Almighty Fire
Semana del 2 al 9 de noviembre de 2025

Victoria Lyons… you really do love the sound of your own voice, huh? Mamita, I gotta be honest—there’s something almost tragic about how convinced you are that the world revolves around you.

Look, usually I don’t play this game. The same theatrics thrown right back at you? Not my style. But since you’re so sure you’re the center of gravity around here, I owe it to the division—and to truth—to remind you something basic: the world doesn’t stop spinning because you decided to make it all about you. It doesn’t care about your ego. It spins with or without your permission.

You talk about kindness not being rewarded. How fairness is some kind of fairy tale. Like you just figured that out. Newsflash, cariño, I’ve been surviving storms you barely whisper about. You call it instinct—I call it experience. Years of it.

Yes, I’ve lost this championship before. More than once. And every time, someone just like you thought that made me weak, or finished, or replaceable. Funny how I’m still standing here with gold over my shoulder while so many of them—women who promised to end me, redefine divisions, or rewrite legacies are nothing but fading echoes in the archives. Memories you can’t rewrite.

You’re proud of making yourself impossible to ignore. Sure, I’ll give you that. That’s adorable. Some people do that with skill. You do it with noise.

That whole speech of yours, about how champions adapt? You almost had a point… right up until you turned it into self-help therapy. You talk about Harper’s tantrums, about consistency, about how everyone falls short of your expectations. You sounded less like a predator and more like a philosophy major who’s just discovered empowerment quotes on Pinterest. Congratulations, querida. Welcome to ambition, girl. The rest of us have been here for years.

Let’s unpack your little fairy tale, shall we?

You say I’ve been playing hot potato with this championship. That I can’t hold onto it. Well, Victoria, the only reason I lose this title is because people like you never stop trying to take it. And the reason I always win it back? Because unlike you, I don’t need to claw for validation. My legacy is not a phase. Consistency. Credibility. History. And none of that just disappears because you showed up late, demanding to be noticed.

When I lose, I rebuild. When I win, I sustain. There’s a world of difference between losing a title and letting that loss define you. You wouldn’t get that, of course. You see every setback like a personal betrayal, not a stepping stone. Which is why every time life hands you a lesson, you turn it into a sob story about victimhood disguised as dominance.

You’ve compared yourself to a lion. Interesting choice. Lions are majestic creatures, yes. But you seem to forget—they spend most of their day sleeping. They make the kill, take a nap, and wait for the next easy moment. It's instinct, not commitment. It’s hunger, not discipline. You call that power, I call it convenience.

You talk about Harper lacking discipline, about me losing my edge. But here’s the unspoken truth, Victoria. Everyone you called out—myself, Harper, every woman you’ve stepped on—we’ve bled more, done more, proved more than you ever will. You parade around like the hunter, yet you haven’t realized the game you’re hunting in doesn’t need a new predator. It needs someone who can survive.

You said I need this championship to stay relevant. That the title makes me who I am. That’s cute, really. But you’re wrong. The difference between us is this—when I lose this championship, I’m still Mercedes Vargas. You? Without the chase, without the spotlight, without someone to fight, who exactly are you? Who is Victoria Lyons when she’s not snarling for attention?

You’re right about one thing though. You are the reason people are talking. Every division needs a spark, and you’ve played your part beautifully. You’ve stirred the water. But a spark burns out. Ashes never hold interest for long.

You called me stagnant. Predictable. Familiar. You’d be amazed what power familiarity holds. Predictability is built on mastery, Victoria. It means when I walk down that ramp, every woman knows exactly what kind of trouble is about to break loose. They brace for it. They anticipate it. They try to prepare for it. And that, darling, is control. True control doesn’t come from surprise—it comes from inevitability.

You talk about inevitability as if you invented it. But the truth is, you’ve still got something to prove. I’ve already done everything you’re trying to do. When you talk about building empires, I live in the house you’re still blueprinting.

There’s a reason I’ve lasted this long, why my name matters whether I’m holding a title or not. It’s because every time a new face comes along announcing change, I outlast them. Every single time. They call themselves storms, revolutions, movements. And I stand here long after the dust settles—steady, unshaken, intact. That’s not routine. That’s endurance.

You want to redefine this championship? Be my guest. But first you better understand what it means. And that’s where you fail. You mistake aggression for evolution. You think being louder, brasher, more ruthless makes you the face of progress. But progress without direction is chaos. And chaos burns itself out faster than anything else.

You accuse me of relying on my past, but nostalgia isn’t my crutch—it’s my weapon. My resume speaks for itself. Yours is still under construction.

