Post by asmalltable on May 16, 2024 13:13:33 GMT -5
At first, Alessia cursed her bad luck. May 1996. Two months too late to be in the crowd when her beloved Aston Villa had lifted the League Cup (and her dad, in a rush of happiness, proposed to her mother - to be fair, that would’ve been weird to see.) And on the other side, a month too early to relive Euro ’96, and get out before the heartbreak of the loss to Germany.
Ava was too hard up in her hospital bed to do anything fun, either - the surprise trip back in time hadn’t exactly helped her system (even if, after last year, they knew it was coming.) So instead, Alessia worked out, looked up Cyrus Riddle, watched Walker: Texas Ranger (her parents never let her, growing up) and kicked her heels.
It didn’t help quell the worries, either. What next? They weren’t exactly hard up for money, but they weren’t keen to kick back down to the small-time either. Their time as champions was far shorter than either of them had wanted, but still… the taste of success stuck around. No decisions until Ava was out of hospital, that much was settled, but after then? Back to trial spot after trial spot, she guessed.
Or at least, she had, until passing a local corner store, she’d spotted it out of the corner of her eye. Page nine of a gossip magazine, talking about some new British group doing a press tour of the West Coast before their first singles. Five young women, assembled together into what their managers were betting would be the next big thing.
She’d never admit it now, but like any British girl of a certain age at a certain time, she’d had a huge Spice Girls phase. (Even Ava had, a little, though if you mentioned it she threatened to hit you.) Posters on the bedroom wall, all the albums, that kind of thing. So of course she knew about this trip, their big media debut before ‘Wannabe’ dropped and tore up the charts for two months straight. Originally, when she bought the plane ticket out to LA, it’d just been to grab a memento - maybe even get a signature or a picture to take home (and really confuse some people in the future.) But as the flight went by, the gears turned, and a bigger and better idea took form. After all, even if she got caught, they’d be whisked back to the future in the blink of an eye, and the statute of limitations on theft was five years. (TPW’s legal department didn’t quite like her asking them that.) And if she could get her hands on the demo tape they were no doubt showing to studio execs… well, to the right collector, in 2024? Priceless.
Which is why we’re here now, on a blistering hot day, in the parking lot of a low-rising concrete recording complex. She didn’t know who - might have been Atlantic, or Virgin, or Universal - but a super-fan forum (God bless the early internet) had tipped her off. With a period-appropriate outfit quickly assembled from nearby thrift stores, Alessia keeps her head down and tries to blend in with the gathering fans.
She bites her tongue, hard, holding in the urge to let her knowledge spill - get an autograph now, it’ll be worth a lot in a few years, also don’t expect them to stick around for long. The heat’s relentless. It’s only May, but the polished white walls of the studio complex are both blocking the breeze from the bay and reflecting the sun down onto the asphalt. She shifts uncomfortably, and just about starts to have second thoughts when the limousines pull in.
She doesn’t see them at first, but she can’t miss the sudden roar of cheers and crack of flashbulbs. A couple of studio security in black tees and jeans have come out the front door to form a small cordon… and there, the doors swing open, and out come the five. Smiling, waving, maybe squinting a bit in the sudden glare of the sun. The fans press forward, papers and pens held out, but as much as Alessia’s tempted she’s already on the move.
It’s only a few paces to the left to slip around the side of the L-shaped parking lot and into the back. A security camera covers the utility exit - dumpsters, discarded cigarettes, a half-peeled ‘authorised personnel only’ sticker. Just pray nobody’s watching too closely, right now. Entering by the door would be far too risky, so she thanks her foresight for buying her clothes cheap, and with gritted teeth clambers onto the top of the dumpster.
God, the smell. Quick as she can, then, she reaches up and grabs hold of the vent. Places like this are all about the glamour, and tend to underpay their actual maintenance. So with a couple of hard pulls, the rusty screws pop right out, the grate falls - she snatches it with her fingertips just before it crashes onto the dumpster lid.
