~*~Big Girl Dreams~*~
O’Connell Home

The sound of an electric drill whirred through the baby monitor long before it should have.

Bella stood in the doorway of her daughter’s room, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a small Allen wrench, "You know, someone could’ve waited for me to finish reading the instructions before starting.”

Mal glanced up from where he was crouched on the floor, half of the new toddler bed assembled, a smug grin tugging at his lips, "Instructions are just suggestions, love. Between libraries, your crazy Ninja Warrior set up, out in the barn. I've built whole sets backstage faster than this.”

Bella arched her brow, "And how many of those fell apart halfway through the show?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again with a sheepish shrug, "Ok so I didn’t work alone on those but the point still stands.”

The room around them was in that perfect kind of chaos that came from trying to grow up too fast, paint swatches taped on the wall, a new “big girl” comforter waiting to be unwrapped, and Máire’s stuffed animals piled like a mountain in the corner. Luka had claimed the pile as her throne for now, curled up on top of a headless unicorn plush, her one brown and one blue eyes lazily tracking her humans.

Bella knelt beside her, running a hand through the husky’s thick fur, "You’d better get used to this, Luka. She’s not gonna stay in one place anymore.”

As if on cue, a loud thud echoed down the hall, followed by the unmistakable patter of bare feet.

Mal groaned, "And that would be the escape artist herself. She must of decided to wake up from her nap.”

Bella turned just in time to see Máire peek around the corner, her dirty blonde curls wild, clutching her favorite stuffed dinosaur that was given to her by her Auntie Si and Uncle Lach, by the neck. Her wide eyes lit up when she saw what her parents were doing.

“Bed!” she squealed, barreling into the room, "My bed?”

“Yes my pretty girl, that’s your new bed,” Bella confirmed, scooping her up, "Since someone learned how to climb out of her crib in the middle of the night.”

Máire giggled, tucking her face against Bella’s shoulder, "I big girl now.”

Mal set the drill aside and grinned, "That you are, peanut. Big enough for your own bed, big enough to give your old man a heart attack every time you sneak down the hall.”

“She doesn’t sneak,” Bella said dryly, "She stomps like a baby elephant.”

“Elephaaaant!” Máire repeated gleefully as she squirmed out of her momma’s arms and reenacted the stomps. Luka barked once, tail thumping, as if joining in on the chaos.

For a moment, the room was filled with laughter and movement, Bella helping Mal line up the last slats, Máire “supervising” from her new mattress, Luka refusing to move from her plush pile.

Once the bed was done, Bella stood back, brushing a smear of sawdust off her jeans. The sight of it, small but sturdy, with soft pink sheets and a crescent moon nightlight on the wall, made her chest tighten.

She remembered when the crib first arrived. Mal had assembled it while she sat, eight months pregnant, arguing that the mattress was too firm. Now, here they were again, same couple, same laughter, same stubborn arguments, just with a toddler who could open doors and climb out of cribs like it was an Olympic sport. Thankfully they managed to install the gates at the bottom and top of the steps after the first time she snuck down a couple of weeks ago. That was enough of a heart attack to last them both a lifetime.

Mal slipped an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple, "Hey,” he murmured, voice softer now, "She’s growing up, huh?”

Bella nodded, eyes lingering on their daughter as Máire arranged her stuffed animals on the bed in meticulous chaos, "Too fast,” she whispered, "Feels like I blinked and suddenly we’re here.”

Mal chuckled quietly, "That’s parenthood for you. Blink, and she’s already running the place.”

Bella exhaled a laugh, but her eyes stayed warm, a quiet ache settling in behind them.

Máire climbed up onto her bed, proudly bouncing once before flopping backward, hair fanned across the pillow, "I sleep here!” she announced.

Bella smiled through the lump in her throat, "Yeah, baby. You sleep there.”

Luka hopped off the pile of toys and padded over, circling once before curling up at the foot of the bed, her chin resting on her paws.

“See?” Mal said softly, "She’s already got security covered.”

Bella smirked, "That dog’s gonna hog the covers before bedtime even starts.”

