep off the high. Not that she would've cared all that much if her 'new best friend' did, but things were already weird enough between them without having impromptu slumber parties.

"Keep in touch?" Oh, right, they did not some way to coordinate, did they? Wrestlers had a funny way of running into each other in this town, but it wasn't something she could count on. Styx shuffled around a bit before reaching under the pile of crap and digging around. She found one of her burner flip phones and tossed it over to Abattoir. Her aim might've been a little bit off, too far to the right, but it'd survive the crash.

"Just put your number in there, I'll get with you after your first match and set some stuff up." She retook her position, laying against the side of the van. "And I know a few guys who know a few guys who know a few guys that can get more of the good stuff. If you're having some trouble getting lit." Styx knew from personal experience how difficult it could be to find the proper ingredients in Japan. No harm in spreading the love, right? Besides, if things got as rough as she planned, they'd both need the release.

She gave a little wave as she started to drift off again. "Don't be a stranger."[/color]

The phone sailed over Abattoir's shoulder, collided with the open door of the van, and plummeted. Thankfully, she snatched it out of the air before it could hit the pavement. Comments on Styx's aim went totally unspoken; to be honest, in her current state she doubted she could've aimed it much better.

"Right." Paging through the contacts list, she entered a number in and tagged it as 'Abattoir'. Someone who felt they had more to prove might've tried to do something clever ("why am I getting a call from 'Worst Nightmare'?"), but as it was, the fighter simply closed Styx's phone and slid it back over to her across the floor. Expecting her to catch it probably would have been a bit much.

"I'll be around."

With that, she closed the door, turned, and limped off on the long journey to Lot C. Plenty of time to think about things, morphine-clouded though her mind was. Abattoir let out a sigh - not an annoyed or sad one, just thoughtful. Contemplative.

What a day it'd been.