5 minutes to 7.
Almost time for the match. Chess Irons, five foot two, 535 pounds, and stupid enough to fight people twice her size, was nervous. Not that she would admit to it; she did have a reputation to maintain. "Are you sure you should be doing this?" She looked to her sister sitting beside her, raising her lowered head slightly. Those icy blue eyes stared right into her own mismatched pair, with a feeling that she recognized as concern.
Aw Christ, here comes the speech again, came the thought.
"Look, I've heard it all before, Colin. Don't eat that, Chess, it's bad fer ya. Don't work too hard, Chess, yer heart'll give out. Don't wrestle the gator, Chess, you'll give me a heart attack."
"I don't recall that last one."
"You had t' be there t' see it, and the police confiscated the pictures."
"Naturally."
"Dammit, I'm digressin' here; I've fought before, okay? It don't matter if it's a fuckin' troll r' a drunk Irishman, I'll live. Gettin' the pacemaker hasn't changed a goddamn thing."
This is pointless, Colin thought. Chess was more stubborn than a dog trying to avoid bath day. I should probably be more upset, if everyone else in our family wasn't exactly the same.
Chess got up from the bench, stretching her limbs, and checking the battery on her leg brace.
"Look at it this way, sis: if I go down, I'll be goin' in a way that'll make our ancestors fuckin' proud."
"From a heart attack caused by a heart that beats twice as fast as a human's?"
"…" "Well, when ya put it that way…"
"*sigh* Just go out there and fight.."
Chess grinned. "That's all I needed to hear."