But as she watched her little girl stroke Luka’s fur, eyelids already drooping with contentment, Bella knew this was the kind of night she’d remember. The kind that didn’t need bright lights or roaring crowds, just sawdust on the floor, laughter echoing down the hall, and the tiny heartbeat of a new chapter starting in their home.

It was supposed to be a simple night.

Dinner, bath, bedtime.

Three steps. Easy.

At least, that’s what Bella told herself....and maybe the universe heard her because it immediately decided to make a liar out of her.

“Máire, no, not the dog’s water bowl again!”

The toddler turned with that trademark grin, the one that made her look exactly like her father, as her chubby hand hovered over Luka’s dish, "Luka thirsty!”

Bella groaned, scooping her up before she could dump it, "Luka’s always thirsty, baby, but that doesn’t mean we take a bath in her water.”

From the hallway, Mal’s laugh echoed, low and amused, "To be fair, she did try to give Luka a drink.”

Bella shot him a look over Máire’s curls, "You’re not helping.”

He held up his hands in surrender, "Just saying...she’s resourceful.”

“She’s trouble,” Bella muttered, setting Máire down and guiding her toward the freshly assembled toddler bed, "Come on, big girl. Bedtime.”

“Big girl bed!” Máire squealed, climbing up with a little hop. Luka immediately followed, leaping onto the mattress with a thud that made the whole bed bounce.

Bella pinched the bridge of her nose, "And now it’s a party.”

Mal chuckled from the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded, "She’s gotta break it in.”

“Not if she breaks herself first,” Bella shot back, moving to shoo Luka down, "Off, girl. Bed’s for babies, not fluffy chaos gremlin machines.” Luka gave her a dramatic sigh before hopping off and curling up on the rug instead, though not without giving Bella one last wounded look over her shoulder.

When Máire was finally settled, surrounded by her plush army of animals, a sippy cup of water within reach, and her nightlight glowing soft amber, Bella sat at the edge of the bed. She brushed her daughter’s hair back, watching those heavy lids blink slower and slower.

“Mommy?” came the small, sleepy voice.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“You stay?”

Bella smiled, "For a bit.”

Mal came in quietly then, crouching beside the bed, "You get some sleep, peanut. Luka’s right outside if you need her.”

“’Kay,” Máire mumbled, already half-dreaming.

Bella and Mal waited there for a long moment, just listening, the hum of the nightlight, Luka’s quiet breathing, the rhythmic suck of a toddler thumb.

When they finally tiptoed out, closing the door almost all the way, Bella leaned back against it and exhaled, "That went better than I thought.”

Mal grinned, "You say that now.”

It took precisely thirty-eight minutes.

Thirty-eight minutes before the pitter-patter of bare feet echoed down the hall, followed by the tiny creak of their bedroom door.

Bella lifted her head from the pillow, blinking in the dim light, "...Mal?”

“Not me,” he murmured sleepily, "We’ve been infiltrated.”

Sure enough, a shadowy figure stood in the doorway clutching a blanket and a stuffed unicorn.

“Mommy,” came the small voice, "Luka snore too loud.”

Mal snorted into his pillow. Bella bit her lip to keep from laughing.

“Come here, baby,” she said softly, lifting the blanket. Máire scrambled up between them, snuggling into her mother’s chest with a content sigh. Luka padded in seconds later, tail wagging, and flopped down at the foot of the bed as if reclaiming her post.

Mal rolled onto his side, one arm draped over both of them, "Told you she’d break it in,” he whispered.

Bella smirked against his shoulder, "Yeah, well, maybe she just needed a trial run.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, voice low and warm, "You did good, Bells. You both did.”

Bella’s eyes fluttered shut, exhaustion tugging at the edges of her thoughts, "Yeah...she’s growing too fast, Mal.”

He nodded against her hair, "That’s how you know you’re doing it right.”

In the silence that followed, Bella could feel her daughter’s tiny hand clutching her shirt, the gentle brush of Luka’s fur against her feet, and Mal’s steady heartbeat under her palm.

This, this was what she fought for every time she stepped into that ring. The bruises, the pain, the chaos, they all led back to moments like this.

Her family. Her world.

The Hardcore Queen of SCW and the softest heart in the room.

