Gorilla Position

I would have gone for it even without a quest.

There was a saying that any wrestler who conquered the Chicago Crowd was guaranteed to make it.

I opened my inventory and checked the item I had earned by winning Charlotte’s recognition—the Spotlight.

If only I had been the last match on Saturday—or if the afterimage lasted just a little longer…

Then I would have been the only one left in their memories until tomorrow’s card was over.

Still, hogging every eye in the building shouldn’t be a problem.

I sat up straight, closed my eyes, and began painting tonight’s match in my head—ring structure, crowd sections, every angle.

It was booked as a squash, Charlotte’s one-sided dominance, but it wasn’t supposed to start that way.

If I just rolled over without putting up a fight, the viewers would think:

She beat Dorothy and Olivia, yet she couldn’t even hang with Charlotte. So Dorothy and Olivia wouldn’t stand a chance either.

That would make Olivia and Dorothy look like chumps for losing to me—and it wouldn’t do Anne any favors either, even though she’d beaten me in a razor-close match.

So the opening had to be competitive. Dead even.

The real turning point came at the seven-minute mark. That was when it flipped into a full squash.

That was when I would make Charlotte furious.

Stacey McMahon climbed into the ring, delivered the opening segment that kicked the show off, and came back through the curtain.

“Nice work, Stacey.”

Paul, headset on, eyes locked on the monitors, lifted a hand in greeting without standing.

“Piece of cake. I’ve done it a thousand times.”

“Still—it’s Chicago. The city that loves to hate us…”

“Heh. Tonight the reaction was actually decent.”

Because they worked so many heel angles, Chicago had always been vicious toward Stacey and Paul—once known as Triple J. But with an outside enemy to fight, the boos barely came when she stepped through the ropes. Cheers, even.

“Baron! Tell camera to grab more of the Law and NEXT talent sitting in the crowd. And send someone over—tell those kids to work a wider range of faces.”

“Got it.”

Bron Freed, the overall director, gave the order; Baron James, segment and live-event producer, was already on the radio.

Gorilla Position was always a war zone, but on a show this size it felt less like a metaphor and more like an actual combat command center.

On one side, Louis Ward, the timekeeper, was buried in stopwatch checks. John Michaels, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠head writer back in the seat for the first time in a while, was locked in with Bron Freed, mapping camera walks against the flow of each match. And Jane Kim, the new assistant writer, had Jamie Cargill & Brianna and Donna & Share cornered, walking them through every key spot one last time.

“Thirty seconds to end of break.”

Louis’s call brought Paul to his feet. He gave Jamie and Brianna a quick hug before they headed out.

“Stay safe. Don’t get hurt.”

“No problem.”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Go.”

Jamie and Brianna slipped backstage to wait for the ring announcer’s intro. Bron fired the cue, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and Jamie Cargill’s theme hit.

Paul checked it on the monitors, traded a quick greeting with Donna and Share, then sat again. Stacey stepped in to encourage the TPA pair.

“Just show what you prepared. Don’t overthink it—focus on the ring.”

“Yes, Ms. McMahon.”

“Got it.”

Donna and Share’s entrance time arrived; they moved backstage. Match one was underway.

“Camera three—Share’s hot tag is going to fail by a hair. Catch Donna’s face when it does. Louis, how’s the clock?”

“Plus ten seconds. Looking great so far.”

“Okay.”

Bron rattled it off like a machine gun, but everyone was fluent in the language; no one needed it repeated.

At some point Kayla James and Elizabeth Walker—booked for match two—had drifted in and were talking with John and Jane.

Match one was already racing toward its finish. Donna hit a sudden roll-up on Brianna. The referee’s hand rose and fell.

Brianna kicked and thrashed, but she couldn’t break free.

—One—

—Two—

—Three—

—Ding ding ding—

—The winners of this match: Donna & Share!—

—Wooo!!—

The bell rang. The ring announcer called the winners. In the center of the ring Donna and Share locked each other in a fierce, emotional embrace.

Against every prediction on the wrestling boards before the PLE, Donna & Share had handed TPA its first win of the night.

“Kids put in the work.”

“Not a classic, but it’ll clear 2.5 easy. Solid.”

“Yeah. Better than Miguel and Conres, honestly.”

Everyone tossed out a one-line review of match one.

“I heard the TPA women got a real kick in the ass from Charina and Selma.”

“Virtuous cycle. Love it.”

Paul answered John, then moved to the match-two talent, shaking hands and offering the same short, sharp encouragement as before.

The second they cleared for backstage, the four from match one came through the curtain.

“You were excellent. Great job.”

Paul’s single line was enough; the whole Gorilla Position broke into applause for the four who had just worked.

“Bravo!”

“Clean as hell. Perfect opener.”

“Time was beautiful. You hit it—only thirty over.”

“Thank you!”

There was no time for long goodbyes. They pivoted straight into match two.

Thirty seconds over was nothing; a faster entrance and start would eat it. Veterans like Elizabeth and Kayla could adjust on the fly.

Match two ended with Kayla James’s drop toe-hold dumping Elizabeth face-first onto the canvas, followed by a crossface. Kayla rode Elizabeth’s back, both hands locked under the jaw, cranking her like a shrimp. Elizabeth fought and scrambled, but the ropes were a mile away.

“Elizabeth’s selling is money.”

“Haha! Looks like it actually hurts.”

“Wrapping up soon.”

As if on cue, Elizabeth tapped. Submission win for Kayla. One win, one loss.

The win-loss column itself didn’t matter. What mattered was how the journey looked to the audience—whether they could invest and believe.

