L.A. Duet

Amy batted her eyelashes innocently right back. “I don’t know what you mean. I was only giving you tips on how to escape the ‘zone. You’re the one bringing roughness and challenges into this.”

Amy grinned; Domino, it seemed, had her read perfectly. She enjoyed his honest reaction to the image, too, enough that she had all but decided to grant him his wish to be her opponent on the outfit's debut match. “You’re right on the money there. Thanks for the nudge. I’m going to write them the email.” She turned the laptop back toward her and started to pretend to type. “... but please… cover… my… navel…”

Then she shut her laptop. The actual email could come later. “I have another question for you, if you’re up for it. It’s about finishers and signature moves. Can you… explain them to me? Like, is it important for wrestlers to have one?”

"Oh, don't you gimme that doe-eyed look," chides Drake. In truth, it was totally adorbs. This girl is all spades so far, which only makes it all the more surprising that she's... well, he'll ask her about that in a minute.

He settles back again to let her write out her e-mail, sipping on the water still in hand. And he nearly snarfs it. "Whaaat? Cover the bellybutton? But that's the best part!" Alas! Though he's pretty sure that was just added to tease him. He's never been that mysterious a person - entirely too open a book for that - so finding the right buttons to push is probably very easy.

Drake lifts to his feet and makes his way around her bed to set the water down by plants. He got tired of holding it. "Signatures are just the moves you like using more than others. And because you use'em so much, you're better at'em. And after you get so comfortable with'em, you put your own twist on the execution. So you probably have a signature or two already and don't even know it. Finishers, on the other hand..." He props his now free hands to his hips. "Those are your best moves. The ones that are strong enough to end a match flat. They're the ones that make people say, 'Oh, crap,' when they see you setting it up, and put the audience on their feet. I've got three of'em, myself."

Amy laughed out loud at Domino’s outburst. He was so fun to tease. “You’re cute. Once I’m out of here, we should totally fight.”

Amy listened intently as he made his way to the foot of the bed. What would be her signatures? She felt like she did little more than rush in and punch and kick until she or her opponent dropped. Could an uppercut be considered a signature move? Maybe a flying knee? She was even more lost on the prospect of finishers. I guess if I could get them in a ground and pound, the fight’s pretty much over… though she wasn’t sure that that was the sort of move an audience would have time to get excited about.

Amy perked up at Drake’s last bit. “Oh? You’re so good, you’ve got three game-enders, huh? What are they?”

"That's how you show affection, isn't it?," teases Drake. He takes ahold of the foot of her bed and leans forward, casting her another one of those playfully flirty, half-lidded looks. "Or you're just looking for an excuse for me to pin ya."

They've got a nice back and forth, he realizes. They've yet to hit a snag in conversation, and neither of them knew anything about the other before just a while ago. She's fun, pretty, and engaging. He can't wait to see what she looks like when she's not been loitering in a hospital and wearing a very unflattering, bland gown.

When she asks her next question, he straightens his back and folds his hands behind his back in a decidedly sagely manner. "I've got one for three different styles. Power - which is probably my most popular one - is a belly-to-belly flipping piledriver. Spike someone's head down with that and they stay down. I've never had someone buck out of a pin after that. Then I've got a high-flying finisher called the Falling Star. Y'know what a moonsault is? Basically, I leave someone lying on the mat on their back, climb a turnbuckle, and backflip off. I slam my abs," he pauses to tug up the hem of his shirt, allowing a glimpse of his sleekly-toned abdominals, "across their stomach. Audiences love the high-risk stuff, and the victim's in too much pain to even get a shoulder up!" The shirt drops again.

He strolls around the foot of her bed to stand beside her. "And then there's the Sterling Stretch, my submission finish. I tangle myself with someone for an abdominal stretch..." He pauses. How much of a noob is she, anyway? "if you know what one of those are, the effect is basically in the name. Anyway! While their body's contorted to the side and their stomach's completely vulnerable, I dig my fingers into their abs and clench." He gives a wicked little smile and raises a hand to demonstrate, crooking his fingers. "If they weren't a screamer before that, it usually doesn't take long for'em to become one. I've only had one person not submit to that."

Amy bared her teeth. “Yup. Nothing says, ‘I love you’ from me quite like a fist to the chin. Wait,” Amy’s thoughts turned suddenly to Daisuke, and she made a face. “Ew, no, never mind. My punches are righteous yet dispassionate. But yeah, pins, um…” Rattled from her previous intrusive thought, she found herself at a loss, and her window for a comeback drew to a close. “...damn. You win this round, Dom.”

She nodded as Drake went into lecture mode. Amy really didn’t know the minutiae about her chosen profession, so she found it very helpful to have the moves explained to her in detail. When Drake lifted his shirt, though, Amy had to hide her smile with her cup. Guys had all sorts of ‘subtle’ ways to show off their bodies to her, and she was familiar with this particular move; usually the story was that there was a scar or tattoo that she just had to see. Yes, Drake had some pretty nice abs, and yes, she was looking forward to seeing everything else he was hiding under that shirt. For now, though, Amy found it more cute than sexy.

She’d have been lying though if she said that Drake’s menu of finishers wasn’t at least a little titillating. He was really selling the moves, too; Amy wasn’t intimidated by Domino in the slightest, but she could tell that he really knew his business, and any fight between them would be one to remember. She let her mind wander as she watched him hold up a dangerous-looking claw, wondering if she had it in her to be escapee number two.

When Domino finished his presentation, Amy looked up into his eyes and grinned. “Thanks, Drake, this was very illuminating. You won’t get any of those off on me, so I’m glad that I got to learn about your finishers in this way, at least.”

