Note: This is a spinoff of mtcff ULTRA, the weekly fighting fanfic! However, other than generally knowing what Ultra is and that Nabiki is a bitch ^_^&; you don't need to know anything else to enjoy the story. It's a solo project of mine and uses 100% original characters. Hope you like it!
-=-
Life divides evenly into hours. Hour one, preparation. Brushing of
teeth, taking of showers, eating of breakfast. Hour two, commute. Riding of
subways, walking of streets. Hours three through eleven, work. Collating of
papers, processing of forms, typing of reports. Hour twelve, commute. Hour
thirteen, eating of dinner. Remaining hours before eight hours of bed are
occupied by any work taken home, and the occasional newspaper.
Every day, every hour, everything is planned. Everything is cycling.
Nothing falls out of place, nothing goes wrong, nothing goes awry. No sick
leave. No vacation. No chance.
But there are two hours a week which, despite being scheduled, are Sichi
Satoshi's vacation...
In his tiny apartment, in a tasteful home entertainment unit with
electronics he never uses but purchased because they were fashionable and
appropriate for a young urban professional, the TV screen provides the only
light in the room. It is Monday night, it is nine o'clock, it is TV Tokyo
channel 4, and it is time for some Ultraviolence.
Sitting in his padded armchair with optional wall socket driven massage,
Satoshi visits a new world. He visits a world of power and determination,
where life's issues work themselves out in the ring. He sits enrapt, living
vicariously through his heroes, through his show... the show that embodies
freedom, something that is free in all the ways that he is not. Free to take
risks. To face danger. Find love. Achieve victory...
Every week is the same. Draw the salary, do the job, live the carbon
copy life. Survive until Monday.
Part of his regular, honest and upstanding career job's salary check
goes to the monthly Ultra pay-per-view. Tonight's show promises to be
exciting; an Internet champion will be crowned. The Ultra website is three
of the five bookmarks on Satoshi's laptop computer.
What he wasn't expecting when he ordered this pay-per-view was receiving
a ringside ticket to the end of the world.
He got to watch it live and direct on cable television, as well as
experience it first hand, and have a nice cup of tea before going to bed
after all was said and done. It felt surreal. It felt like it couldn't have
happened; he was walking and breathing and nothing was abnormal now. Nothing
except...
That Tuesday morning, when he woke up and slotted hour one into the mix,
he stopped in mid-toothbrushing and realized he was dead. His hourly life
was gone, ended neatly last night at the pinnacle of perfection in sports-
entertainment. He didn't have to brush his teeth and then eat and then
commute and then work. He didn't have to do anything.
Okay, maybe he had to brush his teeth if he wanted to be presentable,
but that was a practical necessity. It wasn't a relapse into the OLD
Satoshi, just a way to get fresh breath.
He quickly grabbed his briefcase, dumped the contents out, stuffed in
the spiral notebook he'd been hiding under his mattress and jumped the first
bus to the Ultradome to get on at the ground floor of his new life.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
There was one problem with booking a show to involve the end of the
world -- you can only do it once.
Nabiki Tendo was not a happy camper on that Tuesday morning. Last
night, she had done the unthinkable and broadcast the apocalypse on live
television. It was a moment in history, and it was all hers -- Jack couldn't
begin to lay claim to that. Closest he ever got was a NEAR apocalypse.
But the camera equipment didn't do a great job of picking up the end of
days. There was some beginning craziness, and some great footage of the
first moments... then static. The tape resumed only after all the juicy
stuff had taken place.
This meant she couldn't have an encore presentation tonight for folks
who hadn't ordered Reboot already. This meant she wouldn't be reaping the
profits beyond the profits she had already reaped. This meant someone was
going to have to have a very bad day, because Nabiki felt misery loves
company.
The knock at her door meant that she would be able to spread the joy
sooner than anticipated.
"Enter," she commanded, dropping her ballpoint for now. The numbers
weren't going to be changing anytime soon, after all.
Pantyhose Tarou (known only as Tarou to his friends and people who
didn't want to be his enemy) leaned in. "Miss Tendo, I've got a... 'Sichi
Satoshi' to see you. He don't got an appointment but he looks like a suit,
and I didn't know if you had arranged--"
"Never heard of him," Nabiki said. "Throw the bum... no, wait. Let him
in. I need a good laugh."
The man that entered was easily twice Nabiki's age. Into his thirties
and already going bald, he had the sweaty, nervous look of your typical Tokyo
businessman. His tie was poorly tied. His suit was neatly pressed but
clearly had been put on in a hurry. He clutched his briefcase like he was
transporting live organs. Yes, this was someone Nabiki could toy with quite
mercilessly and without repercussion.
Nabiki Tendo might have been a mere 17 years old, but she was going on
thirty nine in her head. She took a commanding presence immediately, not
bothering to get up, waiting for the man to bow and seat himself.
"So... Satoshi-san?" Nabiki asked. "I understand you want to see me,
but haven't taken the time or effort to book a meeting. Since you've
interrupted my morning duties and demanded my attention, I'm assuming this is
going to be so important that I don't have Tarou eject you from the building
without escorting you downstairs first?"
