L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

The city hit Trudy Rae Calder like a wall of sound and light.

From the moment the cab rolled off the highway and into the sprawl of the city, Trudy Rae Calder found herself leaning toward the window like a little girl, green eyes tracking the endless rise of concrete and steel. Neon signs stacked over one another in colors too bright to name, characters she couldn’t read glowing like omnipresent scripts. Her jaw went slack for half a heartbeat before she caught herself and snorted softly.

“Well I’ll be…” she muttered, “I ain’t in Tennessee anymore, that's for sure”

It wasn't until she stepped out behind the LAW arena, duffel slung over one shoulder, the she finally notices the change in smell. Oil and rain and hot concrete replaced soil and hay, but the nerves in her chest felt familiar enough. New place. Big stakes. Same boots on her feet. She rolled her shoulders once, denim jacket creaking, and followed the glowing arrows toward the back entrance. Inside, the arena swallowed her whole.

Hallways stretched longer than any building she’d ever been in, cables snaking along the floor like a nest full of garter snakes. Crew members moved with purpose, headsets on, clipboards tucked under arms. Nobody slowed down. Nobody stared or paid her any notice whatsoever. That suited her just fine. Finally a stagehand spotted her lingering just inside the door and jogged over, friendly enough, and asked her name.

“Trudy Rae Calder,” she said. Her grip was solid, calloused. “Just landed. Guess I’m early.”

Fresh off the Plane

The tour came quick after that. Locker rooms first, clean and spacious enough for her to get lost in, followed by the gorilla position with all it's AV equipment strewn around haphazardly about the place. The ring itself was even more glorious than she could imagine, basked in spotlights and surrounded by enough seating for thousands. Trudy took it all in quietly, eyes moving, mind filing things away.

They turned down another hallway and the atmosphere shifted. It was darker here, and less busier. Screens lined the walls at odd angles, feeds flickering between camera shots, graphics, countdowns, faces she recognized and plenty she didn’t. Trudy slowed without meaning to, attention snagged by the sheer scale of it all. This was where stories got told. Where names were born. Her grip tightening slightly on the strap of her duffel as she looked around.

“Well now, this is somethin' else,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

Then one of the screens flickered.

Just for a moment, the image broke apart, static crawling across it before snapping back into place. Trudy stopped walking. Her head tilted, curiosity sharpening into something more focused. She took a step closer, boots echoing softly against the concrete floor.

The screen flickered again, longer this time.

Trudy planted her feet and stared at it, her expression shifting into a slow, curious grin that showed she wasn’t spooked, just interested.

“…Huh,” she said quietly. “That ain’t right at all...”

HALLWAYS indeed stretched long and that was exactly the type of place that allowed anything to hide within its midst. Who knows the full floorplan? Who knows what everyone is doing and for what? In a place like LAW, the progress of many segments, rehearsals, medical scans, to electronics, monitors, props, systems and logistics from chair piles, carts and wrapped up cable.

Then to have it sectioned off by such plain doors. Who’s to say what’s what when a Virus wanted to creep its way into one of the spare storage rooms? The doors on it were wide double-doors fit to carry the production cases running in and out, but were currently locked. Spectre made this place her little room. Fixed with one big leaning monitor that displayed her chrome skull all but the middle one that automatically flipped to the Trudy Ray Calder. The Production cases around the room acted as a barrier, then thin black mats padded the floor in-between to give cushion and to hide that drabby grey concrete floor.

Dipping into Sweetwater, Tennessee was like looking at a dirty simplicity for her. Everything was squares and giant yards, like the sights were just GRASS! And maybe farm animals? She didn’t care one lick about all that agriculture and homesteading life. She found cows ugly. Bales and barns just sounded bug infested and rancid. Even the wood would bear smells! And don't get her starting about farming. What brain couldn’t do this? Though she did find the deep-dive into pesticides to be a fun deep-dive with a colleague. BUT THERE WAS one thing that told her something interesting. A Chattanooga Rodeo. Mud Wrestling. Filthy as to be expected of someone from the country, but, a particular three-piece victory for our Belle. Of course…Despite the feat, she saw this as a mere grain in style compared to her kit. But she noted it. Today could be, would be, her present to Tennessee to show what sort of result such styles end up like wet napkins on the world stage.