Harper Mason, at least, owns her growth. She’s naive, but she’s real. You? You wear confidence like a disguise because underneath it, you’re still auditioning for approval. That’s why you talk so much about what people should see in you. You scream for validation while claiming you don’t need it. That contradiction gives you away, darling. You’re not the storm. You’re the echo.

You say fairness doesn’t exist. Fine. Fairness never mattered to me. Reputation does. Mine was built on years of consistency, not weeks of opportunism. You call that playing it safe. I call it knowing my worth.

You say I hold this title like an heirloom. Probably true. Heirlooms last. They carry story. Legacy. Bigger than ego or moment. I earned this metal. And I’ll keep earning it until no one can take it from me, not even you.

Go ahead, call it arrogance. Clip this promo, say Mercedes clings to her glory days. Go ahead. Proof doesn’t lie, and neither do record books. Because on Sunday, I will be writing it one more time when I become the winningest Bombshell in SCW history and on PPV.

You say I’ve lost touch with the top. But the ‘top’ isn’t a seat—it’s a pulse. It moves through you, evolves with you, if you know how to feel it. I haven’t lost mine. You just haven’t found yours yet.

Your problem, Victoria, is that you believe winning this match will change everything. That somehow, defeating me will fill whatever space you’ve been running from all your life. It won’t. You’ll win—and then you’ll wake up the next morning and realize the silence doesn’t go away. The noise you hide behind will fade. And then you’ll need a new enemy to blame for the emptiness that never left.

I know that feeling. That hunger. That obsession to prove something that nobody asked you to prove. I used to live there. But I grew out of it. Someday you will too, when the mirror starts talking back and the reflection looks tired of roaring.

You think you’re unpredictable. I think you’re inevitable in the worst way—because I’ve seen you before. A hundred times. Different names, same mentality. And each one eventually ends the same way: underneath the weight of their own hype.

You call yourself the self-proclaimed predator of the division. You roar loud enough, but all I see is someone trying too hard to prove she’s not afraid. You can snarl, you can claw, you can bare your teeth, but when I hit that ring, you’re just another name waiting to be checked off my list.

And Harper Mason—don’t think I’ve forgotten about her in all this. She talks like she’s the future, but the future doesn’t look shaky, uncertain, and in need of validation every time it grabs a microphone. Let me make this real simple, Harper. You call yourself ambitious, but ambition without execution is just a wish.

Harper, you walk around like you’ve already arrived. But standing next to me just exposes how far you still have to go. You don’t intimidate me; you irritate me. Every word out of your mouth sounds like someone desperate to be noticed—by me, by the crowd, by anyone really willing to care.

I don’t have time for the insecure or the unproven. I built my reputation on consistency, on class, on results. I don’t need to shout my worth because it’s already documented in every title I’ve won and every opponent I’ve left wondering what just happened.

So when that bell rings, understand this isn’t a fair fight—it’s a reminder. I’m Mercedes Vargas. You don’t out-talk me, you don’t out-fight me, and you damn sure don’t outlast me.

At High Stakes, when you see me across that ring, you’ll understand why my name can’t be erased. It’s not luck. It’s not nostalgia. It’s substance. Something you can’t imitate.

Be ready.

Because I know I will be.


[Outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. Late morning. The sun burns white over distant mountains. A lone saguaro stands by a faded blue sedan outside a thrift store called Desert Treasures.Mercedes stands beside her car, squinting at a large cactus blocking her driver’s door. The sun hums overhead. Her iced latte sweats like a sinner in church. A vulture traces a lazy circle in the sky. Heat shimmered faintly across the distant pale hills.]

MERCEDES:
(to the cactus) You had the whole desert, and you parked next to me. Typical.

[She kicks a pebble. It ricochets, hits the cactus. Nothing moves, except her pride. She tries to shift around the cactus. Fails.]

MERCEDES:
(continuing) Of course. The one bit of shade in fifty miles, and I park under it.

[She circles the cactus, despair edging into disbelief. A gruff voice ends the silence.]

COWBOY HAT GUY (O.S.):
You hit that thing, you’ll owe the state a fine. More than you paid for that car, I’d bet.

[Mercedes turns to find a man leaning against a weathered fence, eyes like blue steel under the brim of his hat.]

MERCEDES:
Who enforces plant law out here?

COWBOY HAT GUY:
Out here, we all do.

MERCEDES:
Oh, great. Now I have an audience. Perfect. Tucson’s got heatstroke and hecklers.

COWBOY HAT GUY:
That cactus was here before you. Likely be here after.

MERCEDES:
Thanks for the history lesson, ranger. You gonna help, or just narrate my suffering?

