A Name in the Static - Laxia vs. Spectre

[Letta]

Laxia stood before the mirror in her dressing room, making one final adjustment to her attire. Perhaps the association had finally taken her complaints regarding the excessively flamboyant ensemble from her debut seriously. The alternate outfit she had secured after formally reprimanding them was considerably less revealing than the one she had been forced to wear in her first match.

wrestling attire

It was hardly loose or modest, of course. The fitted material still followed every line of the body she had refined through years of horseback riding, fencing, and countless other athletic pursuits. It emphasized the elegant curve of her waist, the strength in her legs, and the fuller contours that even the most carefully designed attire could not entirely conceal. Still, this was different. This time, she had chosen how she would present herself.

Laxia smoothed the fabric along her side before lifting her gaze to meet her own reflection. Her defeat in her debut match had been bitter. There was little purpose in denying that. She had entered LAW intending to make an immediate and undeniable impression, only to leave the ring without the victory she had expected to claim. Yet the loss had not been without value. Laxia had never considered professional wrestling beneath her, nor had she believed that success here would come effortlessly. Even so, Bandita had shown her just how many gifted, unpredictable, and fiercely determined competitors occupied this world. Talent alone would not be enough, pedigree would not be enough. Even perfect preparation could crumble once the bell rang and another person began fighting back. It was an unpleasant lesson, but a necessary one. And Laxia von Roswell was not a woman who would be broken by a single failure. If anything, defeat had only sharpened her determination.

Her second contest had been announced as a standard match. There were no elaborate stipulations to prepare for and no unusual conditions around which she would need to restructure her strategy. Victory would be decided through the conventional means of pinfall, submission, or knockout. Straightforward rules. A clean opportunity to prove that the outcome of her debut had been no indication of what she was truly capable of. The faint smile that touched her lips suggested she welcomed it. Soon, Laxia took her place behind the curtain at the gorilla position. As the opening notes of her entrance theme reverberated through the arena, she drew herself upright, composed her expression, and stepped through the curtain into the brilliance of the stage lights. The response struck her almost immediately. The cheers were louder than before. Noticeably louder. Though she had failed to win her debut, her performance had evidently left an impression upon the LAW audience. The realization brought a small, restrained smile to her face as she proceeded down the ramp.

Perhaps some of Bandita’s infectious warmth had lingered with her as well. Laxia raised one hand and offered the audience a graceful wave. When one particularly enthusiastic spectator reached over the barricade, she paused just long enough to meet their palm with her own. A high-five. Even then, the motion possessed such measured elegance that it appeared less like an impulsive gesture and more like some minor honor being bestowed by nobility. She continued toward the ring without allowing the growing enthusiasm around her to disrupt her dignified bearing. Ascending the steps, Laxia slipped between the ropes and moved toward the center of the canvas. There, she offered the audience a composed bow before retreating to her corner.

As she stretched against the ropes, Laxia’s blue eyes settled upon the entrance stage. Tonight’s opponent was Spectre. She was no obscure newcomer. Her name had appeared across news reports, hijacked broadcasts, and countless online discussions. Larceny heists, public broadcast takeovers, fear gas riots, and streams that openly displayed the suffering of her victims had made her infamous far beyond LAW. Spectre did not hide her crimes. She turned them into spectacles and made certain the world was watching. There had been no shortage of material for Laxia to study. The footage revealed a cunning strategist with a talent for manipulation, disruption, and adapting when her plans met resistance.

Yet the more Laxia searched beyond the spectacle, the less she found. Spectre’s public persona was extensively documented. The woman beneath it was not. Whenever Sebastian attempted to trace her personal history, he encountered the same “technical difficulties.” Records failed to load, returned contradictory information, or displayed nothing but error messages. Even information obtained through less conventional channels had been obscured. Names erased. Locations removed. Entire passages blacked out and redacted.

Sebastian did not make such mistakes, nor did House Roswell’s remaining information network fail without reason. Someone had gone to considerable lengths to keep Spectre’s true identity and past beyond reach. It was not that Spectre could not be investigated. The world could simply discover only what she had chosen to reveal. Laxia ceased stretching, her fingers still curled around the upper rope as her expression hardened. Spectre had turned her public persona into a weapon, one visible enough to command attention while keeping the truth beneath it concealed. Among her many documented crimes were thefts carried out with almost theatrical audacity. Could she be connected to the elusive figure Laxia had been pursuing? Perhaps even the mysterious thief herself?

No. A history of larceny was hardly proof, and Laxia would not allow coincidence to dictate her judgment. Still, she could not dismiss the possibility entirely. Laxia released the rope and stepped away from the corner, standing tall as she waited for the stage to reveal her opponent. Whatever connection Spectre possessed to the mystery surrounding House Roswell, if she possessed one at all, Laxia would uncover the truth herself. Just then, the arena screen flickered. A burst of static rippled across the display, causing Laxia’s name to distort and tremble upon the screen. She looked up with a puzzled frown as confused murmurs spread throughout the audience. And still, the screen continued to flicker.

