Crista Zhang vs. Anesthesia - Learning the Ropes

”3!”

If Anesthesia heard the referee’s count, she didn’t show any signs of concern, wth little hurry to get inside the ring. She was having far too much fun at the moment for that.

”We could’ve made such music together, dear.” She cooed after the hard slap reddened Crista’s face. ”We still can. I could make you so much more than you are. But first…” Another hard slap, right across the face. ”...you have to submit.”

”4!”

Despite Aneshtesia’s convincing, Crista remained defiant, striking back with a stiff forearm that collided against the Dark Nightingale’s face. She staggered back, irritated, and sneered at her stubborn foe. Wanting to continue the lesson, she took a step forward…

”5!”

...but then a better idea occurred to her. With a wry grin, she rolled back into the ring and stood up, saving herself from a countout. Crista, however, was still in danger. She would try to roll in with that bad leg of hers, which would put her in the precarious position of entering the ring and leaving herself prone. Quite the conundrum.

Anesthesia folded her arms and paced about, curious to see what Crista’s next move would be.

That Dr. Cutter continued to sweet-talk like some bedroom dominatrix while she slapped Crista in the face continued to confuse and distress her. Nearly to the point that Crista wanted to lash out and demand to know what she really wanted. Yes, the doctor may have been making it painfully clear what she wanted, but she had never met anyone who sounded so...so...

Devious about it. Crista wanted plain speech, not this poetry. And not to be slapped in the face or pulled by the hair. The doctor could stomp and punch and slam and squeeze her all she wanted. That was part of the sport. This, though...these strikes and the taunting felt like something different. Her cheeks shone red from the impacts, and from the shame of being handled.

Her frustration came out in her sloppy upswing, but the forearm struck and brought her a welcome freedom from the strain on her roots. With that reprieve, she leaned back, rubbing a hand over the top of her head to soothe it and blinking to send away the wetness brought on by the slaps. No time to worry with such minor issues, though. She had to defend herself, and brought up her forearms to do it.

But the doctor left. Retreated. Got back in the ring. Crista stared at her with knit eyebrows, wondering why the devil she would be pulling back when her opponent was disoriented and still aching. The ref's shouting a "Six!" clued her in. Apparently, the woman in stripes had seen enough of the two of them battling outside of the ring.

Four more seconds. Crista straightened and watched the doctor for any of her own dives through the ropes (she didn't seem the type, to be honest), using the reprieve to take stock of her ailments. Her shoulders, which she massaged with her fingers, hurt, but not enough to be more than a distraction when she moved them. The hair and slaps wouldn't be a problem in another minute. "Seven!" The knee...that still didn't feel great, as she tilted her weight against it. Probably going to inflame and swell. But she could use it without it collapsing on her, she believed, even if it would throb every time she put pressure on it.

Right, that was the whole of it. Nothing else to be done. The doctor was waiting.

Crista moved as the call of "Eight!" came, and she tested the assaulted knee by planting and pushing forward on it. It hurt, but she willed herself not to wince or let it slow her. She couldn't let the doctor near it.

She pushed off on her other foot to propel herself into a slide beneath the bottom rope, leading with her intact side. No doubt, the doctor would be right on top of her. She tried to rapidly rise, grabbing the middle rope.

Watching from the audience, Sista A could see why Anesthesia had been so dead set on getting this girl to join their crew. They needed fresh blood if they wanted to make big moves in the AFW, real muscle, and this woman certainly had a lot of that - centered around her lower body, yeah, but still. A lot of energy, good raw skill, and young enough that you could count on gullibility to manipulate her...in theory. Didn’t seem like it was working out that way, 100%. Which meant that she might’ve abandoned the ‘evil recruitment plan’ and moved onto the ‘turn this woman into an example to all those who oppose me’ plan. Less lucrative, but more fun.

Whatever the case, the match was still going, and it seemed like Anesthesia had seized control for a precious moment. She stood there, checking her nails, whistling, looking like she didn’t have a care in the world. In a way, she didn’t. Yes, Crista’s legs were deadly weapons, but that would mean little problem if she didn’t get the chance to use them. Even better, if she couldn’t use them at all.

The Dark  Nightingale tapped her foot on the canvas, waiting for Crista to re-enter. Her options were limited - stay out and be defeated, or come in and be clobbered. Maybe, maybe, she could’ve rolled in and rolled out fast enough to reset the count and avoid an attack, but she doubted her younger opponent would be so shrewd. No, she was coming in.

Sure enough, Crista came into the ring, and sure enough, it was a slow, arduous affair for her, giving Anesthesia plenty of time to pounce. She moved in as the leggy wrestler pulled herself up by the middle rope, balled her hands together, raised them over her head, and brought them both down hard on her foe’s back, looking to level her with a crushing hammer blow to the spine. ”Stay. Down.”

Crista doubted she would have any better luck getting into the ring if she hadn't been a step slower. The ropes had too much give for her to use them for leverage to rapidly pull herself to her feet, and Dr. Cutter's footsteps rattled the canvas behind her before she could get her other leg beneath her and properly get up.

Dr. Cutter's formless shadow in the lights loomed over her, and the leggy woman tensed and tingled from anticipation before the blow even struck her. When it did, two fists crashing against the middle of her back, she cried out at to the deep, dull pain that blossomed from her spine. She stumbled forward, wincing and resisting an urge to grab at her back, for what little good it would do.

A fit of stubbornness and frustration struck her. She would not and did not obey Dr. Cutter's demands to stay down, and she held tightly to the rope. Whatever the doctor wanted from her, Crista hadn't come to AFW, or into this match, just to be beaten down, or pulled by the hair, or have whatever other punishment the doctor wanted performed on her.

Forgoing what was wise, Crista let her irritation drive her. Growling through clenched teeth, she threw her shoulder at the doctor's lower legs, trying to knock her down or stumble her or do anything that would give her some space.

Anesthesia hated this.

Not the violence, of course. That, she loved. There were precious few pleasures in life more enjoyable that bringing the disobedient to heel, and she prided herself on the many broken bodies that laid in her wake. Crista would be joining them, if she didn’t realize the futility of her struggle soon.

The hammer blow did its job, dropping Crista to the mat with a satisfying strike. Anesthesia intend to make sure she would stay there for a while, too, as she raised her foot and prepared to make good use of her high heels…

That stomping session would have to wait, however, because her foe wasn’t quite as subdued as Anesthesia would’ve liked. With a surprising burst of strength, the woman rose up and slammed her battering ram of a shoulder into the Dark Nightingale’s legs, hitting with enough force to take her legs out from under  her and send her down to the mat, falling on her hands and knees.

Next to Crista. Within reach of her.

Realizing the peril, she crawled forward at a feverish pace, hoping to reach the ropes in time to gain sanctuary.