~*~Iron and Fire~*~
O’Connell Barn Gym - Late Afternoon

Rain whispered against the roof of the barn, soft but steady, the kind of gray drizzle that made the world outside feel small and quiet. Inside, though, there was nothing quiet about the rhythm of Bella Madison’s training.

Thud.
Thud-thud.

Each hit landed heavier than the last. The heavy bag swayed with each impact, a steady, violent metronome to the thoughts crashing through her mind.

Her hair clung to her face, sweat tracing lines down her neck. The skin across her knuckles burned beneath her wraps, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not yet.

It wasn’t just a workout, it was a war being fought one punch at a time.

Because in less than a week, she’d be standing across the ring from Victoria Lyons, the so-called Queen of SCW, the woman who had dominated the Bombshells Roulette division for over a year.

Victoria wasn’t a stepping stone. She was an Everest.

And if Bella wanted that shot at Frankie Holliday, that one shot at the SCW Bombshell World Championship, she’d have to climb her and then keep on climbing.

“Push harder,” she muttered under her breath, the words rough between clenched teeth, "Come on, Madison. Don’t you dare slow down now.”

Her body screamed for a break. Her mind told her to ignore it.

When the barn door creaked open, Bella didn’t even look up, "I’m not done.”

“I can see that,” came the voice, calm, measured, and unmistakably her mother’s. Laura Phoenix stood framed in the doorway, rain jacket still half-zipped, a thermos in her hand. She looked around the barn, taking in the scene: the sweat, the bags, the faint tremor in Bella’s arms from fatigue.

Then she sighed, "Jesus, Bells. Are you trying to train yourself into the hospital?”

Bella grabbed the swinging bag, breathing hard as she wiped sweat from her brow, "No. Just trying to make sure I don’t walk into the tournament unprepared. You should recognize it, I learned it from you and dad.”

“Unprepared?” Laura raised a brow, stepping inside, "You’ve been in here three hours. I should know, I tried to catch you before you started training and Mal told me you were already out here. The only thing you’re unprepared for is a nap.”

Bella didn’t smile. She turned back to the bag, hitting it again, just once, hard enough to make the chains rattle, "Victoria Lyons isn’t some rookie, Mom. She’s a monster, a monster that is attempting redemption but a monster. You know it. Everyone knows it. She’s been running over the Bombshells roster for a year, and nobody had been able to stop her until just recently. You really think I can just half-ass my way into that match?”

Laura watched her for a moment, expression unreadable. Then she set the thermos down on the bench, "No. But there’s a difference between being ready and burning yourself out.”

Bella rolled her shoulders, jaw tight, "You sound like Mal.”

“I sound like your mother,” Laura corrected, "Who’s been in this business long enough to know what happens when you let obsession drive the car.”

That made Bella pause....just long enough for Laura to step closer.

“I get it, Bells. I really do. You’ve got the fire back. You want to win this whole damn tournament and finally get the match you’ve been chasing. But you don’t have to kill yourself to prove you’re good enough.”

Bella turned then, eyes flashing, "Don’t I? Because every fucking time I’ve been this close, something happens. I get in my own way, or somebody else does. And you know what everyone whispers when I lose, Mom? That I’m just your kid. Or Mal’s wife. That I’m always almost there, but never the one who finishes the job.”

Laura’s expression softened, but her voice stayed steady, "You think I haven’t heard worse? You think I didn’t spend years being somebody’s daughter, somebody’s tag partner, somebody’s afterthought? You fight long enough, Bella, and you learn something....people will always talk. Some of them will never ever shut the fuck up. But what matters is what’s left when the lights go down and the crowd goes home.”

Bella exhaled, her breath shaky, "And what if what’s left isn’t enough?”

Laura stepped in, putting a hand on her shoulder, "Then you go back to work...you work smart, not desperate. You’ve already proven you can take a hit and keep fighting. You don’t need to prove it to anyone again.”

Bella looked down at her taped hands, "Victoria’s not just anyone.”

“I know,” Laura said quietly, "That’s why you fight her with your head as much as your heart. She’s not unbeatable, Bella. Nobody is. But you can’t beat her if you go into that match running on fumes.”

Bella swallowed, throat tight, "I don’t know how to stop.”