That should have worked. It didn't. The man had a near-crazy look in
his eye, that said most of Nabiki's words went in one ear and out the other.
"Ms. Tendo, may I just say what an honor it is to meet you!" the man
said loudly, bowing again. "I am sorry about the immediacy of this, but... I
had to strike while the iron is hot, so to speak. I've come to make you a
business offer that I think you'll agree is money in the bank."
'Money' was the magic word. Okay, this guy gets another minute of my
time, Nabiki thought. "Yes? In specific?"
The briefcase was open, and... out came a ratty old spiral notebook. "A
franchise license," Satoshi stated... relaxing visibly, now that he had this
in the open. Kind of like admitting to an addiction. "I've been sitting on
this for awhile. Planning it in my off hours, figuring out the balances
needed to make it happen... I always assumed it was a pipe dream, but... I
think it can work. See, right now Magical Troubleshooting Crossover Fighting
Federation Ultra has one weekly show, one talent pool, and one arena. What I
propose is an expansion; a SECOND weekly show for Ultra, using its excess
resources!"
"What excess resources?" Nabiki asked, curious.
"I know you guys turn away a lot of applications from fighters who want
to be in your group since there's not enough television time to book them
all," Satoshi continued. "I follow the sports-entertainment industry news
online, see; it's common knowledge."
Stupid internet dirtsheets, Nabiki scowled internally.
"You've barely got enough time now to promote everyone," he continued.
"A second show would be the perfect solution... a continuing presence of
Ultra with new faces and new entertainment possibilities! Don't forget, all
your rivals have an A and a B show, and even if they're so far behind Ultra
it's not even funny they have an edge on you in the off-days of the week.
This is JUST what you need! I'd be willing to manage the show for you using
my, ah, experience in the field. All I need are talent resources, a place to
do it, and financial backing."
"What?" Nabiki asked, having gotten slightly lost. She covered up fast
with the old Executive Summary Technique. "Hold on. You're saying... you
yourself want to be in charge of this fiasco?"
"Exactly!" Satoshi exclaimed, mistakenly assuming Nabiki was just as
excited as he was. "It's just... for a long time now, I've studied Ultra.
Memorized it inside and out. I've always thought I could do that, I could
arrange a television show just like that! I do, er, accounting for a public
access cable channel, you see... broadcasting experience, sort of? But
Sports-Entertainment is practically my religion! I never had the guts to try
to make this happen until now, I'll admit, but the time is right! I think I
can do this, and put on a very good show to entertain Ultra fans... and
you'll reap the profits as a result. I'll handle all the backend work. I
know you're busy with your show--"
"Pardon me, Satoshi-san, but this sounds pretty crackpot," Nabiki said
bluntly. "You walk in off the street with a master plan that will involve a
great deal of my time and money and expect me to instantly accept it? Just
like that?"
"Ah... please?" Satoshi asked, not knowing what else to say. He'd
already used up his logical argument ammunition.
Her finger paused halfway to the intercom switch for Tarou's office.
It was true... Ultra was only one show. They only had two hours to push
Ultra product down the throats of the feeble-minded viewers. There was so
much more they could do, so much more money they could make just by
saturating the market that way; expansion seemed natural. Naturally, she
assumed she had thought of this idea first and simply had forgotten it for
awhile, rather than admit some street freak was smarter than she.
Of course... it could also fail. She hadn't done the numbers; this guy
had, but could he be trusted? It could tank, and then it'd be a complete
waste from word one. No... if she was going to go along with this, she
wouldn't want to commit high quality resources to it...
And Nabiki's eyes strayed to a pile of folders, forgotten and buried on
a distant shelf in her office. And she smiled.
"You've got a compelling case, Satoshi-san," she replied smoothly. "And
I think I can supply what you need. Announcers, technical directors, an
arena, a time slot and the money you need. Leave your... ah... dogeared
notes with Tarou on your way out, as well as your phone number."
"Really?" Satoshi asked, shocked. "Uh, I mean... thank you! You won't
regret this, Ms. Tendo. I'll... I'll quit my job immediately and get to work
on planning! I've got some ideas about what look and feel--"
"We'll set things up for you, if you please," Nabiki chided lightly.
The peon had to know his new place in the pecking order. "This is, after
all, an Ultra production, not a Satoshi production. You'll simply be
managing the odds and ends while we handle the startup and organization... a
salaryman working for the front office. Presumably you are familiar with
that role in life?"
"...yes, I am," Satoshi said, slightly deflated. Only slightly. He
was, after all, going to be able to live out his dream in one shape or
another...
Nabiki smiled. "Very good. Now please, I have a lot to do, so if you
will...?"
A few rushed bows and scrapes later, and the guy was gone. Nabiki
promptly walked over to that dusty shelf, unburied the stack, and leafed
through it...
A pile of rejected applications. Each and every one of them. That was
the truth behind the 'turning away people at the door'; it wasn't so much a
matter of lack of television time for new talent as it was a lack of ACTUAL
talent in the new talent. Too lame, too uncharasmatic, too weak, too
inexperienced. Not ready for prime time. Normally, she wouldn't waste good
money on such a rag-tag lot.