Her stage.

She sat upon a throne that was centred and made out of different-sized production cases wheeled in, re-arranged and involuntarily requisitioned from the LAW crew to create a proper seating, arm-wrests and backrest against the wall. Purple sheet went over the back and seat to create a more stylish effect. On one armrest, there was a controller device, a little black box for the cameras and displays she setup for this little hello. The other armrest kept a tiny remote lock for the door she installed. Then above was a rigged light pointed down at her with a purple light filter. Then an arm attached to the rigging extended a webcam that she put in-front of herself.

For now she presently bided time. Felled victims, faces of twisted agony, Chrome Skulls and slanted QR codes that only lent to data-stealing tricks. With the flick of a nob, all screens, slanted, straight, upside-down or hanging flipped to Spectre’s face. A classic self-assured purple and black grin was shown, judging stare and a purple light casting down on her in the dark. Just enough to see her in full

gear. A domino mask over her face paint, a leotard that showed skin like opulent jewels of her image.

The voice hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her jaw tightened, knuckles curling around the strap of her duffel. “Fresh from the flyin’ peasant tube,” the voice sneered. Trudy’s lip curled into a half-grin, half-snarl.

"Well ain’t that just somethin’," she muttered under her breath, stepping closer, her stance low and ready, the kind of posture she’d worn every time she’d squared up with a stubborn hog back home. "You talk a lot for somethin’ sittin’ behind a screen."

The screens flickered again, Spectre’s purple-tinged grin staring down at her like a predator enjoying its prey before the cage was even closed. Trudy’s green eyes narrowed, scanning the hallway, looking for where the voice could be coming from. She could feel that familiar spark of fury rise, the one that made her grin bigger and tighter all at the same time, the one that told her that this ain’t just a welcome tour.

"Well lookee here," Trudy said aloud, letting her southern drawl drag over every syllable, deliberate and rough, "if ya got somethin’ to say, best come say it where I can reach ya." She dropped the duffel at her feet with a heavy thunk, rolling her shoulders and cracking her knuckles. "No hidin’ behind toys and lights."

She stepped closer, boots thudding softly against the hall’s cold concrete, letting her weight settle evenly, ready to pivot or strike at a moment’s notice. The purple and black glare of Spectre in all her villainous glory suddenly flashed on all screens in the vicinity, every flicker, every smirk, every curve of that smug smile surrounding her from all angles. Spectre had painted her as a novelty, a mud stain on polished concrete, but Trudy felt something else entirely, pride, fury, and that stubborn spark that had carried her through every barnyard scrap and muddy rodeo pit back home.

"Well, alright then," she said, voice low but carrying down the hall, each word heavy with grit. Her grin spread wider, showing teeth, the kind of grin that promised trouble. "Looks like you done your homework on who I am, mighty smart of ya, considerin’ I’m about to be the next big thing ‘round these parts. Now why don’t you come outta the shadows and let’s make ourselves acquainted… unless you’re scared?"

The lights in this area started to flash purple off and on in rises and falls. Overhead, behind screens, in LED strips. The wall was bedecked in flowing cables stapled, taped, organized that fed towards the same double-door that Spectre turned into a miniature colosseum, wrestling space and throne room.

'Unless you're scared?'

Spectre was taken aback in her expression, scowling almost immediately. Trudy got a look that said her thoughts clearly: Listen here you little shi--.

She took this response like breathing in a barn and half imagined that would be her smell once they met. That her breath would be knockout gas. Of course then that’ll be another bullet in her gun against this mouthy hog wrangler. Not to mention her TEETH likely resembled some oxidized mixture of ivory and gold, then kibbles of old weed embedded into molar gums. Now this country dropout was talking about BIG THINGS? Spectre can only struggle not to cackle. "Y-You t-think a teeny-weeny like you i-is the next BIG think? Aaahhahahahahaaa!!" Her sudden laughter fed through those same doors insulating her, giving a faint clue to her whereabouts. Spectre's display started glitching as she got more hysteric, breaking in thirds that shifted between squares of black, then a rainbow of reds, greens and blues while audio experienced light feedback.

