Almighty Fire
semana del 7 al 13 de diciembre de 2025

Another week, another win. Surprised? You shouldn’t be. Maybe I wondered for a second if I’d lost a step — if Mercedes Vargas was slipping. But after what happened two weeks ago, we all know the answer. Crystal Caldwell and I walked into that ring against Harper Mason and Cassie Wolfe — and walked out victorious, just like I said we would. Two veterans, one result: dominance. Experience beats potential every time. Fuego puro.

Now we head into Inception. Same team, different stakes. This time, Crystal’s World Bombshell Championship is on the line against Seleana and Zenna Zdunich. You couldn’t book a more complicated family reunion — Crystal’s wife across the ring, her sister‑in‑law backing her up. Qué drama familiar, ay bendito.

I respect Crystal — she’s one of the all‑time greats, no question. But when gold’s on the line, things shift. Seleana’s fighting on emotion, Zenna’s out to prove her worth, and me? I’m in the center of this soap opera, ready to remind them all: I don’t do “supporting role” energy. I bring the fire, the focus, la pelea.

Whether it’s Harper and Cassie or the Zdunich sisters, the result stays the same — Mercedes Vargas walks out proving exactly why I’m still one of the best to ever do this.

So Seleana, Zenna — consider this your warning. Family drama won’t save you. And Crystal — partner — I hope you’re ready. Because at Inception, that spotlight? It’s going to burn hot enough for all of us. Quémense, mamitas.

Before Inception, though, I’ve got Amelia Reynolds at Climax Control, while Crystal steps into the ring with Seleana in the main event — the same woman who can’t decide whether she wants to be Crystal’s biggest supporter or her latest problem. That match? It’s going to be emotional, messy, and exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need my tag partner dealing with right before Inception.

Because make no mistake — when that show rolls around, Crystal and I will be standing across from the Zdunich sisters, and the World Bombshell Championship will be on the line. One ring, one title, one very complicated family dynamic — and me, the only one in this equation who doesn’t let emotion get in the way of business.

Anyway, let’s get this back to where it should be.

Amelia Reynolds. The shiny new headline, the so‑called rising star. “The future.” Every few months someone new shows up thinking they’re about to “change the division.” Every generation has its dreamers. Every locker room has its hopefuls. Everyone loves a fresh face — until they meet reality.

SCW’s newest one thinks momentum will carry her somewhere. But reality has a name. Mercedes. Freakin’. Vargas. La reina absoluta.

I’m not a name people mention — I’m the name they measure against. The blueprint. The benchmark. The legend you swear you’ll surpass but never do. So congratulations, mamita. You’re next on the list. Bienvenida al fuego.

I’ve been here longer than most careers last. Every time I walk through that curtain, the crowd doesn’t roar for what’s coming — they roar for who’s here. That’s presence. Mi nombre es ley.

Everyone loves momentum until it hits something immovable — and nothing moves me off my throne. Amelia’s been stacking wins, building confidence, but momentum burns out. Yo soy el incendio que no se apaga.

Some ask if I’m distracted, focusing on Inception while facing Amelia first. No. This isn’t a tune‑up — it’s ritual. When I step into that ring, I remind the world why greatness doesn’t prepare me — greatness prepares for me.

People say it’s risky. Maybe for her. For me? Just another Sunday. Another spotlight built around my rhythm and my legacy. She’s the moment, sure — but the spotlight doesn’t share.

Everyone wants legacy; nobody’s ready to pay for it. I earned mine match after match, year after year. I’ve faced them all — the fast ones, the fearless ones, the desperate ones. They all thought they were ready — until they met me.

Being talented is easy. Being relevant takes work. Being timeless? That’s something else entirely. Across from me, Amelia will feel everything heavier — every strike, every glance, every silence. Because when you stand against history, you carry its weight.

You’ll fight with all you’ve got, Amelia, and I’ll still walk away untouched, unbothered, unstoppable. That’s not ego — that’s math.

Amelia, people love you right now. You’re “the moment.” You’ve got that underdog sparkle, that rookie energy everyone romanticizes. I remember when they said the same about me. The difference?

I didn’t fade when the lights hit me — I became the light. La luz que ciega.

