L.A.W. - League of Anime Wrestling

Spoiler

Thanks again to @Monsy for assisting in the writing of Speck-Dot posts!

"So twenty bucks says Himeko takes it."

"Gh-. So twenty bucks of pure betrayal."

"Ok, lord exchequer, why the fuck not?"

"'Cuz. I already have fifty riding on Himeko."

"...And? Who says we can't both just come down on the same cunt, ey?"

"And who's gonna pay who if we bet on the same dickerooni, hmmm, shit for brains?"

Inside their mobile headquarters, surrounded by the kinds of electrical audiovisual monitoring equipment municipal law enforcement can only dream of, and then only after a hit of something hallucinogenic, Dot lay in the passenger seat. She leaned back, arms around her helmet — which she wore at all times while public and public-adjacent — legs crossed on the van's dashboard. She watched the roof-monitor view of the LAW arena for a long beat while "the ogre" tossed off her outer getup to reveal...her equally thick inner-getup. The transformation from cold shell of a samurai ghost to bloodthirsty demon was a fine bit of work, thought Dot.

"Simple, cap. If Himeko loses, then we both dump our debt on training type shit and headquarters expenses. Also, we each do a pushup for every dollar lost. Aaaaaaand if she wins — as she is of course fuckin' destined to do — then we each pick what we're owed off the first rich chuckle fuck we find in the parking lot."

"Hahaha! If it weren't an excuse to go cheap on the looting, I’d say that sounds kinda fun."

"The fuck you mean—"

"You just want to cover your ass. Don't think I can't see why you make up these contingencies."

"Well, EXCUSE ME if--"

"And maybe you’re fine with us losing now. One push-up for every second Dot stays folded in some matchbook pin to some hussy--and all is forgiven.”

Dot's head turned as if on a stiff motor to face Speck. She knit her fingers, cracked them, and popped her neck. "Say that again, cap'n."

Spectre smirked, sliding her gaze to, like always, somehow make perfect eye-contact through the impenetrable black sheen of Dot's visor. "Careful, witness of mine, or you’ll break a paw before your debut."

Dot stared. "...My what now?"

Spectre's smile was thin and suddenly hard. Something deadly sparkled in her eyes—a viper camouflaged with fall leaves. "Daishouri."

The pink kitten-face that served as Dot's default window to the world glowed in the dark of the LAW arena parking lot. She tilted her head back almost imperceptibly, then folded her arms on her chest. "I thought you were gonna—"

"Nah. It's your match that I’ve been planning. Call it your birthday gift — since you know, I am just that good to you, right? Assuming you want it, that is.”

"Yeah that's your second dumfuck question. 'Course I do, with all my bones, in the depths of my teeth, and through each and every one of my toes."

"Just keep the toe thing a metaphor this time."

"Fuck off cunt."

Spectre stirred after staring at her lap, making Dot consider if she missed a cue while her boss’s mood took a subtle, but noticeable shift. That was the answer she wanted, right? Right? Her boss leaned over the partition between passenger and driver's seat, pushing a dolly full of cameras and bugs and nightsticks to the back of the van so she could reach over and cup Dot's jaw.

"You know I still know what’s going on under here, right?"

Dot rubbed her acrylic and fiberglass cheek into the caress, lifting her own gloved hand to cup Speck's hand. "You still think I got nerves? Over one lil match? Tsk." The lights from the van dash reflected off Dot's visor, a cold layer of green and white over the pink LED. "That shit's dead and buried. Spectre."

Spectre stared into the visor, her smile fading. She nodded. The sound from the monitor, piping in the beginning of the last match before Dot's debut, sounded tinny and irritating in the silence. "It better be, miss molasses." She leaned back in her chair, releasing her viceroy. "Lose and I'll have to rig you to electric chair 2.0 for a night.” Then, taken by a moment of pride, she turned in it to fetch a file from a cabinet inside the command centre. Dot felt something crawl up her spine, putting the thought to bed, along with the desire to ask if she ‘really-really’ meant that. Before she knew it, she was looking at a file on her lap. “Speaking of, I’ve been thinkin’ of a name--something like, ‘Shockington, D.C’ because we’re using DC current instead of--." She started to explain the mechanics of resistors, power supply, and her research into the long battle of Edison vs Westinghouse in the war of currents and puns. While she was happy to oblige, she was happier to listen and escape the image of having her body spasm from said current.

