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Climax Control Archives / ENDEAVOR LXVIII
« Last post by Mercedes Vargas on July 28, 2025, 11:29:46 PM »CRUISE TERMINAL - PORT OF LOS ANGELES— WORLD CRUISE CENTER (SAN PEDRO)
[The bustling port fades behind as Mercedes Vargas strides toward her black SUV, her suitcase rolling briskly behind her. She doesn’t spare a glance for the other passengers—her posture radiates icy focus. Luggage is tossed in the trunk with a practiced slam; she slides into the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, expression set.]
INT. MERCEDES’ SUV – MOMENTS LATER
[Mercedes powers up the engine, tapping her phone to clear the last notification—a missed call from Crystal Caldwell. She puts Crystal on speaker as she starts the engine. The ambient noise of the port hushed by the car’s thick glass.
CRYSTAL
So, are you on your way back yet?
MERCEDES:
Yeah, a few hours out. Not exactly rushing home.
CRYSTAL
I can tell.
[Mercedes exhales, eyes fixed on the road ahead.]
MERCEDES
I’m driving. You want something or just checking if I’m still alive?
CRYSTAL
You sound thrilled. Should I even ask how your night went?
[Mercedes rolls her eyes, lips pressed into a flat line, and pulls into the slow-moving traffic toward the exit.
Tight and quietly seething, she barely contains her anger as she levels her next words.]
MERCEDES
Spare me the sarcasm, Crystal. You saw what happened. Summer XXXTreme—what a joke.
[Crystal’s image on the phone is poised, blazer crisp. She leans back in her chair, dismissively straightening a lapel, then fiddles with a pen.]
CRYSTAL
Want to talk about it? Or do we just pretend it never happened, like most people you leave in your wake?
[Mercedes’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as the line of cars in front of her inches forward. Her voice is cold and unwavering.]
MERCEDES
What’s there to say? Dropped the title. The one thing I said I wouldn’t let happen.
[She changes lanes, eyes flickering between the road and her own reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly, a horn blares from the next lane—a delivery van swerves close, forcing Mercedes to brake sharply. Her jaw clenches, grip tightening on the wheel. In that blink, her anger is as much for the world outside as for herself.
Mercedes shouts out her window, her voice crisp and cutting.]
MERCEDES
For fuck’s sake—learn to drive, asshole!
[After her furious outburst, Mercedes regains control with practiced precision. She steadies her grip, checks her mirrors, and takes a long breath—forcing herself to focus beyond the surge of anger.
In one smooth, businesslike motion, she signals, merges safely back into her lane, and accelerates to match the flow of traffic. Her posture remains rigid and alert, but her attention is now firmly back on the road and the task ahead.]
CRYSTAL
Everyone has bad nights, but one match doesn’t define your reign.
MERCEDES
I had an off night. That’s it. I’m not about to start groveling for sympathy.
[Crystal tilts her head, her tone a calculated sting.]
CRYSTAL
Not asking you to. You know the business—people forget fast. You’re only as good as your last match. Right now, they’re all watching to see if you choke again.
[Mercedes grits her teeth, shoulders hunched as she pulls up to the checkpoint.]
MERCEDES
It shouldn’t have happened, Crystal. Not like that. I was off my game, and it cost me everything. One slip, and the knives come out.
[Crystal’s eyes narrow, voice dropping to a razor edge.
The security guard checks her tag, waves her through. She merges onto open road, speed ticking up, city skyline on the horizon.]
MERCEDES
Maybe. But I set a standard. I expect more from myself. If I look vulnerable, people start lining up to write me off.
CRYSTAL
Let them. You built that division. Losing one match doesn’t change that.
[Mercedes’s grip loosens. Her voice steadies.]
MERCEDES
Still stings. Next cycle better be different. I’m not about to fade into the background.
CRYSTAL
And you won’t. Use it. Remind them what happens when Mercedes Vargas has something to prove.
MERCEDES
That’s the plan. I’m coming back stronger, with or without gold around my waist. Don’t worry about me, Crystal. I set the bar in that division. No one’s taking my spot for long.
[With a quick swipe, Crystal ends the call. The road ahead unfurls, the weekend—and weakness—shrinking in the rearview. Mercedes stares past her own reflection in the windshield, eyes burning with resolve as the city pulls her home.]
Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 27 de julio al 3 de agosto de 2025
Let’s get into it.
I've had a great time aboard the Sun Princess. You know what I’ve learned in the last two weeks since the cruise?
Luck’s a liar.
It doesn’t crown champions. It just drags people far enough to make a stumble look like a triumph.
People think winning means you're the best. That gold around your waist says you’ve got it all figured out. But sometimes? It just says you were there when it fell. You didn’t climb higher. You just didn’t fall first.
Since Summer XXXTreme, everyone’s been spinning their own version of truth. But let’s be honest: that Ultimate X over the pool match wasn’t about skill. Wasn’t about heart. Wasn’t about who was the smartest, fastest, strongest. It was chaos. It was survival.
Lilith didn’t outperform me. She outlasted Bella Madison. Lilith didn’t beat me. She ducked long enough to get lucky.
Una gran diferencia. There’s a difference.
Bella Madison? Bella got taken out early—that was me. That was me reminding Little Miss Belle of the Brawl that shortcuts in this business usually lead to dead ends. No ladder, no wire, no gimmick lives long enough to cover for poor judgment—or timing. She gambled, and crashed. Duramente.
She tried something cute, something quick. And I said: "Ojo por ojo, Bella." I made sure her goodbye was quicker.
Because when you crash into it unprepared, you don’t claim victory. You get swallowed by it.
Just like she did.