At Climax Control, this isn’t hype or charity. It’s about answering the question everyone’s been whispering: has Mercedes still got it? Nunca lo perdí.

When I enter that ring, I don’t represent nostalgia — I represent endurance. I represent the cost of calling yourself elite and the danger of believing you’ve surpassed me. Because your rise, Amelia, ends where my legacy begins.

That’s the mercy I’ll give you: an education.

Every tweet, every headline, every match result lately has been spelling the same fairytale — “Amelia Reynolds, the future of SCW.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe one day you’ll have that crown waiting for you. But for now? It’s mine. And possession is nine‑tenths of this law.

You’ll understand that when we meet across that ring — when you look at me and realize you’re not fighting for opportunity anymore. You’re fighting to survive the moment.

Pressure doesn’t scare me — it never did. That’s the difference between veterans and visitors. I’ve made a career out of doing what everyone else is too afraid to attempt.

While you’re out there trying to prove you belong, I’ve been proving it for years. While others crumble under expectations, I thrive in them — because this business shaped me in fire.

You want to make a statement, Amelia? Here’s your chance. But remember: when you step into that ring, you’re not the main character — you’re the supporting act.

And at Climax Control, I’ll remind everyone exactly why I am, and always will be, the woman this division owes its reflection to.

The Dynasty is back, the fire’s still burning, and everyone — from Amelia Reynolds to the Zdunich sisters — is about to find out that Mercedes Vargas never needed a comeback... because I was never gone.


EXT. RICARDO'S GARAGE - LOS ANGELES - DAY

[The California sun beats down on the cracked driveway, the light bouncing off chrome and toolboxes, an old box fan hums against the noise, and the smell of oil and asphalt hangs thick.

Mercedes and Ricardo kneel side by side in front of his beat-up SUV, wrestling with a flat tire. A half-cranked jack, scattered wrenches, and sweaty determination set the scene. The heat hums between them, but neither slows down.

Mercedes’s phone buzzes on the hood. A text glows on-screen.
IRMA: “Where r u? Group brunch waiting!”

Ricardo wipes a smear of grease from his hands, grinning.]

RICARDO
Need a knight in rusty armor, champ?

[Mercedes laughs, not looking up.]

MERCEDES
Only if you brought actual tools instead of that ego.

RICARDO
Can’t fix everything with attitude.

MERCEDES
Watch me.

[Mercedes grabs the lug wrench, and cranks it effortlessly.

[Footsteps crunch on the asphalt. Irma rounds the corner, brunch bags in hand, sunglasses slipping down her nose. She takes in the chaos, then exhales the kind of sigh that says she’s seen this a hundred times.]

IRMA
Flat tire? On brunch day? Universe hates us.

[Tomas trails just behind her, juggling coffee cups, already sweating through his shirt.]

TOMAS
Or tests us. Post-tag win karma.

[Mercedes and Ricardo trade a quick, knowing look, both smirking. She slams the spare into place while he steadies the wheel. They move like a seasoned team—precise, rhythmic, efficient.]

MERCEDES
Karma’s not testing me. It’s keeping me sharp. Amelia Reynolds wants momentum? She can try changing this in ninety-five degrees first.

[Ricardo chuckles, giving the wrench one final turn.]

RICARDO
Harper and Cassie couldn't stop you. What makes a tire think it can?

[She wipes her hands on her jeans. The two sit back in silence for a second, staring at their work. The job’s done—the moment lingers. The sun glints off steel and sweat. Irma drops the brunch bags on a workbench with a sigh, then hands Mercedes a coffee, a smirk tugging at her lips.]

IRMA
Brunch is cold now. You owe us migas.

[Mercedes takes the cup, finally cracking a grin.]

MERCEDES
Fine. But remember—perseverance builds appetite.

[Tomas tilts his head toward the decorated houses up the block. The faint sound of distant bells mixes with someone playing holiday music on a front porch radio.]

TOMAS
You know what’s wild? Everybody else is out Christmas shopping right now, and we’re out here fighting a tire.

IRMA
It tracks. This crew doesn’t do rest — even in December.

[Ricardo laughs, flicking his towel over his shoulder.]

RICARDO
Hey, changing a tire’s festive. Look, there’s red and green — blood and grass stains.

[Everyone laughs; the tension breaks into warmth and easy chatter — the kind that only happens when the work’s behind you and the day stretches open.

