Armada Triage [d6 - cb] FIN

The lights flicker once, twice, then amp up to full - blinding the spectators who sit two to a seat. The unctuous smell of sweat permeates the room, mixing in with the popcorn hawkers' wares as they squeeze through the aisles. But the air is lively, thrumming with anticipation.

Anticipation is the announcer, who struts into the ring with a gold-plated grin, waggling their eyebrows. "Tonight's big name matchup: from the South, where the reactions are simply nuclear: Grenadine Swills, the Maraschino Marauder!"

Into the ring steps a woman dressed in striking reds, a dress that flows elegantly to her calves. She swishes her sword and waves, a flick of the wrist that encompasses years of technique.

"Aaaaand from the north, despair incarnate and back from the brink, Armada Triage, The One-Eyed-Witch!"

A chorus of boos erupts as Armada steps out of the shadows. They're much louder than the previous cheers, and these hollers are warmer than anything Armada has heard in a while.

Of course - the return of a girl who nearly died the last time she stood in this ring is always a cause for celebration. So with a smirk, she fixes her eyepatch and takes stance.

And as a heel does, she plays the system, overwhelming her opponent with sour and salt, a blade that flickers in the twitching lighting and footwork that a dancer would find envious. It's not perfect - she feels the slice against her arm as a cut draws blood, parries a little too late for comfort. But in a world where she finds her days spent in darkness, running for people she has no intention to know, in her own theater she shines: a girl who uses her own name and soaks in her own malice.

The pay ain't bad either.