Search found 1 match for 48

Iron Sharpens Iron

For obvious reasons, Abattoir was a little jumpy about being approached from behind lately.

Thankfully, the gym was laden with mirrors, and so it was right at the tail end of kick #48, the instant her shin broke contact with the heavy bag and she could afford a split second to take her attention away, that she spotted someone wandering towards her.  Well, no.  Not wandering, approaching with intent.  What was more, she was approaching with intent and making it obvious, like she didn't mind being seen.  Probably a wise move, considering all that'd happened - it meant she didn't want to start something.

That was fine.  Unexpected - people generally didn't approach Abattoir for anything other than 'spot me' or 'my usual partner for hitting mitts isn't here, can we trade off' - but fine.

As the girl drew near, Abattoir committed a cardinal sin and took her focus off the next kick, letting it sort of play out automatically in favor of studying the approaching newcomer.  A little shorter than her.  Solid core.  Thick legs.  Wrestler.  Not the career path, that much was obvious - rather, the strategy, the way she beat people.  It was certainly an effective style; although Abattoir had done well for herself in AFW and was even happy with most of her losses, the more disappointing ones had inevitably come from her being edged out on the ground.  She'd managed to improve as time went on (tapping Georgia Flynn with the Mourn had been immensely satisfying), but, by and large, her enthusiasm often exceeded her skill when it came to the actual wrestling part of pro wrestling.

The wheels turned for a moment.  Did she know this one?  No, with that hair, she was distinctive enough to be memorable.  It was entirely possible that she might've made a name for herself already without Abattoir noticing - the nak muay had little to no interest in the goings-on of AFW that didn't involve orgiastic violence, and in fact had once caused an interviewer no end of frustration by not knowing what an Entropy title was.

At last, the girl paused behind her, offering a calm, measured greeting.  Interesting.  Not brash, but still fearless - generally not the way total strangers idled up to her in her spare time.  "Mmhmm," she confirmed (a totally needless gesture, it was obvious who she was), then threw kick #50 at the bag and turned to face the slightly shorter girl.  ....Huh.  Yeah, she was pretty impressive up close.  You'd think that'd be obvious, since, y'know, pro wrestling, but a shocking portion of the roster was woefully unfit to be in any sort of combat sport and had presumably only gotten in through the casting couch.

Samiya Kusanagi.  The nak muay tasted the name in her mind, let it roll around for a minute.  No, not familiar.  Unusual, though; she didn't look quite as Japanese as the name suggested, but hey, appearances were deceiving.  Abattoir had been mistaken for being Hispanic enough times that she'd inadvertently picked up some Spanish.  Especially in this day and age, ethnicity wasn't really a book you could judge by its cover.

"I, uhh."

Normally, it was in her best interest to be unfriendly, and she probably could've gotten away with it here.  People had a tendency to wither if she stared at them long enough, and eventually got the 'keep your distance' message.  But things had been different lately.  Abattoir was frustrated, caught up in a whirlwind of circumstances that'd proven to be maddeningly far out of her control, and if there was a revelation out there that would guide her through this whole situation, it had so far eluded her.  And so, with a shrug of something approaching resignation, she stretched her arms behind her head and answered Samiya.

"I didn't know I had any fans."

Her voice was a bit muffled in this version of the mask, but it didn't have quite the same ominous reverb.  Just a little more human than usual.