COWBOY HAT GUY:
Depends which one’s worth watching.

[She gives up, grabs her keys, and heads toward the thrift store.]

INT. DESERT TREASURES – MIDDAY

[Inside, the air conditioning hums. The thrift store smells of sun-baked leather and old perfume. Mercedes wanders the aisles, trailing her fingers along dusty clothes. Her reflection wavers in a mirror next to a sign: NO RETURNS. NO REGRETS. She exhales like she’s been rescued from purgatory.]

CASHIER:
Morning. Everything marked down twenty percent. Except the mood in here—that stays the same.

MERCEDES:
Good. I was hoping for some emotional consistency.

[An Elderly Woman in line turns, holding a ceramic frog.]

ELDERLY WOMAN:
You’ve got good aura, sweetie. But those shoes—wrong color for the desert.

[Mercedes glances at her, uneasy but intrigued.]

MERCEDES:
Duly noted. I’ll consult the gods of footwear later.

[At the counter, the Cashier taps the register, unimpressed.]

CASHIER:
Reader’s dead. Desert doesn’t like technology. Cash only.

MERCEDES:
Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? I barely got cell service. Fine. What’s the frog cost, symbolically speaking?

[She rummages through her purse. A note, a photo, and a broken keychain tumble out. She freezes for half a second before stuffing them back and dropping a few wrinkled bills. The frog stays on the counter.]

MERCEDES:
On second thought, keep it. I think fate’s giving me a discount today.

[The Elderly Woman chuckles softly. The Cashier shrugs, as if this happens every other hour.]

EXT. OUTSIDE DESERT TREASURES – LATE AFTERNOON

[Back outside. The sunlight seems thicker now. The air hums with hidden insects. Mercedes pauses beside her car—the cactus hasn’t moved. Mercedes stares it down, sips what remains of her latte, now little more than melted ice.]

MERCEDES:
Round two tomorrow, big guy. I’ll bring pruning shears.

COWBOY HAT GUY:
You think that plant cares?

MERCEDES:
Doesn’t have to. I do.

COWBOY HAT GUY:
You from the city?

MERCEDES:
That obvious?

COWBOY HAT GUY:
Yeah. You stand like somebody who expects the ground to give. Out here, it never does.

MERCEDES:
Then it and I already have something in common.

[Mercedes walks toward a ridgeline behind the store. Golden light burns the scrub brush and horizon. She spots distant cattle, a ranch fence half-broken and forgotten. She kneels, runs her hand over dry soil. It crumbles between her fingers.]

MERCEDES:
This place could use a little trouble.

[The Cowboy Hat Guy leans on a fence post, arms folded.]

COWBOY HAT GUY:
Every newcomer thinks they’re bringing something new. But this land’s already chosen what it wants to keep.

[He studies her a long moment, somewhere between warning and respect.]

COWBOY HAT GUY:
That’s what the last one said, too.

[He tips his hat, studies her expression.]

COWBOY HAT GUY:
Welcome to the desert, ma’am. It always gets the first win.

[Mercedes stands in the hard light, gaze flicking between the cactus, the store, and the open horizon. She tosses what remains of her melted latte into the sand.]

MERCEDES:
We’ll see about the next one.

[Mercedes smirks, tosses what’s left of her melted coffee into the sand. The wind carries her silence toward the horizon. The cactus stands unbothered.]

[END]


Present Day ♦ T U C S O N • A R I Z O N A

[REC•]

[Sunset spills magenta gold across the Tucson sky, drawing out the shadows along Arizona Avenue. The iconic "Greetings from Tucson" mural glows, every letter painted with slices of the city's spirit: cacti, mountains, faded neon. Mercedes Vargas stands beneath it with the Bombshell Internet Championship slung confidently over her shoulder. A stray breeze stirs the air—a crowd lingers, some snapping selfies, others observing the quiet storm Mercedes carries.

She waits until the last fan drifts away, then turns, catching the faint light with a wry half-smile. Her presence alone hushes the street.]

"You know, Victoria, only in Tucson could someone mistake being loud for being legendary. Lucky for you, this city’s got a mural big enough to fit all your aspirations. It’s poetic, really—a skyline made for people desperate to be seen. Maybe a little less would say more. But I suppose that lesson comes with time."

[Mercedes keeps her tone low, measured. She traces a palm along the mural’s painted saguaro, her eyes calm, her words cutting without effort.]

"It's flattering, really. All those speeches, all that roaring—painting yourself as predator, disruptor, the main event. It’s cute. It’s energetic. Online, the noise gets attention. But in championship circles, we care about results, not reactions. You say you made yourself the headline. Try doing it without screaming for attention."

