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91
Supercard Roleplays / Just Down the Block
« Last post by HBCarter on January 03, 2026, 06:49:34 PM »
Las Vegas -
Turnberry Towers

The dining room in Turnberry Towers had been transformed into a battlefield Kevin Chapman had built with a lot of care for a night of fun. It was a full Dungeons & Dragons setup, brand new from his Christmas morning haul. A felt-lined dice tray. A grid map with little dungeon walls and a miniature figure for each player. There were note cards stacked in careful piles, pencils sharpened to lethal points, and a separate notebook opened beside everyone. All he needed now was a group to practice with, and that’s where our story comes into play.

Kevin sat at the head of the table, a Dungeon Master screen with the art of a dragon separating him from the rest of the players. It was Kevin’s first try at running a campaign and he didn’t want anyone to see when or if he got nervous. Except everyone at this table already knew him well enough to recognize nerves in the way he paused or how he cleared his throat.

Carter sat to Kevin’s right, and played as a Drow assassin named Paeris. “One name.” As Carter phrased it. “Like Cher.” Carter was a long-time player but admitted that it had been awhile and was thrilled to be invited to play again. Across from Carter sat Miles, the epitome of casual indulgence, having never played before but was open to a fun night with family and friends. Miles was playing as Aelarion Vael, a High-Elf Wizard.

Next to Miles was LJ, seated comfortably like a man who’d come ready to have fun and whose character sheet had a doodle of a screaming axe. He was playing as Marmalade Ironbelly, a Dwarf Barbarian with a comedic attitude. Beside LJ, his girlfriend Alexandra Calaway sat. She’d taken her time choosing spells and features, and it paid off with her character, Seraphine Nyx, a Tiefling Warlock.

Beside Alexandra was her daughter Ashlynn, perched on her chair like she was ready to launch into action at any second. She was playing as Pip Underbough, a Halfling Ranger.

And then there was Connor Wayley, sitting close enough to Kevin that their shoulders almost touched when they leaned forward. Something everyone else at the table noticed though nobody brought the attention to either boy. Connor’s character sheet was neat, but the corners were already bent from being handled too often, like he’d been rereading it in anticipation. Connor was playing as Jace Merrin, a Human Rogue.

Kevin glanced down at his notes, then lifted his eyes above the screen, voice tightening into that storyteller’s cadence he’d found halfway through the night.

“You come to a door.” Kevin said. “It’s stone. There’s a face carved into it but the eyes are wrong. And the mouth looks like it’s almost smiling.”

Carter leaned in. “I don’t like it.”

Kevin’s eyes shifted to Carter, then back to his notes, gaining confidence from the fact that Carter was invested enough to dislike a pretend door. “There’s writing on the bottom. Old script. Aelarion, you can read it.”

Miles straightened, slipping into character. “I read it.”

Kevin took another breath. “It says ‘Confess, and be made clean.’”

Alexandra tapped her pencil thoughtfully. “That’s either a trap or a moral test.”

Kevin nodded, grateful they were taking the bait. “There’s also a small bowl carved into the stone beneath the writing. Like it’s meant to hold something.”

Alexandra leaned in, voice smooth. “Seraphine steps forward and says, ‘I confess I have stolen secrets from people who trusted me.’”

The table went quiet, because Alexandra had executed what was expected perfectly. Kevin looked down at his notes and nodded.

“The bowl fills with dark liquid.” Kevin said. “Like ink.”

Ashlynn made a face. “Gross.”

Connor murmured, “Cool.”

Miles’s wizard asked, “Do we have to drink it?”

Kevin lifted his hands, both palms up behind the screen. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Carter groaned and looked at Miles. “Kevin is trying to kill us.”

Kevin’s mouth twitched into a smile. “That’s literally the Dungeon Master’s job.”

Connor leaned back with a grin and added, “We’re trying to start a D&D club at school. This is good practice.”

Miles mused, “So we’re your guinea pigs.”

Kevin said, “I prefer educational sacrifices.”

The game rolled forward and after they’d survived the confession door, Kevin glanced at the time on his phone. “Snack break?” He suggested it to everyone and was met with approval.

Carter stood first, taking charge as host, “I’ll grab us something.”

He headed to the kitchen and moved with ease, pulling out bowls, shaking pretzels into one, Kevin’s favorite jalapeno Doritos into another, all the while throwing a bag of cheesy popcorn into the microwave. When he came back into the dining room, Miles picked up his phone, declaring, “I’m ordering pizza!”

Everyone happily approved of this plan, especially the three teenagers, because what teen doesn’t appreciate a pizza dinner? Miles looked to Connor and asked, “Your folks okay with you eating here?” To which Connor nodded, “They just said I had to be home by ten.” Earning a nod of approval from Miles.

Kevin watched Carter as he carefully arranged the bowls around the table so as not to disturb Kevin’s set up. Kevin asked shyly, “Can we get a Dr. Pepper? Me, Connor, and Ashlynn?”

Connor nodded immediately, “Please!” Ashlynn the same.

Carter gave a nod and went back into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and leaned in. Bottled water. Juice. Leftovers stacked neatly. And tucked behind a container like it was hiding? One can of Dr. Pepper. “Bad news!” He announced, “We’ve got exactly one can left! Good news? We can take a break and I’ll run down to the store.”

Miles’s head turned immediately, protective instincts snapping into place. “I should go with you.”

Carter grabbed his keys out from the seashell dish. “It’s just down the block.” He declared. “I’ll be right back.”

Miles’s expression tightened, concerned. “Still...”

Carter kept his voice gentle but firm. “Miles, you just ordered pizza. One of us has to be here to pay for it. Unless you want to shake Connor for it?” Connor looked up from his conference with Kevin and Ashlynn with wide eyes.

He declared, “I’ll be right back!” And headed out, the door clicking shut behind him.


THE FOLLOWING MESSAGE HAS BEEN PAID FOR BY THE PRIDE OF SCW

“Inception VIII, the first big night of 2026! New year, new noise, same old truth. That I have to continue silencing critics and proving myself to all the people who think I don’t deserve to be the World Heavyweight Champion. And you know something? That’s fine. That’s alright. I’m fine with that because the more I prove myself, the more I humble every person who tries and tells me I have no business being at the top of the mountain.”

“And I think about men like Finn Whelan when I say that. I think about what it meant when Finn held this title for over a year and made it feel heavy in the best way. There are champions who wear gold like jewelry, and there are champions who wear it like a responsibility. Finn was the second kind. When I won this championship, Finn looked me dead in the eye and told me, plain as day, ‘Don’t drop the ball.’ Not congratulations or good luck. He didn’t tell me to enjoy the moment. He said don’t drop the ball. Because that’s what this is. It’s a ball you can fumble, and the second you do, there’s this pack of hungry hands reaching in and tearing it away. I took that to heart because after J2H, Finn set the standard. I’ve replayed it in my head on the days where my body felt like it got hit by a truck, on the nights where I could’ve coasted by, on the moments where it would’ve been easy to be like Alexander Raven and take a shortcut and call it smart. I didn’t get to be Helluva Bottom Carter by being the guy who takes the easy route. I got here by doubling down when everybody else started backing toward the door.”

“So going into Inception VIII, I’m not asking for applause or begging to be accepted. I’m telling you what I already know. I have lived up to that standard. I have carried this title like it matters. Every week I have shown up as the champion this company deserves and can put at the front of the line and not worry about being embarrassed. I have done champions like Finn Whelan proud, because I didn’t take the crown and start acting like a king. I took the crown and started working like a man who knows the whole place is watching!”

“And then there are ‘men’ like Alexander Raven.”

“Alexander, I want you to listen closely, because I know you’re the type who hears what he wants and then calls everything else propaganda. You’re the type who thinks a fact is just a rumor that hasn’t been bullied enough yet. You’re the type who loses a match and starts looking around for hidden cameras, secret agreements, the deep state, the shallow state, and whatever other state makes you feel better about the fact that you came up short. Only for you, it’s the state of denial. You come up short in a match and immediately it’s ‘the Rings of Saturn got in my eyes!’ or ‘the Earth’s axis was tilted unfairly!’ You have built a whole identity out of excuses dressed up like revelations. You don’t just miss the goalposts, you swear somebody else moved them, then you write a manifesto about it!”

“But here’s the part you can’t conspiracy-theory your way out of. You’re stepping into Inception VIII against a champion who doesn’t need smoke and mirrors to make any sort of impression. You’re stepping into the first event of the new year against a man who has made a career out of being both fabulous and undeniable. And you are coming into it with a fresh reminder, stamped right on your forehead, that when you don’t get to stack the deck. You just fold.”

“Let’s talk about that tag match two weeks ago, hm? Let’s talk about you teaming up with Brayden Williams, and me teaming up with Eddie Lyons. Because I know you’ve been chewing on that one. I know you’ve been trying to rewrite the story. I know you’ve been telling anybody who’ll listen that the whole thing was some cosmic alignment of unfairness designed specifically to embarrass you. That’s what you do, right? If you look bad, it’s because someone made you look bad. If you lose, it’s because the universe is against you. If you get outworked, it’s because the other guy had some unfair advantage. Well allow me to clear the fog from your mind, Alexander. You didn’t get betrayed. You didn’t get robbed. You got beaten clean enough that you could’ve eaten off the mat afterward.”

“And it wasn’t just the fact that you lost. It’s how you lost that matters. Because Eddie Lyons stood across from you and didn’t even blink! Eddie didn’t get rattled by the fact that you cheated your way to victory the previous week. Eddie looked at you like a professional looks at a problem, and then he solved it. Meanwhile you were out there trying to play chess with the pieces glued to the board and you still managed to lose your Queen, pun intended! Which brings me to my next point…”

“Do you see now what happens when your wife isn’t there to bail you out of trouble? Do you see what happens when you don’t have somebody at ringside ready to jump in and play damage control the second reality starts to set in? Because I saw it! Everybody saw it! Eddie warned you! I warned you! You were reaching for that safety net and it wasn’t there, and suddenly Alexander Raven didn’t look like some diabolical mastermind. He looked like what he really is. A man who’s been propped up by interference, shortcuts, and a whole lot of noise!”

“And I know you’re sitting there thinking that you can call my bluff. I mean, you tell the world that you have no control over what your wife does in regards to interfering in your matches when that's really just more excuses. So let me save you the trouble of digging yourself into an even deeper hole.”

“I don’t believe you have the stones to leave your bitch in her kennel!”

“There it is in plain language. Not lip service. Nothing sugarcoated. You don’t have it in you to walk into the Main Event of Inception VIII and tell your little security blanket to stay backstage. You’re addicted to the idea that if you can just muddy the water enough, nobody will be able to see you drowning. That is literally all there is to you. You don’t wrestle matches, you manufacture confusion. You don’t win, you just survive long enough for somebody else to do the dirty work. There is nothing - NOTHING - about you that isn't skin deep!”

“So here’s the problem, Alexander. I’m not stupid. I know you think otherwise but that's your room delusions screwing around with your head. I’m not the kind of champion who wanders into a title defense like it’s a friendly sparring session and not  expect things to go South. I’m the kind of champion who plans for every version of you there is. Dirty, desperate, delusional, all of it! You want to bring Lassie, er, Luna to ringside? I’ve got a leash ready. You want to bring Luna to try and cheat your way to the World Title? I’ve got my own insurance policy on the likely chance you don’t have the guts to do this like a man!”

“And before you or Luna start clutching pearls about my having a backup plan, let’s clarify there’s a difference between having a plan and needing one. You need one. I prepare one. That’s the difference between a champion and a snake. I don’t rely on my plan to win. The plan is just there to make sure your nonsense doesn’t rewrite the outcome. The plan is there so I don’t get caught in some Raven-produced episode where the ending doesn’t make sense but the villain still walks away smiling. I’m not letting you turn the World Heavyweight Championship into a prop for your paranoia.”

“Because that’s what you do, Alexander. You take the simplest thing in the world, two men competing athletically to see who is better and you complicate it until it resembles a Stephen King novel! Every time you get called out for your tactics, you don’t deny them. You justify them. You dress them up like you’re some noble rebel fighting a corrupt system. You act like you’re exposing SCW from the inside out, when really you’re just a guy who wants an excuse to do whatever he wants without the benefit of consequences.”

“You hit someone below the belt? ‘They made me do it!’ You grab the tights? ‘That’s strategy!’ You bring your wife into it? ‘I can’t control what she does!’ These are all the excuses that you’ve used in the past and you don’t even hear yourself doing it! You call it ‘truth’ when it’s convenient and ‘lies’ when it’s not. Meanwhile, I’m standing here with the one thing you can’t manufacture. Credibility.”

“Credibility is built over time, over defenses, over the way you handle pressure, over the way you show up when you’re tired, when you’re hurting, when your back is against the wall! Credibility is walking into a new year with the biggest target in the company on your chest and still sleeping just fine because you know you’ve done the work! That’s me. That’s what this title has turned me into. You think being champion is about being the center of attention. It’s not. Being a champion is about being the center of accountability. Every hungry contender wants a shot. Every bitter veteran wants to prove you’re a fluke. Every rising star wants to use you as a stepping stone. And you either stand up to that pressure or you break.”

“I’ve been standing tall since May 2025. You, Alexander? You don’t break, you shatter. And then you hold up the pieces and insist it was sabotage.”

“So let’s talk about Inception VIII like grown-ups. Let’s talk about what’s really happening. You’re not getting this title match because you’re the most deserving. You’re getting it because you’re loud. You’re getting it because you’re a problem people want solved. You’re getting it because SCW knows that if they put you in a world title match, you’ll show up, you’ll run your mouth, you’ll try your tricks, you’ll stir the pot, and people will tune in to see if you finally get your teeth knocked in. Congratulations, Alex! You’ve finally made yourself useful!”

“You are not the future of this company. You’re not going to be the guy who carries SCW into 2026. You’re nothing more than a speed bump. You’re a chapter the real story has to get through before it gets to the part people actually want to read. And I know that stings, because you see yourself differently. You see yourself as the main character. You see yourself as the misunderstood genius. You see yourself as the only one brave enough to tell the so-called truth. But the truth is simpler than any of your theories; Alexander Raven is nothing more than a placeholder for legitimate contenders.”

“Legitimate contenders like Eddie Lyons.”

“Let’s say his name again, because I can tell it bothers you. Eddie Lyons. A man who doesn’t need his ego to be his tag partner. A man who doesn’t need outside interference to feel important. A man who doesn’t need to turn every loss into a conspiracy board with black Xs across a dozen blurry screenshots. Eddie Lyons is the kind of contender who fights forward, who takes his lumps, who learns and comes back sharper. Eddie Lyons is the kind of contender who can look a champion in the eye and make you believe he’s ready. And after Inception VIII, after you do what you always do and you find a way to choke when it matters most, I want Eddie next in line.”

“Because I’m not here to dodge the best. I’m here to beat the best. That’s what a real champion does. A real champion doesn’t hide behind politics. A real champion doesn’t pick opponents he can out-cheat. A real champion looks at the division and tells the match makers to line them up! That’s me. I want the men who can actually take this title from me, because if they can’t, then all we’re doing is wasting everybody’s time. And Alexander, you are the definition of wasted time.”

“You’re going to come into Inception VIII with the same bag of tricks and the same need to control the story. You’re going to try to bait me into making a mistake. You’re going to try to get under my skin. You’re going to try to turn this into the sort of chaos that you can thrive in. You’re going to start whispering about referees and management and favoritism, because if you can plant enough doubt, you think you can make my confidence look like arrogance and your paranoia look like insight. But I’m not playing your game. I’m stepping into a world title match where the only thing that matters is which one of us can go the distance. And that’s where you’ve always come up short. Because when the shortcuts get cut off, when the noise gets quiet, you don’t have what it takes to finish the job.”

“And deep down, you know it.”

“That’s why you cling to the dirty tactics. That’s why you try to justify everything. You are so terrified of a clean fight because a clean fight forces you to stand on your own two feet, and Alexander Raven has never trusted his own two feet to carry him anywhere worth going.”

“Meanwhile, I’m built for this. I was built for the nights where everything is on the line! I was built for the nights where one mistake could cost me everything! I was built for the nights where the challenger is desperate and the champion is expected to deliver!So here’s how this is going to go, Alex. You can bring your wife. You can bring your excuses. You can bring your theories. You can bring every dirty little trick you’ve ever used to steal a win! And I’m going to do what I always do.”

“I’m going to out-think you when you try to get clever. I’m going to out-fight you when you try to get violent. I’m going to out-last you when you try to drag this into deep water. And when you reach for that escape hatch, when you look for the bailout, when you look for the shortcut, when you look for the moment you can twist into an excuse, I’m going to slam it shut in your face! Because I’m not just defending a championship at Inception VIII. I’m defending the idea that this title means something. I’m defending the idea that the man holding it is the best man in the company, not the luckiest, not the sneakiest, not the loudest. I’m defending the standard men like Finn Whelan handed me when he told me not to drop the ball. And I haven’t dropped it yet. You, Alexander, are not the man to make me fumble.”

“And when you choke, like you always do, I’m going to walk out with the World Heavyweight Championship still around my waist. Both earned and respected. Then I’m going to look down the line at the legitimate contenders, men like Eddie Lyons, and I’m going to keep doing what champions are supposed to do; defend this title against men who have stepped up and earned it the hard way, not tossed the wrestling equivalent to a pity fuck!”


The moment Carter set foot into the parking garage, he immediately wished he had relented and allowed someone to come along. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, telling himself that he was being ridiculous. He was going to a store that was, by his own words, “just down the block,” because the kids wanted Dr. Pepper. He should have been thinking about what kind of pizza Miles ordered, whether Connor would like pineapple on his pizza, whether Miles would steal looks at his drow character sheet.

Instead, Carter’s mind kept dropping into darker grooves it had no business visiting.

A shirt in their closet that didn’t belong to anyone who lived there. A bottle of wine left in Miles’s shopping cart. The phone call that still made Carter’s stomach clench when he remembered the voice asking if they’d “checked their cat”.

Every incident wasn’t just a moment. It was a message that said, “I’m close. I’m here.”

So yes, he was feeling paranoid as he walked quickly to where his car was parked, stealing glances at every shadow and dark corner. His lime green Beetle sat where it always sat, a bright absurd dot of color in a world of gray concrete. It looked cheerful. It looked harmless.

It looked like a target.

He reached the driver’s side, slid his key into the door, and unlocked it with a click before opening the door and climbing inside - perhaps quicker than he would admit to.

He shut the door quickly and slid his key into the ignition and froze. That was when he saw it.

The little Stitch figurine on the dashboard. Miles had teased him about it at first, calling it “Carter’s emotional support alien”. The world knew Carter’s love for all things Stitch and this was just another testament. Except for one thing.

Stitch was knocked over.

Carter stared at it for a beat too long. His fingers tightened around the key until the metal bit into his skin. He hadn’t driven since the last time he’d been in the condo. Stitch had been upright then.

Before Carter could fully process it, a figure rose up from the backseat like a nightmare unfolding and something clamped over his face! A rag, rough and soaked with a slightly fruits albeit minty odor! Chloroform! The smell hit like a punch, sharp and wrong, and Carter’s body reacted instantly! He tried to inhale and his throat spasmed! He tried to shout and the sound came out muffled, crushed into fabric!

His eyes flared wide! His hands flew up, grabbing at the attacker’s wrist, at the rag, at anything! His nails scraped skin! Carter bucked in the seat, twisting his torso, slamming his shoulder back to try to knock the attacker off balance! His muffled screaming filled the small car and went nowhere! His lungs burned! The chemical smell crowded his head, turning the edges of his vision strange and swimming! The attacker leaned in harder, bracing his knee against the back seat behind Carter’s body, trying to keep him from thrashing too much, trying to keep the rag sealed tight!