Some folks backstage act like I’m bitter. Like I can’t handle a loss. Not the case. Been in this business long enough to know not every fight goes your way. But some losses don’t start the story—they just sharpen the edge. Now before anyone starts with the fairytales, this isn’t bitterness. This isn’t sour grapes. There’s this idea running around backstage. That maybe I’ve peaked. That Lilith is the new face. That she outmaneuvered me and it’s her time now. Funny how people only say those things when I don’t have gold in my hands for fifteen minutes.
It was gravity—and dumb luck. Two things that have never filled a trophy case.
Lilith didn’t snatch that championship from me. La oportunidad cayó en su regazo. She happened to be closest when the opportunity fell into her lap. And now, two weeks later, the spotlight that once felt warm is starting to overexpose every crack. The title that looked good over her shoulder starts to feel heavier by the day. The countdown didn’t start when I lost—it started the moment she walked backstage with my belt.
Because Sunday? Lilith has to defend that title… not climb toward it. She's walking in with everything to lose and nothing left to surprise anybody with.
And here I come—cold, calculated, focused.
Sin distracciones.
Sans excuses.
No pool. No structure. No circus act draping over the ring. No obscure stipulations allowing for flukes or fluked title changes.
No accidents.
No hiding.
Sin espacio para el error.
Just her. Just me. No accidents. No room to hide.
Just two people, two truths, and one title.
That Bombshell Internet title belongs to someone who knows how to manage it. She's holding it now—and I hope she took pictures. This Sunday, I erase the moment Lilith tried to blot my dominance with her name.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks that she's fumbled through her first interviews, shivered under the weight of a belt that never belonged to her. Two weeks that people kept trying to spin the narrative—waiting for her to prove she's more than a name on a results sheet.
Lilith carried that title backstage like she belonged, but even then, I saw the panic under the eyeshadow. And now? The weight’s settling in. The interviews stumble. The conviction weakens. The presence? Delicate at best and disappearing at worst. Two weeks in, and she's still trying to convince even herself that she’s worthy of the moment.
Meanwhile, I’ve said nothing. But silence doesn’t mean absence.
I’ve spent the last two weeks watching the noise grow around her. Social media pushing narratives. Pundits hoping for something fresh. Fans looking to latch onto an underdog story. All of it feels good—until it meets resistance.
Which brings us to Sunday.
Because now, Lilith has to do something far harder than climbing a structure and hoping for a break. She has to walk in as champion—with something to lose. She has no misdirection to hide behind. No chaos to slip through. No wild stipulations to lean on.
This Sunday isn't just about reclaiming a title. It’s about reminding this division what happens when somebody treats this sport like a lottery instead of a war.
They’ll talk about our match like it’s a rematch. I’m not showing up to correct the record. The record always plays back one truth.
I am who I said I am.
And when that final bell rings...
There will be no doubt.
No debate.
Just me—
and the title I never lost.
And when we get in that ring—with no ladders, no cables, no opportunity for luck to play ref—Lilith is going to learn that this title? It's not for shock moments or summer highlights.
I’ll walk into Climax Control 431 with nothing.
I’ll walk out holding what’s already mine.
And maybe Lilith will still be standing when it’s over. But she'll be standing on the other side again—trying to explain how she fell from a climb she was never ready to make.
"Okay, who took my lunch from the fridge? Fess up or face my wrath."
[Mercedes stands in the break room, hands on hips. Ricardo leans back in a folding chair, nonchalant but a little guilty, innocently wipes salsa from his mouth. Irma pretends to check the microwave. Hugo quietly burps. Tomas tries to sneak out but trips over a chair.]
RICARDO
I have an alibi—I was…uh…taste-testing office snacks for quality control?
[Ricardo holds up a suspiciously empty Tupperware, grinning sheepishly.]
IRMA
Wasn’t me! I’m strictly gluten-free since last Tuesday.
[Irma flashes a sticky note with ‘Gluten-Free Rulez’ written in glitter pen.]
HUGO
If we solve this mystery, do we get pizza?
[Hugo raises a tired hand, his gaze openly challenging Mercedes to say no. She glares at him.]
TOMAS
Can we get pizza anyway?
[Tomas rubs his sore knee, pouting. Nobody is in a hurry to mention his clumsiness at the restaurant. Everyone stares at Mercedes, who sighs.]
MERCEDES
Fine. Whoever confesses buys lunch for everyone. But next time, label your food—or else!
[The group throws up half-hearted cheers, each angling to avoid responsibility. Ricardo tucks the evidence behind a plant.
[The crew convenes around a rickety table, debating pizza toppings while counting wrinkled bills and sweat-soaked dollar bills. Irma scrolls through her phone, looking at pizza options. Hugo eyes the snack cabinet. Tomas sits on the counter, swinging his legs.]
IRMA
Pineapple on pizza—yay or nay? Group vote.
RICARDO
Extra pineapple.
[Ricardo raises his hand, two fingers sticky with salsa.]
HUGO
If we’re voting, I demand stuffed crust be on the ballot. Otherwise, I’m walking out.
MERCEDES
We are not turning this into a filibuster.
[Mercedes starts a poll on her phone. Tomas tries to peek at her screen.]
TOMAS
Anchovies or nothing.
[The room falls silent. Everyone turns to stare in horror at Tomas.]
IRMA
You’re on thin ice, Tomas.
[Hugo pulls a face. Mercedes sighs, holding up her phone.]
MERCEDES
Majority rules. Pineapple wins. Anchovies take a seat. But you can put pineapple on half. Now can we focus?—
[She spots Ricardo trying to steal another snack. He freezes mid-swipe.]
MERCEDES
—Ricardo, hands where I can see them!
