Call-Up
After washing up and stepping out into the training facility, I found two figures waiting for me.
Baku and Russel.
"......What's going on?"
"Ah, there you are."
Baku, who'd looked deep in thought, broke into a sly grin when he saw me.
"I called you both here because there's something we need to discuss. I want you two on the TV show as soon as possible."
"......? Russel and me?"
"That's right."
Baku gave a slow nod.
What on earth was he talking about?
Now, sure, Russel and I were good enough that a TV debut would eventually be in the cards. The evaluations I'd overheard here and there suggested that I had good timing instincts, and that Russel would be fine as long as he had someone to work off of.
Still, that was then and this was now.
'*This is way too fast, no matter how you slice it.*'
I'd only been here three months. Even under the best circumstances, WWF's methods usually took at least six months to instill.
'*Is there some reason behind this?*'
Looking at Baku's unusually grim expression, I landed on one likely explanation.
"Is the situation serious?"
"What situation?"
"Did someone get called up?"
In the end, GCW's purpose was to develop talent and send it 'upstairs.' They called it a 'call-up,' and the authority over it rested entirely with the parent company, WWF.
Which meant we were in the position of the party with no power to refuse — if they said 'send someone up,' up they went.
Baku was quiet for a moment at my question, then let out a long sigh.
"For now, we'll assign you each a member of the writing team. Get your gimmicks sorted out and report back."
He was dodging the question, clearly not wanting to worry us.
He walked away with his shoulders slumped, uncharacteristically deflated.
It bothered me, somehow.
"......Hmm."
"What's wrong?"
"Some big-name wrestler got called up to the main show, from the sound of it."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Otherwise there'd be no reason to rush our debut like this."
At my words, Russel's face went a shade pale. I smirked and asked.
"Worried?"
"O-of course I am."
Russel furrowed his brow.
"What about you? I'm more worried about what to do with my gimmick."
"You've already got one planned, don't you?"
"But will that be enough? Maybe I should give it a more distinctive personality or something......"
"Don't worry. People won't be able to help loving your character."
He felt burdened by it himself, but having a legendary uncle was an identity no one else in the world could claim.
Either way, the fact that it made even Russel nervous said everything about how fast our debut was coming.
Baku seemed to want to keep things under wraps as much as possible, but something had clearly gone wrong with the show.
'*I should try talking to him.*'
Just as I was reaching that conclusion, staff members began filing into the training facility.
They were from the writing team.
"Kim, come with us, please."
"Russel, we'll take it from here."
Following their directions, Russel and I split off to our separate stations.
A quiet changing room.
The bespectacled staffer frowned as he reviewed my neatly organized materials.
"Hmm......"
Was something wrong?
He'd been silent the whole time, and just as I was starting to find it suspicious, he opened his mouth in a clipped, clicking sort of voice.
"I'm to read this as Juno Kim?"
"......It's Junho Kim."
"You're surely not planning to debut on the show under your real name?"
"Of course not."
I did intend to use a ring name, for one simple reason.
The company encouraged it. And why? Because the company owned the copyright to your ring name.
Even if you insisted on using your real name, they'd slyly tweak the spelling and claim the copyright anyway. That was simply company policy.
'*Besides, Junho Kim is hard for people to remember and hard to say.*'
So I'd planned on settling on a ring name...... though I hadn't expected the debut to come this fast.
Anyway.
That wasn't the important part.
The staffer in front of me — his attitude was off.
Overall, he gave off the distinct impression that he was here to school me.
"And this gimmick. 'A pro wrestler from the indies'? I've never seen such a one-dimensional gimmick in my life."
"Is that so."
I played along for now.
"You should have some individuality, shouldn't you? What if we leaned into a criminal sort of image — layered another trait on top of it?"
A rookie.
I grinned slyly.
I knew exactly what he was. A typical nerd-type writer who'd been writing for years but knew next to nothing about the business itself.
A pro wrestling company had to churn out new stories week after week, so this kind of collaboration was unavoidable.
But people who thought they understood everything about a craft they'd only just brushed against were, frankly, nothing but a nuisance.
What you needed was mutual respect for each other's domains and a willingness to trade ideas freely.
And at the center of it all, the wrestler had to stand. This guy clearly didn't understand that.
Back in my past life as a wrestler, this type had been hard to deal with. But during my years as a producer, I'd learned — through endless repetition — exactly how to handle them.
'*Do you have any idea how much experience I have?*'
For now, I'd let him drone on and pretend to listen.
"Right, so. How about we actually make him a thief? The gimmick is that he steals the championship belt too. Every time he comes out, he's carrying a bundle stuffed with loot."
"......"
It was an absolutely dogshit gimmick.
As I'd noted, cartoonish gimmicks didn't fly anymore. At best, they were supplementary flavor.
Yet this man was proposing exactly that as a pro wrestler's gimmick.
"Isn't that a little too cartoonish?"
"Hm? That's what gives it impact. You know what they call the aesthetics of exaggeration, don't you?"
Even exaggeration needed a core of reality to stand on. Making a pro wrestler's gimmick 'thief' wasn't exaggeration — it was a derailing.
'*This guy needs to learn a thing or two.*'
The problem was, he was thinking the exact same thing about me. He'd studied writing, so surely he knew better.
"It's not like RockCold walks around with some over-the-top gimmick, is it? RockCold is just a pissed-off redneck."
"That works because he's RockCold. You're not RockCold."
"......Are you screwing with me, you little punk?"
"Excuse me?"