[Monsy]

Spectre occupied the highest rafter with her eyes glued to a computer screen that was loaded with basic information and key photos taken over the course of surveillance.

House Rosewell.
Strays of Southern California.
Art conservators. Wealthy. The old money kind.

Knowledge was laden in court records, public information and ledgers from auctions that listed the precious items and their sold prices. Delving deeper was peering into history. It was all… Tedious. And abundant. She needed modern data. The majority of her infrastructure was built for stalking Japan. Getting eyes from America required an entirely different business plan. One done through shady lawyers, private eyes and leakers that hustled for maximum fees. She, of course, paid them…For now.

Laxia Rosewell was worth it. An American aristocrat. How ironic was that? From the tidbits she amassed, the image was stunning with how ingrained this identity was. Not some snub-nosed classless brat with money. An engineered personification of a benevolent lord from times forgotten. Spectre licked her lips. The target spawned on stage and strode with authenticity. The kind that truly barked to her senses and asked for the full treatment.

“Speak your mind. You think she’s hot? Perverted mutt.” Spectre said aloud. Beside her was a bound referee tied by tape at the wrists, ankles and mouth. She ripped off the mouth portion. The official yelped, but didn’t utter a word. So Spectre knocked them over with her knees, pressing them into her back, then holding the laptop in a palm whilst pinching her chin in thought. The dossier kept spawning new tabs of important combat information. Likely combos, attacks and background inferences for what physical package Laxia could do. She could see herself amongst the refinement. An optimized regimen that didn’t start in wrestling but certainly embraced the craft. Laxia was new. No certain footage revealed her secrets. Her combat experience was meagre.

It must be.

She snapped her fingers.

The

of the

rang throughout. The anger was vivid and immediate. Spotlights began to dance, shooting up from the stage and turning in all directions in search. Lights fluctuated from dim to bright. Purple mist spewed from the corner posts, spilling to ringside and filling the ring.

“The SHOW is now MINE!” Pyro spires erupted from the stage when she declared her entrance. A thwump suggested someone entered the ring, covered by shadow and mist in the super landing. She rose. Tall and grinning at her opponent. The several spotlights showed her collectively from horizontal angles. The crowd stirred into discontent and let another wave of jeers rain down from every row. Her hand outstretched towards the Titantron, turning her stance. The screen showed a man strapped to a chair. Bruised. The torn stripes of their shirt indicated an official. Duct-taped. Steam coming off her body. Sweat in the smallest pixels of the video.

“I present to you. House Rosewell’s insurance. Bias scum who was about to show leniency.” Lips pursed, eyes shut and swivelling as a finger wagged at Laxia. “This whole program is more corrupt than the ashes of Rosewell! Scandalized and rotten!” …. The Titantron began showing pictures of Laxia in public. Several "public" meetings with folks at different times. It didn't matter whom, just that they couldn't google them easily. A pointer line came off the stranger's likeness to a pop-up collage of fictionalized criminal records and warrants. She was willing to bet someone could believe one of the two lies. Though it didn't matter long term, she enjoyed sowing any number of unease.. A rotton fruit throw, if you will.

Spectre’s arm continued to point at the Titantron to stir more interest. After a beat, she refocused on the Lightning Noble herself. Again, she tapped a small button on her mask. It made her voice personal. No longer projected. Just her and Laxia. “Don't think covering up more will save that soft gut of yours. You prudish punchmeat.”

Backing up two steps, a shadow grew inbetween them. The referee, dangling by their shirt, was descending on cable and hook. The panic and laboured breathing was priceless. Once they were dangling in-front of Spectre’s face, she cut the tape with her sharpened nail set. The official crashed into the floor. Spectre grabbed them by the nape, had them stand, then walked them bent over towards the ropes to put their head through and speak into a ring attendant’s microphone…

"Say your piece. Tell the news."

“T-This match… W-W-Will now be a last w-w-w-women sta-st-tan-t-ding match! Ssssscheduled for a twe-twenty count!”

Spectre threw them into the ropes, then turned to Laxia once more, staring her down.

[Letta]

An ominous, violent melody swallowed the arena as spotlights swept restlessly through the darkness, hunting for something unseen. The lights pulsed between dim and bright while shadows stretched and vanished beneath them.

Psssssshhhh...

Purple mist spilled from the corner posts, crawling across ringside like something alive before creeping onto the canvas itself. Laxia remained composed, though unmistakable caution lingered in her sapphire-blue eyes as she watched it curl around her boots and brush against her ankles. This was no ordinary entrance. Nothing about Spectre was ordinary.