“I know,” Laura said softly, "That’s what scares me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, only the rain tapping against the roof and the low creak of the bag’s chain filling the space.

Then, almost as if on cue, Luka barked outside the barn, a sharp, cheerful sound that cut through the tension. Bella looked toward the open door, and for a second, she smiled.

“She’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long,” Bella said quietly.

Laura smirked, "Smart dog. Knows when to rest.”

Bella’s smile lingered, small but real, "Yeah....maybe I’ll try that. After another round.”

Laura gave her a look, one of those mom looks that said everything without a word, "Jesus you are worse than Nick at times. Okay, one more. Then you come inside, clean up, and eat something before you pass out. Deal?”

Bella nodded reluctantly, "Deal.”

As Laura turned to leave, she paused in the doorway, "And, Bella?”

“Yeah?”

Her mother smiled, proud, fierce, and maybe just a little misty-eyed.

“Victoria Lyons doesn’t know what she’s walking into and if she thinks she does, she’s a fool. You’re not the same woman she fought before. You’re stronger now, not because of the grind, but because you’ve got something she doesn’t.”

Bella tilted her head, "What’s that?”

Laura’s smirk turned knowing, "A reason.”

The words hung there long after she was gone.

Bella turned back to the bag, her reflection catching in the mirror opposite.

Her breath steadied. Her stance set.

And as she threw another punch, sharp, explosive, echoing through the barn, she whispered to herself,
“Let’s make her remember who I am.”

~*~Hardcore Queen~*~

Later that night

The rain hadn’t stopped. It came down in steady sheets, the sound echoing softly against the barn’s tin roof. The heavy bag still swayed from earlier, but now the space was dim, just the soft glow of a single work light overhead, the camera set up in front of it.

Bella Madison stood in front of that lens, hoodie zipped halfway, hair still damp from the shower, tape still clinging to her wrists like battle scars she hadn’t earned the right to remove yet.

She stared into the camera for a long moment before speaking, letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of her presence fill the space. Then, finally, she smirked.

“You ever notice how, every time a tournament like this rolls around, it brings out the best and the worst in fucking everyone?”

Her voice was calm, almost conversational, but the edge beneath it was unmistakable.

“People talk about destiny, about legacy, about what it means to be a champion. And then there’s me. I don’t talk about destiny. I don’t talk about legacy. I will talk about survival. Because that’s all I’ve ever done since the day I set foot in SCW...survived.”

She took a step forward, the light catching the fire in her eyes.

“I’ve been knocked down so many times. I’ve been bloody. I’ve been told I wasn’t enough. And every single time, I’ve gotten back up. Because that’s what I do. Because that’s who I am. The Hardcore Queen of SCW. The woman who’s walked through glass, through blood, through doubt and came out the other side still swinging.”

A small, bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“And now here we are. Semi-finals. Victoria Lyons.”

The smirk faded, replaced by something sharper, colder.

“Victoria, I’ll give you this, you’re a freakin’ machine. You ran the Bombshell Roulette Division for over a year. You made people plead for mercy, bleed, you broke spirits, and you didn’t apologize for any of it. You carried that championship like it was forged out of your own spine, and nobody...absolutely nobody... could take it from you until recently. You did more for that damn division than any of us could.”

She paused, letting the acknowledgment sink in before her tone shifted, darker now.

“But I’m not coming into this to admire your record. I’m going to make it extremely interesting. Because while you have finally started to climb that proverbial ladder....for me, this isn’t just another match. This is the line in the sand. The moment where I stop being ‘almost there’ and start being the one nobody can overlook anymore.”

She reached up, tugging at the tape around her wrists, the sound of it tearing sharp in the quiet.

“You have called yourself a Queen for over a year. In fact, you took being named Queen for a Day and you attempted to rule over the entire place like you were the fucking owner. I remember exactly what you attempted to do to Miles and Carter and you better believe I’m still fucking bitter about that. You ruled through pain, intimidation, dominance and now you’re looking across the bracket at someone who’s not afraid of any of that. I’ve fought you before, Victoria. I remember what it felt like to get hit by you, to lose to you. I remember every bruise you left, every scar that reminded me I wasn’t ready then.”

