Emergency
It was the day of Emergency.
Even though Charina and the rookies were generating massive buzz now, ticket sales during Hot Slam had been so abysmal that no one had dared aim for a larger venue. They had simply given up on renting anything bigger. In the end, despite this being a major event, Emergency was held in TPA’s existing arena. They had only managed to squeeze in about five hundred extra seats.
The fans’ reaction, to be honest, was lukewarm compared to what anyone had hoped for.
That was the general vibe.
Jane, the director, and the producer already knew how my match with Anne would go, so their only real worry was injuries. Everyone else—the other wrestlers included—had no idea of the details. Selma and the Inquisitors were in the same boat. They had their own noses full dealing with brutal opponents and couldn’t spare a thought for me.
On top of that, I had run into my own snag the day before.
“Are you insane? You’re going to wear that for a hardcore match?”
The moment I said I wanted to wear a bikini wrestling gear, Jane exploded in opposition.
“It’s still my first title challenge.”
“Absolutely not! Over my dead body!”
She rattled off three reasons in rapid succession.
“First—what if the outfit rips mid-match? Second—even without full exposure, every cut and bruise is going to look ten times worse. We’re a PG-rated show. And last—do you even care about your own body? You planning on retiring after one or two years?”
I tried to compromise with jeans and a white sleeveless top, but she shot that down too because of the blood. In the end we settled on a black crop-top bra that only showed a sliver of midriff.
“You heard about Anne’s thing, right?”
“Yes. She has a jinx—if she meets her opponent on the day of the match, someone gets hurt.”
“Exactly. So make sure everything’s locked in today.”
“We already planned to go over it a little later.”
“Good.”
And then match day arrived.
I sat in the locker room with the TV on, waiting for the show to start. Selma had gone off to share a locker room with Olivia and Taina, so it felt a little empty.
“Open quest window.”
I had half-expected something, but nothing appeared. No quest. Dorothy had gotten one—why not me? I figured a championship match would automatically trigger one. Apparently not.
While I waited, the first match kicked off—a TPA men’s bout between two guys who were basically brothers after years together. They worked hard. Really hard. Jane might not have noticed, but the writer who booked them, Josh, was clearly not great. And the team leader who reviewed the match, Neville Brosnan… the action was way over the top. Still, the crowd loved it, so it was fine.
The second match was a women’s tag team bout: the champion Wild Cats against a hastily thrown-together team of Natasha Blanchard and Charlotte Patri. Natasha was known for “mistakes” that were actually real shots, so I watched a little more carefully. When they started getting overwhelmed, our senior from six months back—Vanessa—suddenly appeared outside the ring to help them. Vanessa had been hanging around Natasha a lot lately; looks like she’d decided to form a stable.
Vanessa burst from the crowd, hit Sharon with a DDT after she rolled out of the ring, and the referee—eyes glued to Vanessa—missed it completely. Instantly it became two-on-one and Hilder collapsed. Just like that, the tag titles changed hands with Vanessa’s help. Both the Wild Cats and Natasha/Charlotte were veterans, so the acting was solid. A wrestling expert might score it differently, but I’d give it a 3.0. The crowd reaction was good again—Natasha was popular, and most fans love a title change.
Third match: the Inquisitors versus the Dudley Boyz.
—Kyaaa! James! Look over here!—
—Alf, I love you!—
The two of them came out carrying even more white lilies than last time, solemnly handing them out before heading to the ring. Popular as they were, though, they couldn’t touch the Dudley Boyz’s heat. The duo appeared in their signature military pants, carrying a table between them. It wasn’t a TLC match, but it was No DQ, so they just brought the damn table with them.
Devon still looked decently conditioned, but Bubba was shocking—he’d dropped at least seven or eight kilos. When they hit the stage, the camera caught people in the front row laughing their heads off.
“Sitting side by side we’ve got NEXT’s Director Aiba, John Michaels, Booker K, and the Hardy Boyz. Nice view.”
“Booker’s enjoying himself a little too much. He’s gonna dislocate his jaw laughing like that.”
“Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”
Even in a pure wrestling contest it would have been a toss-up, but the Dudley Boyz fully exploited the “no disqualification” rule. Tags are supposed to happen within five seconds, ten at most—yet every time they tagged they stayed in the ring together for thirty seconds to a full minute. The Inquisitors, green and face-oriented, just took the beating.
About ten minutes in, Bubba low-blowed Alf.
—Kyaaak!—
—Alf! No!—
The women in the crowd screamed like their souls were leaving their bodies. Bubba didn’t care; he hoisted Alf and dumped him outside.
“Devon!”
“What!”
After the call-and-response, Bubba held up three fingers and folded them one by one. When the last finger dropped, the magic words rang out.
“Get the table!”
—Get the table! Whoooo!—
The entire crowd chanted it right on beat. Goosebumps.
“Holy shit, this is insane. Damn it, I can’t even be there live.”
They finished James off with the 3D—Dudley Death Drop.
“As expected, the Inquisitors still can’t surpass their masters.”
“They’re about three years too early.”
“Three years? Looking at Bubba’s body tonight, five years easy.”
The Dudley Boyz brought James from the ring and Alf from the floor back up, hugged them, and closed the match on a warm note. The wrestling itself was solid, but the student-versus-teacher storyline had the crowd on their feet giving a standing ovation.
I wondered what the other students would think watching this. They probably wouldn’t care, but I bet a few of them were seething with envy…
Next up was IC Champion Elizabeth Walker against a challenger from NEXT. When that finished, it was time for Selma, Olivia, and Taina’s triple threat.