Pillars of pyro tore upward from the stage with her declaration. “.....!” Laxia’s gaze snapped toward it, and then came a heavy THUMP! from inside the ring, making her shoulders twitch involuntarily.

At first, there was only a silhouette within the mist and darkness, a small figure slowly rising to her feet. The roaming lights caught pieces of Spectre from different angles, enough for Laxia to glimpse the faint curl of a grin in the shadows. Her brow tightened. Then Spectre pointed toward the Titantron. A man appeared on the screen. “...What is that?” Laxia studied him carefully. Bound to a chair, bruised, battered, his clothes torn, and then she noticed the striped shirt. “...Wait. The referee...?!” Only then did she realize the official who should have been standing in the ring was nowhere to be seen. The man on the screen had been bound at the wrists and ankles with duct tape, beads of cold sweat visible across his face in cruelly sharp detail.

But the real blow came next. House Rosewell’s insurance. Bias scum. Corrupt. Scandalized. Laxia’s expression froze. “What...?” Her mind went blank. She’s saying my family bribed the referee...? That’s impossible... Without realizing it, she stepped backward. Only moments ago, the crowd had been smiling and calling her name; now murmurs were spreading through the stands as more eyes shifted between her and the screen. Then Spectre’s words cut deeper. Ashes. Corrupt. Scandalized. Laxia’s face tightened as though something unseen had sliced into her.

She could endure insults aimed at herself. But her family, House Rosewell was different. As if Spectre had found exactly where to press, the Titantron changed again. “.....!” This time, it showed Laxia. Photographs taken in public. Meetings with different people. Even images of her wearing the oversized sunglasses she sometimes used to preserve some measure of privacy. Ordinarily, none of it would have looked suspicious. Here, however, it only fed the doubt. “How....?” How did she get those? How long has she been watching me....?

Lines began extending from the people pictured beside her, connecting them to criminal records, arrest warrants, and wanted notices. One after another. “No.... that’s a lie.” The photographs were real. The records weren’t. And that made the lie all the more dangerous. They’ll believe it... The murmuring grew louder. For a moment, it stopped sounding like the arena at all. Whispers. Pointing fingers. That same awful weight of strangers picking apart the Rosewell name, just like before. Laxia’s breath caught. Her sapphire eyes darted from one face to another as she shifted uneasily on her feet, suddenly unsure where to look. No... not again... Wherever she turned, she found suspicion or disappointment. There were still faces that believed her, but the distrust scattered among them was impossible to ignore. Spectre wasn’t simply humiliating her. She was dragging the name Laxia had carried her entire life through the mud. And the match hadn’t even begun.

Then Spectre’s arena-wide voice vanished, replaced by something much closer. Colder. Personal. “....!” Laxia’s hand moved to her stomach before she could stop it, pressing instinctively over the fabric covering her abdomen. A chill ran across her skin. It felt as though the eyes behind Spectre’s mask could see straight through every layer to the bare skin beneath. Laxia realized it too late and quickly lowered her hand.
I reacted... A shadow suddenly fell between them. Laxia looked upward and saw something descending from above.

“Is that-?!” The referee. The same man from the screen was being lowered toward the ring by cable and hook.“This is actually being allowed...?” Of course it shouldn’t have been, but what did ordinary rules mean to Spectre? The referee crashed onto the canvas, was dragged toward the ropes, and finally stammered out the new stipulation. Last Woman Standing. Twenty count. Laxia’s eyes widened. “....Last Woman Standing..?” Twenty……? She had prepared for an ordinary match built around pinfalls and submissions. Within minutes, everything had been overturned. Spectre’s stage. Spectre’s rules. Spectre’s doubts planted in the audience. And Laxia stood in the middle of all of it. For several moments she said nothing, her thoughts scattered and her heart beating faster than usual. The photographs and accusations still flashed through her mind.

But she couldn’t remain frozen forever. Slowly, her hand fell completely away from her stomach. The murmurs. The Titantron. The countless eyes fixed upon her. She forced them aside one by one. I’ll tear your lies apart... And she had to put down the woman standing in front of her. The fear hadn’t disappeared. Neither had the doubt or unease. She had simply found a reason to push through them. Her shaken sapphire eyes returned to Spectre as Laxia stepped forward and met the masked woman’s stare head-on. “You....” Spectre. She knew the name. She knew the crimes attached to it and the face Spectre had chosen to show the world. But underneath that, nothing. No face behind the mask. No real name. No reason for this obsession with her. Laxia’s blue eyes narrowed. “Who the hell are you...?” A beat passed. Her fingers slowly curled into a fist, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower, steadier. “And how much do you know about my family?”