“I get it, but. Don’t ya think it’ll rattle the boots of these fucks better if you know it somethin’ more… menacing? Like--RRAHH, we’re gonna zap ya nuts till they pop like kernals!”

“Do I look like I watch Jujutsu Kaisen?”

“Weeellllllll… I wouldn’t wanna assume, but... Malevolent Virus… Malevolent Shrine… I’m not saying anything boss."

“...”
“... You owe me twenty bucks for that, with interest at 300 percent per minute.”

“Speck, ya CAN’T just--”

And off into another tangent they went. Back and forth in their witticisms.

“Just lower the rate, for fuck sake! I’m not some subprime mortgagee!”

“It's been ten minutes already.”

“Up yours!”

—

Here was the high black canvas of the crowd, obscured in shade beyond the burning white spotlight. They shifted and squirmed in their seats, sated on seven matches already with half the card before them. Dot watched them through a feed in her helmet, flitting from fatso grease-head to scrawny no-hair no-dick, just to get a sense of the losers she was going to entertain tonight.

"WEIGHING IN AT ONE HUNNNNNDRED AND TWENTY SIX POUNDS, THE STAR OF VICTORY SHINING BRIGHT FROM THE UUUUUNITED STATES OF AMERICA, DAAAAAAI, SH—"

A blast of static erupted over the speakers, then a shrill screech of feedback. Sparks erupted from two spotlights, guttering down to the mat as two samurai skulls with glowing violet eyes projected on the walls, and the titantron lit up.

"I think we've heard enough of that." Spectre’s image flashed onto screen with her on a robust metal throne with an array of buttons, a leather back rest in the shape of a tapering V. A spotlight shined a cone on top of her. “Welcome to my show. We’re seven matches in—with the real main event in my lap.” On her lap there was a helmet with the back facing the lens. She turned it around, a pink cheshire LED face now beamed innocently to them. "“Take a good look. This is our backbone. This is our armour. Everything she is...fierce, relentless and cunning...represents just who we are. I make no apology for not sharing her as much as I could have, but those days are done. She’s starving, so time for my Dot to eat.”

She lifted the helmet up, veering towards the shadows. A pair of hands with pink fingernails grabbed the sides and lifted it up. Spectre watched her wear it, putting one leg over the other.

"“Daishouri.” Spectre addressed, eyes to the camera, "“Last as long as you can.”

As abruptly as it had activated, the titantron shut off—or nearly off. The Viral Skull remained, emblazoned on the black as another whirr of static whipped around the room—belched like smoke not only from the facility's top of the line speakers, but from every phone with bluetooth in the whole arena as every other light in the arena clicked off. Then, from the same chorus of hijacked devices, came a bouncing, lilting march.

Spoiler

And from the murk, a kitten's glowing pink face rose, bobbing in time with the tune. She peered left at all the people sitting in the dark, then right to all the people in the cold.

Two spotlights from opposite corners faded in, drenching Dot in stark pink light that made her bare thighs glow while the rest of her costume blended, slick and black, with the surrounding darkness. She reached the ring apron and climbed on in before slinking and bouncing to center-ring. She raised her hand as if to shield her eyes from an unseen sun and scanned the seats.

The lights clicked back on.

"Hi!" Her voice was high, bright, smiling, and only had an edge of synthetic lilt as it burst from every mic around. "Woweee, but it is...LoooOOOOOOOOOoooovely to finally see all my fans in person! Boy, but fleshspace hits different than the streams, don't it?"

