The Theme of the Penalty

The first broadcast after the move.

For this one, I'd turned in early the night before and gotten my workout done that morning. After a light lunch I opened a private room, mostly for the fun of it, and tested the new setup. It was satisfying in every way that mattered.

This was a room built for broadcasting and nothing else, so even with the camera live there was nothing to worry about—no underwear that absolutely could not be seen, none of that. The little habits I'd picked up after the floor-noise complaints, that unconscious flinch, vanished almost at once.

A space where I could stream to my heart's content. Now everything was perfectly ready.

A new beginning. Yeah. Since it's come to this, I might as well knock the homework out early and give the viewers the broadcast they want most.

I put up a notice. The stream would start at three today, and the content would be choosing the theme of a Penalty Broadcast.

Viewers would vote the field down to five candidates, and then a roulette or a ladder program would leave the final pick to luck. We'd already run it twice. Every time it left behind another heartbreaking entry in my hall of shame—and every time, the viewers couldn't get enough.

Sure enough, the notice had barely gone up before the station board and the gallery caught fire.

I drifted from thread to thread, poking around, and before I knew it, it was three.

I turned the broadcast on. A new place, new gear, a new frame of mind.

"Hey, everyone. The move went great, and the setup is fully loaded. You're all staying late with me today, right?"

"Today, just like the notice said, we're picking the theme I'll have to carry out on the Penalty Broadcast. If it's something I can finish quickly, I'm planning to go straight into it today."

"I'm in a good mood today, so I'll let it slide once. Stay in your lane."

"All right, enough wordplay. Let's get this moving. I'll make a category on the station board, so post whatever penalty you want. I'll wait an hour, then pull the ten with the most recommendations."

"Haah, you sick bastards. Do you really enjoy tormenting me this much?"

I spent the hour shooting the breeze with the viewers about this and that. When the timer I'd set went off, I declared the recommendation period closed and wrote up the top ten.

"All right, here are the ten penalties you all picked. Haa... just looking at them makes me sigh. You vile little perverts."

"Voting stays open for thirty minutes only. Don't whine later about changing your pick. Focus, and do it in one shot."

Thirty minutes later, the vote closed. Five finalists remained.

"Are you people actually in your right minds? You want to make me do this?"

The sickos had evolved another tier. I let out a long sigh and looked over the five penalties that had survived the cut.

"I mean, I can grit my teeth through one, two, and three, but four and five are way too much!"

I'd said it because four and five loomed so large, but looking at the list properly, one and three would drive my shame to the absolute limit, and two was physiologically impossible.

I can't eat spicy food. I couldn't when I was a man, and now that I'd become a woman it would only be worse. Forget nuclear Buldak—even ordinary fire-chicken ramyeon had me suffering. Ban anything to drink for ten minutes on top of that, and I might just pass out on the spot.

Heart trembling, I launched the roulette. I set each penalty to a flat twenty percent ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and moved my hand to the start button. My head went a little blank.

Should I at least pray it landed on one or three? What if it came up two, four, or five? Would I have to beg them to let me spin again?

Unlike the mess in my head, the roulette turned with simple indifference, bled off its speed, and settled on a single target. Among the viewers watching the result, delight and disappointment existed side by side.

"What are you even talking about! I just haven't practiced, that's all. I am not rhythmically challenged."

The roulette was pointing at number three.

Dance.

Whether you were good or bad at it wasn't really the important part. Unless dance was a BJ's whole brand, doing it well just earned a nice reaction, and doing it badly got filed under comedy. Either way, it almost never became a problem.

I couldn't just let it go.

Pride.

The reason the Hanyang cat-girl cam and the bunny-girl cam had ended up in my hall of shame was the dancing. Karya's hip dance, performed in cat ears and a tail. The bunny dance—the hottest dance reaction on all of Shindaeryuk TV—done in a bunny-girl outfit. Stiff, sloppy moves had made a crowd of viewers laugh, and in return I'd been handed their mockery like a gift.

At first I'd thought it through. The other girl-cams only danced at that level because they'd practiced ahead of time. If I stopped improvising and practiced even a little, I'd land above average.

...I hadn't.

It was all arrogance. I tried in front of a mirror, and as much as I hated to admit it, I really was a dance disaster.

Excuse me, Doctor. I'm rhythmically challenged? I'm rhythmically challengeddd!

"...Are you fanning the flames while the house is on fire?"

My mouth tasted bitter. But accepting reality was something I couldn't get out of.

The Rolling Dance—the biggest trend going, busy writing the myth of a total chart comeback. The viewers were already cheering, waiting on my newest hall-of-shame moment.

If the chat was anything to go by, hall of shame, volume three, was already confirmed. And this time there was an extra clause. I had to show a video of myself doing the Rolling Dance to three BJs or streamers and get them to certify that I'd passed.

This was where the viewers' demonic nature showed itself. Enjoying it among themselves wasn't enough—they meant to export it, and maximize my shame. Character so vile even a demon would weep.

I'm not... backing down like this.

I couldn't spend the rest of my life being called a dance disaster, a punching bag every time the subject of dancing came up. So I declared it, plain and proud: every dance I'd shown them until now had been a bit of play, just matching the viewers' sense of humor.

The chat instantly wallpapered itself with the word abyss. Viewers who refused, absolutely, to believe a word of it.

I couldn't fold here. I said it flat. Two weeks. That was all I needed. Then I would show them a perfect Rolling stage.

The chat split. One side said two weeks was far too long. The other said a dance disaster sent from heaven wouldn't change just because she practiced for two weeks.

It was infuriating. To be dismissed this far.

It hadn't been in the plan, but fine. I'd show them everything I had. A stage beyond anything they could imagine.