For once in the business, she’s grateful for being on the shorter side. The vent is cramped, but if she stays tense and moves slowly, she can just about fit through. Lighter out in front of her face, of course (Ava’s idea, she loved Die Hard), and trying to breathe as quietly as she could. Unlike the time they’d broken into JMont’s place, there’d been no chance to scout, and so she mostly guessed. Security was stop number one, and that’d most likely be… well, a) probably deep inside, and b) away from the recording booths, to keep the noise interference down. So she listens for the sound of frustrated engineers and the seventh or eight retakes of mediocre guitar parts, and heads the other way.
Five minutes of dust and cobwebs later, she’s peering through the cracks in the vent down into a small room. A single guard in the centre, bathed in the cool light from seven CRT monitors and a bank of controls. He snores, shifts forward in his chair, and Alessia sees the glint of something metal in his belt. She takes a deep breath, and reaches for the screws. The first one’s tight, her hands are slippery, and she curses under her breath as she struggles to undo it… but eventually it pops free. The second, she realises too late, is also rusted half through, and as she goes to twist it it snaps.
CRACK!
The guard, jolted awake, looks up at the gate swinging open. Then, further up… right into Alessia’s face.
His mouth hangs open, slack, in confused surprise, but the muscle memory kicks in anyway. He pushes the chair back as Alessia brings her arms forward and pulls herself down and through. His hand goes to his belt. She mouths an apology as she starts to fall, pulls her arm back… and just as he gets to his feet, she cracks a forearm smash into his head, his nose crunching under her arm.
His unconscious body, thankfully, cushions her fall. She’s a little dazed, sure, but still has the presence of mind to reach over and flip the lock on the door. Then, tense silence, seeing if anyone heard anything.
A minute passes… and she relaxes, turning to the screens. There’s a pretty decent map of the facility pinned to one wall - ground plans, emergency exits, fire extinguishers, alarm zones. She’s two hallways away from the head exec’s office. Oh, and on the way…
Mentally, she files that away for later, and rewinds the footage. The camera absolutely caught her scrambling through - lucky, she supposes, that the guard didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s not a particularly difficult task to reach down into the recording bank, slip a penknife from her pocket, and slice up the tape. The screen goes dark.
Looking up, she realises that the ceiling must be eight or nine feet. Good for getting the power behind her strike, but even standing on the guard’s chair, it’d be a leap to get back in… nope, she puts one foot up on the chair and immediately pulls back. Not worth it. Only one way for it, and now she wishes she’d saved cutting the tapes for the way out. Instead, she can only put her ear to the door, and listen for footsteps…
It seems quiet. She unbolts and swings the door open… no-one. Don’t run, don’t look suspicious. Keep the map in your mind. Down this corridor, then right, then third door on the left. But just before that, at the turning… an empty vocal booth, for quick and dirty recordings. She slips a cassette in, turns on the headphones, and gets down to the other reason why she’s here.
Hey, Cyrus. I’m going to mail this tape to you, so you have a chance to listen before our big match.
Here’s a mystery for you. Take one washed-up Londoner trying to get over his midlife crisis emo phase, and put him in a box with the Midlands’ best and brightest young fighter, with sharper wits, better technique, and better moves. Who do you think will come out on top?
Greatest English wrestler of all time, you said. Not even confident enough in yourself to say greatest European, greatest British… and still, it rings hollow. I’m sure you have a long list of victories, titles, whatever that you can run down for me… and by the time you’re halfway through I’ll have you locked up with your arm snapped in half.
I do appreciate you’re trying to bring a better attitude. I mean, the old one was just embarrassing, really. You’re too old to be playing moody teenager. And besides, Knox, Vaughn, Page, JMont… we’ve got enough insecure, egotistical old men on this card already.
Sorry, Knox, I like you but you know it’s true.
Cyrus, I’ll make it plain - the world’s moved on. You think you’re coming in to send this company off with a good farewell, rub a bit of your shine on it? We don’t need you. We’ve got homegrown new stars, tough and hungry and vicious. Khloe, Ava, Kaitlyn, Junko, me. Sure, Retromania’s a show about nostalgia. So isn’t it ironic, then, that we’re going to turn it into a showcase of the future of the business?