[Laughter, almost, as Ricardo drops the snack bag. Mercedes snatches the bag from the ground.]
MERCEDES
If you touch that snack bag, you’re on mop duty, mister.
[Everyone crowds around Irma’s phone as she finalizes the pizza order. Hugo digs through the freezer in search of forgotten treats. Ricardo quietly closes the snack cabinet with his foot.]
IRMA
Okay, estimated delivery: thirty minutes. Anybody want to place bets on whether it’ll actually arrive hot?
RICARDO
Who delivers pizza with a drone these days? I want to see that in action.
[He peers out the window as if expecting to spot a drone on the horizon.]
HUGO
If it is a drone, I’m challenging it to an arm-wrestling contest.
[Hugo flexes, nearly knocking over a pile of cardboard coffee trays.]
TOMAS
If the pizza flies, I’ll eat Irma’s powerbars for a week. And I still don’t believe she’s gluten-free.
[Irma swats at Tomas with a napkin. Mercedes rolls her eyes, sipping from her coffee mug.]
MERCEDES
Let’s just hope this goes smoothly and nobody steals anyone else’s food this time—
[Suddenly, Ricardo’s phone buzzes. He peers at it and turns pale.]
RICARDO
Uh...guys, I may have sent the order to my old apartment.
[The group groans. Mercedes groans the loudest. Hugo just shrugs.]
HUGO
Guess we’re hitting taco night at the gas station. Again.
[Laughter fills the room as Irma starts dialing the pizza place in a last attempt to rescue their dinner.]
[Irma paces with her phone pressed to her ear, explaining the pizza mix-up to the confused employee. Ricardo hovers anxiously nearby. Meanwhile, Hugo attempts to juggle oranges for entertainment. Tomas rummages through the cabinets for emergency snacks.]
IRMA (ON PHONE):
No, it’s the community center, near the ring. Not the trailer park by the dump. I definitely meant this office. Not a fourth-floor walkup with a mysterious cat. Just...send carbs, please.
[She glares at Ricardo, who shrugs, beaten.]
MERCEDES
Well, at least someone in your old building is about to have a very good night.
HUGO
Unless the cat eats anchovies. Then we’re still safe.
[Tomas discovers a nearly empty bag of chips and holds it up triumphantly.]
TOMAS
Look, guys—dinner is served! Five chips, two crumbs, and one questionable pretzel.
[The group groans and collapses onto the couches as Irma finally hangs up.]
IRMA
New order’s coming. There’s a discount for "emotional distress." Thanks, Ricardo.
[Mercedes beams, Ricardo claps in mock applause, and Hugo starts a countdown timer on his phone—just as Tomas sneakily pockets the last chip.]
[The group slouches on the couches, stomachs growling. Hugo glances nervously at the clock while Ricardo’s eyes dart to the plant still hiding the evidence of Mercedes’ missing lunch.]
HUGO
How much longer? I’m at Stage Two Hunger—Stage Three’s just me chewing on napkins.
[Tomas dangles the pretzel above his mouth theatrically, then fumbles and it bounces under the fridge.]
TOMAS
That was our last hope. A moment of silence, please.
[Everyone bows their heads with exaggerated solemnity. Irma’s phone vibrates and she jumps up.]
IRMA
It’s the pizza driver! He’s...lost in the parking lot?
MERCEDES
Guide him to the light, Irma. If he brings garlic knots, I’ll give him my autograph.
[Irma rushes out, phone to her ear. Hugo perks up, hope restored. Ricardo stealthily checks behind the plant again.]
RICARDO
If I add a few carrot sticks, it’s practically salad...
[Mercedes catches him red-handed, snaps her fingers, and gestures for Ricardo to sit. Stricken, he sits obediently as Irma returns triumphantly, carrying pizza boxes.]
IRMA
Salvation has arrived!
[The group cheers, Hugo grabs plates, and Tomas volunteers to supervise the pizza-to-plate transfer—just to make sure no pieces mysteriously disappear.]
MERCEDES
Next team-building exercise—pizza delivery obstacle course. Participation is mandatory.
[Laughter fills the break room as everyone digs in, finally united (and fed) at last.]
[The group is still finishing off the pizza, crumbs and crusts scattered like confetti. Mercedes stares into the distance, chewing thoughtfully, eyebrow raised.]
RICARDO
Uh-oh. That look means she’s either planning world domination... or about to sign us up for salsa dancing again.
HUGO
I vote salsa. At least I get to wear my shiny shoes.
IRMA
She’s definitely cooking up something. Spill it, Mercedes.
MERCEDES (grinning dramatically)
Oh, nothing major... just that I’ll be in Vegas next weekend.
TOMAS
What? You’re abandoning us for slot machines and suspicious buffet shrimp?
MERCEDES
Please. I’m heading to the Party Hard Tour — Sin City Wrestling. Neon lights, loud music, body slams, you know… my kind of crowd.
HUGO (mouth full)
Wait, that’s an actual thing? I thought “Party Hard Tour” was just what Tomas called his bedtime playlist.
TOMAS
Hey. My Spotify knows how to rage responsibly between 9 and 9:30 PM.
IRMA
So, you’re going to watch people throw each other into tables while wearing sequins?
MERCEDES
Yes. And I might throw someone into a table myself if they don’t label their lunch.
RICARDO (nervously pats his stomach)
Noted.
HUGO
Can we come? I’ll wear a cape. Tomas can be your tag team hype man.
TOMAS
I demand pyrotechnics. And a fog machine. Preferably mango-scented.
IRMA
Record everything. Especially if someone tries to suplex a referee into a taco cart.
