MC79 - Bust'd

Chief Meteorologist Demetrius Ivory says the temperature in Chicago tonight is forty-seven Fahrenheit, but the wind gusts and patchy rain make it feel closer to freezing. A drone shot reveals a late evening view of the UGWC arena. Contrasting its typical bustle, it now stands in an eerie, almost otherworldly stillness. Dim, automated lights illuminate its façade, casting elongated shadows across the sidewalks and parking lot, while discarded wrappers dance in the unpredictable gusts.

The automated sign outside the edge of the parking lot, which will flash glimpses of the card throughout the weekend, now cycles through a few-generically named local businesses. The large glass entrance doors, smudged with the fingerprints of thousands, reflect distorted images of the empty streetlights and the faint glow of Chicago's skyline. Despite its imposing size and familiarity during the day, the arena in these hours feels abandoned, as though the building itself is asleep,

Within, liminal spaces stretch down empty hallways lit by emergency lights you’d expect to flicker and buzz at any moment. Eventually, a flash of light near the floor at gorilla position indicates the presence of Montague’s tiny cat-gladiator android scaling the velvet curtains.

When Rett reaches the top, it holds out a paw as if batting at some imagined sprite, but his toe-beans retract. From inside his paw, several smaller devices rocket out to embed themselves into the lintel, red lights flashing on the side of each one. Rett slides back down the fabric, then scurries through into the main arena area.

After a few moments of watching Rett dart from turnbuckle to announce table to random arena seats, the scene changes to Montague, who is in the truck diligently turning on monitors as Rett sets his cameras. While your typical technician may tap absently at the toggles during a broadcast, the Doctor-Professor pauses to give each monitor its own moment to spring to life.

He’s surrounded by the now humming monitors, providing views of the locker rooms, the concession areas, even a boiler room where Rett’s diminutive form scurries to place cameras where Montague wouldn’t be able to reach.

Monty pauses for a moment and leans into the boiler room view, raising his left arm to scratch a fingernail against a suspicious smudge on the screen. Holding his hand a safe six inches from his face, Montague sniffs, then rolls his eyes.

Montague: Todd and his Christmas Tree cakes.

Satisfied with the views Rett has set up, Montague reaches for the handle of a footlocker, and rolls it out of the truck.

The next time we see the Mothman, he’s wielding a PKE meter that waves and beeps rhythmically as he walks through the stands. Rett sits on his right shoulder, his eye-beams sweeping left and right as ghostly pale dust motes trail lazily through his path.

The frequency of the beeping increases suddenly, and the arms of the meter lock into the open position. Rett and Monty follow the direction it’s pointing up to the nosebleeds, section A4 way up behind the announce table.

The perspective shifts to Rett’s recording, which is in thermal vision, revealing a blob of warm, summer hues swirling over one of the seats that, by the most generous interpretation possible, might resemble a vaguely humanoid shape. He sets Rett down on the announce table to record, and adds his own colorful blob to the recording as he makes his way closer to the cheap seat.

Montague: Rena? Ms. Samaras?

When he extends his hand to touch the blob, he finds no resistance, and no reaction.

Montague: Well, it certainly behaves like the errant newcomer…

Before he can do much to confirm, however, the blob of color fades.

Rett: Rett!

The Showman nods as his lips thin with disappointment.

Montague: Yes, you’re right, I no longer sense it…

With a sigh, he abandons the mysterious seat, making his way back down the stands to ringside with his PKE meter raised once again.

As Montague approaches the ring, the PKE meter suddenly spikes, its arms snapping open and locking onto the ring itself. He glances at Rett, but the cat doesn’t react—no indication it’s noticed anything unusual. Montague’s brow furrows. He kneels beside his footlocker, lifts the lid, and pulls out a small, dense box. Sliding it toward the ring, he watches as Rett suddenly scurries past him, grabs the box with surprising speed, and places it dead center in the ring.

Rett: Rett!

A flurry of amber-colored dots erupts, blanketing everything within the ring and spilling into the first five rows of seats. Montague freezes in place, his breathing shallow as the dots dance over him like flickering embers. He forces himself to stay calm, resisting the urge to flinch, his focus locked on Rett, who continues scanning for any sign of movement.

After a few minutes with no reaction, Montague signals to Rett, who springs up the ropes to execute a perfect 1080 suicide dive back onto Monty’s shoulder.

Now, the pair of investigators step through the curtain to the backstage area. Monty has replaced his PKE meter with another device, this one chirping static every few seconds as he watches a small LCD screen intently. He pauses suddenly as he passes Eden Morgan’s old locker room door, looking straight ahead into the impenetrable darkness further along. Rett looks up at him, expectantly.

Montague: Cold spot.

Rett: Rett!

They move on.

After some time, the spirit box, who’s chirping had up until now had remained steady and consistent, suddenly begins to bark out fragments of a voice:

Spirit Box: Sng

Montague: Synergy?

Spirit Box: Mch

Montague: Match.

Spirit Box: Pnt

Montague: Opponent!!

Rett: Rett!

With that, Rett’s eyebeams fix on the nearby door, specifically the nameplate: Rena Samaras. The door is ajar.

Montague: Eureka!

Flush with excitement, the Doctor-Professor pushes the door open and leads Rett into the locker room. He stows the spirit box away, and retrieves his PKE meter, but pauses when he hears the smack of water dripping loudly from the shower.

As he meets Rett’s eyes, the staccato slap increases in tempo, building until it resembles the applause that had filled the arena the previous Monday. Montague rushes toward the bathroom, throwing the door open and smacking the light switch.

The light flickers to life, revealing the room bathed in pale fluorescence. The shower isn’t running, but the window is fogged over as though it had been moments ago.

Montague: Rena?

Spotting a discarded towel on the floor, Montague grabs it and crosses to the mirror. He wipes a broad stroke across the fogged surface, clearing it to reveal his own faintly distorted reflection. He pauses, then narrows his eyes. His hand moves to the mirror’s edge, tugging it forward until it tilts at a sharp forty-five-degree angle.

A low, sudden sting of music cuts through the silence, heightening the tension—but the glass reflects only the empty room behind him. With a frustrated grunt and a defeated sigh, Montague’s shoulders slump as he exits the room.

Pulling the door closed behind him, he freezes when he notices there is no longer a placard there! Montague steps back, staring at the now-blank door where the nameplate for Rena Samaras had been just moments before. He glances at Rett, who tilts his head quizzically, his mechanical eye-beams dimming as if in contemplation.

Montague: No name. No presence.

His lips curl into a smirk, tinged with satisfaction. Montague adjusts his hat and sweeps an exaggerated bow toward the door, his voice dripping with theatrical gravitas as he straightens.

Montague: Ladies and gentlemen, the mystery of Rena Samaras: unworthy opponent, ethereal no-show, and now... an exorcised specter.

He turns on his heel, the soft whir of Rett’s servos echoing as the tiny android scuttles to his shoulder. Montague strides back toward the ring. Pausing at the edge of the curtains leading to the arena floor, Montague casts one last glance over his shoulder, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

Montague: This arena... is clean.