HIGH STAKES - TCC ARENA (TUCSON CONVENTION CENTER) - TUCSON, ARIZONA
INT. LOCKER ROOM - NIGHT
[Mercedes is still in her gear, hair damp with sweat, makeup smeared. She isn't on the stage - she's slumped against a cinderblock wall backstage. No entrance music, no fanfare. Just the sound of her catching her breath, defeated. The Bombshell Internet Championship is no longer in her possession.
The chill from the concrete seeps through her gear, like the world reminding her it doesn’t care how many lights once followed her. Her fingers twitch, brushing over the spot where the championship used to rest against her shoulder. It feels lighter now—too light.
Someone walks by, a crewmember maybe, but she doesn’t lift her head. The usual post-match noise—booming music, chatter, laughter—feels like it’s happening in another world. A world she’s not part of tonight.
Mercedes exhales through her nose, sharp and shaking. She isn’t crying. Not yet. That would mean this is over, that the loss is real, and she isn’t ready to give the universe that satisfaction.
Finally, she pushes herself upright, every muscle protesting. She adjusts the strap on her shoulder, though there’s nothing there, out of habit more than pride. The empty hallway stretches ahead like a challenge. Maybe this is what the climb back starts like—not under the lights, but here, in the dark, where nobody’s watching.
She finds a quiet corner in the locker room, away from the others. The mirror in front of her is streaked with condensation, the harsh fluorescent light making the sweat on her skin shine like salt. She studies her reflection and almost doesn’t recognize it. The smudged eyeliner, the wild hair, the thin line of blood where someone’s nails caught her cheek. For a long moment, she just stares.
There’s a whisper of a voice in her head telling her she failed. It’s louder than the crowd ever was. But she forces herself to sit down, to breathe in through her nose, out through her mouth, counting to four. Just like her trainer taught her years ago, back when the title belt was just a dream. She remembers his words about loss being part of the job—but never part of who you are.
She picks up a towel, wipes her face, then pulls her phone from her bag. There’s a flood of notifications—memes, replays, fans picking sides. She scrolls once, twice, then locks the screen and sets it face down. Not tonight. Tonight isn’t about them. It’s about the silence that comes after everything crashes down, and what she does with it.
Mercedes leans back, letting the adrenaline drain out of her system. She’s still breathing hard, but there’s a strange peace in the quiet now. The kind that says, “You survived.” Tomorrow will hurt in all the ways that matter, but right now, in this small space behind the stage lights, she starts to remember why she fell in love with the fight in the first place.
The door creaks open, and Mercedes doesn’t look up at first. She expects a medic, maybe a stagehand telling her to clear out. Instead, the sound of heels against tile draws closer—measured, confident, deliberate. The kind of stride only someone proud of their new weight in gold would have.]
“Rough night?”
[The voice is smooth, familiar, and when Mercedes finally looks up, there she is. Crystal Zdunich, freshly crowned World Bombshell Champion. The title rests over her shoulder, the metal catching every bit of light in the room. There’s still glitter in her hair and sweat at her temples, but she looks radiant—like the universe itself is bowing to her.Mercedes tells herself she’s not jealous. Not exactly. Maybe just…tired. Crystal leans one hand on the lockers, studying her with the half-smirk she’s perfected over years in the ring.]
CRYSTAL
You know, I’ve been where you are. Four walls, one loss, and a heart that won’t stop pounding. It’s not the end.
[Mercedes lets out something between a laugh and a sigh.]
MERCEDES
Feels like it.
[Crystal shakes her head.]
CRYSTAL
Good. Let it feel that way. Means you still care. And that’s the part that makes you dangerous.
[She straightens, adjusts the belt on her shoulder.]
CRYSTAL
Take tonight. Grieve it. Then come find me. Because champions don’t stay down long.
[She leaves as quietly as she came, the echo of her heels fading into the hum of the arena beyond. Mercedes sits in the silence that follows, torn between resentment and something dangerously close to respect.]
~~~
Almighty FireSemana del 23 al 30 de noviembre de 2025You know, sometimes, I forget how good I am at this. Not wrestling—everyone already knows that—but reminding the world that I don’t do average. I don’t settle for “good enough,” and I damn sure don’t lose sleep over the flavor-of-the-month duo that thinks they’re ready to stand next to Fire & Fury. Honestly, Young Justice? The name alone screams “try-hards.” Cute. Motivational. Just the kind of name you pick when you still believe hard work equals destiny. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. Pregúntale a las que vinieron antes de ti—ask around. Ask the women who tried to outwork me, outshine me, outtalk me. They’re all in my rearview mirror, cariño, where they belong.
But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s talk about this Climax Control main event—because make no mistake, this isn’t just another match. This is a masterclass. It’s the difference between those who make the spotlight and those who desperately chase it.
Now, Harper Mason. You’re… interesting. That little rebel streak? It’s cute. The fans eat it up. All fire, all heart, taking no prisoners, swinging for the fences—only to find out the fences are way higher than they look. You’ve got that “fighter’s grit,” that motor that just doesn’t quit. Admirable, really. Reminds me of myself when I was running this place years ago without needing to hashtag it every five minutes. But the problem, mija, is that your fight ends when experience begins. I’ve seen girls just like you: all ambition, no direction.
You’ve been hyped as the future of this division, which is funny, because I’m still very much the present. You don’t overthrow a queen just because you want to—you do it because you can. And tú no puedes.
Let’s be clear: nobody is denying your potential. You can go in there, take a few chops, maybe even get a pin if the stars align—but against me? Against Fire & Fury? You’re not just stepping in with veterans, sweetheart. You’re stepping into a legacy. Remember how we dismantled you and Cassie the last time? Same script here. You two might dream about stealing the show, but honey, I built the damn platform. You wouldn’t even have a show without women like me rewriting what “Bombshell” means in this company.
