The Tryout

"Women's open division, number 426, three hours, twenty-two minutes, twenty-three seconds."

"Hah. Hah."

I was breathing hard, but not hard enough to drop to my knees. If I'd pushed myself a little more, I might have shaved another five minutes off that time.

"Hey. Want to grab a beer?"

"Got a Star address or something?"

"Are you Chinese? I'm Chinese too."

"You can run, huh. How about training with our crew?"

The moment I crossed the finish line and tried to catch my breath, the pack of idiots who'd been staring at my ass the whole race came swarming in.

"Get lost."

"Whoa, whoa. Just saying hello."

"Oof, scary. Heh. Feisty little thing — I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bet you're pretty tough at night too. Interested?"

I considered putting a foot straight into that Black guy's crotch, but since they were only talking and hadn't laid a hand on me, I held back.

A little later, I received my official result sheet: Miami Marathon, full course — 3:22:23.

Why a marathon out of nowhere?

Because I had no choice. I was padding my résumé.

That was why I was running marathons.

Damn it. If you get TS'd, isn't the golden rule to become an actress or a VTuber? I loved pro wrestling as much as the next fan, but this was ridiculous.

And the system had locked every other career path shut. On top of that, it had dumped me in Orlando, Florida — a place where I had zero connections.

Then there was the Final Quest.

An Icon of pro wrestling.

Clearly not the kind of "icon" they slap on anyone who does decently well in the business. Real Icons? Four of them, maybe seven if you were generous.

If it was four: Berserker Dagan, Iron Cold Steven Bogus, The Stone, and Jack Cena. Stretch it a little and you could add Mick Flair, John Michaels, the Deadman… Jerrett Hart?

A quest like that seemed like it would favor a man — and yet it had stuck me in a woman's body.

So for the past month, I'd been adapting to this new body, to suddenly being a woman, and to life in America.

The one silver lining was that I'd carried over the full stat package of the Charina character I'd built. But time — time was brutally short.

That first month went entirely into getting used to a body that had suddenly become female. The day I first stood in front of a mirror, my mind went completely blank. The body itself was a shock, and the voice coming out of my mouth wasn't the one I knew.

Fortunately, the system had thrown me a few basic mercies. How to live as a woman — makeup, dressing, language — all of it had been patched into my head like a software update. The paralyzing How am I supposed to live like this? evaporated almost immediately.

In between, I researched every route into a pro wrestling debut.

If I'd had time to spare, I would have enrolled properly at the WWO Performance Center and walked the standard path. But that took a minimum of one year. One bad injury along the way and the entire year and a half could vanish overnight.

So I wrote WWO off for now. Debuting at a smaller promotion and transferring to WWO later was the realistic route.

I understood why the system had dropped me in America. The world's greatest wrestling promotion, WWO, was based there. But why Orlando, Florida — not LA, not New York?

A little digging and the answer was obvious. Orlando housed the WWO Performance Center, the company's talent factory, and because of that, wrestling schools and dojos had sprouted up like weeds. Florida also had TPA — a promotion that mostly broadcast regionally, occasionally went national, and ranked roughly fourth or fifth in the country.

Of course, second place through last place combined still didn't reach thirty percent of WWO's scale. If WWO was Major League Baseball, everyone else put together was maybe the KBO — or Taiwanese pro ball. NBA versus KBL, if you preferred that analogy.

Still, it was the only real option I had. TPA was relatively easy to join, and the path to a debut was short.

So I decided on TPA.

If I'd been an athlete in school, I might have walked straight in as a trainee. I hadn't. For a civilian to get into TPA, you had to enroll in and graduate from either the Team 3D Academy — run by WWO's legendary tag team, the Dudley Boys — or TPA's Canadian academy.

The tryout fee was two hundred dollars. The test itself came one to two weeks after you submitted your application. The academy was barely a ten-minute drive from my place.

Everything was perfect — except I had nothing to put on a résumé.

From the elementary-through-high-school memories the system (or whatever it was) had installed, the only usable data were age, height, and weight. Nothing for the "athletic background preferred" box. Not even a single taekwondo rank certificate.

So I'd scrambled to run a full-course marathon. At least my stamina would be hard to argue with.

"Ugh. Couldn't you have at least given me a taekwondo or judo belt? What is this garbage!"

I emailed them a résumé that was almost entirely blank space, plus a short self-introduction video. I was still thinking through likely interview questions when a text arrived — less than an hour later.