Carter’s glasses flew off in his wild struggle! His legs kicked and his back arched, heels striking the underside of the dashboard! His hands scrabbled blindly across the center console, searching for the door handle, the window buttons, anything that could make noise, anything that could bring the outside world crashing in!

His fingers found the steering wheel! He didn’t even realize what he’d hit until it happened…

The horn blared!

Not a simple beep. It erupted like a scream that felt too big for the small green car thanks to the acoustics of the cement walls of the garage! It filled the space! It announced Carter’s presence like a flare shot into the night!

Then panic ripped through the attacker’s body! The grip on the rag tightened reflexively, but the plan had just cracked open! Noise was the enemy. Noise meant the attention of security, residents, anyone within earshot! The figure scrambled backward, fumbling for the door handle in the backseat, movements jerky and frantic.

The horn continued to blare, a relentless alarm! Carter’s hand was still pressed into it, either by accident or instinct, his body clinging to the one thing that had shifted the odds in his favor!

The back door flew open and the attacker spilled out, half-falling, then caught themselves and bolted into the garage shadows! Carter saw only a blur of dark clothing, the quick retreat of a form in his foggy mind.

He gasped for oxygen but the smell was still on him, in his nose, in his mouth, coating his tongue with bitterness. His heart hammered so hard it hurt. His head swam, his senses reeling like a boat in a storm at sea!

He reached for the driver’s side door handle. His fingers were clumsy, disobedient. He grabbed the handle, missed, grabbed again. His vision blurred at the edges. The garage lights smeared into bright streaks. Somewhere in the distance he heard running footsteps and voices growing louder.

Carter fumbled the handle and finally pulled, the door finally falling open and Carter tumbled helplessly out and to the concrete floor of the garage, one knee scraping hard, palms slapping the ground! The world tilted again, harsher this time as he fell over onto his back. TPeople were coming, shadows turning into bodies, bodies turning into faces.

“Oh my God!” A woman’s voice cut through. “That’s Carter McKinney!”

Carter tried to lift his head while his vision fought against him. He could make out a phone held up as someone called for help. His chest heaved. His mouth tasted like chemicals and fear.

“Carter!” Someone, a woman’s voice, called to him. “Carter, what happened!? Are you alright!?”

But he couldn’t answer. He felt like he was slowly being pulled under, his eyelids fighting him to remain open, the back of his throat burning!

Another voice, deeper, urgent, shouted over the growing crowd. “Someone get Miles Kasey in 5C! Now!”

The panic set in even deeper as his eyes started to drift closed, despite his best efforts to keep them open, and he felt like he was losing himself to unconsciousness…
92
Supercard Roleplays / Re: LJ KASEY v BULLDOG BILL BARNHART - DOG COLLAR MATCH
« Last post by LJKasey on January 03, 2026, 03:51:18 PM »
Climax Control
December 21, 2025
Denver, CO

The camera cuts on abruptly in a quiet backstage hallway in Denver. No music. No interviewer. Just the low hum of the lights and the distant echo of the crowd from the arena. LJ Kasey storms into frame, clutching at his lower back for half a second before shoving the pain aside like it doesn’t matter. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild and he doesn’t speak right away.

He just stares into the camera, those blue eyes blazing....it was a dangerous calm for a moment....

And then...

“Bill Barnhart....you miserable, attention-starved son of a bitch.”

LJ drags a hand down his face and lets out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“This mother fucking toss-pot...I swear to absolute fucking CHRIST! ...You weren’t even in the match.”

He shakes his head, pacing once, then snapping back toward the lens.

“Let that sink into your oversized melon that sits three feet above that fat you call your arse.... You weren’t booked. You weren’t even involved. You had nothing to do with that ladder match and you still couldn’t help yourself.”

He points down the hallway toward the arena.

“You came out there for one reason, because you needed to screw me. You just could not help yourself even for ONE FUCKING NIGHT! You just had to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

LJ steps closer, voice rising.

“And the funny part? The really pathetic part? My brother already kicked your ass last week. Miles beat you, clean in the ring and even had an answer for your double standard society, talking about cheating when Bea does more dirty work for you than you do for yourself! YOU. ARE. PATHETIC to even think that anyone was going to fall for your bullshit...and that should be the end of this story.”

LJ’s jaw tightens.

“But instead fuck off back under your rock, licking your wounds like a grown man, and  LEARNING from the asswhooping of a lesson that you received... you still decided to come after me. You are still not grasping the straws of the absolute OBVIOUS of it all.”

He gestures down at himself, incredulous.

“Because you just can’t help it, can you? You have to be a nuisance. You have to constantly insert yourself. You have to keep trying to make an example out of the ‘kid’ because that’s the only way you still feel relevant.”

He stops pacing. His voice drops, cold, controlled, lethal.

“You tipped that ladder because you couldn’t stand the idea of me climbing past you. Of me earning something you think only belongs to your generation.”

LJ exhales sharply through his nose.

“That ladder didn’t cost me a match, Bill. It showed me exactly who you are. You are a bloody fucking coward and perhaps one of the biggest hypocrites in the entire company. You’ve been doing it so low key that people have been letting you get away with it for far too long”

He leans in closer, eyes burning.

“You talk about respect, but you can’t stand it when someone doesn’t fear you, when someone keeps getting back up... when someone younger, faster, and hungrier refuses to bow. And to top it all off, with what you cost me with your actions tonight? I’m going to take it out of your ass, TEN-FOLD!”

His hand clenches into a fist.

“So here’s what’s gonna happen.”

He straightens, shoulders squared despite the pain screaming through his body.

“I want you to enjoy your holidays. You enjoy hiding behind cheap shots and nostalgia. You enjoy pretending you still matter because you can sabotage matches you aren’t even part of.”

A slow, dangerous smile curls at the edge of his mouth.

“Because January 11th at Inception in Las Vegas?”

He points directly into the camera.

“There’s nowhere left for you to hide. There are NO excuses left. There is no bullshit made up scenarios that are in your head about how things actually are. When I’m done with you, your wife Bea is gonna need your dental records to identify what’s left of your old, decrepit body. There will be no apologies made, most of all from you because I know that will never fucking happen.... And this time?”

LJ shakes his head.

“You won’t be able to blame the new generation of the talent that is in this company that has surpassed you even in your best years. You won’t be able to blame disrespect.”

He takes one last step back, eyes never leaving the lens.

“You’ll only be able to blame yourself....for not knowing when to stay the hell out of my way.”

LJ turns and storms off down the hallway, the camera lingering on the empty space he leaves behind, rage, pain, and inevitability hanging thick in the air.

-----------

That Odd Pause
LJ & Ally’s Home
Las Vegas

The week after Christmas always felt strange. Not quiet exactly as Las Vegas never really allowed for that, but slower in a way that LJ wasn’t used to. The city still buzzed, still glowed neon at night like it refused to rest, but the rhythm had shifted. There was less urgency, fewer demands and that rare pause between one obligation and the next.

LJ wasn’t very good at pauses.

He woke early anyway, habit more than necessity. The ribs were the first thing he noticed, like they had been every morning since Denver and even before that, a dull, lingering ache that flared sharp if he twisted wrong. He rolled onto his side carefully, teeth clenched until the worst of it passed, then sat up on the edge of the bed and breathed through it. Not broken and not sidelined. He just is not right...at least not yet.

He wrapped them before training anyway. Every time. Not because the doctors told him to, but because he refused to give the pain permission to slow him down.

The gym sessions were quieter now. No ring bookings and no travel. There were no cameras to play up too. It was just him, weights, cardio, shadowboxing, and the constant internal argument between heal and push. He compromised by doing both, working around the ribs, modifying lifts, drilling footwork and timing until sweat soaked through his shirt and the ache faded into background noise.

Possessed wasn’t the wrong word but neither was focused.

By the time he got home, shirt slung over his shoulder, breath still heavy, the apartment smelled like coffee and cinnamon. Ally was curled up on the couch, hair pulled into a messy knot, legs tucked beneath her, a wooden puzzle box sitting on the coffee table like it had personally offended her. LJ couldn’t help but smile, he got it for her for Christmas after she personally challenged him to get her something challenging. It had been there every day since Christmas, barely leaving her side. She glared at it like it owed her money.

“You’re pacing again,” she said without looking up.

LJ paused mid-step, then smirked, "Am I?”

“You are,” she confirmed, "You only do that when you’re thinking too hard or when you’re mad at something you can’t hit.”

He dropped onto the couch beside her carefully, ribs protesting ever so slightly and leaned back with a low exhale, "That’s incredibly specific.”

“You’re incredibly predictable.”

That caused LJ to sputter to a laugh, “OH THANKS!”

She picked up the puzzle box again, turning it slowly in her hands. It was beautifully made, dark polished wood, hidden seams, grooves that didn’t make sense until they suddenly did, or were supposed to. Ally had wanted a challenge. Something that would take time. Something that would fight back. At the moment, it was winning.

“I swear,” she muttered, sliding one panel and watching it stubbornly refuse to open, “This thing is mocking me.”

LJ bit back a laugh, “You said you wanted something hard.”

“I wanted a challenge,” she corrected, "Not emotionally devastating, especially knowing that my big present is in there...you should have never told me that, you know that right?.”

He reached out, gently steadying the box as she rotated it again, his fingers brushing hers, "I can help,  you know that.”

She shot him a look, "You touch it and I’ll never forgive myself.”

“Okay, that’s fair., but the offer stands.”

She sighed, leaning her head against his shoulder, careful of the ribs, "I’ve been working on it for days, LJ. DAYS. I beat Dark Souls without throwing a controller. I should not be losing to a box. I have been through so many possibilities and always get stuck at the same place! I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“You’re not losing,” he said quietly, "You’re just... stuck. Might I suggest looking at it from a different point of view?”

She hummed, unconvinced.

The apartment felt fuller even without Ashlynn there at the moment, less chaotic, but warmer somehow. Her shoes by the door. Her hoodie slung over the back of a chair. Evidence of a life that had uprooted itself from Texas and landed here, in the middle of his madness, without hesitation.

That part still hit him sometimes, usually when things were quiet like this.

He’d tried to sneak in studying later that afternoon. His second semester law books spread across the dining table, notes half-written before his focus drifted. He wasn’t behind, hell the semester wasn’t even going, but he refused to be caught off guard when the semester started back up in mid-January. Wrestling might be the thing people saw, but the rest of his life didn’t pause just because the ring did.

Neither did the clock ticking toward Inception.

Still, for this moment, it was just him and Ally and a stupid puzzle box that refused to give up its secrets.

She set it down again with a huff and flopped back against the couch, "Okay. I’m taking a break before I throw it through the window.”

LJ laughed softly, then winced when it twinged at his ribs, "That would defeat the purpose of keeping the present inside.”

“You are a cruel individual, Lyle Kasey, Jr.. I will not be mocked.” She turned to look at him then, eyes softer when he gave her a look, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said automatically, then amended it, "I’m getting there, I think.”

Her hand slid over his side, warm, careful, "You don’t have to be a madman every second, you know. You are allowed to take breaks and relax.”

“I know,” he said. And he meant it, "I just... I don't want to waste the time.”

She smiled faintly, "You’re not. You’re healing both your body and your brain and that counts. It’s bad enough Bill did some serious damage to you two weeks before that ladder match and going into said ladder match on top of it. You barely got to heal from getting jumped before that. And that was after you getting stretched thin with finals. Give yourself time to rest, babe. Please?”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss into her hair, breathing her in like it grounded him. Outside, the city kept humming toward the new year. Toward January. Toward Las Vegas and unfinished business.

For now, though, he let himself sit still.

And watched the puzzle box, waiting for the moment Ally cracked it open, just like everything else she set her mind to.

Of course she had to stop being stubborn if that was going to ever happen.

-----------

No Applause
Private Gym
Las Vegas

The gym was empty in the way only a private gym ever was. He had no music blaring. No crowd noise bleeding in from an arena. Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint whirr of a treadmill cooling down, and the sound of LJ Kasey’s own breathing as he leaned forward, hands braced on his knees.

Sweat dripped from his chin and splattered against the rubber mat beneath him.

The ribs burned. Not sharp enough to stop him but they were not dull enough to ignore.

Honestly, it was perfect because it reminded him of what atrocities had been committed against him for just existing on a roster that hosted assholes.

He straightened slowly and turned toward the mirror.

The man staring back at him looked leaner than he remembered. There was still faint yellowing along his side if you knew where to look, skin not fully done healing yet though it was close. His eyes were the biggest difference though. They weren’t wild nor frantic but focused.

LJ wiped his face with the hem of his shirt and laughed once under his breath. No humor in it.

“Look at you,” he muttered to his reflection, "Still standing. That must really piss him off.”

He stepped closer to the mirror, close enough that his breath fogged the glass for half a second.

“Bill Barnhart.”

The name came out like poison.

“You really thought that between being attacked from behind or having the ladder tipped out from under me was something that was gonna end me, didn’t you?” he said quietly, "Thought you’d shove me off, watch me crash, and I’d finally learn my place. That I would stay down, stay quiet and supposedly know my role.”

His jaw tightened.

“After talking to several people, I have found out that you’ve been doing this your whole career. You pick your moments where you don’t have to earn anything. You tend to show up when someone else is doing the work. And you have zero issues in taking shortcuts and calling it ‘experience.’”

He shook his head slowly.

“You didn’t attack me because I disrespected you. You didn’t attack me because I cheated or cut corners or skipped a line.” His eyes hardened, "You attacked me because, like many of the youngsters on the roster, I don’t fear you.”

LJ leaned his forearm against the mirror, knuckles whitening.

“And that eats you alive.”

He straightened again, posture squared, voice rising just enough to fill the empty room.

“You see me and you don’t see a kid. You see time catching up to you while you are constantly running away denying that your time is not almost up. You see someone who keeps getting back up no matter how many times you try to clip the knees out from under him. AND most importantly you see someone who doesn’t need your approval and sure as hell doesn’t need your permission.”

A breath in through his nose, slow and controlled.

“You wanna talk about respect? Respect isn’t cheap shots behind someone's back. Respect isn’t hiding behind your wife or your reputation or whatever scraps of nostalgia you think still matter. Respect is standing across from someone and beating them when they’re ready.”

He scoffed.

“And you couldn’t wait.”

LJ stepped back, pacing once, then stopping dead, eyes locked with his own reflection again.

“So here’s the part you don’t understand, Bill. I didn’t rush this. I didn’t come back half-broken swinging just to prove I could. I healed, I trained and more importantly, I waited. I let the anger settle into something useful.”

His lips curled into something sharp.

“A fatal mistake was you giving me time. We could have EASILY settled this weeks ago but instead YOU chose the hard road that would temporarily put a spotlight on you.”

He jabbed a finger toward the mirror, as if Bill were standing on the other side of it.

“And at Inception? I’m not coming to out-wrestle you and I’m not coming to impress anyone. I’m not going to make a statement about generations or respect or the future of this company....well maybe that one partially...BUT...”

His voice dropped, low and dangerous.

“I’m coming to hurt you.”

LJ leaned in close again, eyes cold.

“I’m coming to make you feel every shortcut you ever took. Every cheap shot you ever justified and every time you thought you could just insert yourself and walk away without consequences. You wanted my attention? You have it. You wanted to make this personal? Congratulations.”

He straightened, shoulders squared.

“At Inception, there are no ladders for you to tip. Instead its you on the other end of a chain, tied together where you won’t be able to escape and run like the bitch you are. There will be no surprises, no excuses. Just you, me, and the reality you’ve been running from.”

His reflection stared back, unflinching.

“When it’s over,” LJ said quietly, “You don’t get to blame disrespect. You don’t get to blame the new generation. You don’t get to blame anyone else stepping out of line.”

He turned away from the mirror, grabbing his towel.

“You get to live with the fact that you pushed the wrong man.”

LJ walked toward the exit, leaving the mirror behind. The gym stayed silent but the decision had already been made.
93
Supercard Roleplays / Lessons
« Last post by Eddie Lyons on January 03, 2026, 02:51:48 PM »
It was the early morning in the home of Eddie Lyons, a calm quiet before the world decided what kind of day it wanted to be. Eddie stood with a warm cup of coffee, preparing for the day to start, a calmness that most people never saw.

It was the space between moments that Eddie really enjoyed, it felt honest where nothing demanded anything from him. He took a sip of his coffee letting the warm to settle and his chest slowly not wanting to rush the morning.

There was a quietness down the halls where Sabrina and Jordan slept peacefully. His wife and daughter, the two most important women in his life and the ones he was now fighting for.

But the early morning hours like this one?

This was his time.

Eddie let the quietness settle in, the only real sound being the hum of the refrigerator. The kind of quiet that let the thoughts come forward even when you didn't invite them.

Brayden Williams jumped to the front of his mind.

The weight of words long before he stepped into a ring the bruises would fade in the fatigue would pass but the right words had a way of sticking around longer than they should and the words from Brayden's mouth stuck with Eddie like they were gorilla glued to him.

“You damn right he isn’t a workhorse, it’s a bunch of noise.“

The words rolled over in his head again like they had a thousand times already Brayden had said it so plainly and calmly, almost like an observation rather than an insult and that's what bothered him the most.

If Brayden had just ran his mouth like anybody else, it would have been easier and he could have brushed it off and choked it up to Brayden's own insecurities or ego. But Eddie could tell that Brayden believed it, or at least believed it enough to say it out loud.

Eddie took another slow slip of coffee staring out the kitchen window watching the sky grow lighter as the day began to take shape. Somewhere out there was Brayden, probably convinced he had gotten under Eddie's skin.

And perhaps he had.

But it wasn't in the way Brayden thought, because Eddie wasn't angry and he wasn't even offended, not really.  All Brayden did was force Eddie to look inward and that was something he had never been afraid of. He was never afraid of asking himself the uncomfortable questions. Am I doing enough? Am I getting better? Am I becoming the man I need to be in AND out of the ring? It was the kind of self-examination that didn't come from laziness, it was the kind that came from accountability.

Accountability was a lonely thing sometimes. There was no crowd for it, no applause when you chose discipline over comfort or patience over impulse. It didn't look impressive on camera, it just existed in the choices you made when no one was watching, that was the part Brayden didn't see.

Eddie had spent his career being present showing up when it would have been easier. Fighting through injuries that never made any highlight reels, taking losses without turning them into excuses and building himself slowly. Knowing full well patience in this business was often mistaken for complacency.

Eddie sat the coffee down and rubbed his hands together grounding himself. The Lyons Den looming large in his thoughts. The match didn't care who talked louder or who had the sharper tongue, it stripped everything down to effort and endurance. You couldn't coast or bluff in the den and you couldn't fake being ready. This was where Eddie would show Brayden what work ethic really meant.

He moved to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch resting his elbows on his knees and his cup on the coffee table making sure to use a coaster like Sabrina had reminded him a thousand times over.

Brayden Williams was the type of guy who thought work ethic meant constant motion and noise, but Eddie knew it was quieter than that. It was showing restraint when ego begged you to react, choosing the harder road when the easier one promised faster results, and maybe that didn't look impressive to Brayden or fit the image he had in his head of what a workhorse was supposed to be, and Eddie was okay with that.

What wasn't okay was letting that narrative stand unchallenged because if Eddie didn't answer it, then it would follow him. It would be whispered behind his back and brought up every time he came close but didn't quite reach the summit.

He had chosen the Lyon's Den as his answer.

Eddie let the thoughts settle without pushing it any further, he learned a long time ago there was no benefit in circling a decision over and over. Sometimes it was meant to sit there quietly until the time came to act.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft shuffle from down the hall bare feet against the floor as Sabrina appeared,  hair tussled still rubbing her eyes and squinting against the light.

“Mornin’ beautiful.” he said with a smile.