But if this fellow's life's dream was to run the Really Big Show, who
was she to deny him? Peeling the red 'REJECT' labels off each folder while
prepping the generic 'You're hired!' form letters, she whistled cheerfully,
getting ready to make another person's life a living hell.
After all, the man had legal grounds to sue Nabiki if she directly
ripped off his idea and ran with it without using him. But if it sank, she
could then legally steal the idea and make her OWN secondary show. And with
this crew, sinking was not a matter of if, but when...
Another knock. This one would be spared the Wrath of Nabiki; she was
too happy to be dangerous.
"Come in!" she called, continuing to peel off labels.
A sexy green haired succubus entered. Only in Ultra would this be an
everyday occurrence. Morrigan curtsied, very olde worlde, before making her
request
"Ms. Tendo, I was wondering if we could discuss--"
"Get a load of these first," Nabiki said, sliding the pile of folders
over. "Say hello to Ultra's newest recruits!"
Curious, Morrigan floated over (it was more stylish than walking, and
she saved her legs for sexy struts in front of guys rather than in front of
her boss) and leafed through the folders. "Hmm. These are new Ultra
fighters? They don't seem very impressive, Ms. Tendo... too young, too weak.
Such a group of newbies and neophytes I've never seen before."
"Hmmmmmm... Neophytes? I like that word," Nabiki pondered. Jotting it
down quickly on a post-it note. "I like that a lot..."
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the new generation of
anime sports-entertainment
==--------------------==
/ MTCFF \
| . . +-- |
< |\ | +- >
| | \|E O | I G H T E R S |
\ ` ` ` /
==--------------------==
an Ultra production
http://www.mtcffultra.com/
Episode #0: When Sports-Entertainment Calls
booked by stefan gagne
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Elsewhere in the Ultradome...
This Old Dojo prided themselves on taking care of all Ultra-related
matters quickly, quietly, and flawlessly. The 'dome took a serious beating
from week after week of crazy superpowered fighters trashing it, not to
mention thousands of wads of gum parked under the seats in the stands... such
things would not wash.
Acting like a thundering herd of faceless minion engineers and
technicians, the group repaired, cleaned, restocked, and kept the dome in
tip-top shape. After the previous night's mayhem, the outer walls of the
dome had taken a bit of a pounding, and dented and shredded panels would need
replacing. Parts were ordered...
But that didn't stop him from trying a little experiment.
"See, 'cause... way I see it, we SO don't have to order parts and blow
money when we can just use what we got. Y'know?" the youth said, adjusting
dials on a small, scary looking machine with glowing tubes and no less than
two Tesla coils. "All we gotta do is make the metal repair itself, and it'll
be TOTALLY fixed! Righteous!"
The elder This Old Dojo craftsman scratched his chin. The boy was
always a problem, he thought. He was the youngest applicant to the team, and
even if he had a background in broadcast television from being head of his
high school's A/V Club, he wasn't a very dedicated worker... usually nipping
off for a smoke or to play Dreamcast when he should be working...
And when he WAS working, he was doing things like this.
The elder cleared his throat, to speak. "And how does this machine
repair torn steel, E--"
"Dude."
"Pardon?"
"I'm The Dude, okay? Not that other name, it's not as cool," the kid
explained, completing his dial adjustment. "Anyway... um... like, what I'm
doing is implementing Washuu's published theories on time energy dispersal,
see. I've been a faithful follower of her papers ever since she came to
Tokyo and like, I don't get why everybody says her work's so dangerous and--"
"The machine, El... 'Dude'. Get back to the machine, please."
"Simple enough. It makes the physical matter 'remember' a previous
state in the flow of time!" The Dude exclaimed. "So, like, BAM! It just
goes back to a time before it was broken. And it works when I HIT THIS
BUTTON!"
Less than a second after the button was pushed, red-hot molten metal
poured from fifty feet up, turning a helpless t-shirt stand into a cast iron
t-shirt stand which would later net 50,000 dollars on eBay from a crazed
Ultra fan.
"I think it went back a little too far in time," the elder said. He
wasn't shocked; things like this happened all the time in Ultra, after all.
"Likely to when the planet was still cooling."
"Bummer," Dude decried.
" I hate to do this... you do have much promise as a technician, son,
but I DID say you only had one strike left after that incident with the fresh
salmon and the rotary engine," the elder reminded. "This would certainly
qualify. I'm going to have to let you g--"
"Excuse me."
Both turned, to look on the face of god. Or at least on the face of
their boss, which was the same thing to low level employees.
"I believe I have a new position for you," Nabiki Tendo told The Dude...
while trying to keep a straight face. "How does being the lead technical
director of a brand new television production sound, young man?"
"Whoa," The Dude Keanu'd.
Nabiki held out a stack of letters. "Drop these by the mailroom on your
way out. You may have the rest of the day off; rest well, for the challenge
of your new duties will be great, and we expect nothing less than perfection!