Her voice dropped, low and deliberate.

“But I’m ready now.”

The camera caught the twitch in her jaw, the defiant fire building behind her eyes.

“Because while you’ve been reminding the world who you were, I’ve been rebuilding who I am. Every loss, every bloodied match, every night I came home and had to look my daughter in the eye and tell her mommy’s okay, it’s all led to this. To you. To this moment.”

A flash of the old Bella surfaced, the defiant, sharp-edged one.

“You want to talk about pain? I’ve lived it. You want to talk about pride? I’ve bled for mine. You want to talk about fire, Victoria? I am the goddamn wildfire that doesn’t go out.”

She stepped closer to the camera, too close now, her face filling the frame, her breath fogging the lens.

“And when we walk into that ring at Climax Control, I’m not coming to survive you this time. I’m coming to beat you. To prove that the Hardcore Queen doesn’t just endure, she conquers.”

Her voice softened, but her words hit harder than any scream could have.

“You had your reign. You had your throne. But it’s my turn now. My time. And when it’s all said and done, when they raise my hand and call my name, it won’t be because I got lucky...”

A faint, dangerous smile curved across her lips.

“It’ll be because I finally became everything you warned the rest of the roster about.”

She reached forward, stopping the recording — the screen going black just as her voice whispered, almost like a promise:

“Long live the Queen.”

Scene opens with a wide shot of Santa Clara, California.

The camera pans over the sparkling skyline, past the glowing red of Levi’s Stadium, until it settles on Justin Smith standing at the edge of a quiet park, the faint hum of evening traffic behind him. He’s dressed in a black hoodie with his logo stitched across the back, his face half-covered by the shadow of his hood.

Justin takes a deep breath, pulling out his phone and dialing.

After a few rings, a familiar voice answers — Casey Williams, his old mentor and friend.

Justin: Hey Casey, you catching the show this week? Looks like your boy’s got himself in another war — Anthrax, Liam Davis, and me. Triple threat, baby.

Casey: I saw the card, Justin. You sure know how to pick your battles. Those two aren’t exactly walkovers.

Justin: Yeah, no kidding. Anthrax is unpredictable, and Liam… he’s like a chess player with a god complex. But that’s what makes it fun, right? No safety nets, no easy outs.

Casey: Fun isn’t the word I’d use. Anthrax is the kind of guy who doesn’t care about wins — he just wants to break people. Liam’s got that quiet arrogance; he’ll outsmart you if you blink. It’s not a match, Justin — it’s survival.

Justin (smirking): You know me, Case. I’ve made a career out of surviving. You think I’ve lasted this long in SCW by playing it safe? I’m not here to survive anymore — I’m here to remind everyone that I’m still the most dangerous man in that ring when the lights hit.

Casey: You’ve got the experience, sure. But you’ve also taken more hits than anyone I know. The body doesn’t lie, Justin. How much more can you really give?

Justin: As much as it takes. Until I’m dust. Until the fire burns out for good. But right now, it’s still burning — hotter than ever.

Casey (sighing): Alright. I’ll make a few calls. Dying Breed’s in California right now, and Hitamashii’s finishing up a seminar in San Jose. They’ll meet you tomorrow at Elite Performance Gym. Time to tighten everything up.

Justin: Good. Tell them I’m ready. Because when Santa Clara lights up this weekend, I’m not coming to wrestle — I’m coming to make a damn statement.

Casey: Then make it count, Justin. Because a win here doesn’t just get you back in the title picture — it reminds everyone why they still talk about Justin Smith like a legend, not a has-been.

Justin smirks, ending the call.

He looks toward the distant stadium lights, his expression steely and focused.

Scene fades to black.

The Next Morning – Elite Performance Gym, Santa Clara

The sound of gloves hitting heavy bags echoes through the training hall. Justin walks in wearing a sleeveless hoodie, his wrists taped, ready for battle. Andrew Garcia, Ivan Darrell, and Hitamashii are already there, warming up in the ring.

Andrew: Well, look who decided to show up! The man of the hour, running on California time, huh?

Justin: Yeah, yeah — traffic on the 101. You ever drive through Santa Clara at rush hour? It’s like fighting a tag team of Teslas and tourists.