A spinning three-dimensional pixelated heart spun on Dot's visor, and she clasped her hands behind her back, swinging her head out towards the audience while her butt jut out behind her. "Speeeeeaking of, are you good boys and girls still enjoying those streams? Because I heard we might be getting another one tonight! Ohp—" Three bright red exclamation points burst onto the visor inside a comic-book pop of explosive borders. Her voice modulated, suddenly much lower—almost inhumanly so. "I wasn't supposed to mention that, waaaas I? Mmmm mm, stupid. Me. Guess security will just have to try and stop us now once this is over, huh? Hah. Kidding. Just kidding boys."

Was she though?

Dot sighed, full of joy, and backed into her corner, where she put her arms up and crossed her ankles and let her face flash back to a happy kitten's face. What could be more inviting? When she spoke next, it came only from the ring.

"Soooo. Where's this super duper neato spagheeto Daishouri everyone's so thrilled about, huh?"

It’s… an opportunity! It’s an opportunity.
It’s an opportunity! It is! Don’t fret the details, don’t let them see you sweat.
It’s an opportunity like never before. The best kind. The only kind you’ll get.

“What are you writing there?”
“Nothing…”

Maisilyn appeared at Daishouri’s table during a quiet period of the Open Bottle’s progressing day. It was noon, a time when the wooden panels were lifted from the windows, sliding towards the roof to let in a large amount of sunlight. It transformed the place, with the lights off, low density of persons--and sometimes, even regulars were given the VIP tables that didn’t really seem to be paying VIP level. Daishouri didn’t want such things, for she was fine near the corner, with her table against the wall, drawing and eating the sandwich of the day.

“Come by anytime and I’ll treat you with a little something. Just say my name, love, and my world is open to you.” Said Maisilyn the night of their date. Unfortunately it didn’t lead anywhere. Her thoughts were swallowed by a weight that she wasn’t doing enough, that fun was going to let her game slip even further than it had. All the bruises after her two fights showed that even with what she’s preserved through, the aches of training for hours daily--it still wasn’t the right level.

This weight. She wasn’t sure if she placed it there or if it was something else. Maybe the God or Goddess of Wrestling, demanding some purity, pledge of effort or emotional castration to make her skillset whole. Or maybe it was just discovering her ceiling and being unsatisfied. She switched up everything, but that only equated to moving left and pushing on the same ceiling that stretched for to the infinite. So she wrote about it.

Maisilyn sat down on the chair across from her, pulled a mickey from her coat pocket and unscrewed the cap.

“Oh, Daishouri?” Said Maisilyn.
“Just call me Evelyn, if you like.”
“That’s beautiful. Evelyn.”
“...” Daishouri blushed a bit, shook her head, then continued her writings.
“Evelyn dear, do you mind?”

Daishouri peeked, saw her bottle, then nodded. “Not at all.”

Maisilyn unscrewed the cap and took her first swig. She turned in her chair to face the room, took a deep breath, then exhaled calmly with a neutral smile. Another swig. Daishouri only looked at her briefly at times when she stopped another sentence. She sat with one leg over another, arm on the back of the chair, looking out idly to the outside. When she looked again, Maisilyn gestured ‘up’ with two fingers towards the bar and kitchen. A minute later, the quiet jazz ambience became just a little louder so you can hear the instruments dance, weave and improv with the other with so little rhyme or reason, it demanded a dance of equal melodic chaos, an exposure of the spirit.

“Evelyn. Do you mind telling me what’s wrong?”
“If it’s about the date, I—”
“—It’s alright. I had a lovely time regardless.”
“M-Me too.”
“Thank you, dear.” Maisilyn looked to Daishouri. “So what’s wrong?”

Daishouri sighed, considered not telling, considered telling them to mind their own, and considered just taking her leave to not burden anyone with her trouble. But considering what she did after being invited, given free food, drink, she felt indebted. “It’s…”

“Hmm?”
“Before I tried the samurai stuff, I had a different look. A gunslinger. That person was humiliated, used as a toy, beat on like some dog by some—and I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Ahh. Your career trajectory. Worse off, your dignity was stepped on by the monsters.”
“W-Well… You know what you’re getting into. I just thought I’d do a little better. Skip ahead a bit to today and I can’t help but feel a second ceiling is already forming. There’s another match coming up for me and they’ve only stacked the deck even higher.”

