ARCHER & SPECTRE vs. NEO TOKYO

The hinges scream as the door's kicked open. Light pours past an imposing silhouette, almost blinding at first; it bleeds across cracked walls and graffiti. The figure walks in, revealing another behind her--and as the two move toward the camera, through the remains of an ancient house, their identities emerge.

Brooklyn Light. Iota Psi.

Neo Tokyo.

The structure is in shambles. Brooklyn takes a slow drag off a cigarette as she steps over debris and intrusive tears in filthy carpet. Her partner is slow to follow, less ambitious with her footsteps, more careful in navigating the broken house.

"Landlords. The rental business. Never been a big fan," Brooklyn says simply. Her voice resonates slightly off the damaged walls, the place mostly devoid of furniture. "Let's say I own a house. I rent it to you, 800 bucks a month. Maybe some of that goes back into upkeep, making sure the place doesn't look like crap." She takes a shorter puff, mostly just pausing for effect. "Maybe."

As she continues her march through the abandoned home, she kicks a piece of stray wood from her path. "800 a month. I put that back, I hold onto it, and after I've saved up enough... I buy another house. I rent it to another poor schmuck. Rinse and repeat. Here's the trick: I bought a house with that money you gave me. If I hadn't been charging you 800 bucks a month, in that same amount of time you could have bought your own damn house. Right?"

"It's a business based on fostering dependence," Iota speaks up from farther back, nearer to the entryway. "The already wealthy build on their established funds by exploiting those that lack the leverage. Less fortunate people can't purchase a home outright--and they may lack the credit to receive a loan. They become wage slaves to a landlord--they have to, or remain homeless. All that separates a landlord from those that need him is money. We accept this only because... well, that's the way it's always been. We accept it as normal. But what does this have to do with wrestling?," she asks, almost facetiously--as though the question of the hour is really just a prompt for Brooklyn.

Right on cue Brooklyn smiles, and without looking, points a finger back to Iota. "I'm glad you asked. I've always seen managers in the same light. What do you do for people, Jake? You talk for 'em. You work out strategy. You handle their finances. Right? Stuff like that?"

"None of those are inherent talents," says Iota. Brooklyn's stopped halfway into the living room, giving Iota time to catch up. "No one is born with those abilities--they're developed. Learned. I climbed into the ring at a young age... my parents were professional wrestlers, both of them. Performing in front of an audience, though... cutting a promo, becoming comfortable with the crowds, that took time. I took improvisation classes and acting lessons. I learned to speak in public. I built my confidence up over time, piece by piece. It took time and effort, but it was worth it to improve myself as a person, and as a performer."

Brooklyn slips the cigarette from her mouth. Smoke rolls past her lips as she picks up where Iota left off. "I'm a hell of a wrestler," she begins. "Always had that knack, that magic... but the business side of the business, that always threw me for a loop. I don't do marketing--I go out there and fight, I never understood selling myself, but that crap's just as important as winning if you wanna be a star. Who you know, where you put your money, branding--some people suck in the ring, but they still make it big 'cuz they know what strings to pull. Iota's teaching me some of that business stuff, but that's the thing--she's teaching me. I'm not paying her to handle it for me, she's getting me to be better."

"What you do is different, Mr. Archer." Iota slips past her tag partner, and into the living room. The desolation is similar, if not worse--piles of scrap lay at the foot of great gashes in the walls. Wires dangle from the ceiling. Obscenities are spray painted everywhere, and light seeps through cracked glass.

Iota continues. "You force others to rely on you. They hand you money to fill holes in their own repertoire, then you take credit for their accomplishments in the ring. You don't truly elevate your clients--you feed on them like a parasite. That you specifically seem to seek out the weak, the young, the misguided--"

"--And don't worry," interjects Brooklyn, "we'll get around to Spectre in a minute--"

"--hints that you understand full well the repercussions and weight of your actions," finishes Iota.

Brooklyn takes a rushed, somewhat temperamental drag of her cigarette before pointing two fingers at the camera, almost mimicking a gun. "The fact that you used to be a wrestler is proof enough: you know how messed up this is. You've been in the trenches, you've fought--but you gave it up to become what you are now. 'Cuz it's easier, ain't it? You don't have to lay your ass on the line, somebody else'll do it for you, and you get your paycheck regardless. They get injured? So what, there's another dozen or so rubes waiting in the wings, money out, eager for your stupid 'help.'"

"You're a rodent," Iota states, as Brooklyn sneaks another puff, "Mr. Archer."

"And Neo Tokyo? We're about to fumigate." Brooklyn leans into a busted doorframe. She inhales the last white of her cigarette, almost to the filter. "...So you damn well better believe we'll continue our pest control after this commercial break. To be continued, Jakey boy!"

And with that, Brooklyn flicks what's left of her cigarette directly at the viewer. As it bounces off the lens, the scene cuts suddenly to black.