We will contact you with information on your new role. Congratulations!"
"Right on!" The Dude cheered, snatching up the letters. "You've SO made
the right choice, Beek! I'll deliver these right away if not sooner or
something!"
Nabiki's left eye twitched. She DESPISED being called 'Beek'. But...
she let it slide. For now. After the kid had run far enough down the hall,
sneaker shoelaces flapping, she turned to the This Old Dojo elder.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the portable Mini-Dome Jack brought back
from the moon is still in the back parking lot, yes?" Nabiki asked. "What
shape is it in?"
"Terrible, ma'am," the elder said. "The explosion of the moon damaged
it severely. It likely won't be usable in outer space again, unless you want
us to--"
"Oh, it doesn't need to go to space. I think Shinjuku will do nicely.
Call a tow truck, please, and don't worry about repairs. I shall rely on
Jack's purchasing sensibility to have bought a durable enough dome. Nothing
but the finest for my newest employees! Oh, and pick a dozen of your least
competent workers to send to my office in an hour."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The first of the letters didn't have very far to go at all. A few left
turns to get out of the Ultra parking lots (for there were many), and onto
the Ultra Highway down a few miles to Tokyo itself, a left, a right, into the
business district... to the corner of 3rd and Hakido.
"Hot dogs!" the barker cried, selling her wares. "Get 'em while they're
hot! Get 'em while they're dogs! ... errr..."
There go a few customers, Ayane thought mournfully. She stirred the
relish vat on her hot dog cart thoughtfully. This was the fifth job she'd
started this year, and if she couldn't move the product, she'd be looking
forward to the sixth.
It wasn't that Ayane was a bad cook. On the contrary, she excelled --
speed, efficiency, attention to detail, high quality balancing of
ingredients... everything for the taste delights of the customer!
Unfortunately, whenever she tried something that didn't involve grease,
ketchup and fixin's that come fresh off the back of a truck, everything blew
up. Her duck a l'orange had the consistency of orange Tang. Her mushu pork
had a tendency to get out of the bowl and wander off. Her steak tartare
could be used to stab a vampire through the heart.
However... give her a spatula, a bag of precut french fries and a
greasefire-proof apron and she was Iron Chef McDonald's! Pigs would die with
a satisfied sense of self worth just to be in her hot dogs. Cows would
emigrate from India just to be a part of her succulent, juicy hamburgers!
But eventually, the job would fade away, die out. Fast food employees
have an incredibly high turnover rate, since people are expected to graduate
from school and move on to better things, and there always needs to be room
for new people. From family restaurant to greasy spoon to pizza delivery to
King Fucker Chicken (at least, that's what she thought the letters stood for,
her English wasn't very good) to hot dog stand in less than a year.
Truth be told, there was only one job Ayane truly desired. The one that
would make her complete, that would shuffle her to the peak of her lowly
profession. But she had sent her application months ago, and had yet to hear
back from--
"Ayane Shibou?"
"Relish or no relish?" Ayane asked on reflex, before realize it was the
mailman talking to her. "Oh, Tadame-san. Hello!"
"Thought I'd deliver your mail here, since you're not at your
apartment," the neighborhood mailman said. "I've got a lot of rounds to
make, and I'd like one of your great hot dogs to keep me going!"
"Right!" Ayane cheered, twirling her tongs into place. She whipped that
wiener out of the cart and into a bun like a pro. "Coming right up! Ne,
open the letter for me and read it, this'll take a minute."
The nice mailman carefully tore open the envelope, and began. "To Miss
Ayane Shibou, regarding your application. We here at Ultra happily accept
your request for employment, and mggmlpmpg?"
"Gomen gomen gomen!!" Ayane apologized, lowering the mustard bottle...
and passing him a napkin to clean off his face. "Did.. did you say what I
thought you said? ULTRA? They want me to cook for the fans at the
Ultradome?!"
The mailman glanced over, after getting most of the yellow paste off
his face. "Well--"
"YAHOO!!! I'm working for Ultra! YES! YES!" Ayane cheered, doing the
Dance of the Happy Short Order Cook. "My dream has come true! Oh, I'm so
happy I could kiss you!"
"Really?" the mailman asked, turning red.
"No. Excuse me! I've got to go turn the cart in!" she said, grabbing
the handles and wheeling it around. "They can take this job and shove it...
I'm working for ULTRA now! Job number six, here I come! See you later,
Tadame-san!"
"..but... my hot dog?"
She was around the corner and out of sight in no time. She hadn't even
taken the letter from him, the mailman thought. Although it was a little
odd, the letter didn't mention anything about cooking. Just fighting.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fighting was in his blood. Or at least in his mind. And it's more
important to have fighting in your mind; to breathe it, live it, sleep with
it, caress it like a...
No, no. Take two.
Fighting was the sum total of his existence. He was one with the
balance of harmony, the tao of the universe and the indiscriminate art of
grappling. Foes feared his name, as he had proven himself in countless
battles with his masterful skill in the way of the fist, and--
"LAWRENCE! DINNER TIME! Turn off that movie and come on down!"