“Mornin’...how long have you been up?” she asked sleepily.

“Just long enough to get the coffee ready.” Eddie replied “I suggest pouring a cup before Jordan wakes up. I can get it for you if you like.”

Sabrina smiled and after giving him a soft kiss on the forehead went to retrieve her own cup of coffee from the kitchen, returning a few moments later to cuddle up to him.

“You remembered the coaster.” she said.

“Yep.” Eddie said with a grin “I do listen sometimes.”

“Jordan's been awfully quiet tonight.” Sabrina said “It almost feels like a trap.”

“It's definitely a trap.” said Eddie “Or maybe she's finally getting better at sleeping through the night.”

“Wouldn't that be nice?” said Sabrina through a sip of coffee.

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence after that. The kind built on many shared mornings, an unspoken understanding. Eddie looked through the window again, his thoughts quieter and more grounded. Whatever awaited him beyond this house, inside The Lyons Den could wait just a little while longer.

A faint cry came from down the hall as Jordan began to stir, always the  reminder of the expiration date that the calm he and Sabrina had.

“There it is..” said Sabrina.

“Yep. The party's about to start.” said Eddie after a sip of his own coffee.

Together they walked back to the baby room to get ready for whatever the boss of the house commanded of them.

__________


The camera fades in on Eddie sitting on a wooden bench in an empty arena with no ring or crowd, just calm and quiet with Eddie in his street clothes looking directly into the camera.

“You know what's funny Brayden?” he began. “Everybody thinks disrespect starts with yelling and throwing insults trying to be the loudest guy in the room so nobody notices how insecure you are underneath it all.”

Eddie pauses.

“But that's not how you did it.” Eddie continued “You didn't scream you didn't sound angry, you just said it plain as day like you were stating a fact –he isn't a workhorse, it's just noise– and that right there is where you crossed the line. You didn't try to provoke me, you tried to define me and that tells a lot about where you think you stand, and where you think I stand.”

He exhales heavily.

“So let's talk about respect.” Eddie continued “Because I don't think you actually understand what it is. Respect isn't loud or performative, and it damn sure isn't something you earn by running your mouth about another man's work ethic when you've never had to carry what he carries.”

His eyes stay heavy on the camera now.

“Respect is of the new earn by going into that ring and giving it your all every single time.” Eddie continued “It's about making no excuses for your shortcomings and always trying to make yourself better each and every time you step into that ring.”

He shifts slightly on the bench resting his forearms on his thighs.

“Respect is earned by showing up and it would be easier or not too.“ Eddie said “It's earned by taking responsibility when things don't go your way instead of pointing fingers and understanding that the business doesn't owe you a damn thing and neither do the people in it.”

He pauses again.

“Work ethic isn't about being the loudest guy in the room.” Eddie continued,  "It's about being the most reliable one, the one who keeps showing up.  The one who doesn't disappear the first time the road gets uncomfortable. You look at me and decide I'm not a workhorse because I don't do things your way or because I don't broadcast every ounce of effort like I'm begging for approval.”

He shakes his head slightly.

“I stopped needing approval a long time ago.” said Eddie “You want to know what real work ethic looks like? It looks like taking losses and not letting them turn you bitter. It looks like learning instead of writing and it looks like patience when the world around you is panicking.”

He exhales again.

“It's understanding who you are and not needing to tear someone else down to convince yourself you belong.” Eddie continued, “See Brayden, when you spoke about me like that you weren't punching up,  you were punching blind. You made an assumption based on what you value and not what actually lasts in this business.”

Eddie leans back slightly resting his hands on the bench at his sides.

“You're about to enter a place where there is no escape." Eddie continued “The Lyons Den leaves no room for excuses. It's  a place where words don't matter and it's all about who's willing to fight the hardest.  You need to be taught a lesson in humility and I am going to be the one to humble you Brayden. When it's all said and done you will really know what respect is all about.”

Eddie lets the words hang, his eyes not wavering from the camera.

“You don't get to decide what my work ethic looks like.” said Eddie “You don't get to reduce years of sacrifice into a sound bite to make yourself feel taller, because while you are building opinions, I was building consistency.  you were watching, I was doing. And that's the difference and that's why this is going to end the way it will with me teaching you a very valuable lesson in respect.”

Eddie straightens up his posture calm and confident.

“This isn't about embarrassing you, or proving I'm better than you for some highlight reel.” said Eddie calmly “This is about correcting you, because everyone in this business learns something early on. Every word you say comes with a receipt, every opinion you hand out gets collected and sooner or later somebody comes to cash in on it, and I'm wasting no time cashing in on you and your fraudulent opinion of me. I'm going to show you exactly who Eddie Lyons is, and exactly how wrong you are.”

He lets out a slow breath.

“You called me noise because you couldn't hear the work being done underneath it.” Eddie said “You mistook patience for weakness and consistency for complacency.  That's the mindset of someone who hasn't been humbled yet. I assure you the Lyon's Den is going to humble you real quick,  because it doesn't care what you believe or how confident you feel walking in. It only cares about what you're willing to give up to walk back out.”

He lets the words hang once more.

“You're going to feel every assumption you made about me.” said Eddie “Every word you spoke without understanding the weight behind it, and when you do I want you to remember that I never yelled at you, I didn't insult you, I tried to teach you. So that when all this is over and you're exhausted and finally quiet, maybe you'll understand what respect actually is.”

The camera lingers on his face for just a moment.

“Class dismissed.” he grins.

The camera continues to linger on his face as it all fades to black.
94
Supercard Roleplays / Re: FRANKIE HOLLIDAY v AMELIA REYNOLDS
« Last post by Amelia Reynolds on January 03, 2026, 03:22:45 AM »
mirrors
04.1 placed





★★★★★★★

december 31, 2025
new york city

Lunch had been an indulgence, primarily in that it was out of laziness more than anything else. The Waldorf Astoria’s Lex Yard didn’t have crisp white tablecloths, but it did have quiet silver and a maitre’d who spoke in a low, practiced cadence that said his tip money was already included in the check.

Amelia sat with her shoulders relaxed, hands wrapped around the warm curve of a teacup that smelled vaguely of citrus. The city beyond the windows looked cold, but everything in here was simply patience. She could have pretended, if she wanted, that she didn’t have work. That this was just a week away from the craziness of her life. Something ordinary, simply a lunch that ended with a stroll and a shared dessert and nothing waiting behind the next door. That the man in front of her wasn’t keeping something from her, no matter how calm and quiet he was.

Yet still.

Dickie wore a particular restlessness he always did on show days, whether it was his own or hers. It wasn’t anxiety so much as energy that refused to sit neatly inside his skin. He was a wrestling gremlin in the most affectionate sense. His eyes were alert, mouth half-curved as if he were on the edge of a joke. His fingers tapped against the table once and then stopped as if he’d caught himself. He’d eaten, but it looked like he’d done it quickly, like it was an obligation that distracted them from the real business of the day.

He leaned back in his chair and rolled his shoulders. “I think I’m gonna go hang with Kallie.” He told her, casually, like he was simply going to the ice machine down the hall from their room. “Cheer from the seventy-five inch with the Dragon and his Princess.”

Amelia’s mouth softened into a smile before she could help it. “Dax and Cassandra will love that.”

He nodded. “Aiden and you both have matches, and it’s not like Kallie can step away from Cass right now. And besides, Dax is still convinced I am the coolest human alive.”

“That’s because,” she replied with a smirk growing on her face, “you encourage him to become chaos.”

“I do not.” He replied with the solemnity of a complete and utter liar. “I simply exist, and he’s just…spiritually aligned with my greatness.”

Amelia let out a quiet laugh, one that came from her chest  that loosened something in her ribs. It felt good to laugh like that on a day that so easily could – and would – become all about intensity and pressure. “I think it’s good you go,” she smiled, leaning forward and propping her head up with her hand. “You won’t be buzzing in a parking lot, and you’ll be occupied.”

“Occupied,” he repeated, amused. He stood, smooth and quick, already turning his body toward the rhythm of leaving. “Like I’m the toddler, okay. I see you. Meanwhile, you’ll be busy being terrifying and problematic.”

Amelia rose too, the chair whispering back across the floor. She gathered her composure the way she always did, quietly and efficiently, even if her eyes stayed on him. There were things that she wanted to ask in that moment, softly. She wanted to pull him closer by the wrist and ask, Are you alright? Why have you been so quiet lately? But she’d learned over time that some questions were better saved for later.

They left the restaurant together. The lobby opened up ahead with high ceilings, lavish fountains, muted chatter, Old New York elegance that they didn’t fit in. People moved in and out like currents. A small city within a larger, hulking one.

It was at the fountain that he slowed. Not stopped – he was like a rabbit that way, always moving – but slowing just enough that it mattered. Amelia turned toward him instinctively, her feet stopping softly. She could see the line of his jaw and the way his eyes slid across her face as if committing it to memory. Something in her went still, instinctively, like part of her had recognized the moment as important.

He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers near her temple as if ensuring she was still real. He leaned in, and the kiss that landed on her forehead was so deliberately tender that it felt like a promise without words. Not performative. Not a quick good luck peck. Affection, steady and anchored – a claim of closeness that didn’t need an audience, but happened openly anyway. He didn’t seem to care who saw.

She closed her eyes for half a second and let the contact settle into her bones. It was easy to forget he was hiding things when he was like this. When he pulled back, his expression had shifted back to something lighter, the familiar half-smirk returning like armor. “I’ll see you after,” he said.

She nodded. He gripped her hand tightly once and let go, turning to weave into the lobby’s flow, towards the parking garage, their family, and the portion of the day that would keep him near without hovering. She watched him go for a moment longer than necessary, one hand briefly lifting towards her forehead as if she could hold the imprint there. Then, she exhaled, squared her shoulders, and walked to the elevators towards her own match, her own work, and a day that had already begun to mark itself as something she would remember.


★★★★★★★


It’s always funny to me how everyone comes into these things jawin’ off like the did somethin’ spectacular. Like they’re special for winnin’ something, even if it’s a little bit unfairly. But that’s what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Try to like, sound better than we are so the people around us give a little bit of fear or respect. Some people might scream from the rafters “I BEAT THIS PERSON RAAAAAH!!!!!” because they think that gives them a little lick of credibility.

I’m not really convinced on that. I like seein’ it happen, ya know? The evidence blasted across the stage. Goin’ all the way back to Summer XXXTreme, I recall the fact that I like…was almost there. A millisecond more and I would’ve had it. I didn’t. I lost. I stepped away. It really pulled somethin’ out of me for a second, and I’ll always recognize it. And I know people will wanna use it against me because they’re fuckheads like that, but ya know…

Find like…new better lines to dig at me with!

For the whole of twenty-twenty-five, I made a lot of gains in this business whether that is attributed here or not. Here, even if the dirt sheets can’t get my moniker right or they can’t accurately place my win-loss record, but they can deep throat an Argentinian bish that hasn’t been relevant until this year amazingly – suddenly with the generation of content! – I’ve been fairly successful. Seven matches here, only two (2) of them a loss for me.

And one of ‘em was to a sneaky roll up because she couldn’t put me down like she said she was gonna.

Results matter, but so do the way things happen, Mercedes! As if you would know.

I don’t like showin’ up to these things feelin’ like the world is my oyster, and it owes me. I’m not the type of woman that believes that my mere presence makes the voices sing my praises. I know that good work, a bit of fight, and a lot of heart placed into all of this gets the ball runnin’ just as much as piss and vinegar. Spite is a well-workin’ companion to anger, but it isn’t what gets you anywhere. And neither is just simple belief.

You work to succeed, and you succeed when you work. I’ve been workin’. I have lofty goals, but they’re not out of line with my ability to move forward. I just have to be more important to this company first. Not a third match on a big card kind of girlie but more like a headliner kinda girlie.

My sixth match ever, I won the top championship of a new company. I worked for it. I fought for it. I breathed for it. And that Gotham Crown sits on my mantle with my Russian-Brit boyfriend’s two top champ champ titles and I realize that even if I haven’t done it at Sin City Wrestling…I can do it.

This is my chance to prove I fit in with our regalia of women here.

I said it at the last show, and I’ll say it again here – the road has been set for a while, and while I’ve been politely ignored week in and week out, I’ve had my eyes on this since I knew about it. I’m competitive. I like to fight. I told you that I was on my way to the biggest stage of the year and I want ya thinkin’ about me. I’m walkin’ in to Inception VIII as someone who’s trying to make life complicated and become a problem.

I was talkin’ to you, Frankie Honey.

I know, so obtuse. How dare you talk about someone when it’s not even their match time or you haven’t faced them! Talk about the past only that you’ve existed because you can make yourself look prettier in it. But what do I get for mentionin’ you?

A big fat load of nothin’, which I think you’re used to taking…if you catch my drift.

I know you think you’re comfortable. You have all of these contacts outside of this company, and these people are patting you on the head, saying good girl, and you lap it up like one of Maslow’s doggos. The desire to be loved is so prevalent within you, I don’t think you even see it.

It’s there when you tell us that you were trying to fix things.

It’s there when you admonish the company for not seeing your vision of greatness.

It’s there when you viciously and verbally maim people because they don’t fit the bill of what you want, desire, need, feel.

I see you for what you are, Frankie, even if you don’t see it in yourself. Lack of love becomes envy and jealousy. Try to argue it, and you’ll dig yourself into a deeper hole.

So tell me, Miss Doe-Eyed, pretty little girl from Wisconsin. What are ya gonna play this time? The rooting cheerleader that wanted the best for me? Manipulate your way through another promotional video to try to make yourself the victim while everyone else sees you for who you are? Did you realize that the rest of us weren’t picking up on the mediocrity pouring out of your lungs?

Because you can talk and talk and talk and talk, Frankie. Franchesca. Frannie. That’s all you do, and for a long while, it fit the bill. It paid for what you needed.

Don’t think that’s gonna work on me.

That’s gonna be a problem for you.


★★★★★★★


She hadn’t won. The loss came with its own kind of private silence.

It wasn’t the dramatic kind – you know, the one that demanded tears and a spiral. Like she had that one time they built her up as the next big thing only to have her broken by a slim millisecond. It was just a moment, really, after the crowd stopped being a wall of sound and really became a memory. She had the championship, still in her grasp. Her first championship. The Gotham Crown with all of its blue and red and gold.

Samantha Hamilton had put in the paces for that win, barely scraping through and winning. Just like with Mercedes – barely scraping through. Both of them knew it. Amelia could live with that, the win having not come clean or effortless, and that’s all that mattered to her, even if the record book only held the result.

Inside the locker room, she dropped onto the bench and let her shoulders fall in one fell swoop. The fluorescents flattened everything, making her look like a girl in a room instead of a performer who just stood under spotlights and white-hot lights. Her fingers went to the pins in her hair first, finding them by feeling. Each one, as they came out, eased the ache at her scalp.

After a second, her platinum hair spilled down past her shoulders and she shook her fingers in her scalp to ease the rest of the pressure. She gathered it without thought and threw it up in a messier bun that wasn’t as taut.

Practical.

Familiar.

Her phone buzzed once. She glanced at it, nothing urgent. A message from Kallie earlier, a photo of Dax with an applesauce packet dangling from his mouth standing on Dickie’s shoulders. Dragon, she thought. He already had balance – if he moved in the same family line, when he was sixteen, he’d be flying from people’s shoulders too.

She cracked her shoulder as she stretched then, reaching for her gear bag a moment later. She unzipped it the way she always did, already thinking about the shower that would come when she got back to the hotel. She’d throw on her sweatshirt (Dickie’s), check on Aiden, make him drive her in the shitty New York streets back to the Waldorf and stand for twenty minutes under blazing hot water. Dickie would argue from the room how she could readjust next time, planning six steps ahead for her, and then let her nuzzle into him while she forced another episode of Grey’s Anatomy.

Her fingers brushed fabric, tape, and the familiar clutter of the night’s work. And then they hit something that didn’t belong.

It wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t large. But, it was absolutely wrong in the way a foreign object is wrong in your own home. She stopped for a second, and then wrapped her fingers around the thin, plastic coating on paper. She drew it out.

A photograph. Printed and glossy, fresh enough that the paper still held a faint chemical smell of ink and heat. Her breath caught slightly. Not sheer panic, but more of a tightening in her throat, body’s response of recognized danger before her mind caught up to what it was.

It was of her, of Dickie kissing her on the forehead in the lobby, not hours ago. Not from a distance, nor was it weirdly grainy like a surveillance photo. It was close enough to see the exact angle of his hand and the intricate linework that decorated it. It was intimate between them, and it was owned. And threaded through the edge of the photo, punched cleanly through the corner as if someone had taken the time to do it properly, was lace.

White handmade lace. Gold-edged.

Her fingers went cold around it. For one suspended second, she was in their little kitchen, back in March, watching Dickie’s face change in an instance at the sight of it the first time, like watching something ancient and violent slide over him like a skin.

Don’t touch it. Don’t look at it. Don’t move.

His voice had been low and fast and dangerous. Not loud, not chaotic. Focused and commanding, a tone she hadn’t heard from him before that made her want to listen. Not necessarily out of fear, but more out of instinct, like the world itself had shifted and he was the only stable point in it.

Her grip tightened around the photo now without meaning to. There was red thread tied around the lace. Deliberately, knotted with care, as if someone had dressed the lace the way you might dress a wound. The red stood out against the white and gold like a signature. Amelia stared at it, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

They had been in her bag.

They had opened it.

They touched her things.

They had placed this inside with the kind of confidence that came from knowing no one would stop them.

The room suddenly felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. More like the air itself had turned attentive. Her first impulse was to look at the door, which was still shut, locked and normal, just as it had been.

No. Normal was a lie.

Her second impulse was to take the photo and rip it in half, but she didn’t. Whoever this was, it would be giving them the satisfaction of reaction. She took one slow breath in through her nose and let it out carefully, not moving the lace, or untying the threat. She didn’t shift the photo. The memory of Dickie’s voice sat in her spine like a hand.

Don’t move.

Her eyes flicked down again, taking in details like she was assessing evidence rather than absorbing violation. The hole punched in the photo was clean and precise. The lace didn’t fray where it fed through, and the knot in the thread was tight, intentional and elegant. Whoever had done it wanted her to see the craftsmanship, wanted her to understand that this wasn’t made by a frantic person – wanted her to understand that this was a message delivered by someone who believed they had the right to deliver it.

Her phone sat still on the bench beside her. For a moment she simply stared at it, as if it might bite. Then, she picked it up, and her fingers moved to Messages, hoving over the emojis she’d jokingly added to Dickie’s name. She pressed it softly, typing out a message with careful speed one-handed.

In my gear bag.
Photo from the lobby.
Lace.
Red thread.
It’s here.
I didn’t move it.

The loss against Samantha sat somewhere completely behind her now, distant, not irrelevant but not critical. It had been a fight, it had been close, it had been a night. A normal night. This…this was something else. This was access, someone proving they could reach into the softest part of her life and touch it with unknown hands.

The door outside her room sounded with footsteps, voices, and the ordinary traffic of the show. Amelia stayed still anyway. Aiden would be there in a second, and she had a sneaking suspicion that Aiden was more aware of things than she was. When her phone finally buzzed with Dickie’s response, her stomach dropped in confirmation.

Звезднысвет, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you.
Don’t touch it anymore. Zip it.
Go with Aiden, he’ll get you straight to me. He’s got you.
I need you safe.
I’ll see you soon.

This wasn’t going away. And Dickie had been carrying it seemingly less alone than she thought.


★★★★★★★


I don’t want to go too far into it, you know. Don’t want to pick you apart just yet. Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to say when we get to week two, and I thank you for the fact that you’re actually going to speak, unlike others.

Where would you like to start?