Maisilyn nodded slowly as she listened, never losing eye contact, then turned in her seat, unfolded her legs and then placed the mickey on the table, sliding it over. Daishouri lifted her hand to refuse politely, prompting Maisilyn to take it back.

“This is Turning Point, right?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Dot. You know—the terrorist duo that just made another headline for robbing a bank
using their purple gas stuff.”
“The Fukushima Bank? Yes, I heard. It must’ve been a mirror house in there, poor souls.”
“Even played their fuckin’ entrance music as they rapeled in through the roof after blowing a fucking hole in it.”
Maisilyn gasped, “Really?” And then looked to Daishouri trying to hold her mouth steady. Both shared a chuckle before Maisilyn finished her comment.
“How… Self-loving.”
“Right???”

Daishouri slid the pencil into her journal, then shut it.

“Didn’t you have trouble with them here?”
“Unfortunately, yes, but pursuing them is not within my schedule. A civil suit won’t do me any good, and something tells me any charges I’ll bring are a drop into the bucket. The best place to hit them is directly in their chins--in a ring preferably, but any alley works too.”
“Right. But how do I do that?”
“You stop thinking about it.”

Daishouri was puzzled. Stop thinking? Wasn’t the whole point of a fight to fight like chess warriors that use hands, weapons, feet and grabs? The calculus of the jump. The golden ratio in a boston grab for most effective pain infliction. If she wasn’t thinking--then she was even worse than before. “Huh?”

Maisilyn continued, “Think of it like this. You have every skill right now to knock out the entire world. Everyone has their special button you can push to make it all tumble like a deck of cards. It doesn’t matter if they’re much bigger, fatter, more skilled, or more prepared or advanced. If you can hit their button, the lights go out.”

“And what if I can’t do that?” Daishouri asked.
“Then go primal. Samurai were beaten by peasants with guns. Do you think the peasants were any more skilled, prepared or advanced?”
“N-No… They were more numerous, had guns and better generalship.”

“Exactly. You have those things. You have a more numerous will to keep going, have guns in those two arms and two legs, and your generalship—well, let’s just say that morale could win a fight before it began. If you ever heard of King Goujian’s army, with its tactic of scaring its enemies by sending its frontline screaming at them, decapitating themselves, or rather try to.”

“That just sounds like these freaks! They have minions, even on the street! I’ve seen them all over Japan with their purple and masks and news stuff!” Daishouri had her toes curl up in her shoes.

“Mmmhmm, exactly. The point is. Has anything tangible really happened yet? To you from them?”
“No.” Daishouri looked at her book, “No… Yeah. You’re right. So if I just stop thinking, go primal, find their button, hit it, I’ll come through OK?”

Maisilyn felt a tinge of sweat with the idea. It’s true she believed what she said, but she didn’t want to nudge a philosophy where, if taken too literally, would ignore the nuance and lead to something Maisilyn’s heart would be perilled to see. Still, she didn’t want this to be for naught, so made the gamble.

“When you see your moment. Yes.”

Daishouri smiled, looked at her empty plate, then started packing her things. “You might be so right about that. Fighting instincts are just as intertwined with the attitude and technique. I need all three to really grow.” Daishouri stood up. “Maybe could be the push to fix it all for me. I should go train twice as hard with that in mind. So, thank you, Maisy.”

“Maisy?”
“A-Ah… Too much? I like friends with nicknames.”
FRIENDZONE. A-ACH… “It's wonderful. Thank you.”
Daishouri nodded, “See ya later, then, Maisy.” Then walked towards the exit.
“One more thing, Eve?”
Daishouri stopped. “Yes?”
Maisilyn looked over, then waved warmly. “Come back soon.”

----------

The night went a little easier than she anticipated. With a little ask, she was able to square herself the first entry so she could mentally prepare herself with the ring so Dot would come to her over vice-versa. That would’ve been easier on her nerves. She would stand on higher elevation, be able to watch the approach and be ready with hyper vigilance.