Lawrence Pellinger sighed, hitting pause on his DVD remote. They were
always interrupting his intense martial arts training with mundane matters!
Every day after school he trained... burning out the slow motion feature on
his video disc player as he practiced the dragon stance, the drunken master
style of the two cups, the 37 techniques of the Shaolin masters. He knew
every move, every style, and every striking technique by heart! And buying
DVDs was cheaper and more entertaining than going to a real dojo.
People always looked at him oddly when he tried to get real martial
arts training. This was Tokyo, and some crazy gaijin riding his parent's
ambassadorial coattails wasn't going to be welcomed with open arms to learn
the Path of a Warrior. Sad but true fact.
Braiding his hair into the traditional ponytail of the martial arts
action hero hadn't helped. Adopting a more traditional baggy Chinese outfit
hadn't helped. Mastering both Japanese and Chinese languages along with the
art of writing kanji with near perfect brushwork hadn't helped.
But movies did... with movies, it was just him and his heroes. Jackie
Chan. Jet Li. Bruce Lee. Occasionally Chow Yun Fat and that Keanu guy, but
those were special cases. Together, they became his collective sensei...
His parents always assumed this was simply a phase, a good kid having
trouble adjusting to life in Japan... but Lawrence knew it to be his calling.
His life's ambition was to become the world's finest martial artist, and even
if he couldn't do it the traditional way, it WOULD happen! Presumably,
though, it would happen after dinner.
He walked to the top of the steps, then executed a flawless triple
somersault with wall bounce, to land in his chair at the dinner table. Then
groaned.
"Lima beans AGAIN?" he whined.
"They're good for you," his mother noted. "And please, Lawrence--"
"It's Li Ping! And a true warrior eats boiled rice and water for his
daily meal. It centers his focus, empowers his being with pure spirit!"
"Yes, well, Li, your empowered being has destroyed five chairs trying
to do that silly move, so I'd say you could tone things down a little when
you're playing around," she chided. She picked up the mail stack, sorting
through it. "Bills, bills, bills, fabulous offer, bills... hmm. Something
for you."
"Is it my Fist of Legend Special Edition from Amazon.com?" 'Li Ping'
asked, poking at his steamed veggies. "I've been waiting a week for that."
"No. It's... something from someone called 'Ultra'?"
Like snatching the pebble from the master's hand, Li had the letter in
a blink of an eye and was reading intently.
Then, his entire life changed.
"I GOT THE JOB!" he shouted, standing immediately, clutching the paper
with white hot knuckles. It ripped slightly.
"Ah, that's good," his mother said, after chewing a mouthful of lima
beans. "I always said you needed to get an after school job. Honestly,
sitting around all day watching movies is bad for your eyes, Lawrence."
...maybe it'd be best not to tell her exactly what job it was. But it
truly WAS his dream job! A chance to go on worldwide television and show the
world the skills he had been training so hard to achieve... to become the
hero, the champion, the ultimate warrior!
He had to swallow the giggles of delight, and unfortunately also
swallow his dinner. But soon... very soon... Li Ping would be able to break
out of this tired apartment and into the world. Even if Lawrence Pellinger
had to do the dishes and walk the dog first.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Finally!
It was about time.
He would have to make sure whoever had temporarily misplaced his
application was immediately fired. It wouldn't do for such a proud and
prestigious company to allow this sort of sloppiness. That was the only
possible explanation: incompetence. What else could explain Ultra not
immediately picking up The Great Yaga to grace their ring?
The Great Yaga was always great. When he brushed his teeth in the
morning and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror (which he kept small, so
his physique was too large to be fully reflected) he was great. When he
picked up the morning mail he was great. Even as he sat in this fairly cheap
ramen stand, sweating from all the steam coming out of the back kitchen... he
had an AURA of greatness. Others could feel it. It drew them to the Great
Yaga.
"Hey... you're Yaga, aren't you?"
The Great Yaga turned to look at the young fan... and smiled, his best
smile for the flash of the camera. "Why yes I am, young man. I am indeed
The Great Yaga."
"Yeah, I knew!" the kid continued. "Didn't you used to be someone?
Before you got old."
Great Yaga's smile did not flinch. He entertained the notion of
throttling... no, no. Bad for PR. The Great Yaga is always polite, always
wise. "If you are speaking of my many title wins in the pro wrestling ring
during my early twenties--"
"Isn't wrestling fake?"
"...the outcomes are predetermined, yes," Yaga patiently explained.
"But you must have muscles of steel and a will of iron to perform the moves,
to endure the challenge of a long match, to absorb the punishment. There are
few men who can go the distance with The Great Yaga!"
"Before you got old, you mean."
"...before I got old," Yaga repeated, although the smile was more of a
grimace now. He didn't see himself as old. Even at a young 51, he was
better than HALF the supposed superstars of the ring today! Those upstarts
at Ultra, those kids... he had charisma, he had mikework, he had mat skills,
he could do it FOR REAL -- shootfighting, grappling, anything! And... and
NOW...
He smiled honestly, as the thought danced about behind his eyes.
