Prologue: Why the Hell Not?

It always seemed that wherever she roamed, she always found her way back home. Beryl had seen action all across Europe, but the paydays in Norn Iron were always the steepest. Hometown gal and all that. But for obvious reasons, the locations for her brawls were always shifting as to avoid the law at all cost. No matter to her, she was adaptable. You had to be in this vicious little world.

The club in question tonight, another dirty rundown pub on the edges of Belfast, is absolutely jam packed, with people crammed together, tossing around pounds and Euros to place their bets, shouting their damned heads off. The lighting as always is terrible, a single lightbulb hanging above swinging back and forth. The announcer, a portly gent in a suit that is shiny and tattered with age, steps forward, smug grin on his dopey gob. He holds a microphone, which has been hastily connected to a guitar amplifier to make his speaking nearly intelligible between the static of the amp and the general den of the space.

“Oi, we are having a nice night tonight, now aren’t we? But don’t be calling it a night yet ladies and gents, because we got one more bout or you all tonight, and it’s bound to be real cracker. First off, we got the currently undefeated, Horace Jackson!”

The crowd cheers wildly for Horace, standing off to one side, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet to get himself going as he cranes his neck side to side. He is dressed down to just a pair of ratty jeans and an overshirt, both hands taped up. His face is mostly engulfed in a giant bushy red moustache the flairs out under his nose. He raises one arm to the ovation, giving him a second round of motivation cheering. Once it dies down, the announcer takes control of the proceedings once again.

“And his opponent for the evening, making her return to the Belfast Underground, let’s here it for the Cannonball ‘erself, Beryl Weir!”

Another round of loud cheering as Beryl prepares herself, but unlike her opponent she is all stillness, crouching down and staring at the ground for several seconds. She eventually stirs, punching the concrete ground and standing up. She is dressed in her fight gear, a sport-bra style top and a pair of bike shorts and some fighting boots, all jet black, as well as a leather jacket. She pulls her mouth piece from her jacket and shoves it into her mouth before tossing her jacket off, slowly starting to approach her much larger opponent. He’s got a good half foot on her, but if that is anticipating the Cannonball at all, she certainly doesn’t show it.

As the two combatants come face to face, an elderly referee steps between them, formally explaining the rules they both already know, the pair staring each other down.

"Alright, standard rules apply. Fight must continue until one of ye either forfeits, or I determine ye unable to continue. Any questions? No? Shake and we’ll get started."

The fighters say nothing, merely stare into each other’s faces. At the call to shake, they both extend their hands and make the formalities official. Beryl can feel the larger man squeeze her hand, clearly meaning to intimidate her, hurt her. She can’t help but smile at that, before breaking contact and taking three steps away. She switches into her fighting position, hands up to protect her face. A moment later, they get the signal to go, a single guttural utterance from the referee.

Horace charges in, throwing a forward jab that would be devastating if it landed; luckily Beryl has the presence of mind to side step, getting in a quick hook to his ribs before stepping back. He winces slightly from the punch but lesson learned as he squares up again, Beryl bouncing between her feet, ready to strike again. This time Horace moves forward, squaring up with the Belfast Cannonball, to feint one way. As she attempts to sidestep him, he clocks her well and good across her temple, causing her to go down.

From there, he gets to work, straddling the much small fighter and trying pummel her from atop. For her part, Beryl puts her arms up behind her head, to protect herself as much as she can. She arches up slightly, but sets her head down, giving him more of a reach to pound on her. In response, Horace is forced to bend over to try to get a better angle on his downward punches.

Eejit took the bait. Beryl stiffens and pulls her hands down, jerking her head backwards to give a backwards headbutt. Caught off guard and worried that his nose might be broken, Horace staggers back, giving Beryl time to get back to her feet and stalk forward, giving no quarter as jams her knee first into his gut to knock the air out of him, and then again to his face when he hunches over from the initial blow. Now he’s angry, and lunges forward with another jab. Rather than side-stepping his blow this time, Beryl simply catches his arm, rolls it and forces him to the ground as she starts to wrench his arm, giving additional torque to his wrist.

The sound of straining bone and muscle is almost immediate, drowned out only by Horace’s screams. Beryl continues to pull, using the leverage of her position to make it virtually impossible for him to roll away. It doesn’t take long to realize he is either going to need to quit or have a severely injured arm and wrist, and Horace finally concedes, tapping out. Beryl gives him one more good wrench for good measure before she finally lets go, storming away and holding her hand up victoriously. Medics rush to check on Horace’s arm, as the victorious Weir storms away from the scene of her violence, making her way to the bar.

***

It always takes some time to sort out payouts, between collecting and paying back to the actual bettors, and generally making sure all things are in order, Beryl is a few rounds in at the bar. The massive crowd has mostly gone home, at least away, with only fellow fighters waiting for their payday and a couple true die hards still sticking around.

An older gentleman with gray hair and wearing a much more tailored suit approaches the bar, a brown paper envelope in hand. He tosses it on the bar near Beryl, who is quick to leaf through it and sniff slightly.

“That all ye got?”

The man raises his brow, settling down next to her and rubbing his temple. “Well, turns out that when you have a reputation like yourself, hard to drum up bets against ye. Less money coming into the house, less to payout to winners. But I think you’ll find that’s still more generous than most joints can offer ye.”

Beryl simply snorts, taking a long drink of her lager. She doesn’t look too worse for wear this time, though she keeps adjusting her jaw back and forth. She finally pockets the money, stuffing it into her jacket. The older man takes a deep breathe before he speaks again.

“Listen, Beryl, I know you have been a consistent performer for us ‘ere, but I think it might be time to move on. The competition we can find for you, it just don’t stack up. You’ve gotten past this scene, and I think--”

“And you think I’m messing up your pool,” she concluded for him, looking towards him. [color=#cc3333“Tha’s the real reason, innit? You think if you push me out, then those wagers even out a bit.”[/color]

The man takes a deep breathe, before giving a half-hearted grin and shrugs. “What you want me to say? Ya just graduated. Surely there’s some other avenues for you? MMA, wrestlin’. You don’t need to be doing gutter shows no more. You’re too good for it. You took one of the strongest blokes we’ve had in months and made short, easy work of him. You’re beyond this amateur hour bullshit, you need to move on. And yeah, if you wanna hear it? You're mucking up my business, and tonight you damn near crippled one of the best prospects I've seen in months. Hard to admit, but you gone on to be a liability, girl.”

Beryl considers all that as she looks at the last gulp in her pint, chewing on her bottom lip. She nods her head, looking to the man with a half-hearted grin.

“You always been good to me Johnny. I’ll give you that. Best of luck to ya, you old bastard.”

“Same for you, girl,” Johnny says as he stands from his seat, and starts to walk away. He pauses a few steps in, and raises a finger.

“Jus’ try ye best not to kill anyone, aye?”

Beryl can only smirk at that, finishing off her beer. “No promises,” she snaps back before reaching into her jacket again. This time pulling out her phone. She opens her e-mail app, and glances down at a bookmarked e-mail.

An invitation for a tryout to Project: Honor. She’d nearly deleted it when it first came in, but something told her she would want to hold off. She clicks her tongue, drumming her fingers on the bar before she hits the reply icon.

“Why the ‘ell not?”