Spectral Livestream Episode 2: MONORAIL

[Monsy]

Currently being conducted off-rite, then posted here. The first turn is written by @CaptainL, then my turn follows and henceforth. This Livestream thread comes after the events of the Alena Stepanova vs Spectre match with its corresponding ending leading to this.

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Just an hour ago, Alena Stepanova - BJJ champion, MMA great, and rising star in LAW - had proclaimed she was applying herself to her greatest challenge yet in going head to head with the infamous Spectre - a figure of mystery and mystique, who held the wrestling world in her thrall through fear. She seemed like she could be anywhere and do anything. No depth was below her, and nothing was beyond her reach. She had made her presence known in many a match, and that presence was one that resembled a malevolent force of nature more than it resembled a professional wrestler. Nothing, it seemed, could get in her way.

But that didn't matter a thing for Alena. If anything, it just painted a target on her back. Spectre, she decided, would be her white whale - defeating her would bring her the glory she was after, and cement her name in the annals of history. Someone had to be the one to defeat her, and she was going to be the one. Some called her brave, others called her foolish. But none could deny that her enthusiasm was infectious. She made it clear that there wasn't a doubtful bone in her body - she'd already made up her mind that she was going to beat Spectre, and it wasn't a matter of if, but when. A few fans had been convinced from her sheer unabashed conviction alone.

That mood of triumph had been all but forgotten now. Now, the determination with which Alena put herself up to the task seemed quaint. Naively hopeful - the delusions of a girl who was biting off more than she could chew. Yes, Alena had taken on accomplished grapplers before. But Spectre was more than that. Spectre couldn't be predicted, studied, or reasoned with - not by any expectations one would have of a wrestler. Spectre was a step beyond.

That was well apparent when the match came to a close - not with the ringing of a bell, not with one competitor laid out and the other triumphant, but with a riot and a blind panic as Spectre unleashed gas into the crowd. The staff was too busy trying to escort the fans to safety. Alena's security detail had tried to step in for her, but they froze in their tracks when they fell convulsing and the swirling shapes in the mist turned to things they never wished to see. The police had been called on the scene, but by the time they arrived, it was too late. There was no sign of Alena anywhere - all but the countdown on the screen.

And for thousands of watchers at home, there was only that countdown, on a screen they were glued to as it ticked down a second at a time. It had reached an audience far beyond that of LAW - multiple news stations had picked up the story just minutes after it happened. And no matter how many witnesses they tried to interview, no one had any more of an idea as to what was going on than anyone else. It had all the makings of a movie - a glamorous heiress to a Russian oil fortune, snatched away in the blink of an eye, and a masked malevolent presence looming over it all that forced everyone to question what they thought they knew. But it was all painfully real.

Theories abounded; social media was abuzz with activity. The doubters figured it was a publicity stunt - it seemed almost too fanciful to be believed. The more conspiratorial-minded speculated that it was the Russian government trying to silence Alena for her criticism of the invasion of Ukraine. Others speculated that given her wealth and her status as a public figure in the world of combat sports, the motives could have been as simple as money. There was only one thing they could hope - if the count hit zero, maybe they'd have answers.

[Monsy]

She, Dot, and Alena inside a production case were carried down the shadowed side of the stadium by two pre-installed winches hoisting a platform, entering a silver cargo van. It didn’t matter if this vehicle was flagged later—she expected that; planned for it.

“Rattle enough nests?”
“Did we?”

Dot turned up the radio. The noisy chatter from that thing. Not just police. Ambulances. Fire department. Hazmat. They didn’t have a uniformed word for it yet. Gas attack. A riot with a singular cause—Spectre. Spectre. It repeated over and over—with vim, vinegar and vile venom. One phrase did catch hold as a placeholder: Mass Hysteria. It ignited a giggle and splendid grin from Spectre, leaning over the console from the back, elbows on the grainy-patterned plastic, kicking her feet against the carpet. “That’s phase one dutifully squashed.” Spectre laid her back on the console and crossed her legs at the end, making this a bed. “Think she’s gonna squeal, scream or bite her tongue first? One vintage Rolex says she’s gonna be a chompin chopin slamming arpeggios in her throat.”

