The crowd was roaring for blood as Ava climbed up the three-foot side wall of the ring, ready to see who she was going to be punching to death.
What confused her, however, was that there seemed to be nobody else in the ring but her and the announcer (slash referee). The crowd died down slightly, and Ava walked over to close the distance between herself and the wielder of the almighty microphone, a look of deep annoyance plastered across her face.
“The fuck is this?” Ava asked when she reached full earshot. “Where’s my opponent?”
The announcer moved her microphone to her lower body, to keep it from picking up the conversation.
“It’s his gimmick,” the announcer muttered. “He’ll show up, don’t worry.”
“What, his gimmick is being late!?” Ava said. “The fuck kind of gimmick is that?”
Ava, unlike the announcer, was not making any efforts to lower her voice, and the microphone picked up every word of her annoyance. The crowd, interpreting it as trash-talk and being much more aware of what Ava was about to face than she was, shifted in their seats and made vaguely anxious noise; Ava picked up on this, and decided that she was gonna have a little fun.
“You need to fill some time until this guy decides he’s gonna show up, and I’ve got the crowd. Mind if I cut a promo?” she muttered to the announcer, this time keeping her voice low.
“I’m sorry, mind if you what a what?” the announcer said through gritted smiling teeth.
“Y’know, like on WWE. The whole thing where one guy gets in the ring and starts trash-talking the guy he’s about to have a match with,” Ava explained, a little surprised that the announcer didn’t know wrestling.
“You know what, fuck it, that actually fits this guy’s thing,” the announcer muttered, handing the microphone over to Ava. “Just don’t make me look like an asshole.”
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Meanwhile, Sam was on the sidelines, practically hugging the wall of the arena near where he’d walked in; he’d had to move out as far as possible to even be able to see over the edge of the ring very well, and the number of people in the stands who had been hooting for blood when Ava had walked up was giving him more anxiety than he had expected it to.
He couldn’t hear Ava and the announcer talking amongst themselves, but what the microphone had picked up was enough to make him, too, very worried. He hadn’t looked at the standings, and it wouldn’t have helped much if he had, since he didn’t know any of the competitors outside of their little team and Konstantinov; however, he had his Code of Sense to rely on, and it picked up something big coming. Ava was almost certainly in trouble, and throwing rocks at the hornet’s nest was not going to help.
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Ava took stock of the dead crowd for a second, trying to decide how, exactly, she wanted to play this. She wasn’t a huge wrestling fan, but she’d caught enough WWE as a kid, and it had been formative enough, that she knew she had a few options; this was, for all intents and purposes, going to be the crowd’s first impression of her, and they seemed undecided enough that she could go in pretty much any direction she wanted.
She grinned and decided she was just going to full-on go for it, and try to play the face to the mystery man’s heel.
“You know somethin’?” she asked, yelling into the microphone. “You don’t have to remind me and my Avamaniacs that here on Isla Refugia, we’re gonna face the ultimate challenge, brother.”
A few people in the crowd started laughing a little, and a couple started booing; she wasn’t being entirely original here, and the crowd had enough people who were much bigger wrestling fans than she was that some of them caught onto it. Others, however, started cheering for her.
“When we crossed the border from the United States to… wherever the fuck this is, I passed by the arena, brother,” she continued, in the best Hogan impression she could muster. “I saw what was in front of me, man. I saw the greatest arena of all time, where the ultimate challenge will take place. And as we pulled up, brother, nothing but stark raving Avamaniacs were there to greet me at the dock. Nothing but positive vibes, man!”
Some people in the crowd muttered disbelief at the concept of an Avamaniac. A growing proportion of the crowd was starting to get genuinely wrapped up in this. Ava prayed to whatever God was above her that the actual Hulk Hogan wasn’t in the crowd anywhere; in response, a finger on the monkey’s paw curled.
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Sam, meanwhile, was burying his face in his hands. Even if this was working, somehow, he felt like it made both him and Ava look like absolute idiots. He, too, was praying to God that the actual Hulk Hogan was nowhere near this arena.
As if to represent a burning middle finger from God himself, the loudspeakers through which the microphone audio was piped began to ring out with music.
Specifically, the loudspeakers rang out with Rick Derringer.
“I am a real American,” the speaker sang in a slightly nasal, processed voice. “Fight for the rights of every man…”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Oh God, no,” Sam said.
“I am a real American,” the speaker repeated. “Fight for what’s right, fight for your life!”
“Fuck me, fuck me, God damn it, no, no, no,” Sam said, holding his hands against the sides of his head.
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Ava, too, was… nonplussed at this development, to put it very mildly. She sheepishly handed the microphone back to the announcer, who was grinning like an idiot, as if she had seen this coming a mile away.
As the song’s guitar riff kicked in, a man who did, in fact, very much appear to be Hulk Hogan began running out of the opposite entrance, to much cheering and ado from the audience.
“You’ve gotta be fucking shitting me,” Ava muttered under her breath.
“Yeah, good job,” the announcer muttered back. “Did you do that on purpose?”
“What?” Ava asked, gritting her teeth, as the man with a blonde, stringy, long monk-dime, a bleach-blonde handlebar mustache, rippling muscles, and a yellow bandana on his head that said “WOLFAMANIA” began climbing up the edge of the ring, flexing as much as he could.
