The Third Penalty Broadcast
It felt as if my schedule had swollen overnight—and it wasn't just a feeling. It actually had.
This Saturday I had a Penalty Broadcast to run, and the last week of the month already had a gift-making stream booked for Pepero Day.
Pepero Day falls on November 11th. If anyone asked why I was making them so early... well, honestly, putting something like that together already sat a little wrong with me as a man, and handing them over on the actual day felt like it would give me the creeps.
Me, giving a man a Pepero gift on Pepero Day?
Horrifying.
To head off that particular disaster, I would make them in the last week of October and ship them the moment they were finished. They ought to reach the winning viewers around the second or third of November.
Once that was done, Saturday, November 6th, was the audition at JYC Entertainment. And last of all, Wednesday, November 10th, was Rak's enlistment date.
You bloodless, tearless excuse for a System Helper. A friend's shipping out—the least I owe him is to see him off.
Shot clean through!
In any case, the schedule felt considerably tighter. It didn't weigh on me, though. If anything, an environment like this lit a fire under me. Dance—the field where I'd been dismissed the hardest since I started streaming. Just thinking about shocking the viewers there put the strength back in me, even when hard practice had worn me out.
"It has to be different from the very first beat. Seize their eyes. Even if you look perfectly at ease at the start, do you see the strength held in the thighs?"
"Yes."
"The instant the music starts, lift your head and snap once, hard, then drop the torso while the right hand stays soft... You know the feeling, yes?"
Ever since I'd accepted the director's offer, the best instructor here had taken me on one-on-one. She'd wanted to throw me straight into classes prepping for the JYC Entertainment audition, so I pleaded that I would work myself to the bone if she just let me practice the Rolling dance for three days—and she allowed it.
"Bring the legs together, and cross the hands to center! Then the transition! Open the chest, close it—no. That kills the feeling. It has to rebound, softly! Is that really all you can manage?"
The class was run with considerable severity. Full Spartan—which was, if anything, exactly the class I'd wanted. A mind tempered by every flavor of personal abuse from superiors at a black-company job was hardly going to collapse over something like this.
"On counts six, seven, eight—right leg, sharp! And the right arm forward, with the head snapped to the left!"
"Yes!"
The class snagged here and there, but it ran far more smoothly than when we'd first begun. And soon it arrived: the highlight of the Rolling dance. The song played back in my head of its own accord.
I extended both arms and rolled my hips from right to left in rhythm. One, two, three, four! On the exact beat I gathered my hands in front of my chest and let them slide downward, and through all of it the hips never lost their line. On the fourth beat again I stretched my hands high overhead. Clasped tight, they descended slowly, sweeping the back of my head with a sensual drag, passing in front of my chest, and arriving at my waist. At the same time the motion connected softly; I dropped my stance and sank straight into a crouch. Face propped on the left hand—basic!
I looked at the teacher with a gaze that was, admittedly, a little proud.
"Looks like you've got the basics. But you've still got a long way to go. The detail is lacking. Why is the timing so awkward when you sit? And when you sweep down past the chest, bring out something more alluring."
"Yes!"
The three days I'd been promised. I was ready to knock the viewers flat.
For a week I learned abilities tied to dance and laid down the fundamentals—three days of intensive training to finish the Rolling stage. From Thursday on, just as the teacher wanted, we moved into practice for the JYC Entertainment audition. Thursday and Friday were still left, so why wasn't I practicing Rolling? See for yourself.
Without a word, I drifted quietly to the center of the frame. The outfit was the wine-toned dress I'd worn on M Count Up, paired with platform shoes that caught the eye at once. I'd booked the salon ahead for today and finished hair and makeup both.
A stainless-steel chair sat at the center of the frame. I settled onto it quietly and cast an indifferent gaze not at the camera, but far off into a corner, leaving the viewers watching me itch with anticipation. Through about three breaths of still silence, I pictured today's stage. A moment later the cue I'd scheduled arrived, and the song began: Rolling, by Braid Girls—the track that wrote the legend of a chart reversal. With the intro's striking finger-snap, I dropped my stance and followed it.
Seated, I drew together the legs I'd let fall slightly apart—a bewitching little motion—and at the same time lifted my head to stare straight into the camera. For an instant the viewers' breathing stopped. The look was sharp enough to stab clean through the chest.
I bounced my chest and rose in exact time with the beat, one leg lifting as my hand swept down through my hair.
The lyric, exactly. A dreamy motion, lightly stroking up the leg—and then I dropped into a crouch, resting an arm lightly on the chair.
I gave my upper body to the chair and, behind it, stepped my legs in alternation—a sensual figure. The chat window plastered itself in incoherent keysmashes. Whatever image of me they'd been expecting at the start—the girl with two left feet, the robot dance—had long since vanished from their heads. All that remained were fans welcoming a stage packed with reversals.
I rose from the chair and stabbed a hand forward, and for the first time let them see the soft roll of the hips. The chat flooded with tildes, and a baptism of Water Balloons followed right behind.
Not easy.
Maybe because it was the real thing—I was more nervous than in practice, and my breath was coming up short. But I couldn't stop here. I couldn't feel it in the room, but I could imagine it: the viewers' frenzy, the cheers they were sending, eyes full of expectation and all of them aimed at me. That was the force moving me.
I stepped up onto the chair. Legs extended in a clean line. A Figure III stat was doing its part, but so was the steady training I'd kept up for nearly two months. I caught my center fast, threw my hands out to either side, and set up the song's highlight.
The dance that had become Rolling's trademark, the one everyone lost their minds over. I drew out, as if it were nothing, the hip work the teacher had stressed most and the hand movements that changed with every beat, and stole the viewers' hearts.
Turtle Seat's eye-smile? Honestly, I think that's an inborn charm that comes before looks, so I had no intention of forcing an imitation. I didn't smile at all. An indifferent gaze, and an attitude that said I wasn't interested in the slightest.
The first verse ended. The lyrics repeated, and so did the dance. Maybe that was why I could finally shed a layer of tension and actually enjoy the stage.
Another highlight. High notes poured out, and the dance turned dynamic—one leg up on the chair, torso tipped slightly back, and from that position a wave overflowing with groove.
Even the chairman piled on, pouring oil over a fire already roaring. A frenzy that showed no sign of dying. But songs have endings.
On the last line of the song, I finished seated on the chair with my legs parted just slightly, eyes not on the camera but on the floor. Precarious, lonely—the sight put a wistful ache in the viewers' chests.
The stage was a smash. A little over two thousand viewers praised it with one voice. But the result of the vote with Pepero on the line?
"Hey! You conscienceless bastards!"
The vote went against me. Viewers wicked enough to throw their conscience away for Pepero even after a stage like this!
Viewers really are demons.