Using her little remote, the lock disengaged on the door.

“I can make you serf to my lordship at ANY time if I pleased. I’ll have you snorting with that piggy nose, drooling on yourself and hopping on one foot for your world-wide debut!” She dabbed a tear using a handkerchief that showed a classic Tennessee T on a USA flag background. “And I even prepared a welcoming gift…” After spitting on it twice, she balled it all up and squeezed it inside her small fist. “Come and get it. Go a little further down the hall. To your left. Double-doors. And don't keep me waiting, serf."

Trudy was never one for beef behind screens. Twitter drama and DM feuds struck her as the laziest kind of fight. This wasn’t exactly the same situation, but it sure smelled close enough. For all her purple lights and glitchy theatrics, Trudy couldn’t help but wonder if this little supervillain wannabe was only so mouthy because a screen was there to hide behind. So Trudy was all the more pleased when Spectre took the bait. Maybe a little too well.

Trudy’s confident grin slowly folded into something tighter and far less amused as Spectre’s taunts unraveled into a full-on breakdown. A manic laugh suddenly screeched down the hallway bouncing off the walls until it stabbed right into Trudy’s ears. For a second she didn’t even bother deducing where it was coming from, she was too busy processing the sudden avalanche of insults.

Serf?

Pig-nosed?

And was that Old Glory that two-timing little twit just spit on?

Somebody better reign this cowgirl down, because Trudy felt her blood spike hot behind her ribs, cheeks burning with fury. Pride wasn’t something she flaunted often, but when it got stepped on, she could turn mean real fast.

Luckily Spectre seemed just as eager for an introduction as she lay out directions to her location. Trudy turned on her heel, leather boots scuffing hard against the concrete as she stormed down the hall with purpose. The look plastered across her face could’ve curdled milk. Spectre was seconds away from discovering just how far a pair of cowboy boots could be shoved somewhere the good lord sure didn’t intend.

When she reached the double doors, Trudy didn’t bother with knocks, pleasantries, or cute little howdies. She planted her stance, drew in a breath, and drove her boot straight into the seam. The doors swung open with a violent clang, bouncing off their hinges and leaving the entry yawning wide as the cowgirl filled the frame in all her raw, unvarnished glory.

Her eyes dialed in on Spectre immediately. Surrounded by cables, angled monitors, and mismatched production gear, she looked like a Saturday morning cartoon villain holding court in a nest of stolen electronics. One of Trudy's fists remained balled at her side, the other jabbing an accusatory finger at the villain as the once collected cowgirl finally let loose. "You can laugh at me all you want," Trudy growled through her teeth, "and you can run your mouth ‘bout my roots, my looks, or any damn thing else you think’ll get under my skin - but no one, and I mean no one, disrespects the Stars and Stripes while I’m in town. Got it!?"

The room Trudy revealed to herself was a hideaway of cable, production cases, screens and stowed equipment. A faint hum collectively fed back. Then the floor itself was matted to look fit for mat wrestling. Clear and large--about half the size of the ring, making this pocket world a sparring ground where Trudy couldn't run from once Spectre had her tied up on the ground and squealing...

Ooooh she tied herself over in anticipation. How many hits? A few well-placed ones could have her face-down ass-up in three seconds. If she didn't like their tone, she wagered a quick bap to the head would shave an extra second off.

Normal overhead light returned when Trudy also opened those doors. Spectre stayed in her throne, dressed in a skin-tight leotard on a lithe frame. Soft or flat in most places of skin and fat, then optimized muscle that was primarily defined in her legs. Her stomach, a flat canvas of delicate shape and shine in light, tight and hour-glass shaped to be aesthetic and soft to touch. The rest of her followed the same formula. She sat tall in the seat and perhaps even sharper now that Trudy saw her in the flesh. She checked her nails and let Trudy have her piece to say. Every word was written in her memory, but she chose to play the high-road before allowing the air to vibrate between them as a controlled pause marked the last of GOT IT and when Spectre raised her index finger.

