Hard Reboot (Melanie Isabella Andrews [D] vs Spectre)

[DSX93]

***
Match Type: Standard
Victory Conditions: Pinfall, Submission, Knockout, or Disqualification.
***

Melanie Isabella Andrews

Do these people not know who she is, or what? LAW's headquarters may be in Japan, but their operations span the entire globe. You'd figure word would get around about the premier talent they had on their hands. Melanie. Isabella. Andrews. Two time UCW Women's Champion. Held it for two years the first time, and would still be holding it today if she hadn't been screwed.

Yeah, she was making a switch from coordinated to combat wrestling, but she was no rookie. She put in the work and learned the craft. Put blood, sweat, and tears into the game. And if anything, the scripted variant was tougher. You had to put on a show and make sure that whoever was in the ring with you was walking out at the end of it too. Here? You don't have to give a damn.

The conspiracy -- that misrepresentation of her backstage interactions with the weak links -- had followed her here. What other explanation could there be for the deck having been so stacked against her? First, she's put up against a group of doped up opponents, and now they've placed her here. A group locker room for the greenest of the green. The fuckers.

But that's okay. They can't keep her down forever. She'll take the top titles and show all of them exactly who they're fucking with. And when she regains the power that's rightfully hers, they'll be wishing that they were working at X or whatever.

"Ooh, sexy outfit!"

Finally, somebody with some sense! Melanie turned to face

with a grin on her face. She wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know, but she liked the attention nonethele-

She wasn't talking to her. The

Latina a few lockers down from her greeted her with a smile that was admittedly pretty, but nothing that was on her level. The same could be said of that so-called "outfit". Was that...? Yeah, that had to be fake leather. The gold? Likely to leave green marks on her skin. The jewelry? Synthetic.

That she wasn't the best dressed in the room was eating away at Melanie, but good luck getting her to admit that. Even to herself.

The

in the locker room turned to this basic bitch too. There wasn't a single glance her way.

"You're gonna kill it tonight!"

The girl who looked more like she was lost on the way to gym class started speedily typing away at the phone in her hand, showing it to Basic Bitch when she was done.

"Rai Kamiya."

Lost High Schooler's eyes flashed with recognition that led her type something else.

"That works for me. Gives me a chance to use these new moves I've picked up. Hey, speaking of new stuff, take some pictures!" Here we go. Basic Bitch was feeling herself. So much so, she started

Using her arms to squeeze her breasts together and giving a little pout.

"Nice."

If by "nice", you mean "a disgusting sight that makes the eyes roll", sure. Basic Bitch was beaming with pride now. "I thought it looked cute!" After a few flashes, she

Trying her hand at a seductress look. Another picture would be taken of her failure.

The door opened a second later, and a stagehand poked her head into the room. "Melanie Isa..." She trailed off as her eyes glued themselves to a basic butt -- couldn't even call that thing an ass. As they say, there's no accounting for taste.

She was up. Good. Melanie smacked Lost High Schooler's phone out of her hand on the way out the door. Basic Bitch and...She just didn't care to give the other woman a name...had raised some words of protest as she pushed past the stagehand, but they didn't try anything. A smart move on their part.

Her

was played when she closed in on the curtain. The LAW Universe would welcome the two time UCW Women's Champion with hate. Fuck 'em. She didn't let it break her stride, and advanced to the ring with a large measure of a top girl's swagger, but there was purpose in her steps as well.

"M.I.A., I go H-A-M. Who's the HBIC?"

Why, I am. She pointed towards herself with both thumbs, paying the little people who disagreed little mind.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this match is scheduled for one fall! Introducing first, standing at five feet and four inches, and weighing in at one hundred and thirty-eight pounds, from Miami, Florida...! Melanieeee Isabellaaaaaa Annnndrewwws!"

It's like the song says: "Doubting MIA's just nutty". They think that just because she's doing this for real now that she can't hang? They'll see the reality of it real soon.

