Lisa Rayple. 2
Paul hurried to the arena the moment Bron relayed the call from Dennis Fail, arriving a full five minutes earlier than expected.
Two cameras had already been set up—one facing straight on, the other angled from the side—and a single cameraman stood ready to operate them by hand. A few stagehands lingered farther back, watching the ring as if waiting for the match to begin.
Inside the ring sat Lisa and Charina, with Camus and Troy McIntyre beside them, chatting away. True to their industrious natures, those two had shown up early as well.
“Ha! What’s all this ruckus first thing in the morning?”
“Ah! Mr. Levesque! Mr. Freed!”
“Paul. You’re here?”
Troy and Camus greeted him first; Lisa and Charina merely dipped their heads in acknowledgment.
“I’d prefer you didn’t do things that aren’t on the plan.”
“Practice is only natural, isn’t it?”
“It’s nothing major.”
Lisa and Charina both insisted it was nothing, but it was far from nothing. This was a matchup between wrestlers who had never properly worked together—that was the problem.
Lisa mattered as champion, of course, but Charina had a contract worth well over ten million dollars hanging in the balance right now. Charlotte had pulled something similar once, yet the circumstances then and now were completely different. Charlotte had the skill to back it up; Lisa, by comparison, fell a little short. On top of that, their signature styles clashed—if a botch happened, someone could get seriously hurt.
“The problem is that your positions, your situations, make this anything but natural.”
Paul stepped straight into the ring.
“Why are you coming in? Aren’t you supposed to watch from outside?”
“I’m going to referee this myself. Camus, Troy—out of the ring. Troy, once you’re down, handle the ring bell and keep time.”
“Will do.”
“Camus, grab one of the cameras and shoot. Looks like we’re short a cameraman.”
“Yes, sir. Yes.”
Paul sorted the situation, then fixed his gaze on Lisa and Charina.
“How many minutes is the match?”
“Fifteen.”
“Charina. Want me to call out the time as we go?”
Charina stared blankly into space for a beat, then snapped back and answered.
“I-I’m fine.”
“I’ve been curious about that time-keeping ability of yours anyway. Let’s see it. Troy! Fifteen-minute match. Set it up.”
“I’m not deaf. I can hear you just fine from here.”
“That little—!”
“Paul! Aren’t you going to ask about the finish?”
At Lisa’s question, Paul frowned slightly.
“If you’d written a scenario where Lisa loses, I’d send both of you straight back to the Performance Center for a full re-education. You’re not idiots who can’t tell the difference.”
Neither of them said another word. They headed to opposite corners. Lisa rolled her neck and shoulders while she stood; Charina bounced lightly in place like a boxer working her footwork.
“Ready?”
Both dropped into stances, coiled as if they might explode forward at any second, eyes locked on each other.
“Troy! Bell.”
Ding-ding-ding.
The instant Troy rang the bell, they shot out like sprinters off the blocks and crashed into each other shoulder-first like NFL linebackers.
Thud!
Wham!
Even with gear on, the impact sounded like someone kicking a heavy quilt. Charina, lighter by a good margin, tumbled backward in a full roll. She was up again in a flash and drove her shoulder back in. Lisa only gave a single step; Charina was forced back three or four.
Hmm. Nice job establishing the champion’s power right out of the gate.
Lisa, working it like a real match, grinned and crooked her fingers in a come-on. Charina sold the bait perfectly—scowling, she bounced off the ropes behind her and charged again on the rebound. Lisa sidestepped once, hooked Charina’s arm, and whipped her across.
Wham.
An arm-drag slam usually chains into more of the same; Paul expected exactly that. Instead, the moment Charina grabbed Lisa’s waist and started to rise, Lisa cracked her with a lariat.
“Ugh!”
Thud.
Charina took the forearm across the throat, sold the impact hard, flipped a full one-eighty in midair, and landed chest-first. Watching from inside the ring instead of on a monitor made it crystal clear how sharp her selling really was. There was none of that anticipatory early movement—she took every hit on the exact beat, and the match crackled with urgency because of it.
Lisa snatched Charina by the head and hit a basic scoop slam first.
Thud.
As Charina tried to rise, Lisa added a low dropkick, then a knee drop, and covered.
“Ref! What are you doing?”
“Ah—forgot.”
One—
Two—
Charina kicked out with a sharp bounce of her legs.
“Wow. Legend as a wrestler, total rookie as a referee.”
“Right? Heh.”
Charina and Lisa traded the line with matching grins.
That kid doesn’t even look winded. Her toughness is ridiculous.
Lisa squared up for a front suplex; Charina planted and powered out of it. It was Lisa who ended up lifted instead. The moment Lisa went over on the suplex, Charina waited behind her, ready. The second Lisa stood, Charina locked on from behind and dropped her with an atomic drop—the classic “ass-kicker.”