However, when tying her boots for the sixth time just backstage, the monitors all flipped to chrome skulls to capture the live broadcast and live audience in one swoop. On it, the Virus smiled with her brand of self-satisfied glee.

Oh-fuck. Oh-shit.
OhfuckOhshit.
Anyone but that person, please, with a whole bucket of cherries, sprinkles, lemon squeeze and an extra parfait on top.
Keep me as far away from her than anyone else on the planet.

At the climax where she thought she may soil herself being directly addressed, the speech concluded shortly after. She touched her hammering chest, had half a thought to tap the agent’s shoulder and go: Wow, what a match that was!
Then go home.
But unfortunately neither her conscious or subconscious brain put stock into that. She made herself watch Dot’s entrance to humanize the threat. Make it mortal. She padded herself down mid-way, just to check she wasn’t already wearing a match-ending trap on her body. There was just so little key info about Dot’s trickery in the ring that everything was possible. From what she could tell, she was whimsy. And, to say it regrettably, she looked a little fun.

Super duper spagheeto Daishouri?
Samurai! Super Duper Samurai Daishouri!
…
Am I really going to argue with her though? Hahahaha…

WELL. WITHOUT FURTHER ADIEU!

LIGHTS: CRRRRRISP!
CAMERA: LOCKED ON THE WHITE SMOKE SPILLING TO THE STAGE.
ACTION: SAMURAI!

LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOO

The Titantron showed a chibi Daishouri icon in a falling cherry blossom leaf background. She appeared within the mist, standing with side profile to the ring, stoic and straight-laced as she looked out with her chin tipped to the roof of the stadium. Her short white kimono blended with the smoke. Her black scarf floated with the wind coming from beneath the stage on a particular rehearsed spot, swinging and dancing like leaves in the wind. It was partially to pose… And another half to look for a trick. All seemed well. Real cherry blossom leaves came down on top of her, sprinkling in a faint tranquil twirl.

I’m alive. I’m safe.
And I will win!

Daishouri nodded to herself, then proceeded to the ramp and went down it. She was waved, cheered for and whistled at far more than she experienced prior. It was such an upgrade that she didn’t feel like she was Daishouri. She was receiving almost Citronelle level. A Darina Daybreak. A Jianying Tai. There was just no way for it to be for her, but a response to her opponent.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but break the stoic lips into a smile. Once that floodgate opened, it grew, and so did her smile. She waved at one side, first meekly, then got more confident at the second, half-expecting some scowl, but instead a hand would reach for a high-five. So she did it. (Smack!)

Crap, my palm is sweaty.
Wait--I don’t think they care.
DO they care??

Daishouri wiped her hand onto her hopefully drier sleeve, then approached the ring to execute a bow, thanking it for another opportunity. She ascended the steps, walked the apron, weaved into the ring between the bottom and middle ropes. While normally, she’d walk across the ring to take her corner and pose--this time, she simply turned around, scaled the turnbuckles and readied her finger with a beaming grin.

“DAAAAAAAAAAIIII--”[/i]
( DAAAAAAAAAIIIII )
M-Meep!!
“--SHOURI!!!”[/i]
( SHOURI!!! )

Daishouri beamed with such a rush that she could say thanks to everyone individually. As hyperbolic of a thought that was, at her first supercard since returning, she never thought a reception like this could be possible for her. Nevertheless, she was thankful, so resolute in herself to make it right and KICK. THIS. KITTY’S. ASS.

She hopped down, spinning one eighty and landing normally, starting to undo her sword belt for the match ahead. “I’m that--whatever-you-said, thank you. You must be… Thee Dot?”

Now… Say something cool. And don't waste her time with dumb questions! “Well, the only thing you’re going to be streaming is a crying fit as you hug your Master’s feet for forgiveness. Because I’m not losing this time.”

THIS TIME?
That could’ve come out… Just a little less weak.

It was already said though, so she just curled her toes till they were white, tried to bring the saliva back in her dry mouth and throat and stared at the emoting LED that she knew must’ve been mocking her silently for that last bit. So she kept telling herself: it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, their opinion means squat, stop thinking already--. And like a switch, she stopped.