After entering the ring, she'd climb up to the second rope, giving the crowd -- and the Schadenfreudian fuckwits watching from behind a screen -- a good, long look at her, gesturing towards herself again in time with the lyrics.

"M.I.A., I go H-A-M. Who's the HBIC?"

Why, I am.

After stepping down, the HBIC would lean back into a corner and get settled, waiting for her lesser to enter the ring.

[Monsy]

The crowd could tell it was time by the arrival of purple lights. They looked to the titantron, with the LAW logo warping, glitching and then manifesting the Chrome Skull. Smoke puffed from the machines at the stage lip. A pitiful puff, puff-puff, to punctuate. And then, finally, the track started.

Bell, choir, techno into one bouncing beat. The eyes inside the skull glowed and dimmed to the bass. The crowd bit their inner cheek. Another rookie, they thought. To the Virus that was lowering down from the ceiling, a foot on a metal hook and balancing with her back to a metal cable -- rookies were food. The Mystery Meal. The crowd was back and forth on it. Just who are we with here? Only one of them really gave eye candy, so a large section was already bribed.

As for Spectre, she was in a belly-bearing high-cut leotard. Her chest crossed with straps, a priceless jewel on sat on her neck in a choker. And on her face, most notably, the domino mask and purple facepaint. Then she was finished with black and purple boots that exposed the knees. She already six feet above the corner turnbuckle, with pictures and videos catching her presence. A spotlight beamed at her from above. So she pointed a finger-gun, put her thumb down and pulled the hand back, then sounded, "Pow." And the spotlight flickered, eventually shutting off. She dropped down, landing light on the corner with her ankles together, toes out, knees folded into a squat. Her hands rested between her legs on the pad. Eyes fixed forward.

Pyro jets WHOOSHED from the four corners in tall spires that lasted five seconds once she struck the ring with her boots. It went away, as did her music, leaving only the ambient crowd that started to nauseate and feel their throats clench.

.

“And what do we have here?” She stood up, cape draping down her back. “Someone just wasted a lot of time posing for the worst moment of their lives.” Her head tilted finishing with the line, “And it ain’t me.” Before jumping into the ring with a front-flip, planting her feet, standing in front of them.

Albeit: short.
But with a finger on the trigger to a coalescing idea.

[DSX93]

Melanie crossed her arms underneath her augmented breasts, entirely unimpressed with the theatrics Spectre had on display. First of all was the smoking skull. Who did this bitch think she is, Stone Cold? And then there was the "music" that was really just some badly put-together noise. The needless fancy lighting. The cheap looking outfit. And speaking of cheap, there was that fake shit that the redhead had on her choker.

Her pride wouldn't let her acknowledge anything of Spectre's as anything more than some degree of awful. To hell with the crowd's opinion.

The brown-haired debutante stared the smaller woman down, a smirk forming on her features. "Says the peacocking midget. You're in the ring with a UCW champion, so you're not gonna be pulling that 'fake it 'til you make it' shit tonight. Now, pinfall or submission? How do you wanna go out?"

[Monsy]

The bitch metre in Spectre's head suddenly overflowed. She hit Spectre like a pungent smell.

Her ribs were tickled. "BWA-HAHA... A... Peacocking m-midget? She said while cackling. It was the first time she remembered in a while that someone finally went at her vulgarly.

She crossed one arm under her bust, letting her elbow rest in her palm. Then her second hand cupped a cheek, sighing and letting her face reset. "So. You like low hanging fruit. Figures. Maybe I should make pneumonic jumping shoes to reach the top shelf. I might just do that." Of course, there was that second claim of fake it till' you make it. Not anything she can do about or would. Some bitches just have their head in the sand. For Spectre, it merely meant an open guard and unprotected gut. A champion no doubt. One that sounds like an open book so far. As for their question...

"Alright Champion Titty-saurus. You want to be treated like a big deal? Very -fuckin- well." Her hand extended, thumb and middle finger pressed together.

"I choose Dot."

Then she finger-snapped.