Ivan: Excuses already? You sure you’re not turning into one of those veterans who blame traffic for their losses?

Justin (grinning): Keep talking, Darrell. I’ll show you traffic — with my boot to your chest.

Andrew: Alright, boys, let’s get to it. You’ve got a triple threat coming up, Justin. That means your awareness has to be on another level. No breaks, no downtime. You’re fighting two men at once — no tagging out, no corners to hide in.

Hitamashii: Remember, Anthrax thrives in chaos. He doesn’t plan — he reacts. Liam’s the opposite — he’ll bait you, wait for a mistake, and then pounce. You’ve got to stay unpredictable, balanced between them.

Justin: Then let’s get started. Show me something I haven’t seen yet.

The group begins an intense training session.

Andrew shouts commands from outside the ring as Justin and Ivan lock up, exchanging holds. Hitamashii jumps in, simulating the interference of a third opponent — forcing Justin to adapt mid-fight.

Justin gets taken down, rolls through, and counters with a lariat that nearly takes Hitamashii’s head off.
He stands, breathing hard but smirking.

Andrew: There it is! That’s the edge we need. You can’t control chaos, but you can outlast it. Anthrax’ll burn himself out trying to break you — make him chase your rhythm.

Hitamashii: And Liam? He’s got that ring IQ, but if you hit him fast, hard, and keep pressure, he won’t get a chance to think. Make him panic. Force him to react.

Justin nods, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Justin: So Anthrax brings the fire, Liam brings the brains — guess that means I bring both. Let’s go again.

They run another sequence — faster, tighter, more brutal. The sounds of strikes and grunts fill the air.

When it’s over, Justin leans on the ropes, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his arms.

Andrew: That’s the Justin Smith I remember. Not just fighting to win — fighting to prove something.

Justin (looking up): Yeah. To prove that the madness never dies.

Scene fades to black.

Later That Night – Birk’s Steakhouse, Santa Clara

Soft jazz plays in the background as Justin sits at a corner booth, a Porterhouse steak steaming in front of him, a cold Coke beside it.

He’s calm — too calm — until he looks directly into the camera, that signature dangerous smirk curling across his face.

Justin: Anthrax. Liam Davis. You two really think I’m the one who’s in danger in this match? You think just because it’s a triple threat, that I’m walking into your world? Nah… you’re walking into mine.

He takes a bite of steak, chews slowly, then sets his fork down.

Justin: Let’s start with you, Anthrax. You call yourself chaos. You thrive on pain, on destruction, on making everyone around you bleed. Cute. But chaos without purpose? That’s just noise. And I’ve spent my entire career learning how to turn noise into silence. You swing wild, you laugh when you get hit, but deep down — you’re scared. Scared of control. Scared of someone who can stare right through your madness and break it piece by piece. You want chaos? I’ll give you calculated carnage.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

Justin: And Liam Davis — the technician, the golden boy. You’re too smart for your own good. Always thinking three steps ahead. Problem is, I don’t play your game. I don’t follow your rules. You can’t outthink someone who’s already willing to go further than you ever will. You’re precise, but precision doesn’t save you when the hits keep coming. You’re not fighting a man who wants to win — you’re fighting one who refuses to lose.

He pauses, glancing down at his hands, the knuckles bruised from training.

Justin: You both see me as the veteran, the guy who’s been through the wars, maybe the one who’s slowing down. But let me tell you something — the difference between me and both of you is simple: I’ve already been through hell, and I didn’t just survive it… I built a home there.

(He cracks a small grin.)

Justin: Santa Clara’s going to see the best version of Justin Smith they’ve ever seen. Not the nice guy. Not the workhorse. The fighter who’s done being overlooked. The man who’s ready to rip through two opponents just to remind this entire company why I’m still the heartbeat of SCW.

He raises his Coke glass like a toast.

Justin: To Anthrax — may chaos consume you. To Liam — may your cleverness fail you. And to me… may the madness never end.

He drinks, then starts humming “Madness” by Liliac, the haunting melody echoing as the camera slowly pans out to the glowing Santa Clara night.

Scene fades to black.