For better or worse, she was

.

Dot stared impassively as Daishouri butchered her moniker. The Dot, huh? Where was the fuckin' respect?! And the crowd didn't even blink, just gave her a hullabaloo CHEER like she was dumbo soaring into the circus big top.

Well, but the dumbfucks in the seats do love 'em their underdogs, don't they—especially the awkward try-hards with stars in their eyes and butterflies in their tummies. Yeah, it's all roses for those types...until they get splattered. People looooooove underdogs.

They hate losers.

But the crowd's gaze was already shifting from the ring. The spotlights swung to the stage—and there, glittering like a vision in the dark, was the wheel. Red and white and black, a roulette piece encircled by flashing yellow light bulbs, like an antique ripped straight out of Vegas.

By this point in the card, the crowd knew what was coming: The announcer's voice — "LET'S...GIVE HER A...SPIIIIIN!" — the sting of brassy carnival music, up and down, up and down, while the wheel CLACK CLACK CLACKED as it spun, then slooooowed.

As the wheel completed its revolutions, dozens of fun possibilities sped past the red arrow at the top. What, Dot wondered, would the chastity belt match entail? Probably something at least as fun as the SUPER SOAKER SURPRISE.

Finally, the wheel all but stopped. The crowd held its breath. For one long second, it looked like it would creeeeeak to a stop on ACCEPTED HENTAI SUBMISSION but then—click! It turned over one more slot.

"CAAAAAAGED DEATH MAAAAAAATCH!"

As the announcer's voice filled the arena, a huge metal box began to lower from way up in the arena's rafters. Crk-crck-crk-crck — its chain creaked and groaned, the contraption swinging just be inches until it came to rest, clunk, closing both wrestlers within its confines.

"YES!" Dot was already out of her corner. There was a bounce in her step as she rubbed her palms together. "YES YES YES...yyyyyyyyessss! Hoooo BOY are we gonna have some FUN, Shour."

The announcer boomed over Dot's party, explaining rules Dot already knew by heart because it was the best god damn set she could ask for. No holds barred! Victory on escape from the cage only.

"In case you were wondering," came her melodious electronic hum, "I do intend to rip a submission from you before I hop out."

CAGE? DEATH?? Well—she’ll take that over a run with Hentai Submission, but sweet poki fried in olive oil and sold to elderly did this NOT SIT GOOD. Still better than the alternative any day of the week. Month. Year. Decade. Lifetime. BUT COME ON. Her mind now constantly blips into images of Roni Mancini, although in front of her is someone ten times worse—not just a paid thug—but like… A super-paid terrorist thug??

She, for the better part of her anxieties, did not know for certain. She couldn’t even begin to picture what Roni times ten looked like, what Dot looked like doing it. She tried to shut down those thoughts, leave it to chance and a crumb of faith. What Dot said about making her squeal submission wasn’t the worst thing she could imagine, but the statement did bring her frown out.

“Yah…” She wanted to scratch her nape, but kept her form, instead glancing down towards the digital demon’s boots. “Figured as much.” But there ARE ways to make that pill a bit easier to swallow, yah? Upfront was certainly better than finding out. These guys, this one for sure, was unabashed in spreading her joy and WHIMSY in the upcoming… no doubt in their minds—slaughter. Morale, as Maisilyn said, was important. This was just that. Dot’s high morale. Trust in her own generalship.

Long did she wish for the confidence just to CALL her victory and the scale. But alas, the cage settled and the opportunity closed. Daishouri gulped. She closed her eyes, slapped her cheeks in alternating fashion. One-two-three-four-five. URAH. Daishouri puffed out, took two steps from her corner and bladed stance, putting her lead leg forward and her arms down taut, straight and strong. “You’ll try. But you won’t get it. Matter of fact, I’ve been waiting for a chance to—”

“—Puh-lease!” “Ok, fuck you. GRRRR…” A voice came from the Titantron. Her person is now summoned on the big screen, seated in her command chair. Her face cropped onto neighbouring animated banners flowing between the bowls, plastered side by side like it was an army of clones. “Book a promo slot next time, maggot-twat-bitchloid. DOT! If she’s still croaking by the end of this, consider yourself a failure. I don’t want to just see you squeeze out her submission, I want you to send her to the demons in white coats. Get what am sayin?”