MERCEDES (raising her soda like a championship belt)
Vegas won’t know what hit it. Sin City’s about to meet its new MVP.
RICARDO
MVP as in… "Most Vengeful over Pizza"?
MERCEDES (deadpan)
Exactly.
[END]
Present Day ♦ S E V I L L A - E S P A Ñ A — Antiguo Estudio de Flamenco (Old Flamenco Studio)
[REC•]
[Three stories above the plaza. An old studio loft overlooking a lively Andalusian square. Sunset bleeding gold over terracotta rooftops. Flamenco guitar faint below. Laughter hums from the streets. Mercedes stands on a narrow wrought-iron balcony, glove in hand.
She speaks—flat, focused, unforced.]
“You hear that?”
[She doesn’t need silence to make the moment hers. The street stays alive: laughter, plates clinking, heels on stone. But she speaks like the air’s gone still.]
"There’s a thing that happens when you’re in this longer than most. You stop looking for the cheers. You don’t need fifteen thousand people screaming your name, or holding a sign with some misspelled version of it. Doesn’t matter. That type of noise fades. What sticks—it’s what you build in silence."
[She walks slowly into the studio behind her—sunlight trailing her boots across worn hardwood floors.]
"That’s where I’ve done most of my work. The nights nobody sees, the matches that came without bells or pyro. Just a name on a card and a reason not to lose. And I’ve never needed a light show to shine in the ring."
[A half-glance toward the glove, now clenched lightly in her fist.]
"But Summer XXXtreme? That wasn’t a match. That was a trick show. Steel ropes, dripping cables, bodies flying like the circus came to town. People cheered. They got their splash. But I wasn’t there to fall pretty. I came to win.
And I didn’t lose because I wasn’t good enough. I lost because someone else just happened to fall last."
[She stops in front of a wide mirror hung on the wall. Her reflection doesn’t blink.]
"They’re labelling Lilith Locke as the new champ. Say she “earned it.” That she climbed through bodies and chaos, came down with the belt swinging like Tarzan with a crown. And that’s fine. You want to celebrate survival? Go ahead. But don’t confuse it with holding down a division.
She climbed.
She clutched it.
But she didn’t conquer a damn thing."
[As she speaks, she occasionally shifts her footing, unbothered by the breeze kicking bits of dust from the floor beneath her boots. Her fingers tighten around the railing at the right turns. A small table nearby holds her scuffed championship case — unopened. No drama. Just weight.
She tosses the glove onto a nearby bench and continues moving — jaw set.]
"These folks don’t always remember what kept this place steady. The names they chant today forget who built the stage they’re standing on. But we remember.
I remember. Every minute with that Bombshell Internet Title came with weight. Not shine. Not clicks. Not some grainy GIF of a lucky grab floating around Twitter."
[She picks up her second glove. Doesn’t wear it yet. Just feels the weight.]
"I didn't carry that belt. I protected it. From flash-in-the-pan fame. From Instagram champions. From people who need hashtags to matter instead of matches. But now? Lilith Locke holds it like it was loaned to her. Like it was gift-wrapped by momentum instead of blood."
[Beat. She stares out the open loft window—watching lights flicker on in the square.]
"And I gotta sit back and hear people say maybe that’s where it should’ve gone in the first place. Like longevity is a weakness. Like I’m so used to wearing gold I forgot how to take it back."
[She pulls out the gloves—worn leather, not gold-trimmed anymore. Slow. Focused.]
"They think this Sunday is a rematch. Nah. This is clean-up. This is where you take the receipt out of your pocket and say, “I'm returning what never fit right.”
[She smirks once. Faint. Enough.]
"Because Lilith? She looks around that locker room like she owns it now. Walks with the belt a little loose on her shoulder ‘cause she doesn’t realize yet that every pair of eyes backstage—the veterans, the upstarts, the bitter—are staring not in respect, but in disbelief.
And every single one of ‘em’s thinking: “Let’s see how long this lasts.”
[She circles back to her place by the window. Glances down at her boots. Scuffed. Perfect.]
"I don’t have to audition for this spot. I’ve paid my dues in full. And then some. But she? She’s being told she’s next. It’s cute, really—how fast hype tries to skip the hard parts. Well. Let me be the one that reminds her next doesn’t always mean ready."
[She pauses, leans on one foot. Rolls her gloveless fist in her palm using the other hand. She’s warming her knuckles the way a violinist might prep their joints before a performance.]
"I watched Lilith climb that cable like she didn’t know what waited at the top. And when she grabbed that belt? She didn’t look ready. She looked surprised. And surprise doesn’t win rematches. It gets broken in them."
[One beat. Then another.]
"This Sunday, all that spectacle falls away. No gimmicks. No mechanism to hang your whole future on. Just mat. Just ropes. Just air in your lungs fighting to keep up with me. And the last time that happened, I won.
[Her voice lowers — deliberate. Measured.]
"There's nothing to climb but everything to lose. And that’s where we see what kinda champ you really are."
[She plants both boots, smudged, scuffed, but still laced up tight. Her shoulders level with the city beyond. There’s no more movement in her. Only presence.]
"Lilith, whether you know it or not, you’ve been walking around with somebody else’s belt. Maybe you got it warm. Maybe you grew into it. But it’s mine. You’re just keeping it warm for me."
[Quiet now. But clear.]
"And come Climax Control? I'm not walking out there looking to become something. I’m walking out to remind everybody who taught you people how championships are kept."
[Beat. Almost a whisper now.]
“You can climb all you want. But gravity always wins. And I’m the fall that finishes yours.”
[She nods once, clocking her reflection in a wall mirror. Nothing flashy. Just blood, sweat, and a quiet promise.]