"Don't worry, my young fan! Soon, I will be entertaining you once
more... this time, at Ultra!" The Great Yaga declared. "The kids like Ultra,
yes? Sort of a mixed martial arts thing? All the rage, very high
ratings..."
"Oh, it's the bomb, yeah," the kid agreed. "But Dan could whip your ass
bigtime-- HEY!"
"Terribly sorry," The Great Yaga apologized, setting his bowl down. "I
seem to have poured hot soup on you. My apologies."
It was an accident, but the kid took offense anyway, offered a few
expletives and stalked off. Such an overreaction! The Great Yaga would
never intentionally harm a fan, after all. He was always right, and others
were always misinformed, and soon he would show the whole world that Great
Yaga still ruled the squared circle. Ultra would prove it to them all.
But he'd have to have whoever lost his application be fired. It
wouldn't be hard... some money here, some leverage there, a contract clause
here and he could have a comfortable existence. No one would ever take his
slot again, and The Great Yaga would forever shine in the spotlight.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The crowded subway car rattled and shook, as the train hauled its steel
ass onward into suburban Tokyo. Tired businessmen, exhausted from another
long day of spirit-crushing work, sat in silence as the car swayed gently.
Those with enough energy to stand did so; hands on the handles, to keep from
falling over. Kids on their way home from school, or on their way home from
shopping, what have you...
The pinching of an ass makes no actual sound, but the sound that follows
is quite loud indeed.
"AIIE!" she yelped.. and turned around, fire in her eyes.
The dazed businessman looked at her, confused. "Huh?"
"You pervert!" she accused, keeping her schoolbag in front of her chest
like a lead shield before gamma rays. (Due to the size and bounciness of her
chest, the small bag wouldn't have been a very good defense.) "How dare you
do that to an innocent flower such as me?!"
"But--"
Now, this next bit is not normal at all on the subway. Schoolgirls
don't usually whip out ancient ninja weaponry and go ballistic in an enclosed
space, but this one did; a brief flurry of nunchucks and sai and so on later
and the guy was lying on the floor in the fetal position with many bumps and
bruises.
"Let that be a lesson to evildoers everywhere!" the girl spoke, posing
dramatically with mismatched weapons. "Never mess with a kunoichi!"
"He didn't pinch you, I did," a schoolgirl next to her said, with a
wink.
Now is the time of the slowly sliding sweatdrop behind the head.
This sort of thing was ALWAYS happening to Keiko Kenji. It simply
wasn't fair! She just wanted to lead a normal life at a normal school, and
go out with normal boys and be normal normal normal! Well... a normal
kunoichi. A normal female ninja with a family heritage of fighting demons
and perverted monsters and freaks and things. As normal as that could get.
But just as the heritage gave her an uncanny ability to cripple a man
seven ways before he even hit the ground and a snazzy wardrobe of very loose
fitting clothing that did a bad job of keeping her covered, it also meant she
was getting into situations like this. It was like the weirdest kind of
trouble was drawn to her, in the same way... in the same way... a pencil was
drawing on a paper, or something, whatever, she didn't know.
The walk home thankfully was free from having to punish criminals from
stealing, jaywalking or peeping in the girl's locker room and no demons
showed up to challenge her mad wind ninja skeelz. There was a bit of a
problem at a crosswalk when a crazed hot dog vendor pushing her cart at 60
MPH almost bowled her over, but that was minor. Let this day end without
another major incident, Keiko wished so desperately...
When she checked the mailbox before entering their pleasant suburban
homestead, she was thankful for a major incident arriving with the daily
letters.
Ultra!
A place where she would BE normal, in comparison! She got in! The
application got in! It was so terrific, it was so wonderful! A dream come
true!
Kicking off her shoes and bouncing her way up the stairs in more ways
than one, Keiko shoved open the door to her older sister's bedroom to
announce the good news.
"Oneeeeechan!" she called. "I--"
The room exploded in black light.
"...great," a depressed, leaden voice grumbled from the far side of the
shadowed room. "Keiko, what'd I tell you about coming into my room?"
"Ummmm... knock first?"
"Okay, so not all of your brain cells have been killed by whacking
yourself in the face with those two things," Kisei Kenji admitted, waving her
hands in arcane gestures to banish the shadows to the shadows from whence
they came. "But you've COMPLETELY blown my third level ghoul summoning
ritual! This is gonna take a day to fix. I can't believe how obnoxious you
are!"
Keiko chewed her lip. Demonic summonings always made her uncomfortable.
It wasn't just the instinctive instinct to whip out the shivs, yell 'DIE,
MONSTER!' and attack... it was how Kisei deliberately dabbled in the pagan
arts just to rebel against mother. It made sense; if you were raised to be a
demon slayer, the best way to piss off your parents was to go full-on gothic,
dye your hair black, cast rituals with pentagrams in your bedroom and call
forth Satan after school. Mother insisted it was a phase, but being a good
sister, Keiko still worried.
Kisei paused to adjust her stringy hair of the damned in a mirror and
apply more black eyeliner, before addressing her younger sister. "Well, now
that you've totally blown my afternoon and managed to jack me down two
notches on the scale of depression and futility, do you have an actual reason
to enter my lair?"