These days the inverted atomic drop still saw use, but the traditional version had largely vanished; it left you wide open for a stunner or bulldog counter. Most wrestlers would rather fire off a backdrop or German suplex from that spot. Charina used it anyway.
“Yaaah!”
Lisa clutched her backside with both hands and howled. Charina closed in from behind, wrapped both arms as well, and went for a German suplex. With the arms trapped, the recipient couldn’t break the fall—the move could turn genuinely dangerous in a heartbeat.
“Uh!”
Charina arched her back hard, yoga-deep, giving Lisa just enough room to correct her posture mid-flip. Lisa landed on both feet like a tumbler and backpedaled free.
“Whoa! Thought that was going to botch for sure. Charina! That was insane just now.”
Troy, who had yelped in alarm, now clapped and cheered the clean execution. It hadn’t been Lisa’s skill that saved it. The attacker had deliberately set the victim up so she could escape and land safely. The way Charina elevated her opponent’s performance was no joke.
Whether they were locked into the match or not, Charina casually tapped her own lower back with the back of her hand; Lisa sold it by kneading her backside with one hand. Then Charina charged first.
Lisa swung for a lariat; Charina ducked under, rebounded off the ropes, and came back horizontal, spinning into Lisa’s body.
Corkscrew crossbody.
Lisa, who would normally catch it clean, couldn’t handle the rotation and went over backward.
“Huh? What’s this?”
“What match is that?”
“Lisa? Who’s the other one?”
“That’s Charina. And the ref is Paul?”
A dozen wrestlers poured in together, clearly having arrived as a group. The ring, however, was still live.
Charina hopped in place for a knee drop, then sprinted hard for the corner. She hit the top turnbuckle and launched into a moonsault. Lisa rolled clear in a hurry. Charina crashed chest-first onto the canvas.
Wham.
A short cry of “Ack!” escaped her as she curled around her midsection and drummed both feet against the mat.
“Whoa. What was that?”
“A running moonsault? Don’t they do something similar when they train parkour?”
“Didn’t Sol Luna hit something like that last time?”
“She basically walked it. She didn’t sprint like that. And she stepped off the middle rope from the apron to the floor outside. You can’t even compare the two.”
“So she invented that herself?”
The wrestlers buzzed about the moonsault they’d just witnessed. Paul himself had never seen anyone sprint full-speed into a moonsault without stopping. Well—he’d seen it in movies. Jackie Chan had pulled off similar stunts plenty of times. Those, though, ended in a standing landing, not a splash.
The real “genius of the skies” isn’t Miyu Sky or Javon Evans—it’s this kid. She’s already invented two signature moves of her own?
A big-move miss hit hard. The match had already been tilting Lisa’s way; after that it became a one-woman show. Charina stole a few moments with a headscissors whip or a sudden armbar into a roll-up, but that was all. Only after Lisa hit her finisher—the Riptide (pump-handle powerbomb)—followed by a leg drop did she finally cover.
Paul didn’t slap the mat. He simply mouthed the count.
“One! Two! Three! Game over.”
At his words, Troy rang the bell.
Ding-ding-ding.
Lisa immediately shot him a look.
“Wow, that was way too half-assed. How do you count with just your mouth?”
“Seriously. Some of us just sweat for fifteen minutes.”
“Never referee again. You kill the vibe.”
“Agreed. Worst ref in history.”
Lisa and Charina both rose from the mat, voicing their complaints.
“Troy! What was the time?”
“Fourteen minutes, fifty seconds. I’d heard the rumors, but I didn’t think it was actually possible.”
Everyone in the locker room already knew Charina counted time in her head while she worked. Wrestlers who’d shared the ring with her had talked about it, and more than one stunned referee had confirmed it to the rest of the roster. Normally a ref could feed her the time here and there so she could recalibrate if she slipped; today Paul had given her nothing at all, and she still hit fourteen-fifty on the nose. There was no room left for doubt.
“Good game!”
“That was great. Loved it.”
“Wish I’d caught it from the start.”
“Camus—you got the whole thing, right? Show us.”
“Champion versus rookie—that was a textbook squash match.”
Even the wrestlers who’d only caught the second half were full of praise.
“Rina. What was that moonsault?”
“I built it for the match against Miyu. What did you think, Mr. Levesque?”
Charina looked up at Paul with clear, bright eyes.
“That move is sealed.”
“What?”
“What if your foot slips? And it’s so fast the recipient barely has time to react. Absolutely not. Too dangerous. You understand?”
“Ahh…”
Charina’s head drooped.
“Someday, when you’re on a card like WrestleMaster or Summer Clash, I’ll unseal it. Until then, not a chance.”
“Understood.”
As Paul started to leave the ring, Lisa turned to Charina.
“Rina, did you name that move yet? What’s it called?”
“Hmm. Super Ultra Lionsault?”
“Whoa.”
“Doesn’t it sound ridiculously strong just from the name? Like it ends the match in one shot?”
Hearing that, Paul could only think, Kids will be kids. He shook his head and climbed down from the ring.