"See you Sunday."
[***FADE***]
[The bustling port fades behind as Mercedes Vargas strides toward her black SUV, her suitcase rolling briskly behind her. She doesn’t spare a glance for the other passengers—her posture radiates icy focus. Luggage is tossed in the trunk with a practiced slam; she slides into the driver’s seat, sunglasses on, expression set.]
INT. MERCEDES’ SUV – MOMENTS LATER
[Mercedes powers up the engine, tapping her phone to clear the last notification—a missed call from Crystal Caldwell. She puts Crystal on speaker as she starts the engine. The ambient noise of the port hushed by the car’s thick glass.
CRYSTAL
So, are you on your way back yet?
MERCEDES:
Yeah, a few hours out. Not exactly rushing home.
CRYSTAL
I can tell.
[Mercedes exhales, eyes fixed on the road ahead.]
MERCEDES
I’m driving. You want something or just checking if I’m still alive?
CRYSTAL
You sound thrilled. Should I even ask how your night went?
[Mercedes rolls her eyes, lips pressed into a flat line, and pulls into the slow-moving traffic toward the exit.
Tight and quietly seething, she barely contains her anger as she levels her next words.]
MERCEDES
Spare me the sarcasm, Crystal. You saw what happened. Summer XXXTreme—what a joke.
[Crystal’s image on the phone is poised, blazer crisp. She leans back in her chair, dismissively straightening a lapel, then fiddles with a pen.]
CRYSTAL
Want to talk about it? Or do we just pretend it never happened, like most people you leave in your wake?
[Mercedes’s grip on the steering wheel tightens as the line of cars in front of her inches forward. Her voice is cold and unwavering.]
MERCEDES
What’s there to say? Dropped the title. The one thing I said I wouldn’t let happen.
[She changes lanes, eyes flickering between the road and her own reflection in the mirror.
Suddenly, a horn blares from the next lane—a delivery van swerves close, forcing Mercedes to brake sharply. Her jaw clenches, grip tightening on the wheel. In that blink, her anger is as much for the world outside as for herself.
Mercedes shouts out her window, her voice crisp and cutting.]
MERCEDES
For fuck’s sake—learn to drive, asshole!
[After her furious outburst, Mercedes regains control with practiced precision. She steadies her grip, checks her mirrors, and takes a long breath—forcing herself to focus beyond the surge of anger.
In one smooth, businesslike motion, she signals, merges safely back into her lane, and accelerates to match the flow of traffic. Her posture remains rigid and alert, but her attention is now firmly back on the road and the task ahead.]
CRYSTAL
Everyone has bad nights, but one match doesn’t define your reign.
MERCEDES
I had an off night. That’s it. I’m not about to start groveling for sympathy.
[Crystal tilts her head, her tone a calculated sting.]
CRYSTAL
Not asking you to. You know the business—people forget fast. You’re only as good as your last match. Right now, they’re all watching to see if you choke again.
[Mercedes grits her teeth, shoulders hunched as she pulls up to the checkpoint.]
MERCEDES
It shouldn’t have happened, Crystal. Not like that. I was off my game, and it cost me everything. One slip, and the knives come out.
[Crystal’s eyes narrow, voice dropping to a razor edge.
The security guard checks her tag, waves her through. She merges onto open road, speed ticking up, city skyline on the horizon.]
MERCEDES
Maybe. But I set a standard. I expect more from myself. If I look vulnerable, people start lining up to write me off.
CRYSTAL
Let them. You built that division. Losing one match doesn’t change that.
[Mercedes’s grip loosens. Her voice steadies.]
MERCEDES
Still stings. Next cycle better be different. I’m not about to fade into the background.
CRYSTAL
And you won’t. Use it. Remind them what happens when Mercedes Vargas has something to prove.
MERCEDES
That’s the plan. I’m coming back stronger, with or without gold around my waist. Don’t worry about me, Crystal. I set the bar in that division. No one’s taking my spot for long.
[With a quick swipe, Crystal ends the call. The road ahead unfurls, the weekend—and weakness—shrinking in the rearview. Mercedes stares past her own reflection in the windshield, eyes burning with resolve as the city pulls her home.]
~~~
Blog: Almighty Fire
semana del 27 de julio al 3 de agosto de 2025
Let’s get into it.
I've had a great time aboard the Sun Princess. You know what I’ve learned in the last two weeks since the cruise?
Luck’s a liar.
It doesn’t crown champions. It just drags people far enough to make a stumble look like a triumph.
People think winning means you're the best. That gold around your waist says you’ve got it all figured out. But sometimes? It just says you were there when it fell. You didn’t climb higher. You just didn’t fall first.
Since Summer XXXTreme, everyone’s been spinning their own version of truth. But let’s be honest: that Ultimate X over the pool match wasn’t about skill. Wasn’t about heart. Wasn’t about who was the smartest, fastest, strongest. It was chaos. It was survival.
Lilith didn’t outperform me. She outlasted Bella Madison. Lilith didn’t beat me. She ducked long enough to get lucky.
Una gran diferencia. There’s a difference.
Bella Madison? Bella got taken out early—that was me. That was me reminding Little Miss Belle of the Brawl that shortcuts in this business usually lead to dead ends. No ladder, no wire, no gimmick lives long enough to cover for poor judgment—or timing. She gambled, and crashed. Duramente.
She tried something cute, something quick. And I said: "Ojo por ojo, Bella." I made sure her goodbye was quicker.
Because when you crash into it unprepared, you don’t claim victory. You get swallowed by it.
Just like she did.