"Uh... yes, yes I do!" Keiko said, holding up the letter proudly. "I
got us jobs!"
"I don't want a job," Kisei replied. "Jobs are pointless exercises in
consumerism to drive me towards buying things I don't need since we're all
going to die and the amount of green we have when we check out is
meaningless."
"But.. but it's a job at Ultra!"
"Ultra?" Kisei asked. "What, the crazy fighting show that nearly ended
the world yesterday? That crap you watch on a weekly basis?"
"The same!" Keiko cheered, bouncing again. Kisei stepped back to avoid
a concussion. "I signed us up to be a tag team! Isn't it great? We can
have some sisterly bonding time together and kick butt and be famous too!
I'm so happy... WAI!!"
"Oh, god, please stop with the 'wai', I'm getting a headache," Kisei
complained. "I don't believe this. I don't. You signed us up as a TAG
TEAM? I can't fight, you bimbo! I always ditch when mom tries to teach me
how to cripple a man seven ways before he even hits the ground!"
"Can't you use your magic? They allow that! Tifa uses hers!"
"Get real, they'd never let me summon imps and daemons and lesser
darkwings in combat," Kisei argued.
"But that Ash Ketchum kid summons monsters all the time!"
"Hrm. That's true," Kisei pondered... glancing to the side, at herself
in the mirror. Most people looked the other way when she stalked along in
baggy black dresses and heavy makeup. A street freak, a crazy. Nobody would
ever WANT to put someone like her on camera...
There was a certain bent appeal in it, wasn't there? Go on TV, scare
the normals, show off the powers of darkness...
"I'll think about it," Kisei decided.
She found herself in a hug that probably snapped two or three ribs.
"WAAAI!" Keiko cheered, jumping up and down while bearhugging her
sister. "We're gonna be champions!!... ano, Kisei? Kisei, why are you
white? Whiter than usual, I mean."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Tokyo postmaster general does not deliver here. It's not physically
accessible by normal people; this is a world where light cannot penetrate the
darkness, where the shadow grasps all. Despite the bad lighting, the young
man was able to read the letter clearly.
Ultra had long since abandoned normal stamps when they found themselves
routinely engaging in correspondence with other worlds and other dimensions.
The mail must go through, even when it had to penetrate the thin curtain of
sanity that separates the real world from... something ELSE. Something that
made Lovecraft's works look like Harry Potter.
He sat still on a rock in that barren wasteland, eyes scanning word to
word, line to line. There was a sense of relief about him... that this was
good news, news he was waiting a long time to hear. He tossed the letter
aside, finished -- it incinerated immediately.
Grasping the handle of his sword, he pulled it free of the sheath. The
sword dripped briefly, before carving a hole in reality for him to walk
through. He'd have to get local lodgings now, he thought. It was simply a
matter of convenience...
The rift sealed itself after he left, the only sign that he was ever
here being the three small drops of blood left on the ground in wake of his
sword's arc.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Akari Jameson rolled out of bed around two PM. Literally.
Hopelessly lost in a tangle of bedsheets and discarded clothing, Akari
groaned. It wasn't the impact of the floor that was driving her raging
nightmare of a headache... it was her hangover. Hangover, hangover... how
had she gotten a hangover this time? Dangerous ingestion of alcohol, yes,
but something had to lead to that. Her memory was usually so good, at least
when she was sober. What was she DOING last night...?
Pulling herself up to her knees using the sheets, she peered at the
snoozing form on the other side of the bed. Oh, right. That's what she was
doing.
She had no clue what his name was, but his pickup line was the usual one
about how she had almond eyes and blonde hair. Japanese-American genetics
weren't her top subject, but she knew it was unusual at the least, and that
nine out of ten guys used it as an icebreaker. Typical. She hoped she had a
good time afterwards, though...
No sense in waiting around reminiscing about yesterday. There was a
bold, bright new morning ahead that she'd have to squint a bit to get
through. Yanking a robe on loosely, she slumped her way out of the
apartment... to the mailbox, get the mail. Ignore mailman getting a
nosebleed, happens all the time. Sift, sift. Letters. Mother mailing from
the states, father mailing from Kyoto. Standard stuff...
She focused her eyes sharply, to make sure she wasn't hallucinating.
Ultra had accepted her application! She'd shout for joy, but the
loudness of her own voice could cause her throbbing head to implode.
Instead, she grinned hard enough to strain a muscle. It was about time,
really; SHE knew she belonged in front of a camera. The world knew. So what
if she had been fired from her job as a TV weather girl for encouraging low
camera angles and making a few too many off-color jokes about precipitation
and moisture? TV suits could be SUCH squares.
Memorizing the meeting location and time (even in hangover mode, her
photographic memory was quite stable), she tossed the letter in the nearest
trash bin and walked with slightly more pride back into the apartment. It
would be eggs for breakfast. Eggs and bacon. After she figured out the name
of the guy in her bed, maybe he could have some too.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
That afternoon, Sichi Satoshi quit his job. Much to the confusion of
his coworkers and colleagues alike, he was whistling a happy little j-pop
tune as he packed up his belongings into a cardboard box, stole a stapler,
and left.