[The background hum of Fourth Avenue fades to silence. The gold in the sky catches the nameplate of her title, flashing against her shoulder.]

"You made yourself impossible to ignore. That took work. I respect that. But, unlike the you, I didn’t need to shout. I just showed up, again and again. The match didn’t change for me. I changed the match. That’s what permanence looks like. The greatest champions don’t just seize opportunity. They create history. You want that role so badly you echo from A Mountain to barrio walls, but echoes—like hashtags—fade quickly. It’s the real thing that lasts."

[Mercedes glances briefly at her championship belt, her thumb brushing the engraved nameplate. Light from passing traffic flashes off the gold—a reminder of earned prestige, not just boastful momentum.]

"Funny thing about reflections—they don’t show hype. They show history. You say I need this championship to matter. I’ve won it, lost it, won it again. And guess what? I’m still here. Because the belt doesn’t define me—I define the division."

[She shifts her stance, leaning back against the wall as a small group of college kids wander past. Their laughter drifts away; Mercedes doesn’t notice. She’s more focused, calculating, inwardly amused. Every word measured, every subtle dig deliberate.]

"As for Harper and her tantrums? I don’t miss the sound. I’ve heard enough tantrums to last a lifetime. But coming from you, that’s comedy. You call out everyone else for being inconsistent while turning every interview into a one-woman therapy session about why the world hasn’t caught up to you. Take it from someone who’s outlasted the paint on these walls—discipline isn’t branding. If you really believe that I’m just another page in a book you’re closing, be prepared for a plot twist."

[[Wind lifts her hair briefly; she smooths it back as the light deepens.]

"You call consistency boring. But every mural needs a wall before it finds color. I’m that wall—the one still standing when the paint starts to peel. Longevity is what keeps the art from peeling when the sun gets too hot. It’s what makes Tucson, well, Tucson—and makes Mercedes Vargas, Mercedes Vargas. Anyone can be the spark, but only a few can be the foundation."

[Mercedes steps deliberately aside, her profile set against the backdrop’s giant Saguaro bloom—a visual echo of endurance and quiet strength.]

"You want to be the constant? Prove it. Being constant means you keep showing up even when people stop clapping, keep winning when no one is watching. It’s not about noise, it’s about credibility. And when the championship finds itself looking for someone to keep its name clean, it doesn’t call the loudest—it calls the best."

[She waits while a tourist lines up for a phone photo—Mercedes politely steps out of frame, then resumes, as if pacing the rhythm of her words to the hum of Tucson nightlife.]

"Here’s some friendly advice: Don’t confuse momentary attention with lasting impact. The difference between a viral shot and a classic is that the classic is still here, day after day, year after year, when the Instagram trends have come and gone."

[Mercedes tilts her head back with a smile, letting the last slant of sunlight warm her face. Her championship belt glitters, a silent promise backed by years of results.]

"But I want to switch gears for a moment—because as much as you, Victoria, waste breath trying to redefine what dominance means, Harper Mason is out here trying to remember what it even feels like to matter."

[She exhales softly, half amused.]

"Harper Mason, the self-proclaimed future, the next big thing. I’ve watched your interviews, your little social media bursts of faux confidence. It’s almost charming, how hard you try to sound like you’ve got it figured out. But here’s the truth, Harper—you don’t even know which version of yourself you want to be yet. You talk about ambition, about hunger, but you’re still waiting for someone else to validate your place at the table. You stand there talking about what’s next while tripping over what’s now."

[She glances at her championship, the metal reflecting the sunset’s last gold glow.]

"I hear you calling me outdated, predictable, the past holding onto relevance. Cute. But while you’re out here trying to build a blueprint for your legacy, I’ve been the architect of mine for years. You want to be the measuring stick someday? Good luck. I already am the scale they weigh you against. Every time you pick up a mic, every time you step into a ring with me, you’re being measured. And that, Harper, is what you still haven’t understood—you can’t out-talk experience, and you can’t outshine consistency."

"So let Victoria have her revenge, let you have your spotlight. Because history in Tucson isn’t written by whoever yells the loudest—it’s written by whoever endures."

[She glances up, lets the gold-hour light catch a knowing smile.]

"And just like this mural, my name—my legacy—won’t wash away when the sun sets. It stays. Always has."

[Her eyes find the lens again, carrying the weight of everything she’s just said.]

"Victoria, Harper—prepare for the worst, hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[With a final glance toward the mural, she steadies the championship on her shoulder and steps into the fading heat of the Tucson evening.]

[***Fade***]