Some folks backstage act like I’m bitter. Like I can’t handle a loss. Not the case. Been in this business long enough to know not every fight goes your way. But some losses don’t start the story—they just sharpen the edge. Now before anyone starts with the fairytales, this isn’t bitterness. This isn’t sour grapes. There’s this idea running around backstage. That maybe I’ve peaked. That Lilith is the new face. That she outmaneuvered me and it’s her time now. Funny how people only say those things when I don’t have gold in my hands for fifteen minutes.
It was gravity—and dumb luck. Two things that have never filled a trophy case.
Lilith didn’t snatch that championship from me. La oportunidad cayó en su regazo. She happened to be closest when the opportunity fell into her lap. And now, two weeks later, the spotlight that once felt warm is starting to overexpose every crack. The title that looked good over her shoulder starts to feel heavier by the day. The countdown didn’t start when I lost—it started the moment she walked backstage with my belt.
Because Sunday? Lilith has to defend that title… not climb toward it. She's walking in with everything to lose and nothing left to surprise anybody with.
And here I come—cold, calculated, focused.
Sin distracciones.
Sans excuses.
No pool. No structure. No circus act draping over the ring. No obscure stipulations allowing for flukes or fluked title changes.
No accidents.
No hiding.
Sin espacio para el error.
Just her. Just me. No accidents. No room to hide.
Just two people, two truths, and one title.
That Bombshell Internet title belongs to someone who knows how to manage it. She's holding it now—and I hope she took pictures. This Sunday, I erase the moment Lilith tried to blot my dominance with her name.
It’s been two weeks.
Two weeks that she's fumbled through her first interviews, shivered under the weight of a belt that never belonged to her. Two weeks that people kept trying to spin the narrative—waiting for her to prove she's more than a name on a results sheet.
Lilith carried that title backstage like she belonged, but even then, I saw the panic under the eyeshadow. And now? The weight’s settling in. The interviews stumble. The conviction weakens. The presence? Delicate at best and disappearing at worst. Two weeks in, and she's still trying to convince even herself that she’s worthy of the moment.
Meanwhile, I’ve said nothing. But silence doesn’t mean absence.
I’ve spent the last two weeks watching the noise grow around her. Social media pushing narratives. Pundits hoping for something fresh. Fans looking to latch onto an underdog story. All of it feels good—until it meets resistance.
Which brings us to Sunday.
Because now, Lilith has to do something far harder than climbing a structure and hoping for a break. She has to walk in as champion—with something to lose. She has no misdirection to hide behind. No chaos to slip through. No wild stipulations to lean on.
This Sunday isn't just about reclaiming a title. It’s about reminding this division what happens when somebody treats this sport like a lottery instead of a war.
They’ll talk about our match like it’s a rematch. I’m not showing up to correct the record. The record always plays back one truth.
I am who I said I am.
And when that final bell rings...
There will be no doubt.
No debate.
Just me—
and the title I never lost.
And when we get in that ring—with no ladders, no cables, no opportunity for luck to play ref—Lilith is going to learn that this title? It's not for shock moments or summer highlights.
I’ll walk into Climax Control 431 with nothing.
I’ll walk out holding what’s already mine.
And maybe Lilith will still be standing when it’s over. But she'll be standing on the other side again—trying to explain how she fell from a climb she was never ready to make.
~~~
"Okay, who took my lunch from the fridge? Fess up or face my wrath."
[Mercedes stands in the break room, hands on hips. Ricardo leans back in a folding chair, nonchalant but a little guilty, innocently wipes salsa from his mouth. Irma pretends to check the microwave. Hugo quietly burps. Tomas tries to sneak out but trips over a chair.]
RICARDO
I have an alibi—I was…uh…taste-testing office snacks for quality control?
[Ricardo holds up a suspiciously empty Tupperware, grinning sheepishly.]
IRMA
Wasn’t me! I’m strictly gluten-free since last Tuesday.
[Irma flashes a sticky note with ‘Gluten-Free Rulez’ written in glitter pen.]
HUGO
If we solve this mystery, do we get pizza?
[Hugo raises a tired hand, his gaze openly challenging Mercedes to say no. She glares at him.]
TOMAS
Can we get pizza anyway?
[Tomas rubs his sore knee, pouting. Nobody is in a hurry to mention his clumsiness at the restaurant. Everyone stares at Mercedes, who sighs.]
MERCEDES
Fine. Whoever confesses buys lunch for everyone. But next time, label your food—or else!
[The group throws up half-hearted cheers, each angling to avoid responsibility. Ricardo tucks the evidence behind a plant.
[The crew convenes around a rickety table, debating pizza toppings while counting wrinkled bills and sweat-soaked dollar bills. Irma scrolls through her phone, looking at pizza options. Hugo eyes the snack cabinet. Tomas sits on the counter, swinging his legs.]
IRMA
Pineapple on pizza—yay or nay? Group vote.
RICARDO
Extra pineapple.
[Ricardo raises his hand, two fingers sticky with salsa.]
HUGO
If we’re voting, I demand stuffed crust be on the ballot. Otherwise, I’m walking out.
MERCEDES
We are not turning this into a filibuster.
[Mercedes starts a poll on her phone. Tomas tries to peek at her screen.]
TOMAS
Anchovies or nothing.
[The room falls silent. Everyone turns to stare in horror at Tomas.]
IRMA
You’re on thin ice, Tomas.
[Hugo pulls a face. Mercedes sighs, holding up her phone.]
MERCEDES
Majority rules. Pineapple wins. Anchovies take a seat. But you can put pineapple on half. Now can we focus?—
[She spots Ricardo trying to steal another snack. He freezes mid-swipe.]
MERCEDES
—Ricardo, hands where I can see them!