The duo slipped into conversation about making odd bets with their personal collections, then revisited the plan for the upcoming. Dot drove meanwhile to get them through cruiser patrons, checkpoints and adding a few shortcuts. There wasn’t a need to watch her coast through it all. She was professional. And Spectre found a more entertaining use of time was to take a soft measuring tape, lean into the fastened production case, then pull and manipulate Alena’s limbs to take their size for her notes.

A trip down a shutter street came to one of their inhabited garages that had a Shogun’s feast featuring hozen cuisine and dancing Daimyos in robes and stylized accessory cloths. They moved Alena from the van to a microvan, where Spectre took the wheel. Dot would be continuing to the public broadcasting station. A song and dance, a threat, a suggestion. Anything to plaster them to the news as LAW Stadium leaked to the street, captured live by a news helicopter that played through an opened laptop in the passenger seat. The worms wiggled from the exits in an omnidirectional spread. They entered their cars, ran onto roads, rear-ended, fender-bendered, side swiped and T-boned each other. Flashing headlights were constant. She can only imagine the shouting. Seeing enough, the laptop was closed and she drove off. An old and cold black coffee kept her lips company while coming out of a maintenance tunnel onto a road. Tastes like minimum wage. She relished the spring in her fingers coming alive.

The van gradually spilled to the adjacent lane. She tossed the cup, jerked the wheel back, stomping the accelerator in frustrated tandem. The engine hummed and she released the throttle to the brake, coming to a stop that saw her jaw ricochet off twelve o’clock on the steering wheel. After a couple turns of this, she sinked into a passable focus to complete a planned loop that saw her drive into the outskirts of Kabuchiko, then get lost inside it. A nice friendly elevator awaited her in the back alley of a nightclub with bikes, vending machines and a sliding door for every wall on ground level, faded red or white neons and yellow light coming from second-story windows and doors. She parked with a slight lean, then towed the box to the asphalt, laid on top, then pushed and coasted, getting into the elevator rigged to her protocols…

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The Panic Room. Her Sanctuary if you will. A hall of triumph with every door with a lock and sealing phrase. Their AI panic monitoring movement from within and outside in a fleet of cameras. Booth chairs that baked in mechanical shackles on the arm and footrests. A pilfered wardrobe in a maze of clothes. An office filled with stolen affections of past streams. Currently only Audrey Trovita’s attire. Traps in the halls under floorboards, tiles. A faux eye scanner near the sealed exit leading that dispensed blinding goop after the word: boo.

How she got this place under her thumb is a truth known to the employees indentured to its maintenance, service and security—the pachinko parlour boss the floor above and vague online rumours that spread around in forums and chats. A night of gas, dance and bouncing synth.

The Boss wheeled Alena past Chrome skulls on pedestals with bar codes to the left and right were just inside, acting as sensors that originated in their eyes. There was a bar that wrapped around in an oval shape with a fluorescent blue glowing on the back shelf carrying liquors that hadn’t moved since takeover. She went around the side following the LED trims consistent on every edge of the room’s shape, giving the place its main lighting. A shallow one-step rectangle that marked the border from carpet to gloss. A rebate into the sides housed bucket seats with velvet leather seats. Then the end of the space was an elevated DJ Booth, commanding the studio’s AV, the livestream feed and rigged traps. The panel was a wide multi-sectioned arch with stacked box monitors on the wings that flickered her logo in glitching patterns. A bending production screen mounted across the wall behind her, forming a long rectangle. Purple banners hung on walls, chrome skull iconography made into statues, cameras, speakers and laser checks going from the elevator or backrooms. The ceiling had expanding truss arms that resembled a star, dangling a black discoball-shaped projector.

“Panic.” Spectre said breathily, her security AI responds, “It’s you, my Overlord. How wonderful. I see your wicked travels have led you back triumphantly?” Spectre nodded, getting her feet grounded to stop the rolling case. “Like there’s any other outcome.”

But she’ll admit this was going to be her least favourite part.

Getting Alena from her box to the contraption.

