“Tammy two-tap, eh?” Smitty eyes you over the top of his data pad, “that chick is chromed out and kitted. Not to mention she is apparently undefeated. You sure you want to go through with this?” A wry smile forms on your face as you rap your knuckles twice on the locker, “yeah. I'm hoping this one will be an actual challenge.” The locker door slides open revealing your gear. You adorn the vest with its sleek power pack, slip in your mouth guard and fasten the helmet strap beneath your chin. Smitty helps you stuff your fists into the power gloves and then leads you out of the locker room and down to the stadium floor entrance, “Well I sure hope you’re up for it. She has enough gear to knock your block off--and quite literally with that light weight crap you like to wear.” You just nod and gesture for him to get out of the way.

There is nothing quite like it. The thrill, the exhilaration, the pure ecstasy that comes from that door opening. The noise of the crowd crashes into you like a violent ocean wave. They are cheering for you, chanting for you. They worship you. It's a better feeling than any drug and twice as addicting. As you step out into the light of the arena the cheering intensifies. Adoring fans are shoved up against the sheet glass, their eyes emphatically observe your every move, their voices cry out for your attention. There are a handful of signs in the crowd the largest of which has a crudely drawn picture of you with the words “Marry me!” written underneath. You give a big grin and lift one of your power gloves into the air. The crowd mimics the motion and, in unison, gives out a deafening howl.

You see that Tammy has already made her entrance, her bright pink mo-hawk sticks out of the slit in the top of her spartan-style helmet. The woman is enormous, her armor covers most of her body. Her gloves are made of hardened titanium. Two powered struts run along her arms and around to the portable reactor on her back. She could likely slug a hole through five inches of reinforced steel with that set up. You smirk, the bigger they are the harder they fall, your grandpa had always said.

You step into the ring and the referee gives you a curt nod. You nod back and he gestures both of you to the center of the mat. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you approach. Something is off. There is a calmness in Tammy's demeanor that sets you on edge. She isn't showboating or playing to the crowd at all. The referee motions for you to bump gloves but she doesn’t move. After a moment, she slides a foot forward and takes a peculiar stance, one you haven't seen since--panic begins to rush over you as it becomes unnervingly clear who this really is. Before you can fully collect your thoughts the bell rings and the referee shouts, “fight!”