Tomas’s playlist kicks on, an old blues‑rock cover of a Christmas song grinding its way out of his phone speaker. Mercedes smirks, tossing the wrench into the toolbox. Ricardo whistles along while finishing with the jack.

[The group rallies around the SUV. Tools get tossed in the trunk. Tomas brings the music up loud. Windows roll down. The moment feels earned.

Dust kicks up as they pull out of the driveway, California sunlight painting them gold. Irma grumbling about the heat, Tomas fiddling with the radio, Ricardo at the wheel, Mercedes rides shotgun, arm resting on the open window, wind tugging at her hair.

MERCEDES
From tag wins to tire fights—same energy. Amelia’s next.

RICARDO
You never stop, do you?

MERCEDES
If I did… it wouldn’t be me.

[The camera pans back. Laughter fades into the hum of highway and heat haze.]

**- - - **

EXT. LOS ANGELES – NIGHT

[A wide view of the city burning gold and red under December sky. Strings of Christmas lights trace the outlines of apartment balconies and palm trees. Traffic murmurs below; a siren fades far away.

The camera drifts past a row of modest buildings until it finds Mercedes’s residence, light leaking through sheer curtains. A single strand of holiday bulbs flickers lazily in the window — half lit, stubbornly hanging on.

CUT TO:

INT. MERCEDES’S RESIDENCE – NIGHT

[The hum of a ceiling fan replaces the scrape of wrenches. Outside, faint red and green reflections from passing lights flicker across the walls. Somewhere on the street, muffled carol music drifts through the air before fading into the background hum of Los Angeles night.

A small string of Christmas lights hangs above the window — uneven, one bulb flickering — the only decoration in the place. On the counter, a wrapped gift sits beside a half‑empty water bottle, the tag still blank.

Mercedes sits cross‑legged on the couch, laptop open on the coffee table. Wrestling footage plays across the screen — jump cuts of Amelia Reynolds, fast and fiery under the arena lights. Crowd noise bleeds faintly from the speakers.

Mercedes leans closer, elbows on knees. Sweat from an earlier workout still shines on her skin. She watches without blinking — frame by frame, strike by strike — reading every move like scripture.

On the wall behind her, championship belts hang like silent witnesses. Their plates catch light each time the footage flickers.

The video plays a moment where Amelia hits a high‑risk dive, rolling into the pin. The crowd explodes. Mercedes pauses the clip. The freeze‑frame hangs mid‑air — Amelia’s expression wide, fierce, hungry.

Mercedes studies the image, expression unreadable. Her voice is low, almost contemplative.]

MERCEDES
You’ve got spark, kid. But spark burns out quicker than legacy.

[She rewinds the clip and watches again, slower this time. Every detail is clinical — footwork, positioning, timing. Her focus is surgical.

The vibration of a text breaks the moment. Mercedes glances at her phone: RICARDO: Car’s good. Miguel says see you Sunday.
She types a reply — “Wouldn’t miss it.” — and sets the phone beside the unopened present.

The footage loops again. Mercedes keeps watching; every repetition slower, more surgical. The hum of the residence fades under the crowd roar. In the reflection on the laptop screen, her face looks steeled — older, wiser, still fiercely unbroken.

A knock echoes from the front door. Mercedes glances up briefly, then calls out without pausing the footage.]

MERCEDES
It’s open.

[The door swings inward. Irma steps inside carrying a small takeout bag, fresh from the evening chill—hoodie zipped, cheeks flushed from the walk. She closes the door behind her and takes in the scene.]

IRMA
You still watching tape?

[Mercedes doesn’t look up.]

MERCEDES
Always.

[Irma pads into the room, dropping the takeout bag on the coffee table before plopping onto the arm of the couch.]

IRMA
You ever think about how much time you spend doing this?

MERCEDES
Every minute.

[She hits pause again, the crowd on screen frozen in mid‑cheer.]

MERCEDES
Time’s what says who still matters when the lights go out.

[Irma’s grin fades into quiet respect. She leans back, eyes on the paused frame.]

IRMA
You know she’s studying you too, right? Same thing. Same late nights.

[Mercedes finally looks over, that familiar half‑smile ghosting across her lips.]

