The Post-Game: Helvetica & Beyonce (for Tat)

Helvetica's body quivered visibly, as Beyonce stared her down. Her flesh shook, as she wrapped her arms around her wounded torso, her legs pressing tightly together. Helvetica's hair bristled and waved above her eyes, as she stared back at Beyonce.

"My p-point," she said, allowing a rare quiver to enter into her voice, "is that you're incredible. You're a fighter. A warrior. A legit fucking badass. Buuuut," she said, taking a pause, "you need that extra little something, to get where you're going." Helvetica's hips bucked backwards, but she leaned forward, heaving her upper body close to Beyonce's face as she continued to talk.

"I got to face you because the fans wanted to see it, lady," she said. "Simple as that. Because I know how to play the game. I can cut a promo that makes the fans want to see me fight, even if they've never seen me work a match. If you took my ability to work a mic and, let's say, gave it to someone who could fight like a beast? Fight like you do, maybe? How far do you think someone like that could get? How quickly? Where do you think someone like that could go?"

Beyonce's eyelids drooped as Helvetica continued to ramble. She was so tired of her grating voice. Her hand shot out and she squeezed Helvetica's throat tightly. With no expression on her face, she turned her head and pushed her ear near the red head's lips.

"Bloviating is not you're friend around me. If you haven't said anything worthwhile before you black out, I had better not see you again."

"B-blow-buh-'bloviating?' Whh-huuh-who ... ack ... says, that?" Helvetica backed up, using her good hand to pull back on Beyonce's vice-like grip, to allow herself enough air to get her next (possibly final) few sentences out.

"Luh-look," she rasped, "y-you can fight, you can win!" Helvetica's legs started to pump, a bit, "but you're n-not, a talker! I can t-talk you into the big fights! I-I can promote you! Get you bigger money! You've just got to w-work with me, here!"

Finally Helvetica seemed to get to the point, sort of. Beyonce eyed the "student of the game" very carefully for a brief moment. Some might scoff at the idea of partnering up with someone that they seemed to detest the way Beyonce seemed to detest Helvetica. However, the truth was that Beyonce thought the girl was a waste of space in the ring and while she didn't particularly want to engage Helvetica in polite conversation, she did not detest the girl.

"Very well."

Beyonce said simply and went back to peddling her bike.

Helvetica fell to the floor mats with all the grace of a sack of wet potatoes. "AAOW!" she squealed, her bum arm sending waves of pain through her body as her bottom hit the floor. "Hhhhgnnn!" she hissed, her free arm massaging the pain out of her shoulder.

Red-faced and sweating, chest heaving as she fought to recover her breath, Helvetica looked up at Beyonce. Already, the fighter was back on her bike and peddling. "Like a fuckin' pro," Helvetica muttered, eyes following the fighters well-toned legs as they pumped the peddles.

"O-okay," she grunted, trying to get her breath back, "good call. Just let me make some calls. Just a couple calls, and we'll have you really breaking some bitches down ..." Helvetica tried to scoot up on her bum, a body-racking twitch of pain making her sit back down. "Aow! As-as soon ... as I'm ready. Then ... we're totally doing this."

Beyonce stopped pedaling as Helvetica sputtered and looked over the girl.

"You can do that somewhere else, right?" She said. "Here is my number." She gave Helvetica her phone number and then looked the girl over. "I would much prefer if you texted me what you had in mind. I don't care who I fight, so I'll leave that in your hands along with formalizing our professional relationship."

She wanted to make sure that Helvetica understood Beyonce's emphasis on the word professional.

Helvetica huffed. Sure, she'd gotten exactly what she wanted. Still, it somehow didn't feel exactly like it usually did when she got her way. Like some kind of "compromise" had just happened. It was a new experience. She wasn't sure she liked it.

Still, she took the number without hesitation, then pressed herself against the exercise equipment and propped herself back to her feet. "I was done here, anyway," she muttered. "Too much time in the gym would ruin my figure, anyway ..."

The American brushed her hair out of her eyes with her able arm, and huffed. Her face scrunched, slightly, as Beyonce put that extra emphasis on 'professional.' "Flatter yourself, much?" she muttered, looking down at her feet. Then, at a more conversational volume, she continued. "You just hang tight. Let me work my magic, I'll have you in a banner match before you even know it. Next time you hear- er, read- from me, you're gonna be on the road to your first championship. Standing on top of a pile of broken, undeserving arms!"

Helvetica staggered, slightly, as she left the gym. Her attempts to hide her dizziness failed, but she kept her head high and walked proudly regardless.