He was free. Free! For the first time in his life, he was free. No
school, no work, no anything. Acres and acres of free time spread across the
vista of his life.
Totally unused to having nothing to do, he spent much of that day and
the next sitting around bored. He'd click through websites, or bounce a ball
against the wall or try unsuccessfully to learn the harmonica... little
things to kill the time. In his mind, he was feeling it already, the roar of
the crowd, the flash of the lights, pounding entrance music and the noises of
fighters going at it in the ring...
It was Wednesday afternoon when the courier dropped off a package from
the Ultradome. In a feverish glee, Satoshi tore into it using a kitchen
knife. He poured over the documents, the roster sheets and the maps and
the... the...
He quickly hopped a cab to the Ultradome. Under any other circumstances
he'd be too spineless to confront his boss with a grievance, but according to
this, he only had a few hours before the first show... no time to stall.
From apartment to knocking on Nabiki's door in an hour.
"Is there a problem?" Nabiki asked, on his entrance.
"...ah... um... ah..." Satoshi mumbled, all the fury and fire from his
march of determination melting away. This girl was half his age, but she
still was the boss, and like a lemming off a cliff he had some instincts that
were irresistable. "Miss Tendo, ma'am, in fullest respect and absolute joy
at your work so far in helping me with my dream, um... there are... some
small problems. Small ones!"
Nabiki's eyebrow went up... a little smile, there. "Such as?"
"Well, uh. The building's not up to fire codes because there's a lot of
damage to it," Satoshi said. "I called the technical director you assigned
and he said he can't get it all fixed until after tonight, and... and our
first show is tonight at midnight?"
"Wednesday nights at midnight is a perfectly good time slot. Why, it's
right after the Rubber Lovers Club Hour and right before Edo's Pet Corner!
They have a combined rating of 0.2 points, you know."
"...right. And the fighters, er, I just got information about them
today and we haven't MET yet, so I don't think I have enough time to book a
really good card--"
"Are you saying you can't do this job, Satoshi-san?" Nabiki asked.
"No! No. I can do it, I just... er..."
"If you have a REAL complaint, please, I'm all ears. But don't waste my
time with such small things. I gave you what you want. You have a show, you
have fighters, you have an arena. It's up to YOU to make it successful. And
if you are not successful... well, I suppose the experiment will have to be
terminated."
"T-Terminated??"
"Come come, I can't support a show that draws anything less than a 1.0
rating," Nabiki said, waving a pen in the international sign of No-No. "It's
going to be a challenge, isn't it? If you're not up to it, you can quit
now... I have a few ideas about how to redesign the show myself, if you're
giving the rights to the idea to me--"
"No! It's okay! Ha ha!" Satoshi laughed nervously. "1.0 rating. Got
it. We'll have that in no time at--"
"One season. Ten episodes. That's all. If you can't make it, you
don't get a pay-per-view. You don't stay on the air, either."
"Hey, that's what, 0.1 an episode? Can't be hard, can't be hard at
all," Satoshi lied, envisioning stacks of cable TV figures piling in his
head, proof that hitting the 1.0 was difficult in a saturated market at a
terrible hour without name talent...
"Enthusiasm. I like that," Nabiki said. "You, however, need to get to
the NeoDome and get to work. It takes hours of prep time, and your fighters
will be showing up soon for tonight's show. I'm afraid we didn't have enough
time to sell enough tickets to fill the house, especially since we forgot to
print 'Ultra' on the flyer and nobody cares about some show called
NeoFighters... maybe we can correct that little snafu next time, eh? I'll
try to remember."
Doom. Death. Despair. Other bad D-words echoed in Satoshi's mind.
Nabiki was setting him up to fail, wasn't she? He knew she wasn't a very
nice person, but hoped in business she'd at least be nicer than she was on
the air in Ultra... that hope was gone. He was going to fail. Would the
cable station hire him back?--
No. No way. He left that life behind; going back was not an option.
Satoshi might not have had much of a spine, but what few vertebrae he did
have were strong like mighty iron on the issue. This was his DREAM. He
would SUCCEED. He would THWART Nabiki and get that rating...
"Thank you, Miss Tendo," he spoke with absolute honesty. "I'll be going
now... you must be very busy, and I have a show to run. The show must go
on!"
Immediately after leaving the office, he hailed a cab, chugged an entire
bottle of Pepto Bismol and whipped out his new (soon to be dogeared) spiral
notebook. Sorting fighter bios, picking out songs from memory, placing
cellphone calls to the nice young man at the NeoDome... getting things done.
The show must go on indeed, and if NeoFighters was going to survive, Satoshi
was going to have to fight uphill every step of the way. No letting up, no
resting. Let the creative juices flow. Pen to paper. Make the show HAPPEN.
When the taxi arrived, and Satoshi realized his paper was still
completely blank, that's when the panic set in.
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SEE YOU NEXT EPISODE