MERCEDES
Good. I’d be disappointed if she wasn’t.

[The room hangs still — only the faint whirl of the fan and the muted pulse of the city outside.

[Irma rises, grabbing her bag from the table as she heads for the door. She pauses to tap the wrapped present on the counter.]

IRMA
"Hugo's got us down for the breakfast rush at the Penalty Box tomorrow. Get some sleep.

[Mercedes straightens slightly, gaze fixed on the screen.]

MERCEDES
Sleep’s overrated. Impact isn’t.

[Irma smirks and heads out, shaking her head. The door shuts, leaving Mercedes in the glow of her laptop.

The footage rolls again. Amelia flies off the rope — another highlight. Mercedes hits pause mid‑motion. The light from the screen flashes across her eyes.]

MERCEDES
Let’s see if the future’s ready for history.

[The faint sound of crowd noise swells again until it fills the silence.

Mercedes leans back, crossing her arms as the image plays on. The camera drifts slowly past her — from the laptop, over the scattered notes and half‑empty water bottle, up toward the belts mounted on the wall.

They shimmer under the flickering light, steady, constant reminders of what’s been earned and what’s still to come.]

FADE OUT.


Present Day ♦ B O U L D E R, C O L O R A D O

[REC •]

[The scene opens high above the Flatirons, golden hour light casting long shadows over rugged peaks. Mercedes stands on a scenic overlook trailhead—wind tousling her hair, Boulder’s iconic rock formations framing her like ancient sentinels. She’s dressed sharp: leather jacket over silk blouse, boots planted firm on the rocky path. A portable camera rig captures her against the vast Colorado sky. The red light blinks on.]

“They say every era has its moment—that flash when someone new believes the world belongs to them. Cute theory. But the truth? The world already belongs to me.”

[She shifts slightly, posture perfect—calm, unshaken against the mountain breeze.]

“Let’s be clear before Climax Control: I didn’t fight, bleed, and break ceilings for a seat at somebody else’s table. I built the damn table. And you know something funny about building? People get real comfortable eating off your work. So sometimes, you gotta remind them who laid the bricks.”

[Her smirk fades. She speaks now like confession—raw and certain, eyes scanning the horizon.]

“Because this Sunday, the reset button gets hit again.”

[The wind whistles; silence stretches, just long enough to sting.]

“By me.”

[Mercedes tilts her head toward the camera—inviting, but dangerous. A hawk circles overhead.]

“And Amelia Reynolds?”

[Her eyes flick up to the lens—that subtle, shark’s smile breaking through.]

“You’re the perfect example of what happens when promise collides with permanence.”

[She steps forward, gravel crunching under boots. Runs a hand down her jacket sleeve, fixing a non-existent wrinkle as the sun dips behind Pearl Street views in the distance.]

“Amelia, I’ve been watching you—the highlight reels, the headlines, the social media lovefest. You’ve been stacking wins, collecting praise like Pokémon cards, and everyone’s been whispering about you being the future of the division. The next big thing. The breakout. The buzz.”

“I get it. That’s how the machine works. It builds darlings. It feeds them narrative sugar until they believe in their own premature myth.”

[Beat. Her voice sharpens—steady, not raised, echoing faintly off the rocks.]

“But here’s the dose of reality you didn’t ask for: I don’t do buzz. I end it.”

[She leans toward the camera, elbows on a trail signpost, Boulder’s university spires faint in the valley below.]

“You think you’re ready for this match? You think beating me is your ticket to the big leagues? Sweetheart, my shadow is the big league. My presence is your main event. My name on your match poster is already the greatest exposure of your career.”

[She gives a wry little smile, fully aware the camera’s still rolling, peaks glowing amber behind her.]

“And that’s not arrogance—that’s arithmetic.”

“Everyone keeps asking if I’m nervous. As if preparing for the World Bombshell Championship match at Inception VIII isn’t enough pressure. You know what I tell them? Diamonds don’t flinch.”

[She lets that hang, then continues, gesturing to the unyielding mountains.]

“Pressure built me. It has the nerve to think it’s about to test me again? It should be honored. This match with you, Amelia, isn’t about nerves—it’s about nutrition. Every time I step into the ring, I feed my legacy. I sharpen my edge. So while people see this match as a ‘dangerous tune-up,’ I see it exactly for what it is—another meal. And I’m starving.”