Eyes closed, smug. She inhaled with purpose and mandate. "First off!" Her index folded over to point at Trudy's boots. "You're supposed to trot. I said I was lordship to your serf. Manners." Her hand raised in a stop gesture to Trudy across the room, then moved the camera stick out of the way. She sunk back into her seat like a monarch addressing a brattish knave that wasn't quite used to the limits of their station till she herself was to deliver the awakening.

"Second of all. You're right. I WILL laugh at you all I want. I'll even throw in something for your projected ability, lack of brain, those silicone abs, noodle arms, flabby legs and what-ever I please. Here or not here, in time. I'll put it all on an international medium if I feel like it, so talk meekly and with respect." And lastly, she threw the handkerchief to the floor between them. One thigh piled over the other. Her elbow supported her palm that nestled her chin. She gave Trudy a look that seemed more than convinced in her control here. That she expected some obedience and reverence and is now waiting. No way could she be touched.

Too green for any potential.

"Pick that up."

Trudy held her ground as the room settled into full light, getting her first proper look at the woman who’d been needling her through distorted speakers. Spectre really had set herself up like royalty in a broom closet. Cables, cases, padded flooring, a thrown-together throne built out of production gear, lights angled in such a way that made it clear this wasn't just some hideout... it was a set!

Cables fed into mixers and screens, lenses perched atop tripods, all pointed inward toward a matted pocket of floor designed exactly for one thing: Wrestling. Spectre hadn’t invited her here to talk. She’d curated a stage where humiliation could be trimmed, edited, and broadcast at her leisure.

The realization didn’t sting the way Spectre probably imagined. Hell, if anything it settled something in Trudy’s posture. Wrestlers didn’t shy from cameras, cameras were the whole point. She’d left home precisely to get seen, to be captured, analyzed, cheered, booed, rewound, clipped, and argued about in wrestling forums. So Spectre wanted some free TV? Fine. Let the world watch.

Trudy’s stare leveled on the woman in the throne and smug posture that made it clear she thought the whole world ought to bend before her. Trudy wasn’t sure if it was impressive or pathetic. Maybe both at once. Then came the tirade, and the waving hand and exaggerated scolding. It all rolled off Trudy until that final, delicate toss of the handkerchief. The vandalized Tennessee T fluttered between them and hit the mat with a soft touch that stung with all the weight Spectre clearly meant it to have.

Trudy didn’t move at first. Her eyes dropped to the handkerchief for only a second before they flicked up again to Spectre. The air in her lungs hitched, not because of fear, but because there was a very old piece of southern pride inside her that had always known exactly how far you let a person push before you put them flat on their back. Spectre sat there waiting, chin propped, legs crossed, practically glowing with the certainty that Trudy might bow or break or hesitate. That expectation was its own kind of slap. Trudy’s fingers twitched once at her side. Her jaw flexed. She let the silence stretch long enough to pretend she was actually considering it, long enough for Spectre to believe she had a servant instead of an opponent.

Then she lunged.

She stepped right through the empty space, leaving barely enough time for Spectre to process it as Trudy's arm shot forward. She caught the smaller woman by the front of her leotard and yanked her up out of her makeshift throne. Trudy used that moment to drive her backward into the padded floor in a short, sharp throw, aiming to ragdoll the loud-mouthed punk and steal all the grace out of her presentation.

If she got her down, Trudy chased without pause, hooking a fistful of lycra at Spectre’s scruff to drag her up just far enough to present her face like a target, cocking her arm back to have a clean approach at the girl's face.

“This one’s for runnin’ your mouth,” she growled, and drove the first punch across Spectre’s cheekbone.

She held on, dragging her up again.

“This one’s for thinkin’ I’m beneath you,” — the second punch cracked harder, knuckles sinking into the side of her jaw with a snap of skin and breath.

Again, Trudy reeled her in, breathing hot through her teeth, eyes wide with something between fury and satisfaction.

“And this one’s for the cameras, sweetheart.”

The third punch shot forward, all shoulder and bad intentions, ready to explode against Spectre’s face!