A circular monorail on three adjustable pillars, currently at its lowest position of six inches off the floor. One on the monorail is two rotating railcars. Each one had a rotating black square case with a hole that fed through a pneumatic tube pointed towards the victim while extended out backwards away. Air-tubes connected into the bottom of the railcars, then fed towards the DJ stage before dipping into an area underneath for the motor, compressor and tank. Then at the inward ends of those tubes was the actuating piston launching a purple boxing glove over a fist shape made of metal about the size of a heavyweight boxer. Now what exactly sucked was getting Alena out, put over-shoulder, then set up to the principal shackles. One set of chains went towards the ceiling, wrapped by a winch, then retracted so Alena’s arms would be stuck overhead and falling was an impossible solution. Then leather ankle shackles connected by studs and chain fed through a loop on the floor with some slack purposefully baked into the game.

Result?! Her arms hate her deeply.

She panted by the time of finishing, going to the back towards the office.

“Panic.” Spectre said breathily.
“Yes, overlord?”
“Incident report.”
“Someone did use your eye scanner. I nursed them to greater peril. All I had to say was: just use a bit of soap to get it out. Haha.”

Her ear canals felt burning by the time she got to the office. Warm-coloured wooden shelves to a dark-coloured carpet and a metallic-grey desk with a wooden top. Her mask was thrown to a beige coloured futon. Her noise cancellers came from the bag she prepped with a make-up set and small tools for her defunct mask. She first stuffed her ears to quiet the world and sat down on the futon. A soft white noise tickled her ear drum. Now comes to the biggest issue.

‘Leave it to Friday for something to fuck up. Me, forget my spare prototype? Bahulululu. Whatever. It’s done.’ Spectre leaned forward till her elbows were on her knees.
‘So, what? Show my face and laugh it off? … No, that’ll let Alena have something. All these aristocrats just APPARENTLY like to pull my rugs. Let's just substitute. Should have a stock already across the hall, because like hell am I using this scarf.’

She got up after that. Their pilfered wardrobe was a well-organized array inside a room with large windows on the sides. A vanity was at the end. The wings had a wall of masks of all kinds. Masquerade, balaclavas, gas masks and oni faces. No, no, no, maybe-actually-nah. Feathers, leathers, reds and purples. Too princessy, too hot, too clown-like and too gaudy.

‘None of these look natural. Let’s walk this back a minute…’ She stood in front of the vanity, walking up close to inspect herself. ‘Balance the colours. Find a highlight. My north star.’ Looking down, she put her thumbs in the sides of her translucent latex hugging her gut. She peeked the skin, then made claws to tear into the material till her stomach was fully bared, leaving only the strap.

‘Don’t be conservative, be greedy. Cohorts in arms, different and vivid. Each to their own domain and message.’ A strip of the latex was taken from the floor, put over her eyes, then she leaned to hold her face close to the mirror.

‘A promise with my eyes alone. Follow the face, so then you don’t see the--’

“OOFH!!” She lifted her knee in a simulated low blow that saw the patella crack into the heavy wooden ledge. Her teeth clenched after a chuff. “Dicksuck-nggh!” Nursing her sore spot, she looked back to the wall and pondered. ‘Sorry Dot. Someone stole our vanity after the stream. Put Alena through it. Was old. Rotting. Kinda UGLY. Why didn’t we replace it sooner?’

A sigh put her pain to bed and she sauntered to a simple black domino mask. Trying it on, she first applied a black upper lip then gave the mirror a frown…then a grin. ‘Gives emo phase. Cheap. Who is this person? Just a little villain goon. Bleeegh.’ A purple bottom lip gave her smile a full glow. She turned it smug, expressed with her eyes, pulled her cheek tight then wiped her tongue across her upper teeth. Her head tilted towards the side, then she puckered her lips, blew a kiss, spun around, stomped a lead leg forward and presented herself using her arms to the side, palms and fingers flexed. “Booyah.”