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? Your rise to the Bombshells Championship was through the Blast From the Past, and you got there with some challenges that you simply brushed off as simple and unnecessary. Maybe you didn't say those things, but it was there in your tone. Lilith and Melissa, both gone now, were a piece of cake. You had Julianna DiMarria, who is also gone now, and you beat her.

Then came Laura and Mikah, two women who have stayed far longer than they were ever asked to be here. Laura comes from fame outside of here and couldn’t step up. And Mikah made a habit of putting her relationships over her actual success, as she hasn’t been relevant as anything more than a mixed tag team wrestler since 2018.

You called Kayla Richards irrelevant and now here she is…a match ahead of you on a card you went from being on the top of to the very, very bottom. With me! The rookie who lost to Mercedes Vargas and Andrea Hernandez. I deserve to be here.

Where….where do you deserve to be?

I’d like to say you deserve to be up there with the best of them, but you’re nine-five in seven months and most of those losses come from now as opposed to earlier. And Kayla? Kayla carried you in that tag match. She did more, she had more momentum and she controlled that match. You helped. A little. And then you had the audacity to call her irrelevant…which you’ve called everyone, might I add…but how about you look in the mirror and say with the same gusto, yeah?

You lost the championship a month into your reign. You lost it to Crystal Caldwell after calling her washed up and old and…whatever the hell you did, and it wasn’t expected. That was the crux, wasn’t it? It wasn’t expected. You keep tellin’ us that all of these things are going to happen because of what the history books and the dirt sheets say, and you wanted so badly to change the status quo. You had a month long reign and lost it to someone who learned how to work around your bullshit.

Listen with all of your ability. If you even have the ability to do so with all of the diatribe you speak.

You’re not a catalyst.

You’re not a queen in the making.

You’re not even a fixture in this company.

You’re like a run down, semi-shiny newold toy that got fucked. But you like that, don’tcha?

Ope, little Australian got a little too vindictive there, tried to sound like you. Did it work? Did I become edgy? No? Too much?

Do you hear yourself when you talk, Frannie? You like to scream about relevancy, but people have destroyed your mantle lately. This role has to go to someone younger, you said, as if veteran smarts don’t exist. Fuckin’ manifestos about about utopias make you sound like a crazy shooter person, and maybe really the only thing ya actually need is a straightjacket. You have no right to be calling anyone channel changers when ninety-five percent of the time since you lost the championship, no one is interested in what you did.

You’ve got no right to call anyone a nostalgia act when we’re already nostalgic for the days of your success. Bella and Alexandra defeated you because you sat there and thought you knew the system. That you were better because you jabbed a little edginess in there and talked about relevancy and lackluster and blood and sex.

Newsflash, darlin’, we all get laid. It’s not somethin’ new.

And the way you approach things…inspired one week and then the next you’re shittin’ on them for everything they’re worth and a box of rocks.

Maybe you’ve got this weird need to be respected, or loved, or adored, or everything under the sun because no one has ever really done any part of that. And now you’re facin’ a nother rookie who already had her big failure and made somethin’ of herself anyway.

What’s that say about ya, Frannie-dear?

Frank? Franchesca?

I know you want so badly to prove you’re worth somethin’.

But you’re not gonna do it on my time.


★★★★★★★


What felt like a peaceful weekend away earlier had come crashing to a grinding halt. The gold light, the marble floors, the lobby that screamed expensive, flickered past her vision as she walked with Aiden to the elevators. Amelia tried to stay composed, her fingers gripping the bag with a specific kind of relentlessness. It helped her look fine, even if she didn’t feel it.

She was scared. But more than that, she was angry.

Aiden knew. She could tell he’d been texted before he even got to her door at The Monarch. He kept her in public eye until they got to their corridor, until he took her keycard from her pocket of her bag, until he walked her inside the room. A quiet followed that felt louder than any crowd.

Dickie was already on his feet, not sprawled with the restless joking energy he always had. Not half-laughing, not pointing out something stupid on his phone to make her smile. He was standing near – but not close – to the window like he’d been watching for something in the dim light of the New York City bulbs. He turned his head upon the sound of the door opening, and his gaze went straight to the gear bag her hands so dutifully clung to.

She took four steps into the room and dropped the bag on the bed as he approached, keeping the zipper closed exactly the way he’d told her to. She didn’t touch anything else, and when he stopped short of her, she noted his eyes darting across her face, her shoulders, her waist, ensuring that she was safe. She was still in her ring gear and that silly hoodie of his.

“I didn’t–” she started, but he cut in, low and fast.

“I know.” His voice was focused in a tone she’d only heard when something else snapped him into place. His eyes flickered up to Aiden as he locked the deadbolt without being asked. Amelia watched Dickie’s face shift from worry to stillness, into a control so tight it made the air feel sharper.

“It…it’s the same. Like before,” she added, pulling his attention back to her.

His jaw flexed, and for a second, she could have swore guilt flickered behind his eyes, immediately buried by focus. Aiden spoke, calm as if he was reading off a checklist from behind her, “She did exactly what you said. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t move it.”

“Good,” he nodded, but it wasn’t so much as praise as it sounded like relief. Amelia looked at him, taking a slow breath in, trying to forget that Aiden knew things that she didn’t before she spoke.

“Someone was in my bag. In my things.”

Dickie’s expression tightened, anger flashing hot and immediate beneath the restraint as his eyes flicked to the bag again. She tilted her head, ensuring that she had his attention as she leaned forward.

“This is why you’ve been weird. This is why Yoshiro keeps pulling you away for stupid things. And you keep telling me it’s nothing. But you argue with Finn behind closed doors, you share looks and disappear with Yoshiro and,” she pointed at Aiden, “he knows about all of it before I do.”

“Звездныйсвет,” he breathed his nickname for her. Starlight, he called her. Like he could press it into the air and make everything easier.

It didn’t work. She didn’t move except to cross her arms, jaw tight. Her nose flared slightly. “Don’t use that like it fixes it.” Her voice ground out, sharper than she’d initially meant to. When his throat bobbed and he didn’t move, she reached down and ripped open the zipper of the bag. The sound was too loud, and split the silence like a blade. She felt Aiden’s posture shift behind her, but he didn’t move otherwise.

And neither did Dickie.

He could have. He could have moved faster than her and snatched her hand away, but that wasn’t how Dickie’s brain functioned when it came to her. It was a line, invisible in his head: she does what she wants and I don’t get a say. He raised an eyebrow though as she pulled the intrusion out of her bag and flung it to the bedspread.

The photo of them, or rather the invasion as she felt, landed face-up, glossy against the bedspread. She watched Dickie’s eyes take it in, floating over the visible affection, the gold-edged white lace, the single red thread. His entire body went rigid in the same way it had back in March, as if his brain had launched into several different scenarios and he was stuck on which one to take.

“Amelia,” he said, not a warning but a restrained stop.

“That’s from lunch,” she swallowed, keeping her voice level.

Dickie’s jaw clenched once, and she knew his teeth were gnashing hard. “I told you not to touch it,” he started, but she could tell it wasn’t completely aimed at her.

“It was in my bag.”

His eyes moved to her face, checking her again. Irritated, but safe, she was sure he was cataloguing. “Are you hurt?” He asked.

“No, but I’m not fine.” She watched him look back at the lace and the thread and the invasion of their personal space and she saw it again: an internal calculator of wanting to fold her away somewhere safe and quiet and keep whatever this was from touching her at all. Protect, contain, control variables. She snapped her fingers in his face. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to universally decide what I can handle because it makes you feel better.”

Something raw, guilt-ridden, frustrated, and tender sat behind his eyes now, unsure where to go when the person that he loved bared teeth. He swallowed again. “I was trying to keep you out of it.” He meant them as truth, but the words still came out like an excuse.

“That worked so well. Look at it. I can see the fucking hibiscus clearly on your hand.”

His mouth opened like he was going to say something that mattered, the things that he’d been swallowing for weeks and months, but he stopped. His gaze followed her finger as she pointed at the photograph, to his own hand captured there on paper, to the intimacy they’d shared turned into knives in someone else’s hands. Someone she didn’t even know about.

“You do not get to love me and keep me ignorant.” She declared, each word steady, placed like a boundary line drawn in the same ink on his skin. “Pick one.”

Silence gathered between them.

Dickie didn’t move.

And neither did she.
95
Supercard Roleplays / Re: ALICIA LUKAS (c) v ALEXANDRA CALAWAY - BOMBSHELL ROULETTE TITLE
« Last post by Alicia Lukas on January 03, 2026, 02:22:23 AM »
When the Weight Isn’t on the Bar

The gym was already awake when Alicia arrived.

Not loud, never loud this early, but alive in that familiar way. The hum of treadmills. The distant clatter of plates being racked. The low murmur of conversation between people who didn’t need to fill silence just to prove they belonged there. She liked mornings like this. They didn’t ask anything of her except to show up. Alicia rolled her shoulders as she walked in, gym bag slung over one arm, hair pulled back tight and practical. The mirrors caught her reflection from every angle, not cruelly, not kindly, just honestly. No lights. No crowd. No expectations beyond gravity and effort. For a long time, this place had been her refuge. And for a while after that, her escape.

Today, it felt like neutral ground.

She hadn’t planned on talking to anyone. The intention was simple: move weight, breathe, leave. But plans had a way of dissolving when Alex Jones leaned against the squat rack like he’d been there all morning waiting. He raised his coffee cup slightly when he saw her. “You’re early.”

She snorted. “You’re old. You wake up early.”

“Rude,”” he said mildly. “Accurate, but rude.”

Alicia dropped her bag and stretched her neck, rolling it side to side. “You stalking me now?””

“Nah,” Alex replied. “I just figured if anyone was going to try and out-lift their thoughts today, it’d be you.” That earned him a look. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just tired enough to be honest.

“Is it that obvious?”

Alex shrugged. “You either come in smiling like you’ve conquered the world or quiet like you’re trying not to drown in it. Today’s the second one.”

She exhaled through her nose, the kind of breath that gave something away. “Didn’t know I was that transparent.”

“You’re not, But I’ve been doing this a long time. The gym tells on people if you listen.”

Alicia loaded plates onto the bar, one side at a time. The sound grounded her. Metal on metal. Familiar. Reliable. “I’m fine,” she said, but didn’t put much effort into convincing either of them.

Alex watched without interrupting, arms folded loosely. “Want a spot?”

“For the bar or the conversation?” she asked.

“Dealer’s choice.”

She hesitated, then nodded toward the bench. “Sit. I’ll talk.” Alex obeyed, setting his coffee aside. Alicia rested her hands on the bar but didn’t unrack it yet. Her reflection stared back at her, focused, composed, someone who looked like she had it together. Funny how easy that was to fake. “I thought I was failing,” she said suddenly. Alex didn’t react. Didn’t rush her. Just listened. “My family. Austin. The kids.” Her jaw tightened. “I felt like no matter how much I did, it wasn’t enough. Like I was always one mistake away from everything collapsing.”

She finally lifted the bar and stepped back, rolling her shoulders under the weight. Not lifting yet. Just holding it. Alex nodded slowly. “That’s a heavy place to live.”

“I didn’t realize how deep I was in it,” she continued. “I thought if I just kept pushing, harder matches, longer days, less sleep, I could outrun the feeling.” She dipped slightly, testing her balance. “Turns out you can’t.”

Alex smiled faintly. “Nope. It waits.”

She racked the bar without completing the rep, stepping forward with a frustrated sigh. “Everyone rallied around me. Austin. My mom. Even the kids in ways they don’t realize.” She swallowed. “They didn’t tell me I was failing. They told me I wasn’t alone.”

“That’ll mess you up worse than criticism,” Alex said. “Because now you can’t pretend.”

Alicia laughed under her breath. “Exactly.” She leaned against the rack, wiping her hands on her towel. “I’ve spent so long being the strong one that I didn’t know how to stop.”

Alex’s expression shifted, not pity, but recognition. “You know,”” he said slowly, “when my career first took off, I thought strength meant never needing anyone. I burned a lot of bridges like that.”

Alicia glanced at him. “Your family?”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “They didn’t understand the travel. The injuries. The emotional whiplash of being adored one night and forgotten the next.” He shrugged. “Truth is, I didn’t understand how to explain it without sounding selfish.”

“So you stopped trying,” she guessed.

“Bingo.” He looked down at his hands. “And one day I realized I was surrounded by people in locker rooms who knew me better than the ones who loved me.”

Alicia frowned. “Did you fix it?”

Alex shook his head slightly. “Some things you fix. Some things you accept. My family loves me, but they’ll never fully get this life. And that’s okay.” He looked back up at her. “What matters is the people who choose to understand.”

Her chest tightened. “My kids are amazing,” she said quietly. “All of them. They don’t care about titles or schedules. They just care if I show up.” She smiled softly. “And Austin… he never once made me feel like I had to earn my place.”

Alex nodded. “That man’s a good anchor.”

“He is.” Her voice wavered. “Which scares the hell out of me.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

She hesitated, then said it. “Because what happens when he needs me the way I needed him?” The question hung between them.

Alex didn’t answer immediately. He stood instead, stepping closer, voice lower. “You talking about his shoulder?” She nodded.

“I’ve been so focused on surviving my own spiral,” Alicia admitted, “that I haven’t really thought about what it’s going to be like when he’s ready to come back. When he’s scared. When he doubts himself.” Her fingers curled into her towel. “I don’t want to be the strong one only when it’s convenient.”

Alex studied her carefully. “You know support doesn’t always look like encouragement, right?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes,”” he said, “it looks like patience. Letting someone heal at their pace instead of your timeline. Letting them be angry. Or afraid. Or slow.” That landed harder than any weight.

“You think I won’t be?” she asked, not defensive, just searching.

“I think,” Alex said gently, “you’re used to being the one who carries. And when roles shift, it can feel like weakness instead of balance.”

Alicia swallowed. She pictured Austin frustrated, sidelined, watching from the outside. The way she hated being still. The way she filled silence with pressure. “I don’t want to rush him,” she whispered. “I don’t want to project my fear onto his recovery.”

Alex smiled. “Then don’t.”

She scoffed softly. “That simple, huh?”

“No,” he corrected. “That intentional.” He stepped back, gesturing toward the bar. “Lift.” She did. One clean rep. Then another. Alex continued, voice steady. “You don’t have to be perfect to be supportive. You just have to be present. Let him struggle without trying to fix it. Let him come back when he’s ready….not when you think he should be.” She racked the bar again, breathing hard.

“I’m scared I won’t recognize him if he changes,” she admitted.

Alex’s gaze softened. “You won’t lose him. You’ll meet a version of him who survived something.” That thought settled differently. Not frightening, just real.

Alicia wiped sweat from her brow. “I spent so long thinking home was something I had to pass,” she said. “Like a test I could fail.”

Alex nodded. “It’s not.”

She smiled faintly. “It’s a place you show up for.”

“Exactly.” She slung her bag over her shoulder when they finished, the gym slowly filling around them. As she headed for the door, Alex called after her. “Hey, Alicia.” She turned. “You’re doing better than you think. Just don’t forget…..support goes both ways.” She nodded once, firmly. Outside, the air was crisp. Alicia sat in her car for a moment before starting it, hands resting on the wheel, not heavy this time. Steady. She wasn’t failing. She was learning how to stand beside the people she loved, not in front of them, not carrying them, but with them. And that felt like real strength.

Expectations

We hear the unstable sounds of a casino. The bright lights of the casino floor shine and pulse as Alicia Lukas walks through the main floor. A black leather jacket over the top of a red and black top and a pair of tight-fitting black jeans on her body as she looks around with a small smile, stopping and looking at the roulette tables. She chuckles and shakes her head because sitting down there would be a little bit too on the nose. Instead, she makes a left turn down a hallway and out into another room where she approaches a blackjack table, taking off her leather jacket and putting it on the back of the chair. She sits down, putting a handful of chips on the table, dealing in.

”I’ve never been one to make excuses. In fact, I have tried to be one of the more transparent when it comes to this business and this division. I have always criticised those who end up losing a match and turn up the next week or the next time they are booked and act like it doesn’t affect them. Like the loss is negated by them simply living. And I stand by my statements. A loss should affect you, a loss should strive to make you better. And that is why I’m built different than a lot of the other women in this business and this company. When I lose, it forces me to learn a lesson. And when I first came into this company, my losses were few and far between. The run that I went on was one of the best that this company had ever witnessed, and it allowed me to win all sorts of awards while also being looked at as a legend.”

She shakes her head before checking down and getting another card. She tilts her head, looking at the Queen as well as a five of hearts and a three of spades. She nods, holding on what she has before continuing.

”But, as time goes on, losses stack up a little more and you have to practice what you preach. I’m not going to sit here and ignore the fact that I lost to Bella Madison. Honestly? I’m proud of her. Three or four years ago, Bella Madison beating me would have been impossible. She wasn’t good enough, she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t on the same level as me. And even if I am a little bit slower, I am still one of the best professional wrestlers in this fucking company and Bella was able to beat me. So I am extremely proud of her. And now she’s going on to bigger and better things, facing a woman who has been dominant in her own right in a hardcore match. And while I’m going to greatly enjoy watching that, I don’t know if I’m going to be happy or sad at the time. You see, I have my own match to contend with. I have my own moments to look at.”

“I have been very vocal about my dislike of the roulette division in the past. But being a part of it, feeling the chaos and knowing that I’m able to take another championship off the list, it is something that is allowing me to have a renaissance in my career. Maybe one day I will be able to go for the SCW World Bombshells Championship again, but right now it just simply isn’t a possibility. Because I’m not good enough. And I will freely admit that. I’m not ready to go back after that world championship. I’m not ready to step up and be a part of that division. I am part of the roulette division and that is where I’m staying.”

“As its champion, I will do everything I can to elevate this title. It is the purpose and responsibility of a champion to make sure that the division that they are in gets pushed to the forefront. It doesn’t matter if it is for a championship that is considered to be the top title or a mid title or an entry-level title.”

“A championship only matters if the champion makes it matter. There have been too many in this business that believe a championship makes the woman instead of the woman making the championship. I’ve seen it time and time again in this business, in every single division, whether it is the Internet Championship, the Roulette Championship, or the World Bombshells Championship. And also in the men’s division, it happens every single year. Someone will win a championship and think they’ve made it. They’ll think that the hard work is done and they will get lazy. And then everyone suffers. So I refuse to allow that to happen. I refuse to be the one to make the Roulette Championship and the division as a whole look like a joke. So I will defend this championship against anyone and everyone and do the best that I can to make it a prize worth holding.”

Alicia looks over at the dealer who flips his cards over, revealing 17. He then gives himself a card and goes bust. He slides Alicia some chips and then starts to get ready for another round. She gets two kings, opting to split them, getting a six of diamonds with one and a five of spades with the other. She hits on both, getting a four of hearts on one side, holding at 20, and getting a two of diamonds on the other, getting to 17. She nods and hits again, going bust with the other side.

”And there is definitely someone who wants to hold this. My opponent at Inception, Alexandra Calaway. And what can I say? I’m glad that you’re getting another opportunity. I’m glad that someone who really wants this is getting a shot. Because at High Stakes, you really wanted to get your hands back on this championship. I saw it in your eyes when we stood across the ring from one another. I felt it each time you came at me in that match, and I heard it in your voice when you cut a promo on me before we got in the ring leading up to it.”

She pauses as the dealer flips his cards over. He ends up going bust, not able to match her 20. She gets some more chips and continues to play before clearing her throat and turning to her left.

”You said that you didn’t expect to make it back. You didn’t expect to get a shot at the Roulette Championship after all of your failed attempts. But truthfully, who else would it be? Look around the roster. Who else would be deserving of it, Alexandra? And I’m not saying that to blow smoke up your ass. The truth is that you are one of the most deserving. But now you have to ask yourself if you are going to be able to beat me? You have a strange way of telling us your accomplishments, going through how you’ve lost and screwed up every single major shot at a championship you’ve had, but then telling us that you fighting over and over again is how you become a legend.”