Tryout next Tuesday morning at nine.

Unusually fast for Americans.

"Might as well watch YouTube."

Nothing else to do. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Might as well study wrestling technique videos.

On tryout day, I arrived at Team 3D Academy about twenty minutes early.

Three rings. Four male wrestlers were drilling in one; two women were working in another. Another ten or so men and women milled around the edges. Three men and two women who looked like fellow tryout candidates were already stretching.

"Lina Cha?"

"Yes."

A man who might have been a coach flicked his eyes back and forth between the photo on my application and my face several times.

"The photo's a little…"

"Ah. I was in a hurry, so I just snapped it on my phone."

"Hmm."

The existing male trainees' muttering carried all the way over.

"Wrestling with that body?"

"One hit and something's gonna snap."

"Damn, though — she's ridiculously pretty. Looks like an idol."

"Heh. Hope she makes it. Training with her would be a treat."

"God, she's hot."

"Hey! Keep it down over there!"

"Yes, Coach."

So he was a coach after all.

"Cha? Lina? What do I call you?"

"Just Lina is fine."

"Good. Lina. Warm up over there and wait."

"Yes, sir."

A couple who looked like a pair arrived after me, and around 9:05 a woman who appeared to be a coach showed up.

"They here?"

"Yeah. But we've got eight."

"One still hasn't ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠shown."

"Forget it. We don't need some idiot who can't keep a schedule. Donald, just start."

With one man a no-show, it came out even — four men, four women.

They ran us through squats, burpees, sit-ups, and push-ups, then put us on the ring for rope-rebound running and a full stamina test.

The first couple of passes felt awkward, but after that the muscle memory from my previous life kicked back in. Five minutes of rope running later, the coaches who'd been watching me with mild indifference started looking surprised — especially once they saw my push-up count and how much faster I was on the ring than the male candidates.

Finally, one by one, we did breakfall tests. That closed out the physical portion.

Everyone except me and the couple who'd arrived last was gasping for air.

"Last up: individual interviews. You — come in first."

The first man pointed at followed the coaches into the office and came back out about three minutes later. I was called fifth.

"Sit."

"Yes."

I sat directly across from the two coaches.

"This résumé is so bare there's nothing to look at."

"No kidding. What kind of nerve is this?"

What was I supposed to do? If I'd had more time, I would have put something else down.

"I didn't write it, but I can handle taekwondo to a decent level. No rank certificate, so I left it off."

"That so? That's good news. Hmm. Full marathon in three hours twenty… that's genuinely impressive."

"Stamina won't be a problem, then. But you really bench four-fifty? With that body?"

Fair. My forearms looked like they'd never seen a day of training. Even I would have called it a scam looking at myself.

"I don't put on muscle easily. I can show you right now if you want."

"Well, you're not dumb enough to lie about something that would get caught immediately. Asians are smart, after all. Ah — that's not a racist comment. Don't take it the wrong way."

"Yes, sir."

They asked what other sports I'd done and had me demonstrate my flexibility on the spot.

"She'd sell plenty as an eye-candy type."

"Even a little polish and she'd be competitive."

Eye-candy type. A woman wrestler who got over more on looks than in-ring work. I had zero interest in becoming that kind of performer — but if it got me a debut faster, what did it matter?

"Why do you want to be a wrestler? With that face, you could be an idol or an actress."

I'd expected the question and already had an answer ready.

"Because I want to. And whether it's acting, idol work, or wrestling — the stage is different, but isn't it all the same?"

"Does that mean you'll quit the second you change your mind?"

"I get to legally throw people and kick them. Why would I quit?"

"Holy hell, she's completely insane."

"Bibi's gonna love that line."

Apparently Bibi Dudley had said something similar once.

"Last question. Who's a wrestler you respect — a role model?"

I'd braced for "What's your ultimate goal?" That wasn't it.

"Jane Kim."

"Ah. Fellow Korean-American. Makes sense."

"Jane would be happy to hear that."

Jane Kim. A Korean-American woman wrestler who had dominated the 2000s — a legend among female performers. If Victor McMahon of WWO hadn't been so contemptuous of Asian and women wrestlers, her entire career might have gone differently. In her era, she was a once-in-a-generation technician.

"Is Jane Kim also why you came here instead of the WWO Performance Center?"

"That's part of it, yes."

And currently, she worked on staff at TPA.

"Nice. I like it."

"That's the interview. Good work."

And with that, the Team 3D Academy tryout was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over.