"Dom?," he asks with a wide grin. She's the second person to start calling him that; and the other person is one he'd just met before Amy. But he doesn't dwell on it.

"Y'know who else thought that?," asks Drake. "Everyone else I wrestled. So let's hope you come around to the idea! If you tell me which one you'd rather be put through, I'll make sure that's the one I finish ya off with. Otherwise, you'll just have to settle for whichever I give ya." As if to emphasize the point, he lands his index finger square on the tip of her nose.

Boop.

"So, since you're all Friction-y, and you're wanting to wrestle me, would I be the first guy you squared off with? Would I be the only guy you go against?," he asks, adopting that mirthful smile of his again.

Amy, of course, had no way of knowing that. "Don't like Dom? I could call you something else. Skippy, maybe."

Amy scrunched up her nose when Drake booped her with his finger, but inside, her excitement was boiling over. On top of everything else, it turned out that Drake was cheeky, and he was cocky, traits she was learning that she really loved in the guys she fought. If she was looking forward to their match before, now she was really chomping at the bit. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to be free of this hospital bed and throw down right now. Damn her knee!

Her frustration with her injury notwithstanding, Amy felt good enough to give a laugh. "Aren't you a dear? Well, if it comes down to it, so long as I get the choice..." she let her eyes linger around Drake's midsection. "...I might not hate getting finished off by your Falling Star."

Drake was apparently feeling the anticipation, too; he sounded downright giddy with the idea of monopolizing her Tension experience. Amy smiled. Again: cute. She almost didn't want to set him straight. "Yup, just you. Oh and I guess the guy I just fought in my AFW debut that you watched. Aannndd every other person I fought here at the AFW so far. I'm technically on the Friction roster, but officially I fight for both brands. They just haven't put me up against any girls yet, and, frankly, I'm not in any rush to hunt them down. I'm taking things as they come, and so far, those things have been all dudes." Amy stretched out her legs as best she could. What she wouldn't give to be able to stand right now. "Really, I've got half a mind to switch to Tension full-time. It would free my week up some, not having to go to two tapings. Give me more time to sightsee, you know? Plus, I could move closer, and I wouldn't have to commute all the way out here whenever I'm on the match card. The problem is that I don't want to limit myself to a single gender of fighter; there are some kickass girls in Friction that I'd love the chance to tangle with, so I suck it up and go to both." Amy reached out and rubbed his shoulder. "But don't let that make you feel any less special. I like you, Skip, and I'm looking forward to getting froyo with you after I kick your ass up and down the ring."

"Aw, hells naw, not Skippy," protests Drake. Dom wasn't bad, but... ah, maybe he's hoping for too much in terms of nicknames. Heck, it could be worse than Skippy. She could try to make it hyper-cool and start calling him Laser or something, just to be facetious, and make him sound like a Global Gladiator straight out of the '80s. The thought gets an internal cringe. 'Eugh...'

The teen tracks her gaze down to his midsection, then back to her face with a knowing grin. "I'll keep that in mind. I don't get to use it enough as it is." And it's nice to know hard work is appreciated, if even in an odd way. "But if I'm gonna use that, I have to make sure you're good'n beaten so you don't get squirrely on me in the middle of it." He reaches down to 'scritch' a fingertip beneath her chin, as if doting on her. "Hope ya don't mind."

And then he all but recoils. Oh. Oh. She's fought guys before. He actually knew that. Crap, that was even one of the matches he saw before he came here. "Ah, geeze," mutters Drake, cheeks starting to tint. He directs those dark eyes of his aside and brushes a hand over the back of his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, I totally knew that already. I'm retarded." He was just too anxious to do the play-flirt thing with her and managed to munch on his own foot. Lamesauce.

The hand drops from his neck and his eyes move to the hand on his shoulder, then back to her face. "Is that your idea of comfort food?," he asks. A smile finds its way back onto his face - it's a natural look for him, even if this particular one is teasing in nature. "If not, we might wanna change plans. You're gonna need some after the match."

Amy shrugged her shoulders helplessly. “Too late. In my mind now, you’re Domino, Drake, Skippy, Skip, Skipper, and any other variations therein. Sorry buddy, but I don’t make the rules.”

Amy felt a cold thrill cross the back of her neck. Did he suspect? Getting squirrelly in the middle of it was exactly what she was planning to do. No, good, it looked like he was just talking trash. Still, Amy made sure not to have any visible outward reaction. She played along, raising her chin to allow easier access for Drake’s finger and lightly wagging her backside like there was a tail at the end. It was nice to be doted on. “Do what you think you got to do. I’ll do my best not to make it too easy for you.”

Drake’s bit about comfort food was a taunt, Amy got that, but her eyes lit up anyway. “I’d kill for a good taco. I can’t find decent Mexican here to save my life. Know a place?”

As one might suspect, Drake only pulls out the Falling Star on someone he's thoroughly worked over. It hurts, and it tends to keep the victim grounded. He'd fully expect someone to pull whatever they could to avoid it! ...If they had any gas left in the tank.

But look at that, she's a-wigglin'. It's cute. "I'm sure you will," he coos.

The question dulls his expression until it's in full-on skepticism mode. "Decent Mexican. In Japan," he repeats back to her. "No. But they have a ridiculous amount of Kentucky Fried Chicken out here. Did'ja notice? And apparently it's a thing they do on Christmas; everyone gets KFC. I haven't been able to wrap my head around that one."

His eyes suddenly light up. "Ooh, hey, is there anything you want now? Any cravings? You might not be mobile, but I am! Want me to pick up what they consider a burger out here?"