“No honey….no…”

“Look, I am all for people admitting their losses and showing that it affects them, but saying that the fact you keep on getting up and fighting is what makes you a legend is a drastic misunderstanding of what that is. I’m a legend because I’ve won. I’m a legend because I’ve beaten some of the best in the business, been the world champion, broken records, and won awards. That’s what makes me a legend. And while I’m on the topic of beating some of the best, the names that I’ve beaten are the best. They are women who are in the Hall of Fame.”

“But you?…”

“You seem to believe that women like Jesse Salco and Bobbie Dahl are some of the best. Really? Those two? You really have no idea, do you? I was ready to start throwing out words like respect and honour with you, and then I hear you say things like that. It honestly hurts my soul. Alexandra, you have been in this business for a very long time and you throw so much bullshit hyperbole out there that no one can take you seriously.”

She wins another hand, getting more chips slid over in front of her as she leans back on her chair.

”Thing is, we all have to play the hands that we are dealt, don’t we, Alexandra? While I can admit you deserve another opportunity at the Roulette Championship, I can’t sit here and say that you are going to impress me with anything that you’ve done or said. You and I got into the ring at High Stakes and I was able to walk out as the Roulette Champion. I was able to defeat you and I had the championship held high, and now we are heading into another match because your effort earned that. Your effort. Think about that for a moment. You lost, but you lost in such a way that makes the company believe you have earned another championship match.”

“Interesting, isn’t it? You lost so well that they are giving you another shot at me. It’s almost like they pity you. Instead of making you earn this through contendership matches or a tournament, you are just getting another championship match against me. And hey, I am sure that you are going to do everything you can to walk out as the Roulette Champion. And maybe, just maybe, you are going to be able to. And if you do, Alexandra, I will be the first person in line to shake your hand, tell you that you deserve it, and raise your arm up while you hold the championship.”

“But…”

“I will also be the first one to verbally destroy you if you lose. This is going to be your last opportunity against me. If this company somehow thinks that you are going to get this endless run of Roulette Championship matches against me, then they are very, very mistaken. You lose to me? And you are done. While I am champion, you do not get another opportunity. If they try and force me to sign a contract where I face you for that championship again, I will not sign it. People might think that makes me a coward. People might think I will be making excuses or running from you. But the truth is that I just don’t want to go through this again with you. I don’t want you getting infinite title shots because you are the only one that they deemed worthy to face me.”

“So, at Inception, you now have it. You have it all laid out in front of you. Use it as motivation, use it as a bit of fuel to come after me even harder than you did before. I’ll be waiting, Alexandra. I’ll be waiting to see if you really can be who you seem to believe yourself to be, or if you are going to be a failed legend, facing a real one.”[/color
96
Supercard Roleplays / Re: FIRE & FURY v ZDUNICH SISTERS - WORLD BOMBSHELL TITLE
« Last post by Mercedes Vargas on January 02, 2026, 07:17:00 PM »
Almighty Fire
semana del 28 de diciembre 2025 al 3 de enero 2026

It’s funny how people always seem to forget. A few months without a headline, a few new faces on the roster, and suddenly they start talking like the name Mercedes Vargas doesn’t carry the same weight it used to. I’ve heard it all before — “she’s slowing down,” “she’s past her prime,” “it’s somebody else’s time.”

But the thing about experience? It doesn’t fade. It evolves. And when you’ve built your career on excellence, every time you walk through that curtain, you remind people why your legacy doesn’t get replaced — it gets reinforced.

This week isn’t just another match. It’s the first shot of a new year, and like every year before it, I’m starting it the only way I know how: by taking the spotlight back and turning it into fire.

For a minute there, some of you probably thought Mercedes Vargas was slipping. That I was done. That I was finished. Then I walked down that ramp, stepped in with Amelia Reynolds, and reminded this entire division exactly who the hell I am. I didn’t just win — I walked through her. That’s what happens when a Hall of Famer decides to stop playing nice and start reminding people of the pecking order.

That’s the difference between ambition and legacy. She was hungry. I was inevitable.

Everyone’s talking about how she’s the future. Cute story. Here’s the reality: the “future” has to go through me. And Amelia was not ready for that. She was walking into a fight with a woman who’s been winning big matches since she first laced up a pair of boots. You want to make your name off Mercedes Vargas? You’re going to find out the hard way that all you’re doing is signing up to be another stepping stone.

Amelia Reynolds was my warm-up. She was where I sharpened the blade. Because now, this is where I’ve got a little storm brewing. Crystal Caldwell has the World Bombshell Championship, she’s got the pressure, and she’s got her personal life trying to tear her in half in front of the world. That’s her business. At the end of the night, she still has to be ready to stand next to me.

Because then, we get to Inception.

At Inception, it’s me and Crystal — partners, Hall of Famers, equals — standing across from Seleana and Zenna Zdunich. The happy little family reunion, right? Wife in the ring, sister by her side, gold on the line, emotions everywhere. Everyone’s crying, everyone’s conflicted... except me. I don’t care about who’s hurt, who’s jealous, who’s trying to “save” who. I care about winning and walking out with my hand raised while the rest of you try to pick up the pieces.

The wife. The challenger. The never-ending emotional baggage. Seleana proved something in that main event. She proved she could survive Crystal before she started dreaming about Inception. Zenna picked the wrong time to stand next to her sister, because she’s walking into a war she is not ready for.

And Crystal... partner... when that bell rings at Inception, I need the World Bombshell Champion, not the woman drowning in drama. Because when Mercedes Vargas walks into that ring, there are no distractions, there are no feelings — there is only victory.

Mommy’s got her mojo back, and everybody from Amelia Reynolds to the Zdunich family is about to pay for ever thinking she lost it.

You see, people forget how long I’ve been doing this at the highest level. They forget that I’ve been walking into wars long before half this roster ever dreamed of stepping into one. They forget the nights I bled, the nights I fought through injuries, the nights I stood in the center of the ring with everything stacked against me — and still left with my hand raised. But that’s the thing about greatness. When you make it look easy for so long, people start thinking it actually *is* easy.

That’s the illusion I let them live with for a while. But Inception? That’s not going to be another chapter; that’s going to be a reminder — the kind that echoes through every locker room and every timeline after the final bell hits.

Crystal, I hope you’re listening, partner. Because what’s waiting across that ring isn’t just another tag match. It’s not about families or reconciliations or redemption stories. It’s about legacy. Mine. The one I’ve built brick by brick, year after year, win after win. The one that doesn’t crumble under pressure — it thrives on it.

The Zdunich sisters want to make history together? I’ve been making history for a decade. They want emotion to fuel them? I’ve seen emotion tear better people apart. And when that moment comes — when the lights hit just right, and everything fades except that ring — they’ll realize exactly who they’re sharing it with.

At Inception, there are no fairy tales. There’s no happily ever after. There’s Mercedes Vargas, back in her element, doing what she’s always done best: dominating. And when the dust settles, when the talking stops and the fighting starts, I’m walking out with gold on my shoulder and another statement made.

Because legends don’t fade — they take back what’s theirs.

You can feel it, can’t you? The air shifting. The murmurs turning into whispers, then into fear. Because deep down, everyone knows what comes next. When Mercedes Vargas starts rolling, there’s no stopping her. There’s no detour, no miracle comeback waiting in the wings. There’s just the inevitable: domination.

Inception isn’t just a stage — it’s a reckoning. It’s where the dreamers meet reality. Amelia Reynolds, Seleana Zdunich, Zenna Zdunich, even Crystal Caldwell — all of them are about to remember what it’s like to stand across from someone who doesn’t need to *prove* she belongs, because she *defines* belonging.

The difference between me and them is simple. They fight for validation. I fight because it’s in my blood. I don’t need applause. I don’t need redemption. I don’t need the spotlight — the spotlight needs me.

Crystal, I hope you bring your best self, because if you show up distracted, heart tangled between loyalty and survival, you’ll find out the hard way that I don’t carry people — I crush them. And as for the Zdunich sisters, enjoy your heartwarming moment while it lasts. Because once that bell rings, it’s not family. It’s not friendship. It’s me standing in that ring reminding the world why legends never retire — they just reload.

At Inception, history doesn’t repeat itself. It stands tall, smiles, and raises a championship high while the rest of you realize that Mercedes Vargas never lost her edge — she just sharpened it.

Let’s talk about my opponents for a minute — because apparently, someone has to separate hype from reality.

Seleana Zdunich, you’ve been chasing the same glory for years now. Always the sentimental favorite, right? The underdog, the comeback story, the fighter who never quits. Cute. But here’s the truth nobody wants to say out loud — "heart" doesn’t win titles when you’re standing across from someone like me. You can pour every ounce of willpower into a match, but when I lock eyes with you, you’ll remember that experience devours effort *every single time.* You’ve fought hard, sure, but you’ve never beaten me when it mattered — and Inception won’t be the first.

Zenna, I don’t know if you stepped up to back your sister or to live vicariously through her, but either way, you’re in way over your head. Tagging with family sounds poetic until you’re watching your own blood get steamrolled right beside you. You talk about unity and strength, but I talk about results. And the result at Inception is going to be both Zdunich sisters realizing that sentimentality doesn’t survive in my ring.

And Crystal... oh, Crystal. This is where it gets interesting. The World Bombshell Champion, the so-called face of the division. But lately, it seems the only thing you’re facing is yourself. You’ve got a foot in two worlds — one trying to defend the title, the other trying to hold your personal life together. You can’t do both. And the moment you try, one of them breaks — and trust me, it won’t be mine. So, when I see you tagging in, I’m not seeing the woman who beat Frankie Holliday for the title. I’m seeing the one who’s too distracted to keep it. One wrong move, one pinfall on you, and the title changes hands to the sister act across the ring. I’m not letting that happen — but I won’t carry dead weight either.

You three want to make Inception your moment? Fine. But just understand that your “moment” ends the second Mercedes Vargas walks through that curtain. Because I’m not just walking in to compete — I’m walking in to expose every weakness you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

You know what separates me from everyone else in this match? I don’t *hope* I win — I know I win. There’s a difference between believing you can do something and living it, breathing it, embodying it. I’ve been doing this long enough to know that preparation doesn’t lie, and pressure doesn’t scare me — it fuels me.

So here’s the guarantee. At Inception, the lights will hit, the cameras will roll, and the whole world will watch three women walk into that ring thinking they have something to prove. Then they’ll watch as I turn those expectations into ashes. You’ll see Seleana’s spirit break, Zenna’s confidence crack, and Crystal’s focus fade... right up until one of those sisters smells blood and goes for the pin that ends her reign Because while they’re struggling to survive the chaos, I’ll be standing calm in the center of it — clear-eyed, unbothered, unstoppable.

I’m not walking into Inception to share the spotlight. I’m walking in to *own* it. I’m walking in to remind every single person in that arena, every critic hiding behind a keyboard, every rookie dreaming of their big break, that Mercedes Vargas doesn’t chase relevance — she *is* relevance.

When that final bell rings, you won’t be talking about family drama or comeback stories. You’ll be talking about greatness. About dominance. About inevitability.

You’ll be talking about Mercedes Vargas — Hall of Famer, legend, and soon-to-be the reason the World Bombshell Championship goes exactly where it belongs.

To the critics — the ones who write me off every couple of years, who whisper that “maybe she’s lost a step” — keep watching. Keep doubting. Because your disbelief is my favorite fuel. Every time I step through those ropes, I turn your predictions into punchlines and your articles into apologies.

And to everyone in that locker room who’s watching this match like it’s a passing of the torch — newsflash: I’m not done holding it. Not yet. Not for a long time.

At Inception, I don’t just show up. I take over. The Hall of Famer. The standard-bearer. The storm you can’t outrun.

Mercedes Vargas is back at full strength, back in command, and back to remind every single person that legends aren’t made by history — they write it.

See you at Inception, Wildside. Bring everything you’ve got — because I’m bringing everything I am.

~~~

INT. COMMUNITY HALL - DAY

[The fluorescent lights flicker above a worn-out hall that’s seen too many bake sales and broken dreams. A group of kids, ages eight to twelve, stands awkwardly on a rickety stage under the sagging stage banner: “CHRISTMAS PAGEANT REHEARSAL." Their voices strain through “Silent Night,” small and scared, barely reaching the folding chairs in the front row.

The youngest girl falters on a high note. Her voice cracks, trembling. Someone snickers. Another yawns mid-measure. The sound cuts through the choir like shame. Nobody meets anyone’s eyes.]

KID SOPRANO
...Si-i-lent ni-i-ght...

[Suddenly, the doors burst open. Mercedes Vargas, all fiery charisma, strides in with the authority of a general, her heels clicking like gunfire. Flanking her are Ricardo on drums, Irma on harmonies, Hugo on choreography, and Tomas on keys.

Mercedes claps sharply, the sound cutting through the timid singing.]

MERCEDES
¡Basta! Enough whispering, mis pequeños estrellas! Time to roar like lions in Bethlehem!

KID ALTO
Miss Vargas, we’re trying.

[Mercedes whirls, her tone like espresso and danger.]

MERCEDES
Try harder. Even Santa’s interns have more soul than this. And they're unpaid!

[She stalks across the stage, taking control like she’s directing an army.]

MERCEDES
Ricardo—drums! Irma—harmonies! Hugo—feet moving! Tomas—make it sexy but still legal.

[Tomas blinks, unimpressed.]

TOMAS
You just described jazz.

[The kids freeze, wide-eyed.

Ricardo grabs a pair of paint buckets and pounds out a fierce, pulsing rhythm. Irma steps forward, showing them how it’s done, her voice soaring.]

IRMA
Joy to the WO-O-O-RLD!

[Hugo launches into a dance routine that looks halfway between reggaeton and physical therapy. The kids stare, unsure whether to laugh or run. He moves to the edge of the stage and breaks into motion, hips swinging, calling out to the children.]

HUGO
Hips out! Step-step-sway! Like this—uno, dos, fuego!

[One boy sways half a second behind everyone else, fully committed to the wrong rhythm.]

KID ALTO
Is this... still church music?

TOMAS
Depends on your church.

[Tomas grins and layers in funky beats on his keyboard, each chord more dubious than the last.

Mercedes strides through the kids, adjusting shoulders, closing their jaws, tapping rhythm into their chests.

She stops in front of the timid soprano, eyes locked.]

MERCEDES
Breathe fire, not air! Chin up—eyes like daggers! From the soul — ¡Otra vez!

[The choir takes a collective breath. Their sound swells, gospel energy bursting through the hall. The windows vibrate. One ceiling tile gives up and falls harmlessly behind the group.]

CHOIR
Joy to the world! The Lord is come!

[Hesitant notes explode into full harmony. The room comes alive—kids grinning, feet stomping, sweat flying in rhythm. Laughter erupts when Hugo accidentally trips over an extension cord. He falls off the stage in slow motion, into an inflatable snowman, sending fake snow everywhere. From the floor, he throws up a dramatic thumbs-up.]

HUGO
I meant to do that! Experimental choreography!

[The kids howl with laughter. Mercedes can’t fight back a grin; it slips through, uninvited but genuine.]

MERCEDES
Tomorrow, we own this town!

[The soprano kid looks up from her sheet music as she raises a tentative hand.]

KID SOPRANO
Can we own lunch at least?

MERCEDES
Lunch is for amateurs. Bring snacks and rage. See you at dawn.

[The kids groan but can’t hide their smiles.
They’re doomed, but they believe in her now—and that’s the real danger. Mercedes turns to her crew—pride mixed with impending regret. She watches the kids cheer, off-key and overly excited. She's half proud, half terrified she’s just created something she can’t control.

She grins anyway, certain of one thing: they’ll either make history—or a YouTube blooper reel.]

FADE OUT.

~~~

Present Day ♦ L O S A N G E L E S • C A L I F O R N I A

[REC•]

[Mercedes Vargas’s residence, Los Angeles. Late morning. The sunlight slices through floor‑to‑ceiling windows, scattering across a pristine glass terrace. Outside, the city hums awake — muted traffic, faint palm shadows, the pulse of motion far below. Inside, everything gleams: white marble, sharp lines, no trophies, no titles. Just air, light, and stillness.]

[The camera glides past the open doors where the breeze moves thin curtains. Mercedes stands near the window — barefoot, black linen wrap belted casually, hair sleek and falling over one shoulder. Her reflection mingles with the skyline.]

"You can feel it, can’t you? The tension - the cracks in the air before the glass breaks. Some call it pressure. I call it presence."

[She turns, sunlight catching her features, deliberate yet effortless.]

"Inception VIII — they called it history in the making. But for me?  It’s just another reminder that history only remembers the ones strong enough to write it themselves."

[The camera follows as she crosses the room. A cup of espresso sits untouched on the table beside her. The city’s gold light flashes across her arm as she moves.]

"Fire & Fury — Crystal Caldwell and Mercedes Vargas. Wildside — Seleana and Zenna Zdunich. Two teams. One title. And a thousand little truths waiting to be exposed. Sounds like a great way to start a new year."

[She sits on the edge of a low couch, leaning forward slightly — relaxed but fierce.]

“Crystal and I, we’re not partners out of convenience. We’ve bled for these lights, built a legacy out of every woman who thought she could take what’s ours. We’re a brand — forged from main events, blood, and unmatched brilliance. She’s my equal when it counts, my mirror when it matters. We don’t need matching bloodlines to move in rhythm. We don’t need family dinners to understand loyalty. No family drama. No fragile sisterhood. Just two women who understand that dominance looks best under bright lights. We just win. That’s our language."

[She leans back, a faint smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.]

"Seleana… You think you know Crystal because you share a home, not a ring. 
But when that bell rings, there’s a part of her you’ll never reach — the part that only wakes up for nights like this. The part I’ve fought beside enough times to know exactly when it breathes.

"And Zenna… you’re stepping into a fire that doesn’t care what last name you carry.  You’re proud, you’re fierce — but you’re unproven. And standing across from me, pride becomes weight. 
Weight turns into hesitation. And hesitation? That’s when I end you."

[Mercedes leans back, light tracing the line of her jaw. A subtle, knowing smile follows.]

"The irony? The greatest threat to your family isn’t across the ring — it's the woman Crystal trusts enough to stand beside her."

[Soft thunder murmurs over the California hills in the distance as a storm brews — faint rumble underscores her silence.]

"I don’t need to scream to make my point. 
I just have to wait. Because at Inception, when the dust clears, when the crowd realizes that blood doesn’t guarantee victory — you’ll see me standing there. Calm. Collected. Still champion material, even when I don’t have the belt around my waist."

[The camera zooms closer. Her eyes — steel, steady.]

"That’s the difference between legacy and lineage"

[Her voice drops lower — intimate now, lethal in its softness.]

"You thought you could take my place? Rewrite my legacy? No. Legends aren’t written — they’re remembered.. They’re carved into history with every fight, every scar, every name I’ve buried under my boots — that’s my scripture.

"I don’t end people. I let them live in my shadow. You’ll wrestle. You’ll win. The crowd will say, ‘She’s good.’ Then they’ll whisper MY name — because you can’t escape me. You can’t outshine me."

[She rises and walks toward the window once more, the citylight washing over her like gold dust.]

"I’m not the mountain you climb. 
I’m the sky you’ll never reach."

[Mercedes doesn’t move, only smiles faintly — content in her own certainty.]

"You tried to kill a goddess? You should’ve aimed higher. Now you’re trapped in purgatory — forever watching me reign above you. A punishment worse than death: you’ll spend the rest of your life reminding the world that you failed."

[Pause. Her eyes lift slightly.]

