The Harborview Arena was looking like it had never looked before. Workers dashed across the floor hammering, painting and tightening bolts while cables ran through and around everything. Crews were getting barricades set up around the ringside, testing the lighting rigs up in the rafters, and unrolling IRW banners to cover the grey concrete walls above the bleachers.
For years they have done the same show in this building. A plain and simple wrestling show where the crowd applauded politely and wrestlers came and went, often unnoticed. But tomorrow they would be presenting the IRW's first real pay-per-view event under Vince Maston's vision. And for the first time in a very long time, the arena was coming to life.
Lance Dawson leaned against the entrance ramp with his arms crossed, watching the setup process. A foreman nearby was hollering about someone's seating chart; another guy was yelling at a couple of stagehands dragging a rig out of the way. Lance rubbed a hand over his forehead.
"Sold out," he muttered to himself. "Every ticket sold, and people are still asking for more. Red TV is breathing down my neck to add time, add time, want me to extend the broadcast. I never thought I'd live to see the day."
Mark Rivera was slumped on a crate behind Lance, making half-hearted notes in his booking notes. The guy's face was contorted with tension.
"This is ridiculous," Mark muttered. "A triple threat tag? For new titles? Vince, this is the type of stunt you expect in NSPW -- not here."
NSPW - North Shore Pro Wrestling - was Harborview's dockside carnival. The shows were chaotic dramas where wrestlers leapt from balconies, swung chains, and broke a bone weekly just for a pop from their rabid dockworker fans. Everyone in the city knew them as unpredictable and dangerous. To Mark, thinking of teams of three brawling for new belts felt just as dangerous as Vince's crazy idea.
Vince walked up behind them, calm but a familiar spark in his eyes. "You'll see Mark. The people love this already - they just don't know it yet. The build has been strong. Tomorrow - they will get the payoff."
Mark snorted. "Or they will laugh us out of the building."
Vince ignored Mark, looking out over the arena floor. The ring crew had just finished stretching a fresh white canvas over the boards. Workers were laying black carpet down the ramp. The whole place was being transformed in front of his eyes, but to Vince, something was still missing.
A titantron.
In his world, every event had one - the massive screen above the entrance ramp that took the whole spectacle and made it larger than life. Music videos, promos, highlights. He could see it in his mind already, the arena getting loud when Tracey's face or Mason's highlights appeared on one. But here? There was no budget. Not yet.
He slid his hands into his pockets. He stared out at the empty seats. Thousands of them. All waiting. All for tomorrow. He could see it perfectly. The arena going dark, the music, the rhythms, the excitement. But reality is different. would the audience accept this revolution? would they accept heels and faces, scripted promos and drama? Or would they boo the idea of it as a whole, and reject that taste?
The anticipation has been hot. The crowd is invested in Tracey vs. Maya, in the tag team tumult, in Mason's journey. The chants, the boos, the t-shirts, they were buying in. Vince felt good about that. But worried.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of foot steps. An assistant, a young guy with a headset tied sideways on his ears, came rushing up to him.
"Mr. Maston—sir—the head of merchandising is asking for you. He says it is urgent."
Vince blinked, surprised to be pulled out of his daydream. "What does Peterson want now?"
"He says we are not producing enough shirts for tomorrow. The demand is well above projections. Especially the 'Why Maya Why' shirts and the new Steel Titans design. He wants to make capacity increases before the vendor runs out mid-show."
Vince exhaled, almost laughing at how quickly reality returned. "Okay. Tell him I'll be there in five minutes."
He turned back to Lance, who was still barking orders at the crew, and Mark, who was still sulking with his notebook. The arena was gradually coming together—the ring was centered, the ramp continued from the stage, and the lighting rigs were firing bursts of white to see if they were working.
He turned on his heel and headed toward the lower concourse, where Peterson would be waiting with stacks of paperwork and sales reports. Tomorrow was All In, and if tonight was any sign, IRW was about to step into uncharted territory.