She paused to apply a purple face-paint around her eyes like an inner mask. Then she re-applied the domino overtop, gave the mirror another look, then started round 2. A side profile this time. Tall posture. Arm folded behind her back. The other made a claw that was rising over her head slowly, her sneer mean and stared hungry while thinking of news headlines. “Grand Duchess of the Octagon stuns the world by proving Spectre as human after all. Here’s why that’s bad news.” And finally she stepped back, squaring her stance with a hand to her hip. She then THRUST her palm out in-front to say. “The SHOW!...Starts in FIVE minutes.” Her claw became a fist. Lips formed into the most shit-eating grin. The same one she always wore when another pleb broke in her hands. She wanted them to know that. The web, the crowds, the news and across borders. The perfect counter story. Something about onions and layers.

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On-set in the central DJ booth, Spectre manned her controls while a timer counted down the final seconds.

0:00
“SILENCE ON SET!”
“Camera?” “Rolling, my Overlord.”
“Audio.” “Affirmative.”
“Episode two, monorail…” “Alena Stepanova.”

ANNNNNNNNNNNNNNND ACTION.

The screen turned on. Not just at the wrestling arena, but across Social Medias, the LAW website front page and soon to be more if Dot succeeded. Now, what did the feed show? Alena Stepanova pinned on the mat. Next? In a paradise hold, shorts pulled down, pale and helpless. Then her Nocturne’s debut in a purple smoke storm. Alena tucked neatly in a production case, sleeping with a bullseye mark drawn to her belly. Then on the outside leading the full circle, it read: Spectre’s Fist Go Here.

AND AT LONG LAST… Just kidding.

Spectre showed up next. Camera already in your face. “Still holding that L, Tokyo?” The question was allowed to marinate. Viewers poured in by the thousands on a displayed counter on the lower right while funds accrued was on the opposite corner. The feed was spread by bots, QR codes and Dot’s escapade to the public broadcasting station, giving the program a nation-wide breaking news audience. “You saw the recap. This is a new record! All that’s left is to bet how much of your public coffers I spent. At least three-hundred million yen and counting. You got police, hazmat, ambalam, fire trucks, and a helicopter. Next time I should go for a billion, what do you say? Truce for one month if you give me that heli?” She winked.

Panic chimed in. “Just think of all those people—thousands, running headless, with your name on their lips. Absolutely incredible feat ma’am.”

Spectre chuckled, “Exactly. Now they’re just like the wrestlers they watch. Tail-tucked and tongue-tied!” A laugh bubbled from within her throat, to her cheeks and out in an excited eruption. Her eyes closed. A loud controlled inhale reset her composure. “You know you well and deserved it anyway. All that noise you make, your crooked leanings and insufferable chants… We’ve gone to war for less, so take a look at who’s doing this to you Japan. LAW.” She stepped back and the camera zoomed out so her whole body was shown. Her head turned to the side, hands raised like a shrug. ““This is what optimization looks like when you’re transcendent. Hurt me? PSH. You haven’t seen the worst of me yet, I am the Goddess of adaptation. I don’t fail, I evolve. So try me if you want, sweet. I dare you.”

AND FOR REAL THIS TIME:

The camera was onto a completely naked Alena in the centre of her circular contraption. The monorail lifted altogether to the level of her abdomen as Spectre pressed an adjusting button from the DJ Booth. A key she plugged in started the motor underneath. Then the music kicked in a low-volume electronic beat as background noise to stuff any noise from underneath the stage. A WHOOSH flourished through the air tubes as she moved the slider for pressure. Low power for now. Then, she gripped the joysticks controlling the railcars that moved back and forth. The pneumatic tubes rotated as per their design to turn and angle themselves towards the centre: at Alena’s midsection. A red button on-top of each. She moved both cars together at Alena’s front, two fists aimed that could swallow Alena’s waist end-to-end.

“Here we have a little miss piggy that caught herself on my hook. You might know her from across the pond and certainly by her black-gold family in Russia. She’s got the attitude of a loud paper tiger with the purse of a Duchess. Alena Stepanova, chief loser of the ginger tribe.”

A spotlight flicked on to give her the showcase she so deserved. Spectre pressed the buttons to shoot the pneumatic fists into Alena’s gut. “Oops.”