She laughed in a poor attempt to contain herself. “Andddd to help with that. Hocus… Pocus…” Her finger pressed a button on her chair’s command panel, activating sparks that HUMMED and CCRRRRACKED off the corners in an unstable, unsafe and volatile current. “Consider yourselves both my toy figurines. Now: ENTERTAIN ME.”

Something in Daishouri’s knees felt more empty. She didn’t have any knees, just a sense of emptiness. A sweat on her pits, nape, face and legs. She turned around sharply, then looked to the referee. She walked to and from between adjacent ropes to try and get some stares to see if they were joking. Her breathing, now hastened, came out in half-successful attempts to control herself. Morale. MORALE.

She pointed to Dot, “Was this the angle from the start? Answer me, you digital dick!”

“Answer me— answer me... ANSWER ME!!"

Dai's electronically bent voice hopped and skipped around the arena speakers like lightning. Dot's head tilted to one side, her faceplate gleaming.

"Angle? Whaaaat? You accusing me of cooking up a plan, schnookums? A scheeeeeme?"

Dot pushed from the ropes, matching Dai's hop from the electrified fence with her own bouncing, plodding trot. The announcer, over the contestant's voices, explained the rules to the churning crowd: Real simple rules, guys and gals! First chick to plant boots on the ground beyond the steel enclosure takes the gold.

By now, though, Dot and Dai were creeping towards the danger zone — that invisible yet brilliantly scarlet circle within which a skilled wrestler might make her move. A tackle! A swipe at the eyes—or a boot to the cunt. Dot stopped, bending at the hips with one hand on each knee as she stared her opponent down, back curved like a cat.

The cage surrounding the competitors was a thick mesh, the spaces between the wires barely thick enough for the slender wrestler's fingers. It hummed with invisible power — a power that, yes, Dot believed she could manipulate through her interface with the stadium's special effects systems. She decided to give it a try.

As data streamed its invisible packets from a half dozen receivers in her helmet, she tilted her head onto one shoulder. The fence behind that shoudler went HUMMM—and as she swung her head the other direction, the hum moved with it. Like a swarm of circling, angry bees.

"Why oh why, Daishouri, victory, Vikky—" Dot's voice warbled from under the hum, deep and bassy. "—would I bother with a SCHEME when all I gotta do to get under your skin is walk up and say boo?"

Hearing herself put a chill into her nape. Her face flinches, changing into something briefly caught in headlights. Then when back to normal, she had saved up her anger flash to growl when Dot spoke again. GRATING. She's so grating! Not quite nail on chalkboard, but the kind you wanted to hear cough and choke in the middle of their sentence so karma would take the wheel.

"You heard me." Daishouri answered, strong, but still trapped in her throat for a voice at half-power. 'Think simply. The rules, I understand them alright enough. The cage. It zaps. D-Does she control it? Or someone else? Ugghh, I don't know, I don't know, I don't knoooow.' The only way she could muster that one was by heading forward, forgetting her feet to let them enter auto-pilot. Dot and Daishouri approached one another, just out of arm's reach before this digital mystery postured right in front of her. Daishouri for her part, put one foot forward, stomped and stood tall. Her arms were stiff and down at her side, fist balled. Her back, straight, her forward leg half-bent. When she glanced, her legs were steady. Good.

"The cage!" An audience member said, followed by a resounding gasp of stolen breath. Then Daishouri's face told the rest; flushed, agape, and a scowl as her watch swivelled with the roaring bees sizzling off the mesh. Her lower-lip trembled.

"Thecageisalive." She mumbled under her breath, sucking in breath, then twice, thrice and by the fourth she choked. The inside of her mouth was running a little dry. "H-How do you guys--" Dot cut her off. She quieted immediately, listened, then felt a chill down her entire back. "Y-You know what, fair enough." She gave her head a shake, trying to sort out the logic, and if she could, a strategy. "S-So. All I need to do is knock you out cold, and I-I can climb out when you can't active it unconscious, right? That was you controlling that just now, r-right?"