Still, I have to thank you for coming back. I didn’t want my last match to be against some no-hoper. I wanted to go out with a bang, prove I’m still rising, still getting better. I look forward to you realising that, in the moments after you tap out like the failure you are.
And as she snaps back into the room, she realises she’s smiling.
No time to stay, though. She’s got more to say, she always does, but it’s back on track for the main mission. She ejects the tape, pockets it, and moves on.
Fingers crossed as she steps back outside… still quiet. She does her best to walk slowly, keeping the rising tension under control. The plush purple carpet muffles her footsteps, She turns… and pulls back behind the wall immediately as a pair of execs in grey suits cross into a boardroom in front of her.
A few moments of just breathing…
She hears the door close behind them. Too close, but nobody saw her. Time to push the rest of the way. It’s fifteen more steps, but every one feels like a mile as she approaches the gold nameplate on the CEO’s office door. One deep breath… and she swings it open.
The man behind the desk is in the middle of a phonecall - this new act is good, really good, we better sign them quick. Annoyed, he looks up, about to demand an explanation for the interruption… then the same slack-jawed surprise as he sees Alessia’s face. She’s already running straight at him, vaulting over a low coffee-table, sweeping aside papers, but as he cowers back in his chair her gaze is fixed right on the single black tape in front of him, reaching across the desk and sweeping it up.
He closes his eyes in anticipation of a punch… one second, two seconds, three… it doesn’t come. Confused, he opens them again, just in time to see Alessia throw up her arms in front of her face. With a wail of a siren and a tremendous crash, she hurls herself straight through the plate-glass window.
A startled drummer on a smoke break yelps as she tucks and rolls through onto the tarmac, straight up into a sprint, legs pounding even faster than her heart. But again, she’s smiling. And as she hops the chain link fence to disappear into the back-alley warrens behind the next shops over, she pulls out the burner phone she’d bought and dials Ava.
Lessi-
I DID IT! I-
Slow down, you-
I got it. We got it. We’re gonna be rich, Aves-
Got what? Alessia, what are you-
I’ll explain when I get back. No time. Running.
Who are you? What did you do with the real Alessia?
Alessia laughs, despite herself.
I know. I know. I… but look, Aves, I’ll tell you later. First, I’ve got one last match to win.
Ava was too hard up in her hospital bed to do anything fun, either - the surprise trip back in time hadn’t exactly helped her system (even if, after last year, they knew it was coming.) So instead, Alessia worked out, looked up Cyrus Riddle, watched Walker: Texas Ranger (her parents never let her, growing up) and kicked her heels.
It didn’t help quell the worries, either. What next? They weren’t exactly hard up for money, but they weren’t keen to kick back down to the small-time either. Their time as champions was far shorter than either of them had wanted, but still… the taste of success stuck around. No decisions until Ava was out of hospital, that much was settled, but after then? Back to trial spot after trial spot, she guessed.
Or at least, she had, until passing a local corner store, she’d spotted it out of the corner of her eye. Page nine of a gossip magazine, talking about some new British group doing a press tour of the West Coast before their first singles. Five young women, assembled together into what their managers were betting would be the next big thing.
She’d never admit it now, but like any British girl of a certain age at a certain time, she’d had a huge Spice Girls phase. (Even Ava had, a little, though if you mentioned it she threatened to hit you.) Posters on the bedroom wall, all the albums, that kind of thing. So of course she knew about this trip, their big media debut before ‘Wannabe’ dropped and tore up the charts for two months straight. Originally, when she bought the plane ticket out to LA, it’d just been to grab a memento - maybe even get a signature or a picture to take home (and really confuse some people in the future.) But as the flight went by, the gears turned, and a bigger and better idea took form. After all, even if she got caught, they’d be whisked back to the future in the blink of an eye, and the statute of limitations on theft was five years. (TPW’s legal department didn’t quite like her asking them that.) And if she could get her hands on the demo tape they were no doubt showing to studio execs… well, to the right collector, in 2024? Priceless.
