Chelsea enters, tossing her phone onto a bench and humming smugly. She starts getting ready, unzipping her duffel, pulling on her top. She sits down and begins lacing up one boot.

Then…she pauses.

Her fingers stop. Her eyes glaze slightly. She blinks, confused then stares forward, slack-jawed.

Behind her, Alexa Bliss slowly steps out of the shadows, a faint flicker of glowing mist shimmering behind her eyes. She taps one finger to her temple.

Alexa (softly): “You talk too much, Chelsea. Always complaining. Always squawking...”

Chelsea twitches slightly.

Alexa: “You don’t deserve a title match. Not you. Not the Secret Hervice. You’re not a contender…you’re more of a chicken. A chicken tender.”

Alexa laughs.

A beat passes. Chelsea’s lips move slowly. She mumbles:

Chelsea (in trance): “Chicken…?”

Alexa: “Yes chicken. And they go?.”

Chelsea (perking up): “BA-CAAAAWW!!”

Suddenly animated, Chelsea hops to her feet and starts clucking and strutting around the locker room, elbows up like wings, head bobbing back and forth, making full-on chicken noises.

Alexa laughs and claps her hands gleefully.

Alexa: “That’s so much better. Just like a chicken. Loud, brainless, and disposable.”

Chelsea flaps her arms, pecking at imaginary seeds on the floor.

Alexa (grinning): “Since you’re busy being a barnyard bird, I’ll go ahead and take your spot in the match tonight. Charlotte and I will be more than happy to challenge for the titles instead.”

She pats Chelsea on the head.

Alexa (mock sweet): “Good chicken.”

Chelsea: “Buh-bawk!”