"Funny thing about gold — it’s loyal to no one. One day, it’s around your waist. 
Next, it’s between two people who trust each other just enough to walk into a war. That’s where Crystal and I live. Fire & Fury. Built through battles, not bloodlines. Two names carved into the bones of this business because we earned our shine the hard way — summits, scars, main events. We’ve been through it all. But at Inception VIII, history doesn’t give us a fairytale. It gives us a test: the World Bombshell Championship on the line… and across the ring? Crystal’s own wife and her sister."

[A low California wind drifts through the open doors, tugging gently at the curtains.]

"Seleana. Zenna. You call it family. I call it temptation.  Because no matter how much you say this match won’t change anything—  something always breaks when pride and gold share the room."

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

"See, I don’t need to be champion to own this division. I walk like one, talk like one, and make every woman in that locker room measure herself against the standard I set. That’s what experience does — it rewrites the script before anyone else knows what story they’re in."

[Her tone dips lower — almost a whisper.]

"Seleana, you know Crystal’s heart, not her instincts. Zenna, you’ve got her blood, but not her rhythm. Me? I’ve got the part of her that only wakes up when everything’s on the line."

[Mercedes stands — slow, deliberate. The title remains on the table as she circles behind it.]

"When that bell rings, I’m not fighting family drama. I’m managing chaos, controlling pace, and showing the world that “team” means something different when I’m involved. Because Crystal Caldwell may walk in with the gold… but she walks in beside me. And that means her title, our legacy, stays untouched by sentiment."

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

"Inception VIII isn’t about who bleeds first. It’s about who breaks last."

[She looks off-camera again, voice low, near a whisper.]

"And I’ve never broken."

[Mercedes pauses, letting the words hang in the air.]

"Prepare for the worst. Hope for the best. And may the odds be ever in your favor."

[Fade to black.]
97
Supercard Roleplays / DOG COLLAR GRUDGE MATCH AGAINST LJ KASEY PART 1
« Last post by Andrew on January 01, 2026, 01:46:16 PM »
I HAVE A DOG COLLAR GRUDGE MATCH AGAINST LJ KASEY AT INCEPTION VII AND THIS MATCH IS GOING TO BE A HELL OF A LOT OF FUN FOR ME AND A HELL OF A LOT OF PAIN AND SUFFERING FOR LJ KASEY

The network assigned to broadcast items about Sin City Wrestling, and to broadcast information about the match of Bill Barnhart and LJ Kasey, and the wrestling matches at Inception VIII, has sent one of their camera persons to visit with Bill Barnhart, his wife Bea who is a fellow wrestler in Sin City Wrestling and she is also the Manager for Bill during his wrestling matches, and their English Bulldog Iris. As the camera person is approaching the hotel where the Barnhart family is staying they place a disclaimer on their broadcast stating that certain items in the camera shots will be masked by the studio that is controlling the broadcasts. They further state this is because of the threats hurled at Bill, Bea, and Iris by people who support the Kasey family members. Since the wrestling federation doesn’t want thug stuff that people will negatively relate to their wrestling federation the best they can do is to ensure that the location where Bill and Bea and Iris are located are protected. However in the disclaimer they also state that they cannot follow the Barnhart’s around twenty-four hours per day graying out information that might lead people to where Bill, Bea, and Iris, are located. With that said the camera person arrives at the hotel and they are escorted to the hotel room of Bill and Bea and Iris Barnhart. Bill and Bea invite the camera person into the room and the camera person is sets up their camera to get a continuous steady shot of the Barnharts. When they inform the Barnharts that they are now live broadcasting Bill and Bea launch into their comments for Bill’s upcoming match against LJ Kasey.

Bill:  Thanks to everyone who tuned in to hear our comments leading up to my match against LJ Kasey at INCEPTION VIII. Myself and Bea are not worried about LJ, or his family members, or the thugs that they hang out with, but in situations like this it is important to ensure the maximum amount of security leading up to the match I am going to have with LJ Kasey. As you have been told dozens of times I fear nothing. . .I fear nobody. . .I fear no type of wrestling match. . .but since there are so many cowards in the sport of wrestling and in Sin City Wrestling. . .we need to ensure that we err on the side of caution until my match officially begins.

Bea:  Unless you have not been paying attention, or you are a moron, then I am here to tell you how vile, backstabbing, and cheating, the Kasey family is. If any wrestlers in Sin City Wrestling want to have a match with me, or Bea, so be it. But if you want us to get assigned for a match against you, and then you hire thugs to beat us down either before, during, or after the match, then you have crossed the line and you have committed a crime that you will have to end up paying for. Just remember that payback is HELL and we will be the ones to deliver HELL upon those who attack us or beat us down because when they are not a wrestler assigned to our match, you will suffer for what you did.

Bill:  Well, Bea, I am sure if they all didn’t realize what we will do to them if they cheat and interfere in my match against LJ Kasey, then they damn sure know the bottom line now. So with them having been warned if they still want to get involved with me in a match that they are not assigned to wrestling against me then if I eliminate them permanently from the sport of wrestling. . .well. . .so be it.

Bea:  Are you ready to get into details on you and LJ?

Bill:  Yes I am. I just needed to get all the preliminary stuff out of the way so that nobody who gets their ass kicked by me and you can claim that they didn’t know that we would retaliate for any illegal stuff they attempt against us.

Bea:  What are you going to start with Bill?

Bill:  Statistics of course. Going into this match with LJ Kasey we are both 6 feet 4 inches in height. The difference between us is that I am 240 pounds while LJ is 210 pounds. Having 30 pounds of weight advantage works well for a wrestler like myself. Although I am older than LJ the fact remains that I have had decades of wrestling experience, including holding many Championships, and I predict that the young age of LJ, lack of high-level and intense wrestling experience in the ring, those items will be the downfall of Kasey and he will take the loss to me.

Bea:  I will be at ringside as your Manager and Iris will be with me at ringside in case LJ Kasey and his family decide to hire people to run in on your match to attack you to try to get you to lose the match to LJ. I have also talked with several other wrestlers and they are going to be watching our backs while your match is in progress just in case there needs to be a beat down brawl to destroy all the hacks that the Kasey family is likely to sent your way to force you to lose the match to LJ.

Bill:  They can try all they want but I haven’t lasted this long in the sport of wrestling to back down from anyone now. Allow me to address LJ and his family members at this time so they know what they are getting into. I will have the broadcast studio play a music video of the song titled BAD TO THE BONE by GEORGE THOROGOOD.  All I can do is hope all the members of the Casey family know that I am BAD TO THE BONE, I NEVER BACK DOWN FROM AN OPPONENT, and the concept of me losing a match to a pathetic opponent like LJ Kasey is never on my mind as I don’t lose to losers.

CLICK THE LINK BELOW TO WATCH AND LISTEN TO THE GEORGE THOROGOOD SONG BAD TO THE BONE:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IyhJ69mD7xI&list=RDIyhJ69mD7xI&start_radio=1

The song BAD TO THE BONE by GEORGE THOROGOOD ends and the camera returns to being focused on Bill Barnhart, Bea Barnhart, and their English Bulldog Iris.

Bea:  Damn Bill!!! I thought I talked straight up and then you just managed to present some damn strong straight talk for your match against LJ Kasey. Nicely done!!!

Bill: That is because you give me inspiration.

Bea:  Do you have anything else to talk about leading up to your match against LJ Kasey?

Bill:  Since you mentioned it I will make additional comments and then I am done for this session of commenting on my upcoming match against LJ Kasey. From the way I read the description of the match there is a certain length of chain attached to two dog collars with one collar at one end of the chain and the other collar on the other end of the chain. The dog collars will be attached to the the necks of myself and LJ and locked in place so that neither of us will be able to remove the collar from their neck. Both of us are trapped in the dog collar attached to both our necks. There doesn’t appear to be any type of maneuver, or other item, that gives the win to the wrestler using that of maneuver. Without specific information presented then I make the call that me and LJ, while attached to each other by a chain attached to each of the dog collars we each have attached to our necks, that we simply beat the hell out of each other until one of us can no longer continue in the match. Since I doubt that either of us would willingly submit in a match like this then I also make the assumption that the winner is the wrestler will be the one who can either totally knock out their opponent or disable them to where they have to stop the match as they can no longer move. Sounds like a match made in Heaven for me!!!

Bea:  Bill you are disgustingly evil but I sure do love you so much!

Bill:  In closing I would like to take a moment to ask our English Bulldog, Iris, if she will be worried about me while I am inside the wrestling ring beating the crap out of LJ Kasey. So what do you think Iris?

Iris snorts and sneezes then she lets out a very loud growl that Bill interprets it to mean Iris wants Daddy Bill to totally destroy LJ Kasey.

Bill:  I agree with you Iris. I plan on totally destroying LJ Kasey and walking away from the match with a well deserved win in this Dog Collar Match.

Bea informs the camera person that they are done presenting their comments leading up to Bill’s Dog Collar match against LJ Kasey. The assigned camera person calls the Network to let them know they will turn off their camera now and they get the approval to do so from the Network and our screen goes dark.


98
Supercard Roleplays / Re: MILES KASEY (c) v ALEX JONES - INTERNET TITLE
« Last post by Alex Jones on January 01, 2026, 04:18:40 AM »
Change

The next session felt wrong in the best possible way.

No stopwatch.
No barked commands.
No silent tension humming through the air like a live wire.

Alex unlocked the gym doors just after sunrise, the sky outside still painted in soft purples and bruised blues. Dylan followed him in, hoodie zipped up, headphones hanging loosely around his neck. He looked… lighter. Not healed. Not fixed. But no longer carrying the entire world on his shoulders like it was a test he could fail. Alex dropped his bag by the bench and rolled his shoulders. “Today’s not about killing ourselves.”

Dylan raised an eyebrow. “Are you feeling okay?”

Alex smirked. “Careful. That smart mouth’ll get you extra squats.”

“Worth it.” They started with stretching, long, lazy movements instead of rushed warm-ups. Dylan lay flat on his back on the mat, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. “This is weird,” he muttered.

Alex glanced over. “Stretching?”

“No,” Dylan said. “Not feeling like I’m being timed.”

Alex didn’t respond right away. He lowered himself into a seated stretch, hamstrings screaming in protest. “You don’t always need to feel pressure to make progress.”

Dylan snorted. “That’s easy to say.”

“Is it?”

Dylan rolled onto his side, propping his head up with one elbow. “You came up in a different time. You guys were animals. You didn’t slow down.”

Alex chuckled. “Kid… we slowed down all the time. We just didn’t admit it.”

They moved into light chain wrestling, nothing competitive, nothing sharp. Flow drills. Catch-and-release holds. Dylan tried a cheeky roll-through that ended with him slipping and landing flat on his ass. Alex burst out laughing. Not a snort. Not a breathy chuckle. A full, unguarded laugh. Dylan stared at him like he’d just witnessed a rare animal in the wild. “Did you just laugh at me?”

“Oh absolutely,” Alex said, wiping at his eyes. “That was terrible.”

“Rude.”

“Historically accurate.”

Dylan scrambled up and shot for a clumsy single-leg that Alex easily sidestepped, hooking him around the waist and guiding him, not slamming him, down to the mat. “Hey!” Dylan protested.

Alex leaned over him. “You telegraphed it.”

“I was improvising!”

“You were panicking.”

Dylan frowned, then laughed despite himself. “Okay, maybe a little.” They kept moving. Not harder. Just freer. Dylan tried ridiculous things, over-the-top arm drags, exaggerated bumps, mock-selling like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Alex matched him beat for beat, overselling chops, flailing dramatically after a weak clothesline. “You’re embarrassing yourself,” Dylan said between laughs.

“Good,” Alex replied. “Keeps me humble.”

At one point Dylan climbed the turnbuckle, balanced precariously, and announced, “Behold. The most devastating move in wrestling.”

Alex folded his arms. “Oh no.”

Dylan leapt. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t pretty. It was barely controlled chaos, but Alex caught him, spun, and gently dumped him onto the mat. They lay there afterward, staring at the lights, breathing heavy from laughter more than effort. “This,” Dylan said quietly, “feels different.”

Alex nodded. “That’s the point.” They spent the next hour doing things Alex never would’ve allowed a week ago, games of reversal tag, speed drills without consequence, even running the ropes backward just to mess with muscle memory. Dylan’s grin never fully left his face. And Alex noticed something else. Dylan wasn’t pushing. Not to impress. Not to escape. Not to prove anything. When they finally wound down, sitting on the apron with water bottles in hand, Dylan’s laughter faded into thoughtfulness.

“Dad?” he asked.

Alex took a long drink. “Yeah?”

Dylan stared out at the empty gym floor. “Can I ask you something… real?”

Alex tensed, but didn’t hide it. “You always do.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “When you were coming up… after everything that happened with Uncle Dylan… did people go easier on you?” The question landed heavy. Alex didn’t answer right away. “Did they feel sorry for you?” Dylan continued. “Or did they go harder because of it?”

Alex twisted the cap on his bottle, eyes distant. “Both.”

Dylan frowned. “That doesn’t really help.”

Alex sighed. “It’s the truth, kid. Some promoters looked at me and saw tragedy. Thought booking me was a charity case. Others saw baggage and wanted nothing to do with it.”

“So which was worse?”

Alex’s jaw tightened. “The ones who thought I was fragile.”

Dylan swallowed. “Did anyone ever refuse to book you because of it?”

“Yes.” That answer came fast. Honest. Sharp. Unfiltered.

Dylan’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Did you know?”

“Sometimes….Sometimes they told me straight up. Sometimes it was radio silence. Sometimes it was ‘maybe later’ that never came.”

“Because of what happened?”

“Because they didn’t want to deal with it,” Alex corrected. “Grief makes people uncomfortable. Especially in an industry that pretends pain is currency but doesn’t know what to do with the real kind.”

Dylan picked at the tape around his wrist. “So what did you do?”

Alex laughed softly. “I kept going.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all there ever is.”

Silence settled between them, not awkward, but loaded. “Did they ever go harder on you?” Dylan asked.

Alex nodded. “Absolutely. Some guys saw me as the weak link. Thought if they broke me, they’d prove something.”

“And did they?”

Alex turned, meeting his son’s eyes. “No.”

Dylan hesitated. “Did they ever… use it against you?”

Alex exhaled slowly. “More times than I can count.”

Dylan’s voice dropped. “That’s what I’m scared of.” Alex waited. “That people are gonna look at me and not see me, They’re gonna see your name. Your history. His name.” He swallowed. “And either they’ll take it easy on me because they think I’m special… or they’ll try to tear me apart because they think I didn’t earn my place.”

Alex leaned back, elbows resting on the apron. “That’s not fear, kid. That’s awareness.”

Dylan shook his head. “I don’t want sympathy bookings.”

“You won’t get them.”

“I don’t want favors.”

“You won’t get those either.”

“How do you know?”

Alex looked at him seriously. “Because this business doesn’t work that way. Not for long.”

Dylan’s brow furrowed. “Then what about me being your son?”

Alex smiled faintly. “That’ll get you in the door. Sometimes.” Dylan stiffened. “But it won’t keep you there,” Alex finished. “And it sure as hell won’t protect you.” Dylan looked relieved… and terrified.

“So will I be punished for it?” he asked. “Or rewarded?”

Alex thought carefully. “You’ll be tested.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It’s honest.”

Dylan nodded slowly. “I just want to succeed on my own merit.”

Alex placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then you already are.”

Dylan scoffed. “That feels like dad-talk.”

Alex chuckled. “Fair.” Then his tone softened. “Kid… my past is part of your story. But it doesn’t define your ending.”

Dylan stared at the ring. “What if people never let me forget?”

“They won’t,” Alex said. “And that’s okay.”

“How?”

“Because eventually,” Alex said quietly, “they’ll stop talking about who you came from… and start talking about who you are.” Dylan let that sink in. “Until then,” Alex added, “you keep showing up. You keep learning. You keep having days like today. where you remember why you love this.”

Dylan smiled faintly. “Today was fun.”

Alex smiled back. “Yeah. It was.” They sat there a while longer, the gym bathed in late-morning light, the weight of momentum no longer crushing, but carrying them forward. Not as a warning. As a promise.

Grand Slam

Las Vegas, Nevada. A place where SCW finds itself going into Inception. Its spiritual home. The glitz, the glamour, the MGM Grand and all the other casinos lining the Strip. That is where everyone is going to be over the next few weeks. But that isn’t where we find ourselves. That isn’t where Alex Jones is. No. As of right now, we find him sitting at a Denny’s.

”I know this is weird, right? You expect me to be at some kind of high-priced hotel. Maybe staying at the MGM Grand, or maybe staying at Caesar’s Palace. Staying somewhere that is known for being on the side of decadence and debauchery.”

Alex chuckles to himself, sitting back as he reaches forward, grabbing the plastic pitcher filled with what looks to be water, taking a sip and placing it back on the wooden table. A plate sits in front of him. Something that many people will recognise who have frequented the popular yet cheap, and in some ways disgusting, diner. The Denny’s Grand Slam.

”As a former world champion, as a legend of this sport, and someone who owns one of the best gyms in the industry, you’d expect me to be staying somewhere and eating somewhere a little bit more special. But eating somewhere like this, it takes me back to a time when professional wrestling was something that I loved. I mean really loved. I had no money, I had nothing. I was scratching and clawing for everything. Do you know what that’s like? Most of you watching from home will have no idea. I’d expect at least some of the current SCW roster to know what that’s like. But unfortunately, I can’t say that any of you do. Least of all my opponent going into Inception.”

Alex picks up his knife and fork, cutting a piece of bacon and placing it on top of part of a pancake as he pops it into his mouth.

”Now, I’m not going to sit here and act like my recent career has gone exactly as planned. I have faulted, I have failed in certain goals that I wanted to achieve. But I am getting this train back on the right track. Getting in the ring with Ryan Key and beating the hell out of that self-righteous wannabe loser who believes himself to be some kind of legend was definitely a high point for me. And I told Ryan going into that match that I was going to end him, that I was going to beat him, and I was going to take every single little bit of credibility he had left, and oh boy did I.”

“What is Ryan doing now? Is he in any kind of match that matters? No, he’s in a filler match going against Liam Davis. A match that really doesn’t need to happen. And this is a problem that I have with our company. Supercards, something that is supposed to be the culmination of weeks upon weeks of television, a place where you are supposed to get rewarded for your hard work, for perseverance, and for winning matches and getting opportunities. That’s what a supercard is supposed to be.”

“Right? Or am I wrong?”

“I guess I’m wrong, since this happens every single few months. We approach one of the biggest shows of the year, whether it is Inception, Summer XXxtreme, or High Stakes, and everyone ends up being stuffed onto the card. And because of that, we end up with these huge bloated shows with people who don’t deserve to be on any type of supercard. And because of that, it diminishes the importance of all the other matches… including mine….”

Alex shakes his head before popping a piece of sausage into his mouth.

”And in a way, I feel sorry for Miles too. Kind of. You see, Miles is the Internet Champion, and he needs all the help he can get to stay relevant. His significant other is the World Champion, and Miles has been looked at as the lesser in that relationship for a very long time. Right down to the point where his Internet Championship reign has been nothing but an afterthought. And on a show like this, where it’s bloated with so many other matches, our match is being looked at as simply existing… existing….”

“Miles Kasey against Alex Jones. A pampered child who has had everything handed to him, as well as being the Internet Champion, against a man who could have been his real mentor in this business. A man who owns the gym that Miles so desperately wanted to be a part of, while screwing himself over with stupid decisions because he decided to listen to Carter. Yes, Miles, you listened to Carter, and it flushed all of your friendships that mattered down the toilet. You have your brother, and you have Bella, and you have everyone else floating around you, but none of them have the balls to tell you the truth. They just pat you on the back and tell you everything is going to be fine. Being the Internet Champion and stepping away from the World Championship scene is definitely good for you. Not facing Carter and going for that World Championship is all part of the plan. All part of the plan to make your career worth something, right?”