Which is why we’re here now, on a blistering hot day, in the parking lot of a low-rising concrete recording complex. She didn’t know who - might have been Atlantic, or Virgin, or Universal - but a super-fan forum (God bless the early internet) had tipped her off. With a period-appropriate outfit quickly assembled from nearby thrift stores, Alessia keeps her head down and tries to blend in with the gathering fans.
She bites her tongue, hard, holding in the urge to let her knowledge spill - get an autograph now, it’ll be worth a lot in a few years, also don’t expect them to stick around for long. The heat’s relentless. It’s only May, but the polished white walls of the studio complex are both blocking the breeze from the bay and reflecting the sun down onto the asphalt. She shifts uncomfortably, and just about starts to have second thoughts when the limousines pull in.
She doesn’t see them at first, but she can’t miss the sudden roar of cheers and crack of flashbulbs. A couple of studio security in black tees and jeans have come out the front door to form a small cordon… and there, the doors swing open, and out come the five. Smiling, waving, maybe squinting a bit in the sudden glare of the sun. The fans press forward, papers and pens held out, but as much as Alessia’s tempted she’s already on the move.
It’s only a few paces to the left to slip around the side of the L-shaped parking lot and into the back. A security camera covers the utility exit - dumpsters, discarded cigarettes, a half-peeled ‘authorised personnel only’ sticker. Just pray nobody’s watching too closely, right now. Entering by the door would be far too risky, so she thanks her foresight for buying her clothes cheap, and with gritted teeth clambers onto the top of the dumpster.
God, the smell. Quick as she can, then, she reaches up and grabs hold of the vent. Places like this are all about the glamour, and tend to underpay their actual maintenance. So with a couple of hard pulls, the rusty screws pop right out, the grate falls - she snatches it with her fingertips just before it crashes onto the dumpster lid.
For once in the business, she’s grateful for being on the shorter side. The vent is cramped, but if she stays tense and moves slowly, she can just about fit through. Lighter out in front of her face, of course (Ava’s idea, she loved Die Hard), and trying to breathe as quietly as she could. Unlike the time they’d broken into JMont’s place, there’d been no chance to scout, and so she mostly guessed. Security was stop number one, and that’d most likely be… well, a) probably deep inside, and b) away from the recording booths, to keep the noise interference down. So she listens for the sound of frustrated engineers and the seventh or eight retakes of mediocre guitar parts, and heads the other way.
Five minutes of dust and cobwebs later, she’s peering through the cracks in the vent down into a small room. A single guard in the centre, bathed in the cool light from seven CRT monitors and a bank of controls. He snores, shifts forward in his chair, and Alessia sees the glint of something metal in his belt. She takes a deep breath, and reaches for the screws. The first one’s tight, her hands are slippery, and she curses under her breath as she struggles to undo it… but eventually it pops free. The second, she realises too late, is also rusted half through, and as she goes to twist it it snaps.
CRACK!
The guard, jolted awake, looks up at the gate swinging open. Then, further up… right into Alessia’s face.
His mouth hangs open, slack, in confused surprise, but the muscle memory kicks in anyway. He pushes the chair back as Alessia brings her arms forward and pulls herself down and through. His hand goes to his belt. She mouths an apology as she starts to fall, pulls her arm back… and just as he gets to his feet, she cracks a forearm smash into his head, his nose crunching under her arm.
His unconscious body, thankfully, cushions her fall. She’s a little dazed, sure, but still has the presence of mind to reach over and flip the lock on the door. Then, tense silence, seeing if anyone heard anything.
A minute passes… and she relaxes, turning to the screens. There’s a pretty decent map of the facility pinned to one wall - ground plans, emergency exits, fire extinguishers, alarm zones. She’s two hallways away from the head exec’s office. Oh, and on the way…
Mentally, she files that away for later, and rewinds the footage. The camera absolutely caught her scrambling through - lucky, she supposes, that the guard didn’t get enough sleep last night. It’s not a particularly difficult task to reach down into the recording bank, slip a penknife from her pocket, and slice up the tape. The screen goes dark.