"I'm saying I'm going to act like myself, and you've got a problem with that? Piss off."
I twisted my face into an ugly scowl and glared at the staffer. The color drained from his face in an instant.
188 centimeters. 90 kilograms.
Fifteen percent body fat.
That was my build. Dense muscle, broad shoulders — when I glared at someone, most people shut their mouths regardless of race.
Just as predicted, the staffer panicked and began stumbling through excuses.
"I-I-I... if my words came across as rude, I sincerely apologize."
"What? Now you apologize?"
"I-I...... I never meant to make you angry, Mr. Kim."
"You spend all this time belittling another man's livelihood, and you expect me not to be furious?!"
I slammed my fist down on the chair.
The staffer flinched violently, clearly terrified that one more word from him would send me tearing out of the room.
Which is why I let my expression soften and flashed him a sly smile — signaling that everything up to that point had been an act.
"Well? How was my performance?"
"Y-yes?"
"Pretty convincing, right? Even if it doesn't look like much on paper, when a monster like me performs it with that kind of intensity, it looks like a whole different animal."
"R-right, r-r-r-right, absolutely."
"Sorry about that. I figured this was the best way to show you what my gimmick could actually do."
I gave the staffer's shoulder a couple of friendly pats. He finally seemed to relax.
As I said — the kid was a bit green, but he was on my team. Building a one-sided relationship wasn't good for anyone trying to survive in this business.
Perhaps reassured by my demeanor, the staffer spoke up cautiously.
"......I'll admit, seeing it performed live, the impact really is on another level."
"Thank you. And looking back, quite a few of your ideas were pretty solid too."
"R-really?"
His enthusiasm came flooding back.
I nodded and began walking him through my ideas.
Of course, every one of his ideas I'd just praised was slated to be thrown out at the end.
* * *
Once the gimmick was squared away, I headed straight for Baku's office.
Everyone else had gone home, but he was there drinking beer, apparently with something on his mind.
"Baku."
"You finished sorting it out?"
"More or less. They came at it cooperatively, so we talked things through."
"Good."
"So — what actually happened?"
"......"
"Did they order a call-up? Otherwise there's no reason Russel and I would be debuting out of nowhere."
"......Sharp as a ghost, this one. Three months in and still a pup."
Baku let out a hollow laugh.
"You're right. Just like you guessed, we've got to send another wrestler up tomorrow."
"To the main show?"
"Yeah. And the ones going up this time were 'Sneaky' — our top heel — and his whole stable. It's a complete disaster."
At those words, I clicked my tongue.
'*So that's how it is.*'
No wonder he was struggling.
Not only was a well-performing wrestler disappearing without warning, but that wrestler was the reigning main-event champion and his entire entourage.
The storylines would spring leaks, and the ratings were bound to sink.
Of course, talent and skill couldn't be kept in a developmental territory forever.
But this was still a promotion that aired a weekly TV show. Ratings and results were things everyone here sweated over.
"They already sent Johnny Ace up what, two months ago......"
Baku sighed.
GCW had now lost both its babyface and its heel main eventers.
I searched my memory.
'*In my past life, it was Adam — the one who passed the tryout in my place — who got pushed as the heel here, running a feud with Russel.*
*With Russel playing the babyface.*
'*GCW must have done something around this time to break out of the slump.*'
I'd failed my tryout and spent the next year bouncing between indie promotions, so I'd only heard about it over the phone from Adam.
Back then, I'd had no choice but to sit through him gloating about it.
'*But not this time.*'
A smile crossed my face as I spoke with as much careful hesitance as I could manage.
After all, right now I was nothing more than a greenhorn getting pushed onto next week's show.
It was better to keep my words pretty around here.
"Hey, Baku."
"What."
"So does that mean Russel and I start a feud from next week's show?"
"There hasn't been a meeting yet, but that's probably where it's headed. You two have a decent story to work with, after all."
At that, I fought as hard as I could to keep my expression from hardening.
That would be the worst possible choice.
Two brand-new rookies charging out swinging at each other — who on earth was supposed to get invested in that?
"Baku, back in my indie days, I went through a situation almost exactly like this one."
"Oh? Got an idea, do you?"
Baku's eyes lit up with a trust that surprised me.
"The promotion had its top stars poached by another company, and from the very next week they had to build the show out of nothing but rookies and mid-carders without much standing."
"Would you look at that. What a coincidence — sounds just like us."
'*Because it is us.*'
I grinned.
"Word was, they got through the crisis by structuring the entire show as a month-long tournament."
"A tournament?"
"Exactly. With Sneaky gone, the championship belt's vacant now, isn't it? Turn the crisis into an opportunity."
"......Keep talking."
Baku leaned forward in his chair, interest clearly piqued.
In front of him, I pressed on, drawing on my memories of my past life.
"And the timing works perfectly, doesn't it? The title's vacant. Russel and I come in as rookies with solid gimmicks, and the veterans shoot a few promos with us to air on TV. What do you think?"
"Hmm."
"It should work well. We could even slot my feud with Russel into the middle of the tournament so it doesn't feel forced."
"Sure enough...... that approach would solve every single problem we've been agonizing over."
"It's solid, right?"
"It is. But if we adopt that scenario, I imagine we'll have all sorts of headaches to deal with."
"Like what?"
"'Who the hell becomes the champion?' That's the question, isn't it?"
Baku drummed his fingers on the table, lost in thought. I smirked at the sight of it.
"What's so hard about that?"
It was a simpler problem than he thought.