“Here’s the thing, Miles. I have been begging someone to step up and really beat me. To put a nail in the coffin of my career and use me as a stepping stone to become something special. But I don’t have any faith that it’s going to be you. And because of that, you and I are about to get in the ring, and you are going to defend the Internet Championship against me. And because of that, I have a shot at doing something that very few people have in this company.”

“To become a Grand Slam Champion. World, Roulette, Mixed Tag, all championships I have held, and now there is one left to tick off. Your title…”

“A championship that you won in a match involving me. So this is a little bit more personal than I care to admit. But it’s always going to be personal between you and me, isn’t it, Miles? We haven’t had that many matches, and previously, a singles match that you and I had ended in a time-limit draw. All the other ones have been multi-person matches. You walked out as the champion in one, I walked out as the Roulette Champion in another, and then there was a stupid tag match that we got thrown in….”

Alex nods as the waitress walks over. She pours some of that horrible cheap coffee that they serve into a cup, Alex grabbing a few packets of sugar, emptying them into the coffee and dumping in some half-and-half before grabbing the cup, sitting back, and taking a sip.

”So, here we have it. Inception, the first show of the year. One of the biggest shows of the year. You are defending your Internet Championship against a legend. A legend who has an opportunity to complete the set in SCW. A legend who also wants to push you to your limits. I want you to beat me, Miles. I want you to prove me wrong. I want to see you rise above and continue defending that Internet Championship until you get to the point where they cannot deny you, and you get to go for the World Championship again.”

“I want you to become a champion instead of being the prancing, whimpering giant pussy that you’ve become. The kind of douchebag who goes out there and talks about how I have opened my mouth talking about you and don’t have the balls to say something to your face, all while cutting a promo in a ring in an arena that you knew damn well I was nowhere near at the time. You want to be better than me? You want to be a legend? Do you want to shut up all the haters? Then don’t be a fucking hypocrite.”

“Grow up…”

“Because right now, everyone looks at you and applauds slightly, thinking that you’ve reached your plateau in your professional wrestling career. Not good enough to become the World Champion, constantly banging your head on a glass ceiling that you simply can’t get past. Then you’ve got someone like me. Someone who, two years ago, thought he was done. I legitimately thought I was going to retire. I was going to walk away from this business because I had done it all and seen it all. Then I came back. I came back and I ended Finn Whelan’s reign. I came back and I won the World Championship. People keep telling me I can’t do things, and I keep ramming it straight down their throat.”

“And you, Miles?”

“You take everyone’s criticism, you take all of it and roll it into a ball, and you internalise it. You say the same things every single time about rising above and making sure that you are going to be the best, but you are too scared to take that step. You are too scared to do what is needed to become the star that you seem to believe yourself to be. Instead, you want to play second fiddle to your fucking husband. Not just a husband, but a husband who has been able to become the World Champion while you have just sat back and let it happen. And I get it. You love him. I’m glad that you found love. I’m glad that you found someone who understands you. That is an amazing thing. I’m just sorry that it’s come at the expense of your career, your credibility, and your manhood.”
99
Supercard Roleplays / Re: KAYLA RICHARDS v BELLA MADISON - HARDCORE MATCH
« Last post by Dreamkiller on December 31, 2025, 07:38:16 AM »
Chapter 78: Fracture Lines

I didn’t go to Amber right away.

That surprised me.

For years, she’d been my constant. The fixed point. The one person in that house who had seen everything I saw and had been old enough to understand it the way I did. Where Tasmin’s memories softened at the edges, Amber’s had always been sharp, exacting. We had survived the same nights. The same broken glass mornings. The same apologies that smelled like beer and shame. Amber was the one who taught me how to listen for the sound of his truck in the driveway and read the mood of the engine before the door ever opened. She was the one who showed me how to pack a bag quickly and quietly, just in case. The one who learned first how to disappear in plain sight.

She was supposed to feel like I did.

That certainty sat in me like an anchor. Heavy. Unquestioned.

And maybe that was why I delayed. Because some instinct, buried deep beneath my ribs, whispered that anchors could drag you under if they shifted without warning.

When I finally drove to her place, the sky was overcast in that way that made everything look flatter than it really was. Muted colors. Soft light. A world holding its breath. Amber lived further out than Tasmin, in a house that felt grown-up in a way ours never had when we were kids. Clean lines. Warm wood. Big windows that let the light in instead of barricading against it. Proof that she had built something solid out of what we came from.

I sat in my rental car for a full minute before getting out.

Just breathing.

Just listening to the tick of cooling metal and the distant sound of birds. My chest felt tight, but not with panic. With anticipation. With something like grief, already bracing for impact.

I knocked. Once.

Amber opened the door with a soft smile already in place. “Kay,” she said, like my name was a relief. Like she was glad to see me.

That alone unsettled me.

“Hey,” I replied, keeping my voice level. Neutral. She stepped aside and let me in. Her house smelled like coffee and clean laundry. Familiar in a way that had nothing to do with childhood. She gestured toward the living room. I followed, taking in the details the way I always did when I was trying to keep myself steady. The way the cushions were arranged. The framed photos on the wall. None of them of him. That mattered.

She poured me coffee without asking. Another thing that should have comforted me. Another thing that didn’t. “So,” she said gently, handing me the mug as she sat across from me. “I was wondering when you’d come by.”

There it was. Not if. When. “You knew?” I asked.

She nodded. “Tas called me.”

Of course she had. Tasmin, always reaching for connection. Always trying to weave us together instead of letting us drift. I wrapped my hands around the mug, letting the heat sink into my palms. “He went to see her,”

“I know.”

“And you,” I continued, watching her face carefully, “you’ve seen him too.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t rush to explain. She just took a slow breath and nodded again. “Yeah. I have.”

Something cold slid through my chest. “When?” I asked.

“A few weeks ago.”

Weeks. Not days. Not hours. Weeks of silence. Weeks where she’d sat with that information and chosen not to bring it to me. I felt the first real crack form then, thin but unmistakable. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t know how,” she said honestly. “And I didn’t want to make it harder for you before you were ready.”

I let out a short, humorless breath. “You decided that for me?”

Her eyes softened, but her posture didn’t change. Calm. Grounded. “I decided to give you space.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” she agreed quietly. “It isn’t.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and expectant. I could feel the anger stirring now, low and slow, like a tide pulling back before it surged. “What did he say to you?” I asked.

“He apologized,” Amber replied. “He didn’t ask for anything. He didn’t make excuses. He just… owned it.”

I swallowed. “And that was enough?”

“No,” she said immediately. “It wasn’t enough. But it was something.”

Something. That word again. The way everyone kept reaching for the smallest possible measure of progress and holding it up like proof of transformation. “You believe him….Just like Tas”

She considered that. “I believe that he’s sober. I believe that he knows what he did. I believe that he’s carrying regret.”

“And you think that changes anything?”

“For me?” She met my gaze. “Yes.”

The word hit harder than I expected. “For you,” I repeated.

She nodded. “Kay… I’m tired.” That caught me off guard. Not because it was dramatic, but because it wasn’t. She didn’t sound defensive. She didn’t sound hopeful. She sounded… done. “I’m tired of carrying him around inside me,” she continued. “Tired of waking up angry at a ghost. Tired of letting my past decide how much peace I’m allowed to have now.”

My jaw tightened. “So you just… let him back in?”

“I didn’t let him back in,” she said calmly. “I let him speak. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” The question came out sharper than I meant it to.

“Yes,” she said. Firm. “Because I didn’t open the door to who he was. I listened to who he says he is now. And then I made my own decision.”

“And that decision was to forgive him.”

“No,” Amber said, shaking her head. “That decision was to forgive myself.”

The room suddenly felt too small. “For what?” I asked.

“For surviving,” she said simply. “For staying. For being angry for so long. For not saving you sooner. For not saving Mom. For all the things I couldn’t control but punished myself for anyway.”

I stared at her, a familiar ache blooming behind my ribs. “He doesn’t deserve that,”

“This isn’t about what he deserves,” she replied. “It’s about what I do.”

There it was. The fault line. Clear now. Stark. “You’re acting like this is some kind of personal growth exercise,” I said quietly. “Like what he did was just… an obstacle you’ve finally learned to climb over.”

Amber leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I’m acting like I don’t want to bleed from wounds he stopped inflicting years ago.”

“He didn’t stop,” I shot back. “He ran. There’s a difference.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And running didn’t erase the damage. But it did stop new damage from happening.”

“That doesn’t earn him redemption.”

“I’m not redeeming him, I’m releasing him.”

The anger surged then, sharp and sudden, but I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t lash out. I felt it coil inside me, tightening, demanding release, and I denied it. The old habit. The one that kept me safe. “So what?” I asked, voice deceptively even. “You want me to do the same? Sit down with him and let him tell me how sorry he is?”

“No,” Amber said immediately. “I want you to do whatever lets you breathe.”

“What lets me breathe,” I said, “is knowing that what he did mattered. That it wasn’t just… something we’re expected to get over because enough time has passed.”

Her gaze softened. “Kay… it mattered. It still matters. Nothing about what I’m doing erases that.”

“It feels like it does. That everything I went through and everything I have ever thought has been nothing but a lie. That I’ve been wrong this entire time. That every failed relationship, every friendship I have ended and every single person I have pushed away hasn’t mattered either.”

She inhaled slowly. “I know…but it doesn’t.”

That admission hurt more than any argument would have. “Then why do it?” I asked.

“Because holding onto rage didn’t protect me anymore,” she said. “It just kept me tethered to him.”

I looked away, staring at the window, the dull gray sky beyond it. “You sound like everyone else,” I murmured.

“Everyone else?”

“Tas. Mom. Him.” My fingers curled tighter around the mug. “So ready to move on. So eager to believe he’s different. Like I’m the only one still standing in the wreckage.”

Amber stood then, slowly, and crossed the room. She stopped in front of me but didn’t touch me. Didn’t crowd me. She knew better. “You’re not wrong for feeling the way you do,” she said softly. “And you’re not alone in it. But you’re also not obligated to stay there forever.”

Something inside me cracked at that. Not loudly. Not visibly. Just a quiet fracture, spreading outward. “It feels like you chose him,” I said, barely above a whisper.

Her face tightened with pain. “I chose myself.”

The difference mattered to her. It didn’t to me. I stood abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the floor. “I need to go.”

“Kay….”

“I need to go,” I repeated, already moving toward the door. Not running. Just leaving. The way I always did when staying meant breaking apart. Amber followed me to the entryway.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” she said quickly. “I’m just saying your path doesn’t have to look like mine.”

I paused with my hand on the door. “It already doesn’t.” I left before she could respond. The trip home felt longer than it should have. The flight, the drive. Every street too wide. Every stoplight too slow. My chest ached, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just felt… hollowed out. Like something essential had been quietly removed while I wasn’t looking.

They were all forgiving him. Or at least, forgiving themselves enough to make space where he once stood. And I was alone in my refusal. By the time I got home, the sky had darkened, the gray deepening into something heavier. I sat there for a moment, feeling the weight of it all press down on me. Not just anger. Not just betrayal. But the slow, creeping realization that healing didn’t look the same for everyone and that sometimes, that difference felt like abandonment.

I didn’t hate Amber. That was the worst part. I loved her. I understood her. And I still felt betrayed. Inside, the house was quiet. Too quiet. I kicked off my shoes and leaned back against the door, closing my eyes. Everyone else was moving forward. Letting go. Releasing. Redeeming. And I was still standing guard over the ruins. Not because I couldn’t leave. But because someone had to remember what it cost to survive.

The end of enablement

”This division…..my division. Is a joke.”

Kayla Richards, the former SCW Bombshells Champion, sits in a penthouse suite at the MGM Grand. Because of course she would. And of course she would go out to Vegas two weeks before the show to enjoy some downtime. She takes a deep breath, a champagne flute in her hand, dressed in a tight-fitting white dress with a long slit going up one leg, which she crosses over the other as she relaxes on the white leather couch inside the main room of the suite.

”Last year, going into Inception, this company had two of the most dominant champions this business had ever seen. I was the World Bombshells Champion, and Finn Wheelan was the World Heavyweight Champion. Coming out of that show, Finn was still holding the World Championship, and I had lost the Bombshells Championship to Andrea Hernandez. Now, when I lost that championship, I made the decision to wait and regain it in the most dominating way possible by destroying every single woman that was in an Elimination Chamber match so I could snatch my championship back and prove to everyone that it was a fluke. I made that decision. No one else did.”

“And when I regained my Bombshells World Championship, Finn lost his World Heavyweight Championship. So in many ways, Inception last year was the final time that this company had real credibility on both levels. I would try to regain that credibility for the Bombshells by getting my championship back, but Finn had done so much for this company that it completely shredded his body. His shoulder was hanging on by a thread. His entire body and mental well-being were being given to this company. A company that never appreciated him. A company that has never appreciated me. And when I lost the Bombshells Championship to Frankie, I made the decision to step back and see how the division was going to play out.”

“I allowed Frankie Holiday to have a grace period to prove herself.”

“And where exactly did that mercy get me, the Bombshells Championship, and the division?”

“It destroyed it. It destroyed all credibility, as everything that I worked for for the better part of the last four years got flushed down the toilet. I dominated as an Internet Champion. I dominated as a Mixed Tag Team Champion. And then I dominated at the very top of the business. I set this division up to be something special. To regain the glory days before it was ruined by mediocrity. The same glory days that we saw when Alicia Lukas was champion. The same glory days when Amber Ryan and Roxi Johnson went to war. Those glory days. I had us back there. And then it was ruined. Flushed down the fucking toilet.”

Kayla pauses, taking a sip of her champagne before slowly putting the glass down on the table in front of her, the black marble making a small noise as the delicate glass touches it. Her long black hair is slicked back but still flowing down her shoulders, a pair of white gold earrings framing her face as a diamond nose stud shines under the bright light coming from above.

”This is my failure. I foolishly thought that Frankie was going to be the next big thing in this company. That she needed room to mature and breathe. So I allowed her to have that breathing room. I allowed her to have that little bit of extra rope to walk away from me. And do you know what happened when I gave Frankie Holiday that little bit of extra rope? I’ll give you one hint.”

“She fucking hung herself, and with it, this entire division.”

She spits her anger like venom, her green emerald eyes staring forward through heavily eyeshadowed makeup and black eyeliner, mascara making her eyelashes pop in a way that seems unnatural yet somehow evil.

”Now where are we? What is this division doing? Frankie Holiday is facing Aiden Reynolds’ much more talented sister. We have, in Amelia, a woman who could be a star against Frankie Holiday, who everyone thought was going to be a star. We have a Roulette Championship match between two old farts that nobody cares about, an Internet Championship match between someone who can’t get out of her own fucking way in Victoria Lyons and a perennial contender in Harper Mason.”

“And the stupidest and biggest joke of all: the World Bombshells Championship being defended in a tag team match. Let me repeat that, just on the off chance that there are some of you who haven’t been watching the show or keeping up with the fuckery that is going on. The top prize in our game, a championship that means you are the best of the best in the women’s division in this company, is being defended in a tag team match between the woman who flew her way into winning the damn thing, her perennial hang-on in Mercedes Vargas, against her ex-wife and her rookie fucking sister-in-law or cousin-in-law or whoever the hell Zenna is…”

“Are you all kidding me?”

“And to top off this birthday cake made out of dog shit and duct tape, what am I doing? In a situation where I could’ve saved the division, saved the show, and saved my precious Bombshells Championship— instead of facing Crystal and snapping her neck like a twig and showing her that the friendship that she and I had was nothing but a joke because she has turned into a joke— I am instead facing Bella Madison. And the saddest part about all of this is that I don’t hate the idea of facing Bella Madison. I don’t hate the idea of she and I having a match, because she seems like someone who could push me to the limit if properly motivated. The issue is the only one in this match who really has motivation is me. What’s Bella’s motivation? To beat someone who’s better than her? Shit, that’s her motivation in 90% of the matches that she ends up dragging her second-generation, pampered ass into.”

Kayla growls and sits forward, uncrossing her legs but keeping her knees together so we don’t have an accidental kitty wardrobe malfunction.

”Look, as painful as it is for me to admit this, Bella going against Crystal for the Bombshells Championship would be a hell of a lot better than the tag team match that we have for the title. It would make a hell of a lot more sense than myself and Bella going against each other. What would make more sense is this company taking the handcuffs off of me and allowing me to get my championship back by snapping that stupid, pathetic bitch’s neck. But since I can’t do that, and since I’m going into Inception to face you, Bella, then you are going to be the one who has to feel all of the anger and frustration that I have been going through over the last few months since losing my championship and making the decision to step back and watching it gloriously blow up in not only my face, but also the company’s face.”

“The last few months have been an absolute nightmare for me. From losing to Victoria, to having to face women like Candy and Zenna and Cassie. And now I’m going into a match with you. And I’d like to believe, Bella, that you understand the magnitude of this. And if you don’t understand the magnitude of this, I want you to go home, I want you to pick up your phone, and I want you to call your mother and ask her to explain it to you very slowly, because you might not get it.”

“You probably want to frame this as some sort of coming-out party for you. A chance for you to beat someone who was dominant. A chance for you to play out your contrived and overused Cinderella underdog story of the girl who everyone thinks is not good enough finally proving everyone wrong. And hey, I get it. It’s an interesting story, and it’s one that people really can get behind. You will have fans, and a lot of the people backstage, and you will have everyone else absolutely cheering you on, but the issue is that it won’t mean shit.”

“At some point, the applause and the back-patting and the love and outpouring that you get will end up stopping, and the bell will ring. And when the bell rings, a year in the ring with me, all bets are off, all Cinderella stories end up failing, and you will be left alone with a goddamn monster.”

“You come from a wrestling family. Your mother and father were professional wrestlers— great ones, even. You surround yourself with other professional wrestlers. You are friends with Miles, you’re friends with LJ, you are married to a professional wrestler. It just so happens that both your husband and his idiot older brother happened to be married to women who are much better at this wrestling thing than either of them. And in your case, that’s not saying much considering Malachi is a fucking joke.”

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, leaning back to finish her champagne and calm herself down.

”I’m not going to sit here and say that you can’t beat me. I’ve said it before, Bella— if we’ve faced before or been involved in a match, you absolutely can beat me. Anyone can beat me. In one out of 100 matches, I’m sure that there is a timeline out there where I slip on a banana peel and fucking Candy gets a win over me. It’s not if you can beat me, it’s will you beat me? And I just don’t see it happening. Miracles can happen in this world, and yeah, you will come at me with everything that you have. I know that. You know that. Everyone knows that.”

“And you should know that your mother and father will be proud of you no matter what happens. But that’s what they’re supposed to do. They are supposed to love and cherish their baby girl. They’re supposed to support you no matter what. But Bella, trust me— the competitive side of them? There is a small part of your mother that dies every single time you get into the ring and end up failing. She watches as her daughter struggles and fails at the thing that came so naturally to her. And it’s because you simply can’t keep up. You rely too much on your family’s legacy. You rely too much on your last name. And you rely too much on the natural talent that you believe you have instead of getting in the gym and working.”

“I have a natural affinity for professional wrestling, but not the same that you have. The difference between you and me is that despite the fact I’m a natural at this, and even though I act like all of this is so easy, I get in the gym and I work my arse off. I run my mouth. I get in the ring. I do everything I can to win, and I leave it all out there in the ring every single time. I watched as the man I love destroyed his body for a championship. I watched him go through rehab after rehab when it came to his shoulder, and I watched him get stitched back together by fucking voodoo witch doctors.”