[Laughter, almost, as Ricardo drops the snack bag. Mercedes snatches the bag from the ground.]
MERCEDES
If you touch that snack bag, you’re on mop duty, mister.
[Everyone crowds around Irma’s phone as she finalizes the pizza order. Hugo digs through the freezer in search of forgotten treats. Ricardo quietly closes the snack cabinet with his foot.]
IRMA
Okay, estimated delivery: thirty minutes. Anybody want to place bets on whether it’ll actually arrive hot?
RICARDO
Who delivers pizza with a drone these days? I want to see that in action.
[He peers out the window as if expecting to spot a drone on the horizon.]
HUGO
If it is a drone, I’m challenging it to an arm-wrestling contest.
[Hugo flexes, nearly knocking over a pile of cardboard coffee trays.]
TOMAS
If the pizza flies, I’ll eat Irma’s powerbars for a week. And I still don’t believe she’s gluten-free.
[Irma swats at Tomas with a napkin. Mercedes rolls her eyes, sipping from her coffee mug.]
MERCEDES
Let’s just hope this goes smoothly and nobody steals anyone else’s food this time—
[Suddenly, Ricardo’s phone buzzes. He peers at it and turns pale.]
RICARDO
Uh...guys, I may have sent the order to my old apartment.
[The group groans. Mercedes groans the loudest. Hugo just shrugs.]
HUGO
Guess we’re hitting taco night at the gas station. Again.
[Laughter fills the room as Irma starts dialing the pizza place in a last attempt to rescue their dinner.]
[Irma paces with her phone pressed to her ear, explaining the pizza mix-up to the confused employee. Ricardo hovers anxiously nearby. Meanwhile, Hugo attempts to juggle oranges for entertainment. Tomas rummages through the cabinets for emergency snacks.]
IRMA (ON PHONE):
No, it’s the community center, near the ring. Not the trailer park by the dump. I definitely meant this office. Not a fourth-floor walkup with a mysterious cat. Just...send carbs, please.
[She glares at Ricardo, who shrugs, beaten.]
MERCEDES
Well, at least someone in your old building is about to have a very good night.
HUGO
Unless the cat eats anchovies. Then we’re still safe.
[Tomas discovers a nearly empty bag of chips and holds it up triumphantly.]
TOMAS
Look, guys—dinner is served! Five chips, two crumbs, and one questionable pretzel.
[The group groans and collapses onto the couches as Irma finally hangs up.]
IRMA
New order’s coming. There’s a discount for "emotional distress." Thanks, Ricardo.
[Mercedes beams, Ricardo claps in mock applause, and Hugo starts a countdown timer on his phone—just as Tomas sneakily pockets the last chip.]
[The group slouches on the couches, stomachs growling. Hugo glances nervously at the clock while Ricardo’s eyes dart to the plant still hiding the evidence of Mercedes’ missing lunch.]
HUGO
How much longer? I’m at Stage Two Hunger—Stage Three’s just me chewing on napkins.
[Tomas dangles the pretzel above his mouth theatrically, then fumbles and it bounces under the fridge.]
TOMAS
That was our last hope. A moment of silence, please.
[Everyone bows their heads with exaggerated solemnity. Irma’s phone vibrates and she jumps up.]
IRMA
It’s the pizza driver! He’s...lost in the parking lot?
MERCEDES
Guide him to the light, Irma. If he brings garlic knots, I’ll give him my autograph.
[Irma rushes out, phone to her ear. Hugo perks up, hope restored. Ricardo stealthily checks behind the plant again.]
RICARDO
If I add a few carrot sticks, it’s practically salad...
[Mercedes catches him red-handed, snaps her fingers, and gestures for Ricardo to sit. Stricken, he sits obediently as Irma returns triumphantly, carrying pizza boxes.]
IRMA
Salvation has arrived!
[The group cheers, Hugo grabs plates, and Tomas volunteers to supervise the pizza-to-plate transfer—just to make sure no pieces mysteriously disappear.]
MERCEDES
Next team-building exercise—pizza delivery obstacle course. Participation is mandatory.
[Laughter fills the break room as everyone digs in, finally united (and fed) at last.]
[The group is still finishing off the pizza, crumbs and crusts scattered like confetti. Mercedes stares into the distance, chewing thoughtfully, eyebrow raised.]
RICARDO
Uh-oh. That look means she’s either planning world domination... or about to sign us up for salsa dancing again.
HUGO
I vote salsa. At least I get to wear my shiny shoes.
IRMA
She’s definitely cooking up something. Spill it, Mercedes.
MERCEDES (grinning dramatically)
Oh, nothing major... just that I’ll be in Vegas next weekend.
TOMAS
What? You’re abandoning us for slot machines and suspicious buffet shrimp?
MERCEDES
Please. I’m heading to the Party Hard Tour — Sin City Wrestling. Neon lights, loud music, body slams, you know… my kind of crowd.
HUGO (mouth full)
Wait, that’s an actual thing? I thought “Party Hard Tour” was just what Tomas called his bedtime playlist.
TOMAS
Hey. My Spotify knows how to rage responsibly between 9 and 9:30 PM.
IRMA
So, you’re going to watch people throw each other into tables while wearing sequins?
MERCEDES
Yes. And I might throw someone into a table myself if they don’t label their lunch.
RICARDO (nervously pats his stomach)
Noted.
HUGO
Can we come? I’ll wear a cape. Tomas can be your tag team hype man.
TOMAS
I demand pyrotechnics. And a fog machine. Preferably mango-scented.
IRMA
Record everything. Especially if someone tries to suplex a referee into a taco cart.
MERCEDES (raising her soda like a championship belt)
Vegas won’t know what hit it. Sin City’s about to meet its new MVP.