Wait… Wolfamania? Ava thought to herself.
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“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Sam muttered to himself. He’d initially pegged Konstantinov as the Parasite Tournament’s Hulk Hogan based solely on the fact that he seemed to dominate the merchandise and had been the champion for fifty years; he wasn’t expecting them to have a literal knockoff Hulk Hogan waiting in the wings.
What’s more, this guy seemed… strong. He didn’t have multiple Codes, like some of the people they’d fought so far, but the one he did have gave Sam a migraine if he didn’t actively block it out. And Ava had just essentially copied his bit, so chances are he was pissed.
He hoped that, at least, this one wasn’t going to be as racist as the genuine article.
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The mystery Hogan forcefully pulled the microphone away from the announcer as she protested, saying things like “give that back” and “that’s my job, you oaf.”
“Are all my Wolfamaniacs ready to run wild all over this little girl who thinks she can copy my style?” the man yelled into the microphone. The crowd went wild. Every bit of momentum that Ava had gained, lost in an instant from one single shout. Ava looked down and frowned.
When she looked up, the ring was surrounded with ring ropes and turnbuckles. When she looked back at the announcer, the announcer’s white dress had transformed into a black-and-white-striped referee’s shirt and black slacks; she didn’t look especially happy with that, either.
“You like my Code, brother?” the man asked Ava, speaking into the microphone. “It’s the Code of Squared Circle, brother. And when you’re in Wolf Rogan’s Code, Wolfamania’s gonna run wild on you, brother!” The crowd shrieked and roared; Ava narrowly dodged a flying bra. He handed the microphone back to the announcer, who was at this point wondering why she still worked for these people.
“Alright, now that that’s over with,” the announcer said, slightly awkwardly. “On the concourse side, we have our newcomer, also representing Lockheed Martin from Houston, Texas, Ava Hidalgo!”
A few people in the crowd cheered; she hadn’t entirely lost them, just the vast majority.
“And on the entrance side, we know him, we love him, representing Titan Sports, here’s Wolf Rogan!” the announcer shouted, having gotten her energy back. The crowd, again, went absolutely ballistic; he had them wrapped around his finger. Something told Ava she was going to have to lay low on her way back to the room if she won this one lethally.
Regardless, she assumed a fighting pose, ready to punch the man’s lights out. Nothing about the situation told her that it was going to be a particularly hard fight.
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Sam bit his nails, watching as Wolf bounced back off the ring ropes that had emerged.
So his power’s part of his Hulk Hogan bit too, Sam thought to himself. I wonder if that means…
Ava threw a big punch at his midsection, and it seemed to hit air.
Oh, god damn it, he thought.
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Ava was shocked for a second when her punch seemed to hit air and she felt nothing against her fist. No resistance, but also no blood, no organs, none of the usual; her fist just stopped in mid air, and she drew it back.
That tracks, actually, she thought to herself, circling around him. Guess we’re playing by his rules. She wrapped her arms around the hoax Hogan’s midsection and went for a German suplex, hoisting him into the air with surprisingly little effort.
Just as easily, however, Wolf returned to his feet. Ava bounced back off the ring ropes herself, and then went for a flying clothesline; this knocked him to the floor of the ring, which had seemingly adopted the bounce of a wrestling mat, but didn’t knock his head off like she would’ve ordinarily expected. She was getting used to that, but it still disappointed her, on some level.
Why the hell isn’t he fighting back? Ava thought to herself, climbing up on the turnbuckle for a diving elbow. This is way too easy. As if to press her case, Wolf was making exaggerated hand motions and playing to the crowd, seemingly begging her not to; she refused to listen and came crashing directly into him, sending them both to the floor. She circled around him, still crouching, and locked his arm between her legs.
“Tap or I break it,” she said. Wolf didn’t respond; instead he started making exaggerated hand motions to the crowd, trying to crawl away and drag them both to the ring ropes. Eventually, he caught the bottom rope, and as if by some metaphysical force, Ava was launched away from him, his arm suddenly free.
Wolf stood up and began to flex and make hooting noises at the audience, and then pointed at Ava, waggling his finger madly as he made an O with his mouth; the crowd roared.
Oh, fuck me, is he Hulking up!? Ava thought, her eyes wide. He bounced off the ring ropes behind him and ran directly at Ava, hitting her with a big boot that, despite seemingly not actually touching her, launched her over the ropes, sending her spinning like a football directly at Sam.
“One!” the announcer shouted.
Ava’s flying body narrowly missed Sam, slamming directly into the wall. Her back felt like a train had hit it… but, mysteriously, nothing seemed to be broken, there was just pain and probable bruising.
“I’ve got an idea,” she muttered to him, picking herself up. “Go in the audience, get me a chair, and throw it in the ring. Make sure and play to the crowd when you do it. Make it a whole big thing like you’re my ringside guy in WWE,” she continued as he listened intently.
“Two!” the announcer shouted.
“I’ll stall until you’ve got it, but make it fast; if I land in the ring when he boots me, I’m fucked,” Ava finished as she walked back to the ring.
Sam nodded and ran back in through the entrance, as the fighter he’d come to support got back into the ring and started to do some crowd work of her own, flexing her own (not insignificant) muscles and gesturing to the audience.
I hope either they’re steel or his Code doesn’t care, Ava thought to herself as she tried to stall.