From the executives in Gorilla Position, the night so far was pure satisfaction.

“I’m not joking—Law should actually be nervous. These TPA kids are good. They came prepared.”

“Of course they did! Who wrote the damn scenarios?”

John snapped at Paul’s line.

“I know, I know. Your talent… who the hell is going to disrespect the greatest Showstopper of all time? HBG himself?”

Paul’s shameless flattery only made John laugh.

“Heh. Smooth talker. Still—I’m not letting the work I put into this one slide. Minimum two bottles of thirty-year Macallan.”

“Fine. And something for Jane too.”

“Paul! Wine for me. Same tier!”

Jane, mid-scenario check with the match-three teams—Mits & Camelot versus Miguel & Conres—glanced back over her shoulder.

“Right—your husband’s a chef, isn’t he? I’ll pick something that pairs with a meal.”

“Perfect.”

Elizabeth and Kayla returned; the tag teams headed backstage.

“IC Champions, baby. That was championship-level work.”

“You two looked incredible. Really good.”

“Thank you.”

“If we ever end up on the same brand, we should run it back. Chemistry was there.”

The praise kept coming; both Kayla and Elizabeth lit up. They hugged, congratulating each other on a job well done.

Camelot’s theme hit, signaling the start of match three. Camelot stepped out onto the stage first.

Paul, Bron, Baron—everyone in the room was most worried about this third match of the nine.

Miguel and Conres hadn’t botched in rehearsal, but they had looked rigid as boards. Even Louis, the timekeeper who never meddled in creative, had suggested swapping the order.

“They need to hit.”

“I’d settle for rehearsal level.”

“Not good enough. Match four will bury them.”

Match four was Charlotte versus Charina.

Charlotte was a living legend—widely called the greatest women’s wrestler of all time. Charina was the new star, the one who walked out under a literal spotlight every single time and, whether she wrestled or not, vacuumed up every scrap of fan attention like a hungry ghost.

So matches three and five were always going to live or die in match four’s shadow. Even a great performance risked being forgotten; a stiff, vacant one would vanish as if it had never happened.

“We just have to trust Mits. He’ll handle it.”

Mits had come up through WWO’s old open-audition show aimed at civilians and indie talent. He had climbed from the absolute bottom through the Performance Center, a veteran of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠every kind of war. Technique ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and power might be limited, but you could hand him any gimmick, any scenario, and trust him to deliver. Experience was experience—even among veterans, the XP totals weren’t equal.

The men’s tag—match three—had all four wrestlers in the ring. First out: Conres and Mits.

“What?”

“Mits wasn’t supposed to start.”

“Looks like they flipped it on the fly.”

“Check with the ref.”

From the opening second the scenario was already off-script. They hadn’t forgotten it—something had forced a change.

Mits slapped Conres across the face, unloaded a stream of insults, and baited him hard. One kick to the gut, then a tag to Camelot.

Only the start was different; after that it settled into the planned flow. Everyone finally understood: Mits had seen Conres lock up and improvised on the spot.

“Whew.”

“That bastard Mits—nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Still, you have to give him credit. Classic Mits.”

“Louis! Tell Michael to keep a close eye on them. Feed him the sequence if he needs it.”

“Got it, Paul.”

Paul’s gut was bad enough that he stepped in hard—unlike matches one and two, which he had left to Bron.

“Baron. This time grab plenty of crowd, the talent in the seats, and the judges’ faces. Tell the judges to work a wider range of reactions.”

“On it.”

In a section where Camelot was supposed to hammer, he threw a chop instead. After a suplex, Camelot was meant to hit a leg drop and cover—he skipped the leg drop and went straight to the pin. On a non-broadcast camera his lips moved. Probably saying, Wake the hell up.

“Conres is done. Completely frozen.”

“God. Just let it finish clean. Please.”

Match quality had stopped mattering. All anyone wanted now was no botches, no injuries.

In a stretch where no tag was supposed to happen, Conres tagged Miguel anyway. Since it wasn’t Miguel’s spot, unscripted movement followed. Miguel and Camelot killed time with simple rope rebounds and corner hammering and kicks.

“Hmm. Looks like they’re going long with Miguel. Louis—tell Michael this section’s fine.”

“Yes.”

“Camera one! Frame so we don’t catch Conres’s face.”

“Already called it.”

After that, Paul glanced at John. John was monitoring with a tight, tense expression of his own.

Christ. If that kid hadn’t already booked the win for Mits’s side, we would’ve been screwed. Good call there—but if the talent level wasn’t there, he should’ve said so earlier.

A short flash of resentment, then his eyes drifted to Charlotte and Charina, who were running scenario checks with Jane.

Paul was genuinely startled for a second.

I knew she was pretty, but when she’s fully done up like that… I can’t look away.

If Stacey hadn’t been standing right beside Charina with that proud little smile, he might have kept staring.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He took a sip of coffee, forced his head clear, and went back to monitoring match three.

After the tag, Conres seemed to shake some of the ice off; from there the match ran more or less as written. The problem was time—skipping Conres’s full part had left them short.

“Louis. Clock?”

“At this rate, minus a minute thirty? Maybe a minute.”

“Charlotte! Charina! Can you eat about a minute?”

“Not in the match itself—we’ll split thirty seconds each before the bell. Lina, you good?”

“No problem.”

“Good. Perfect. Louis—tell Michael to ignore the clock and just finish.”

“Understood.”

In the end, match three finished a minute twenty early with a win for Mits & Camelot.

In Paul’s eyes it barely deserved a 2.0—a mess of a match—but finishing without an accident was already a win.