[Her eyes lock straight through it—cold, calm, measured, wind picking up.]

“You think I’m looking past you because Inception is around the corner? Please. Legacy doesn’t get distracted. Legacy expands. When you’ve been at the level I’ve operated at—winning titles, dominating divisions, redefining eras—your focus isn’t split. It multiplies. Every match is sacred. Every opponent, a new signature etched in marble.”

[She stops mid-frame, one hand on her hip—crisp, poised, lethal against the dramatic Boulder backdrop.]

“This Sunday, I’ll remind everyone why Mercedes Vargas is synonymous with glory. I’ll step into that ring, feel the hum of the crowd, and then the whole world will remember what it looks like when the blueprint walks upright.”

[She half-turns back to the lens, trail winding into the distance.]

“People confuse my composure for arrogance. They say I talk too much. They say I’m ‘too comfortable.’ Of course I am comfortable. The throne fits. The crown isn’t borrowed. And when I talk, I’m not just speaking—I’m preaching gospel.”

[The camera tilts slightly as Mercedes moves—not pacing, just shifting, like the lens can barely keep up, Flatirons looming eternal.]

“See, Amelia, history doesn’t need to yell to be heard. It just keeps happening. Over and over. Match after match. Opponent after opponent. Ask anyone who’s ever stood across from me. They came with hope and left with humility. That’s what I do—I turn adrenaline into aftermath.”

[Her tone slides lower, almost tender, sunset painting her face.]

“You want to make a statement? Congratulations, you already have my attention. But understand something, sweetheart: getting my attention comes with a cost. Every woman who thought she’d ‘make her name’ by stepping into my orbit learned that lesson. They said the same things you do—‘I’m hungrier,’ ‘I’m faster,’ ‘I’m different.’ And every single one of them ended up spelling Mercedes with respect after the fact.”

[Beat. She smirks.]

“You might think your story’s just beginning. I get it—you feel unstoppable. You’ve got momentum, you’re on a tear, and it all feels magical. But when the bell rings and you look up at me from the mat, you’ll realize something cosmic: You just became part of my story. And my story doesn’t end—it just adds new trophies.”

“Call it what you want—style, grace, poise. I call it evolution. Every movement I make in that ring? Measured. Every glare? Calculated. Every hold I lock in? Designed to remind you that gods don’t need miracles; they are the miracle.”

“I don’t rush. I don’t chase. I don’t need to. People come to me—titles, challengers, opportunity—because gravity itself can’t ignore gold. And sweetheart, I didn’t come this far to start slipping now. Inception VIII is calling, history is whispering my name, and the Bombshell division still bends around my gravity. You? You’re just about to learn what it feels like to orbit something you can’t outshine.”

[The camera creeps closer—the glow sharpens around her face, mountains eternal behind.]

“At Climax Control, the lights will dim. You’ll feel the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs. The bell will ring. And then, for the first time in your career, you’ll know what inevitable feels like.”

“I’ll toy with you—gracefully, beautifully—because dominance, when delivered properly, isn’t brutality. It’s art. And when the camera catches me smiling after it’s all over, know this—that wasn’t cruelty. That was mercy.”

“Because if I wanted to make an example, you wouldn’t walk out. I’d rewrite your highlight reel in real time—one broken dream at a time.”

[She exhales again. The fire fades—leaving only conviction. That stillness that comes when someone knows they don’t need to yell to be dangerous, Boulder’s peaks standing sentinel.]

“After Climax Control, my focus shifts to Inception VIII—the first-ever tag team match for the World Bombshell Championship. History. Stakes. Prestige. The kind of event that happens when I’m involved. But Amelia, don’t think for a second you’ll be forgotten. You’ll be the cautionary tale—the clip they show to every bright-eyed Bombshell who thinks a few wins equal immortality.”

“Because every generation needs to learn the same lesson the hard way:”

[She stares directly into the lens for the final line, wind fading to hush.]

“There’s only one throne. And it’s already taken. See you Sunday, Amelia.”

[A tiny smirk breaks her stillness as the sun dips fully.]

“Dress nice. Legends deserve good lighting.”

[FADE OUT as camera pulls back over the darkening Flatirons.]