Oh, thaaaaank you Spectre.

Dot just watched Daishouri talk. You could almost trace her lines of thought—beautiful, erratic yellow sizzles in the air. Dead end, dead end, try again! Each zag was a stutter in her voice, each zig a flutter of her eyes. And the cage? The cage was Dot's dog bowl.

Later, she would pretend to be insulted. Sooo that's the kinda feed you think I deserve, Cap'n? Lukewarm, moist kibble?

...Really, would she be pretending? Surely everyone involved deserved something more entertaining, no? No-balls fuckwits in the audience notwithstanding, of course.

Dot knit her fingers together, then puuuuuushed them until they cracked, up towards the stadium lights. "Y'know. Dai. You talk an awful lot for someone who's supposed to let her fists do her yapping."

Dot's neck came next. One rotation left—CRIK! One jab right—CRAK! "Tell you what. Just because you remind me of a younger...let's say more pathetic me. I'll give little old you an out." As Dot spoke, the menacing HUMMMMMM rising from the fence died to a whisper, then turned off with a dry crack. "Say uncle now, and I'll just. Cliiiiimb on out without any fuss."

A lie, of course. Fail me, and you get the chair says EL CAPITANO, and Dot knew that included any fuckin' lame-ass anticlimax endings. But fuck, if Dai were down to start the match washed in humiliation, Dot wouldn't stop her.

"Ooootherwise~" She bent at the hips, back rigid, until she looked almost like a butler at half-bow. If a Butler ever wore a plugsuit. She extended a hand for the start-of-match shake. "Let's hurry up and get this shit moving."

There that was again.

Stretching. Daishouri had to wonder if she was being taken seriously. It wasn’t uncommon for such a flavour of… person—to dictate the result before it began. She met plenty of those. And while the scourge on the big screen definitely checked those boxes, she was slow to pin Dot with anything other than…

Creepy.

So she listened. Big eyes supposedly to soak up more information.

A more pathetic me. Little old you.

Daishouri both looked away, then tucked her chin. Instinctively, she leaned back a tad. And almost doubly involuntary, she scowled at this idea. The idea could be a shrine and she’d spit on it. Take a sledgehammer to its face. And then bisect it with an axe kick to the neck stump left behind.

Finally, when Dot gave her the room, Daishouri raised her leg and watched it vibrate. The goosebumps on her thigh were vivid. Invisible white hair stood on end till she placed it down and took a second step. And then a third. In front of Dot, her only coherent thought to finalize was that when she stared at that extended hand, only sweat manifested on her own.

“With the utmost respect, Dot-san.” She said, then placed her hands together and bowed thirty degrees.

“I-I don’t wanna vomit, so I’ll pass on your gesture.” Then she stood up, taking a big unstable breath.

“And the name’s Daishouri to you.” She steeled her look. Her stare ossified into a war posture, still, steady and burning with spirit. Ghosts were moving in her head, but superior to that was flame to see that digital face move. Dot was unreadable as is. And on home turf. Dai was boxed in. Would she really be spared? Why go through that trouble for just little old her? A pathetic shadow.

Think, think-think.

The referee stood like a third vertice to their even triangle. Nodding to them, the easiest thing to do now was just to ring the bell and let whatever is to happen… happen. This is exactly what we trained for. Get it together! Big time is comin’ up…

DING-DING-DING.

And with Daishouri still meeting Dot’s LED screen, she spoke firmly with the only word swimming in her thoughts…

“Uncle.”

Then she turned with her lead shoulder twisting clockwise. Her heel pointed, her body twisted up like a coil till she threw her horizontal foot sole straight to the centre of Dot’s solar plexus. If her range placement was correct, she’d feel the soft flex of abdominals and ribcage right before the full flex. Then she’d shove to complete the attack, digging deep till she said hello to Dot’s diaphragm.