“And I would go through the exact same.”

“You want to beat me, Bella? You want to get in that ring and make a name for yourself and show the world that you are more than just a sad underdog story and a famous last name? Then you have to prove it by beating someone who matters. And trust me on this, sweetheart— I matter. And to beat me, you’re going to have to damn near kill me, because you will not be getting anything off of me that you haven’t fucking earned. So saddle up, grow a pair, get in the ring at Inception, and show me something more than what you believe yourself to be. Because if you bring the same tired bullshit that you always have? I’m going to eat you alive.”
100
Supercard Roleplays / Re: RYAN KEYS v LIAM DAVIS
« Last post by RyanKeys on December 29, 2025, 08:38:21 PM »
Built for the Noise

The lights hit different in Vegas. They always have. Even before the noise, before the crowds, before the echo of voices bouncing off concrete and neon, there’s something in the air that hums like it already knows your name. Ryan feels it the second he steps into it again — that familiar buzz under his skin, that low, restless energy that never really goes away, just waits patiently until the right moment to wake back up.

He pauses longer than he means to, just standing there, letting it settle. The movement. The sound. The sense that something is about to happen. Vegas doesn’t ease you in; it dares you to keep up. And that’s always been part of the pull.

Because this place doesn’t ask you to be quiet. It doesn’t ask you to behave. It doesn’t ask you to shrink yourself down into something manageable. Vegas rewards presence. It rewards confidence. It rewards the people who walk in like they belong — even if they’re still figuring out exactly why they came back.

Ryan exhales slowly, a grin tugging at his mouth before he even realizes it’s there. Funny thing is, he never really stopped loving this. The lights, the energy, the way anticipation hangs in the air like static before a storm. He didn’t come back chasing nostalgia or trying to relive some version of himself that only exists in highlight clips. He came back because this feeling never left him. Because something in him still wakes up when the noise starts building.

There’s a rhythm to it. A pulse. You can feel it under your feet if you pay attention.

That rhythm is what pulled him back toward the ring.

Not obligation. Not pressure. Not someone whispering in his ear about expectations. Just that familiar itch — the one that starts when the crowd gets loud and the moment starts asking for more than silence. The one that says, yeah, this still fits you. The one that reminds him how alive he feels when energy starts moving in his direction and he gets to decide what to do with it.

Ryan adjusts his jacket, rolls his shoulders once, loose and easy. There’s no ceremony to it. No dramatic pause. Just a guy stepping back into a space that always made sense to him in a way few others ever have.

People like to pretend wrestling is all discipline and structure and seriousness. Lines to stand in. Rules to follow. Faces to keep straight. And sure — there’s plenty of that. But there’s also something else underneath it. Something louder. Something messier. Something that breathes when the crowd does.

That part? That’s the part he’s always understood.

He doesn’t walk like he’s carrying a burden. He walks like he’s answering an invitation. Like the building itself is daring him to make something happen, and he’s already halfway through the yes. There’s a bounce in his step that isn’t forced. A looseness that comes from knowing he doesn’t need to pretend to be anything else to belong here.

Vegas remembers him. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Either way, there’s recognition in the air — that subtle click of familiarity. The way the lights catch just right. The way the noise doesn’t overwhelm, but welcomes. It’s the same feeling he gets when music starts playing and his body moves before his brain catches up. Instinct over instruction. Feeling over formula.

This is where he remembers why he came back.

Not to prove something. Not to correct a narrative. Not to chase approval.

He came back because he missed the momentum. Because he missed the way moments stretch when eyes are on you and anything can happen next. Because he missed the electricity of being the variable — the element you can’t fully plan around. The part of the equation that refuses to sit still.

There’s a freedom in that. A kind of joy that doesn’t need permission.

Ryan slows just enough to take it in. The space. The anticipation. The idea that somewhere ahead, people are already forming opinions, already deciding what they think this is going to be. He almost laughs at that. Predictions have never really been his thing. He’s always been better at surprises.

He rolls his neck once, loose, relaxed, like he’s shaking off static. His expression settles into something easy and confident — not cocky, not tense. Just ready.

Because coming back isn’t about reclaiming anything. It’s about continuing something that never actually stopped. That current that’s always been there, humming under the surface, waiting for the right moment to surge again.

And Inception VIII? That feels like one of those moments.

Vegas hums louder now, or maybe he’s just listening more closely. Either way, the energy is there, coiled and curious. The kind that doesn’t demand control — it rewards movement. It dares you to play with it. To ride it. To let it carry you somewhere unexpected.

Ryan smiles to himself, that familiar spark lighting behind his eyes.

Yeah. This still fits.

This still feels like home.

And whatever order, structure, or seriousness is waiting on the other side of the curtain… well, that can wait a second. There’s time for all that later.

Right now, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be — stepping back into the noise, into the rhythm, into the moment where everything starts to move.

And once it starts moving?

It rarely stops.

There’s a funny thing about control. People who believe in it tend to announce it loudly, like saying the word often enough will make it real. They stand straighter, talk sharper, move like every step has been approved in advance. They build rules the way others build walls — not always to keep danger out, but to keep uncertainty from getting too close.

Ryan has always noticed that.

Not with judgment. Not even with resistance. Just awareness. The kind you get when you recognize a rhythm that doesn’t match your own.

Because control has a sound to it. A tightness. A rigidity. A sense of things being held together a little too carefully. And when that sound shows up in a room, Ryan doesn’t feel challenged by it — he feels curious. Curious about how long it can hold. Curious about what happens when something unplanned brushes up against it.

That’s where the friction starts.

He doesn’t see structure as an enemy. He just doesn’t worship it. To him, structure is scaffolding, not scripture. Useful when it helps, forgettable when it doesn’t. Something you move around instead of bowing to. And maybe that’s the real disconnect. Some people build their entire identity around control. Others treat it like a suggestion.

Ryan falls squarely in the second group.

He’s never been wired to move in straight lines. Even now, standing on the edge of another big moment, he can feel that familiar hum in his chest — not nerves, not doubt, but anticipation. The kind that comes from knowing something interesting is about to happen because two completely different energies are about to collide.

Order versus motion. Discipline versus instinct. Containment versus flow.

And the thing about flow? It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t posture. It doesn’t threaten. It just keeps going, slipping through cracks, finding space, adapting on the fly. You can try to box it in, but it has a way of turning corners into doorways.

Ryan learned that early. Long before labels, before expectations, before anyone tried to define what he was supposed to represent. He learned that momentum listens better than rules ever do. That crowds respond to honesty more than precision. That energy, once sparked, wants to move — and fighting that movement only makes it louder.

That’s the part people miss when they look at him and see noise.

They mistake volume for chaos. Motion for recklessness. Joy for a lack of focus.

But there’s focus here. Just not the stiff, clenched kind. It’s the kind that lives in timing. In awareness. In knowing when to push and when to let the moment breathe. In feeling the room shift and riding that shift instead of resisting it.

That’s why he doesn’t tense up when things get intense. He loosens. He listens. He adapts.

Where some people tighten their grip, Ryan opens his hands.

And that difference matters more than most realize.

Because when pressure hits, control wants compliance. It wants predictability. It wants the world to behave. Chaos — real chaos — just wants to move. To react. To answer energy with energy. It doesn’t need permission, and it doesn’t wait for approval.

That’s not defiance. It’s instinct.

Ryan doesn’t walk into this thinking about enforcement or authority or lines that must be held. He walks in thinking about rhythm. About pace. About how a moment feels when it’s alive. About how quickly things can tilt when momentum changes hands.

He’s felt that shift before — that instant when a room leans forward without realizing it. When attention sharpens. When anticipation turns electric. It’s subtle, but once you know it, you can’t unlearn it. And once you learn how to play inside that space, it becomes second nature.

That’s where he’s comfortable.

There’s a confidence that comes from knowing you don’t need to force reactions. You just need to invite them. Let them build. Let them breathe. Let them get a little messy. A little loud. A little unpredictable.

Because unpredictability isn’t the absence of control — it’s a different language entirely.

Ryan understands that language fluently.

He understands how energy ricochets. How it multiplies when shared. How a crowd doesn’t want to be managed so much as moved. How momentum isn’t something you order into existence, but something you earn by being open enough to catch it when it passes by.

That’s why this clash feels inevitable. Not personal. Not hostile. Just… directional. Two approaches pointing straight at each other from opposite ends of the same moment.

On one side: structure, discipline, restraint, the belief that things work best when every piece stays in its place.

On the other: motion, instinct, expression, the belief that things come alive when you let them breathe.

Neither one is a villain. Neither one is wrong. But they don’t coexist quietly.

Ryan can feel that contrast sharpening now, tightening the air just a little. Not in a threatening way — in an anticipatory one. Like the second before music drops. Like the pause before a crowd realizes it’s about to get loud.

He doesn’t bristle at it. He doesn’t brace himself.

He smiles.

Because this is the part where people expect him to get serious. To slow down. To rein it in. To prove he can be “focused” in the way they recognize. To trade color for control, looseness for rigidity, fun for formality.

And maybe that’s the real misunderstanding.

Focus doesn’t always look like stillness. Sometimes it looks like motion with purpose. Like confidence that doesn’t need to announce itself. Like joy that doesn’t apologize for taking up space.

Ryan’s focus lives in his awareness — in how tuned in he is to the room, to the rhythm, to the way energy moves when it’s allowed to flow instead of being forced into shape. He doesn’t lose himself in the noise. He listens to it.

That’s the difference.

That’s why, when people talk about “handling” him, it almost makes him laugh. You don’t handle a current. You either fight it until you’re exhausted, or you learn how to move with it.

And he’s been moving with it his whole life.

The closer this gets, the clearer that contrast becomes. Not as a threat. Not as a warning. Just as a truth settling into place. Two philosophies walking toward the same moment from opposite directions, each convinced they’re the steady one.

Ryan doesn’t need to declare which side he’s on. He lives it. Every step, every grin, every easy breath says enough.

Because when the moment finally arrives — when the noise swells, when attention tightens, when everything starts to lean forward — he won’t be trying to control it.

He’ll be listening for the rhythm.

And once he hears it, he’ll do what he’s always done.

Move.

He exhales through a soft laugh, the kind that slips out before he even realizes he’s doing it, and finally lets his voice join the moment.

“See, this is the part people always get wrong,” Ryan says, tone easy, conversational, like he’s talking to someone just off-camera. “They think chaos means careless. Like if you’re not standing at attention, you must not be paying attention at all.”

He tilts his head slightly, considering the thought, then shrugs.

“Trust me — I’m paying attention.”

His voice carries that relaxed confidence that doesn’t rush to prove itself. It doesn’t need to. It knows it’s being heard. There’s a rhythm to how he talks, a natural rise and fall, like he’s riding the same current he’s been describing all along.

“I hear everything,” he continues. “The whispers. The reactions. The way a room changes its mind halfway through a moment. That little shift when people lean forward without realizing they’re doing it.”

A small grin pulls at his mouth.

“That’s not noise. That’s information.”

He gestures loosely as if shaping the air while he talks, hands moving in time with the idea rather than emphasizing it. His body stays relaxed, loose, but there’s intention behind every word now — a quiet sharpening beneath the playfulness.

“See, some people need quiet to think. Need order to focus. Need things lined up just right before they can breathe.” He gives a soft, almost sympathetic hum. “Me? I think better when things are moving. When there’s pressure. When the room’s alive.”

He taps his chest once, light, casual.

“That’s when everything clicks.”

There’s no bravado in it. No chest-thumping. Just certainty.

Ryan shifts his weight, pacing a half-step before stopping again, eyes bright with that familiar spark. “You ever notice how the best moments never happen on schedule?” he asks aloud. “They happen when something slips. When timing bends a little. When people stop trying to control the outcome and just… let it happen.”

He smiles at that, like the thought genuinely amuses him.

“That’s where I live.”

His tone softens for a beat, thoughtful without losing its edge. “I don’t walk into these moments trying to dominate them. I walk in ready to listen. Ready to feel which way the energy wants to go.” A small shrug. “And then I follow it.”

There’s a pause — not an empty one, but a deliberate breath — before his voice lifts again, more playful now.

“And yeah, I know how that sounds. Real poetic. Real ‘trust the vibes,’ right?” He lets out a short laugh. “But here’s the thing — vibes are just awareness with better branding.”

His grin widens, eyes flickering with humor.

“Call it instinct. Call it rhythm. Call it whatever makes you comfortable. I just know that when the moment starts moving, I move with it. And when I move with it, things tend to… open up.”

He makes a small, open-handed gesture, like doors parting.

“That’s when people start reacting instead of planning. That’s when control gets slippery. Not because anyone’s losing their mind — but because they’re trying to hold onto something that was never meant to stay still.”

Ryan’s voice lowers slightly, more intimate now, like he’s letting the audience in on a secret.

“And that’s usually the point where I start having fun.”

A beat. Then a soft exhale through his nose, amused.

“Look, I’m not here to pretend I don’t see the contrast. I know how this looks on paper. I know how the story gets framed. Order versus chaos. Discipline versus impulse. Structure versus… whatever it is I’m supposed to represent.”

He rolls one shoulder, unbothered.

“But stories don’t live on paper. They live in motion. In moments. In reactions you can’t rehearse.”

His eyes lift slightly, as if picturing the scene already unfolding.

“You can feel it when it’s coming, too. That shift. That hum. The second where the air gets thicker and the room starts paying attention whether it means to or not.”

His voice grows a touch brighter, more animated.

“That’s my favorite part. That second right before everything tips.”

He gestures lightly, almost playful. “Because that’s when people realize this isn’t about being loud or quiet, strict or wild. It’s about who can adapt when the moment stops behaving.”

A pause.

Then, with a small, knowing smile:

“And I’ve never really had a problem with that.”

Ryan takes a breath, letting the silence hang just long enough to matter.

“I don’t need to force anything,” he says calmly. “I don’t need to rush. I don’t need to posture.” A beat. “I just show up. I listen. I move.”

His tone turns warmer, more assured, like someone completely at ease in their own skin.

“Because when things start to speed up — when pressure builds and expectations pile on — that’s not when I freeze.”

He smiles again, easy and unbothered.

“That’s when I wake up.”

The energy around his words starts to lean forward now, subtle but undeniable. There’s a sense of momentum gathering, of threads starting to pull toward something inevitable.

“People talk a lot about control,” he says, almost casually. “About holding the line. About keeping things tight. About discipline.”

A quiet chuckle slips out.

“But control only works when everything behaves.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes glinting.

“And I don’t.”

There it is — not a threat, not a boast. Just a statement of fact.

Ryan lets that settle before continuing, voice steady and confident.

“So when this moment finally hits — when the noise rises and the energy starts to bend — I’m not going to fight it. I’m not going to slow it down. I’m not going to try to cage it.”

A small grin curls at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m going to ride it.”

He spreads his hands a fraction, like he’s already feeling the momentum under his feet.

“Because that’s what I’ve always done. That’s what I’m good at. And that’s what brought me back here in the first place.”

His gaze sharpens, focus narrowing just a bit as everything starts lining up.

“Some people need rules to feel steady,” he says quietly. “I need motion.”

A beat.

“Some people need control.”

Another beat — softer, more playful.

“I need a little chaos.”

He exhales, shoulders loose, expression bright with that familiar, easy confidence.

“And the funny thing is? Chaos doesn’t mean losing control.”

A pause.

“It just means you’re not afraid to move when the moment tells you to.”

His smile widens — not cocky, not cruel — just alive.

And with that, the momentum feels ready to tip forward, perfectly aligned with what’s coming next.
Okay, hold on—
hold on, hold on, hold on.

So I wake up, check my phone, stretch a little, do that thing where you tell yourself you’re definitely getting out of bed this time… and the first thing I see is that I’ve apparently been classified as a problem.

Not just a problem.

A disorder.

Which—wow.

First of all, rude.

Second of all, I didn’t realize SCW had started diagnosing vibes.

But I read the match card. I read it slow. Twice. Maybe three times. And I gotta say… I kinda love it.

Because according to the official paperwork, at Inception VIII, I’m not just wrestling Liam Davis.

I’m being handled.

Like I’m a noise complaint.

Like I’m a citation waiting to happen.

Like somebody called the cops on the party and now here comes Officer Very Serious with his jaw clenched and his patience already gone.

And listen — I get it.

I really do.

I’m loud.

I smile too much.

I celebrate in places you’re “not supposed to.”

I turn chants into fuel and moments into confetti.

I treat a wrestling ring like a dance floor with ropes.

That probably is annoying if your whole thing is order, control, discipline, structure, and walking around like the fun police with a badge permanently stitched to your mood.

But here’s the thing nobody ever seems to account for…

I’m not doing this at you.

I’m just doing it.

That’s the part that really seems to get under your skin.

Because see, Liam, you walk into a room like everything needs to fall in line. Like the world should straighten its posture when you show up. Like chaos is something to be corrected.

Me?

I walk in like the music’s already playing.

And suddenly the room has a beat.

That’s the difference.

You call it disorder.

I call it rhythm.

You call it disrespect.

I call it momentum.

You call it “this guy needs to be dealt with,”

and I call it Tuesday.

And look — I’m not mad about any of this. I’m actually kind of flattered. There’s something adorable about being framed as the great disturbance. The neon problem. The adrenaline outbreak. The one thing standing between order and absolute mayhem.

That’s cartoon-villain language, by the way. Real Saturday morning stuff.

Which is funny, because the way this is shaping up? It feels less like a war and more like one of those old cartoons where the serious guy spends the whole episode trying to catch the one who keeps slipping through his fingers.

You know the kind.

Every time he thinks he’s got it handled — bam — pie to the face.

Every time he tightens the rules — whoop — someone scoots under them.

Every time he slows things down — zip — chaos is already two steps ahead, waving and smiling.

That’s not disrespect. That’s physics.

And I hate to break it to you, but I’ve never been great at standing still long enough to get lectured.

See, the funny part about calling me “the Party Boy” like it’s an insult is that parties don’t work without timing. Without awareness. Without knowing when to turn the volume up and when to let the beat breathe.

Chaos isn’t random.

It’s responsive.

It listens.

It reacts.

It feeds off energy.

Crowd energy.

And oh man… crowds love a guy who looks like he’s having the time of his life while someone else is grinding their teeth trying to keep control.

That’s not me being reckless. That’s me being comfortable.

Comfortable in noise.

Comfortable in motion.

Comfortable when things get a little unpredictable.

You call that dangerous.

I call that home.

And look — I can already hear it. The footsteps. The pacing. The jaw tightening. The whole “keep it together, keep it together” routine. You’ve got that look like you’re five seconds away from writing me a ticket for excessive smiling.

But here’s the problem with trying to shut down a party.

The harder you clamp down, the louder it gets.

The more you demand order, the more obvious it becomes how badly you need it.

And that’s where things get… slippery.

Because all it takes is one moment. One split second where that patience cracks. One breath you take too late. One reaction instead of a decision.

And suddenly the lecture turns into a chase.

Suddenly the rulebook isn’t in your hand anymore.

Suddenly the guy you were supposed to “handle” is already somewhere else, already moving, already grinning like he knew this was how it was always going to go.

That’s the funny part about all this framing.

Authority versus adrenaline.

Discipline versus delirium.

Sounds dramatic. Sounds serious.

But underneath it?

It’s really just about control… and what happens when you try to impose it on something that refuses to sit still.

So yeah. Inception VIII.

You bring the posture.

You bring the scowl.

You bring the tight jaw and the measured steps and the whole “I’ve got this under control” energy.

I’ll bring the noise.

The bounce.

The color.

The grin that shows up right when it shouldn’t.

And if at any point you feel like the situation is getting a little… overwhelming?

Hey.

You can always ask for a timeout.

I hear there’s a safe word.
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