RICARDO
MVP as in… "Most Vengeful over Pizza"?
MERCEDES (deadpan)
Exactly.
[END]
Present Day ♦ S E V I L L A - E S P A Ñ A — Antiguo Estudio de Flamenco (Old Flamenco Studio)
[REC•]
[Three stories above the plaza. An old studio loft overlooking a lively Andalusian square. Sunset bleeding gold over terracotta rooftops. Flamenco guitar faint below. Laughter hums from the streets. Mercedes stands on a narrow wrought-iron balcony, glove in hand.
She speaks—flat, focused, unforced.]
“You hear that?”
[She doesn’t need silence to make the moment hers. The street stays alive: laughter, plates clinking, heels on stone. But she speaks like the air’s gone still.]
"There’s a thing that happens when you’re in this longer than most. You stop looking for the cheers. You don’t need fifteen thousand people screaming your name, or holding a sign with some misspelled version of it. Doesn’t matter. That type of noise fades. What sticks—it’s what you build in silence."
[She walks slowly into the studio behind her—sunlight trailing her boots across worn hardwood floors.]
"That’s where I’ve done most of my work. The nights nobody sees, the matches that came without bells or pyro. Just a name on a card and a reason not to lose. And I’ve never needed a light show to shine in the ring."
[A half-glance toward the glove, now clenched lightly in her fist.]
"But Summer XXXtreme? That wasn’t a match. That was a trick show. Steel ropes, dripping cables, bodies flying like the circus came to town. People cheered. They got their splash. But I wasn’t there to fall pretty. I came to win.
And I didn’t lose because I wasn’t good enough. I lost because someone else just happened to fall last."
[She stops in front of a wide mirror hung on the wall. Her reflection doesn’t blink.]
"They’re labelling Lilith Locke as the new champ. Say she “earned it.” That she climbed through bodies and chaos, came down with the belt swinging like Tarzan with a crown. And that’s fine. You want to celebrate survival? Go ahead. But don’t confuse it with holding down a division.
She climbed.
She clutched it.
But she didn’t conquer a damn thing."
[As she speaks, she occasionally shifts her footing, unbothered by the breeze kicking bits of dust from the floor beneath her boots. Her fingers tighten around the railing at the right turns. A small table nearby holds her scuffed championship case — unopened. No drama. Just weight.
She tosses the glove onto a nearby bench and continues moving — jaw set.]
"These folks don’t always remember what kept this place steady. The names they chant today forget who built the stage they’re standing on. But we remember.
I remember. Every minute with that Bombshell Internet Title came with weight. Not shine. Not clicks. Not some grainy GIF of a lucky grab floating around Twitter."
[She picks up her second glove. Doesn’t wear it yet. Just feels the weight.]
"I didn't carry that belt. I protected it. From flash-in-the-pan fame. From Instagram champions. From people who need hashtags to matter instead of matches. But now? Lilith Locke holds it like it was loaned to her. Like it was gift-wrapped by momentum instead of blood."
[Beat. She stares out the open loft window—watching lights flicker on in the square.]
"And I gotta sit back and hear people say maybe that’s where it should’ve gone in the first place. Like longevity is a weakness. Like I’m so used to wearing gold I forgot how to take it back."
[She pulls out the gloves—worn leather, not gold-trimmed anymore. Slow. Focused.]
"They think this Sunday is a rematch. Nah. This is clean-up. This is where you take the receipt out of your pocket and say, “I'm returning what never fit right.”
[She smirks once. Faint. Enough.]
"Because Lilith? She looks around that locker room like she owns it now. Walks with the belt a little loose on her shoulder ‘cause she doesn’t realize yet that every pair of eyes backstage—the veterans, the upstarts, the bitter—are staring not in respect, but in disbelief.
And every single one of ‘em’s thinking: “Let’s see how long this lasts.”
[She circles back to her place by the window. Glances down at her boots. Scuffed. Perfect.]
"I don’t have to audition for this spot. I’ve paid my dues in full. And then some. But she? She’s being told she’s next. It’s cute, really—how fast hype tries to skip the hard parts. Well. Let me be the one that reminds her next doesn’t always mean ready."
[She pauses, leans on one foot. Rolls her gloveless fist in her palm using the other hand. She’s warming her knuckles the way a violinist might prep their joints before a performance.]
"I watched Lilith climb that cable like she didn’t know what waited at the top. And when she grabbed that belt? She didn’t look ready. She looked surprised. And surprise doesn’t win rematches. It gets broken in them."
[One beat. Then another.]
"This Sunday, all that spectacle falls away. No gimmicks. No mechanism to hang your whole future on. Just mat. Just ropes. Just air in your lungs fighting to keep up with me. And the last time that happened, I won.
[Her voice lowers — deliberate. Measured.]
"There's nothing to climb but everything to lose. And that’s where we see what kinda champ you really are."
[She plants both boots, smudged, scuffed, but still laced up tight. Her shoulders level with the city beyond. There’s no more movement in her. Only presence.]
"Lilith, whether you know it or not, you’ve been walking around with somebody else’s belt. Maybe you got it warm. Maybe you grew into it. But it’s mine. You’re just keeping it warm for me."
[Quiet now. But clear.]
"And come Climax Control? I'm not walking out there looking to become something. I’m walking out to remind everybody who taught you people how championships are kept."
[Beat. Almost a whisper now.]
“You can climb all you want. But gravity always wins. And I’m the fall that finishes yours.”
[She nods once, clocking her reflection in a wall mirror. Nothing flashy. Just blood, sweat, and a quiet promise.]
"See you Sunday."
[***FADE***]