Looking up, she realises that the ceiling must be eight or nine feet. Good for getting the power behind her strike, but even standing on the guard’s chair, it’d be a leap to get back in… nope, she puts one foot up on the chair and immediately pulls back. Not worth it. Only one way for it, and now she wishes she’d saved cutting the tapes for the way out. Instead, she can only put her ear to the door, and listen for footsteps…
It seems quiet. She unbolts and swings the door open… no-one. Don’t run, don’t look suspicious. Keep the map in your mind. Down this corridor, then right, then third door on the left. But just before that, at the turning… an empty vocal booth, for quick and dirty recordings. She slips a cassette in, turns on the headphones, and gets down to the other reason why she’s here.
Hey, Cyrus. I’m going to mail this tape to you, so you have a chance to listen before our big match.
Here’s a mystery for you. Take one washed-up Londoner trying to get over his midlife crisis emo phase, and put him in a box with the Midlands’ best and brightest young fighter, with sharper wits, better technique, and better moves. Who do you think will come out on top?
Greatest English wrestler of all time, you said. Not even confident enough in yourself to say greatest European, greatest British… and still, it rings hollow. I’m sure you have a long list of victories, titles, whatever that you can run down for me… and by the time you’re halfway through I’ll have you locked up with your arm snapped in half.
I do appreciate you’re trying to bring a better attitude. I mean, the old one was just embarrassing, really. You’re too old to be playing moody teenager. And besides, Knox, Vaughn, Page, JMont… we’ve got enough insecure, egotistical old men on this card already.
Sorry, Knox, I like you but you know it’s true.
Cyrus, I’ll make it plain - the world’s moved on. You think you’re coming in to send this company off with a good farewell, rub a bit of your shine on it? We don’t need you. We’ve got homegrown new stars, tough and hungry and vicious. Khloe, Ava, Kaitlyn, Junko, me. Sure, Retromania’s a show about nostalgia. So isn’t it ironic, then, that we’re going to turn it into a showcase of the future of the business?
Still, I have to thank you for coming back. I didn’t want my last match to be against some no-hoper. I wanted to go out with a bang, prove I’m still rising, still getting better. I look forward to you realising that, in the moments after you tap out like the failure you are.
And as she snaps back into the room, she realises she’s smiling.
No time to stay, though. She’s got more to say, she always does, but it’s back on track for the main mission. She ejects the tape, pockets it, and moves on.
Fingers crossed as she steps back outside… still quiet. She does her best to walk slowly, keeping the rising tension under control. The plush purple carpet muffles her footsteps, She turns… and pulls back behind the wall immediately as a pair of execs in grey suits cross into a boardroom in front of her.
A few moments of just breathing…
She hears the door close behind them. Too close, but nobody saw her. Time to push the rest of the way. It’s fifteen more steps, but every one feels like a mile as she approaches the gold nameplate on the CEO’s office door. One deep breath… and she swings it open.
The man behind the desk is in the middle of a phonecall - this new act is good, really good, we better sign them quick. Annoyed, he looks up, about to demand an explanation for the interruption… then the same slack-jawed surprise as he sees Alessia’s face. She’s already running straight at him, vaulting over a low coffee-table, sweeping aside papers, but as he cowers back in his chair her gaze is fixed right on the single black tape in front of him, reaching across the desk and sweeping it up.
He closes his eyes in anticipation of a punch… one second, two seconds, three… it doesn’t come. Confused, he opens them again, just in time to see Alessia throw up her arms in front of her face. With a wail of a siren and a tremendous crash, she hurls herself straight through the plate-glass window.
A startled drummer on a smoke break yelps as she tucks and rolls through onto the tarmac, straight up into a sprint, legs pounding even faster than her heart. But again, she’s smiling. And as she hops the chain link fence to disappear into the back-alley warrens behind the next shops over, she pulls out the burner phone she’d bought and dials Ava.
Lessi-
I DID IT! I-
Slow down, you-
I got it. We got it. We’re gonna be rich, Aves-
Got what? Alessia, what are you-
I’ll explain when I get back. No time. Running.
Who are you? What did you do with the real Alessia?
Alessia laughs, despite herself.
I know. I know. I… but look, Aves, I’ll tell you later. First, I’ve got one last match to win.
Lights Out will return.