Women’s matches made up a big chunk of the card tonight, but both the tag match and Elizabeth’s bout had been carefully built and delivered, so the crowd stayed happy. The legends in the front rows were smiling too, which was a good sign.
Selma’s team had drilled nonstop for almost two weeks without a single day off. They were the only ones who even held a full rehearsal. Maybe that made them overconfident.
Around the two-thirds mark, the botch happened.
—Thud—
—Clang—
Taina’s dropkick landed flush on Selma’s jaw. Taina had been flying high on a match that was going perfectly and put too much into it; Selma’s focus had drifted toward the roaring crowd. Selma took the kick clean, cracked the back of her head on the turnbuckle, and crumpled forward.
Taina froze.
—Whoa!—
—Nice, Taina!—
The crowd, completely unaware, just cheered the “realistic” action. Olivia, the veteran, snapped out of it first. She kicked the dazed Taina, power-slammed her, then leapt into a splash and covered while mouthing something—probably “Don’t get up,” so medical could come in once the match was over.
The referee caught on and counted fast.
—One—
—Two—
—Three—
—Ding ding ding—
The second the match ended I sprinted to Gorilla Position. Alf and James were already there.
“Nancy, how’s Selma?”
“She’s coming around. She’s okay.”
“Phew.”
Alf exhaled in relief at the referee’s voice over the speakerphone. So did I.
“Thank god. We’re sending the stretcher.”
“Olivia says she’ll carry her out. What do you want to do?”
“If she’s conscious, that’s probably better.”
“Agreed. If she’s awake and can move her neck, we don’t need the stretcher. Straight to the hospital.”
The producer and head writer nodded. Karl agreed.
“Alright, Nancy. Do it that way. Tell Olivia to move slow and careful. And we still need to protect the kayfabe—send Taina back first. Have her kick the barricade and sell the loss hard.”
“Got it.”
Once the line went dead, the director called over the waiting champions: TPA Champion Michael, IC Champion Luke, NEXT Champion Joshua, and IC Champion Ryan.
“We just lost exactly seven minutes. Stretch your match as long as you can.”
“Understood.”
“We’ll make the entrances longer.”
The TPA guys answered positively. The NEXT guys immediately started complaining.
“It’s already a twenty-minute match. Seven more is pushing it.”
“Ugh. Just send someone out for a promo. How the hell do you add seven minutes?”
“Ryan, who said seven? Try two or three.”
“Whatever. It’s not like we’re getting paid extra. This is annoying as hell… And I’m not good at stretching time. I like working inside a planned structure.”
It was the same attitude I’d seen when I visited NEXT—they couldn’t say a word to me then, and they were just as entitled here. The director and producer rubbed their necks and pressed their temples.
Unbelievable. Seriously. Looks like I’m going back to NEXT again. Next time I’m putting that little shit Ryan through the wringer.
“Rina, why are you even here?”
“What? Because Selma got hurt, obviously.”
Jane grabbed my arm and sniffed.
“You still haven’t put the pain gel on. Go put it on right now. Or do you want me to do it?”
“No, I’ll do it myself.”
Taina came back looking like she was about to cry. A moment later Selma was carried in on Olivia’s back, then transferred to a stretcher.
“Selma! Hey! Do you know who I am?”
“Shut up, idiot.”
She answered clearly enough, but her eyes were unfocused and glassy. Concussion—either from the kick to the jaw or the turnbuckle shot to the back of the head.
“Alf, go with Clint to the hospital. Call her family on the way.”
“Yes. Yes, sir.”
“Clint, once you’re there, run every test they have.”
“Understood, Director.”
“Go.”
I watched Alf sprint out, then headed back to the locker room.
The four champions from TPA and NEXT were all solid technicians. They hadn’t been called up to Law only because the roster was packed; their in-ring ability was more than enough. They also knew the match after theirs was hardcore. Michael and Luke had watched Anne and me practice—chair shots, splashes off a 3.6-meter ladder, the works. Joshua had gotten his ass handed to him by me in a meeting room. So they worked their asses off to make sure their match wouldn’t get buried. Even that punk Ryan got swept up in the energy and put in a real effort. Maybe it was because John Michaels and Director Aiba were sitting right in the front row.
While I watched, I spread a thin layer of gel painkiller on myself and opened my inventory.
Held: 2
Grade: ★★
Effect: Reduces pain by 30% for 1 hour.
Use 1?
[YES] [NO]
I tapped the floating YES that appeared like a HUD prompt. A faint bitter taste immediately rose in my mouth. No pill popped out or anything.
I pinched my forearm.
“Whoa. This stuff is amazing. If a guy used this at night he’d be unstoppable.”
Then a little self-loathing crept in.
“Ugh. I’m an idiot. Not the time to be thinking about that…”
I slapped my own cheek once more and headed to Gorilla Position for my entrance.
“You’re here?”
“Yes, senior. Any word on Selma?”
“Clint called a minute ago. He said her eyes are focusing properly again.”
“Phew. Thank god.”
Joshua hoisted Michael. Ryan hoisted Luke.
—Ooooh!—
They hit simultaneous powerbombs.
—Thuuuud—
Then they both climbed the top rope for the finish at the exact same moment—Joshua with a frog splash, Ryan with an elbow drop. Both covered. The referee looked back and forth, hesitated, then slapped the canvas in the center of the ring.
—One—
—Two—
—Three—
—Ding ding ding—
“The winners of this match… Joshua and Ryan of NEXT!”
It was a genuine classic—some of the crowd even stood and applauded. But their total time was twenty-three minutes. They had only managed to eat three extra minutes.
The remaining four minutes were now mine and Anne’s problem.