So when that bell rings in Tempe, don’t take it personal when I make an example out of you. I’ll give you your flowers when it’s over. Maybe even let you post about it, tag me in the caption—#WrestlingRoyalty, #Goals, #NeverForgetWhoHumbledYou. You’re welcome in advance.
Then there’s Cassie Wolfe. Little Miss Sunshine with the underdog spirit. The fans love you because you’re the scrappy one. The risk-taker. The girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, walks the line between brave and reckless. You’ve made people believe that just maybe, if they hustle hard enough, they can knock off legends. That’s adorable. Really, it is. I appreciate the fairytale. But this isn’t a Disney movie, muñeca. This is Climax Control, and you’re standing across from Mercedes Vargas—the final boss, la prueba definitiva. One of the .most decorated Bombshells of all time. You’re not facing a test, Cassie—you’re facing the final exam.
You and Harper are going to go viral for one night, sure. Clips of your fire, your hustle, your “heart.” And then what? When that bell rings and Fire & Fury are standing tall, when Crystal and I do what we always do—prove that dominance isn’t claimed, it’s earned—what happens next? You go back to promising that one day it’ll be your time. “Soon.” “Next time.” That speech never changes for your kind. But here’s the truth nobody tells you—sometimes “next time” never comes, mamita. Some of us were born to define eras. Others were just lucky to live in them.
Now, I’ll give you your due. You’ve got ring IQ. You’ve got reflexes. You’ve even beaten names that made people take notice. But beating Mercedes Vargas? That’s the difference between bold and delusional. And knowing you, I’d say you lean heavily toward the latter.
So please, do your cute pre-match ritual, smile for the cameras, tell the world that “you’re not afraid of Fire & Fury.” Then step into the ring and discover why everyone else learned they should have been.
People love to talk about setbacks. They bring up High Stakes like it's some kind of stain on my legacy. Victoria Lyons pinning me in that triple threat with Harper Mason—oh, the Internet ate that up, didn’t they? “Mercedes finally loses her touch.” “The era’s ending.” No, honey. The era doesn’t end because of a fluke. Victoria got her moment, Harper got her participation trophy, and I walked out still being Mercedes Vargas—the name that sells tickets. Losses don’t define me; they remind me who I am. And that’s dangerous for anyone standing across the ring from me.
See, every queen stumbles before she reclaims her crown. That night wasn’t a fall—it was an awakening. And someone’s going to pay for it. Funny how fate lined it up perfectly, because here comes Harper again, thinking lightning’s going to strike twice. Darling, lightning doesn’t strike twice in my sky.
Now, let’s pivot to something a little closer to home. Fire & Fury—Crystal Caldwell and Mercedes Vargas. You know, for two women cut from such different cloth, we fit together like destiny planned it that way. She’s the Fire—flashy, emotional, always needing to be seen. And me? I’m the Fury. The constant. The storm that doesn’t need to announce itself before it hits. That’s why this partnership works. Where Crystal brings the spark, I bring the execution. Together, we don’t just burn bright—we scorch anyone foolish enough to stand in our way.
Crystal is the World Champion for a reason. She talks her talk, she walks her walk, and like every megastar, she’s had her share of doubters. But here’s what people miss: champions need equals beside them, not shadows. That’s me. I’m the balance, the credibility, the reminder that no matter how high she climbs, she’s not standing alone—she’s standing next to greatness. And that’s the difference between Fire & Fury and every makeshift team thrown together hoping for lightning in a bottle. This isn’t lightning. This is legacy. You don’t get that at the performance center or scrolling through motivational quotes on social media. You earn that through years of blood, betrayal, and championship gold.
People talk about “chemistry” like it’s this mystical thing. No. It’s called respect, experience, and lethal focus. Crystal and I thrive under pressure because we are the pressure. We make the air thick, the crowd alive, the ring feel smaller the moment we step in. That’s Fire & Fury. And Young Justice, you’re going to find out that playing heroes doesn’t hit the same when you’re facing villains who write the rules.
See, matches like this—they’re not about wins and losses for me anymore. They’re about preservation. I’ve done the ironwoman runs, the title chases, the five-star classics. At this stage, I’m protecting my narrative. The narrative that says “Mercedes Vargas doesn’t fade.” The narrative that even after generations of bright-eyed newcomers, my name still headlines. I don’t crave validation—I command it. Every time I step into that ring, I’m not chasing championships, I’m chasing immortality.
And the funny thing about being immortal is watching mortals convince themselves they can slay you.
So Cassie, Harper—think of this match as your baptism. You’re about to find out what happens when ambition meets inevitability. You’ll fight, you’ll swing, you’ll hit your moves, and for a moment, the crowd might even believe you’ve got us on the ropes. But hope has an expiration date. And when that bell tolls, you’ll hear it—your illusion cracking under reality.
People keep asking me if I worry about “the future.” That one day, the next wave will push me out, make me obsolete. Please. The future is what I built. Every rookie who walks into this division is stepping into my design. The blueprint is mine. The Bombshell division runs on wheels I forged when most of these girls were still studying tapes. You don’t topple an empire by tweeting ambition—you do it by dethroning the monarch, and none of you have the pedigree for that.
Cassie and Harper, the two of you represent everything I’ve seen a hundred times before—energy without wisdom, passion without patience. It’s like watching someone try to sprint through a marathon. You burn bright, sure, but you burn out faster. And when you do, I’ll be right here, smiling that same satisfied smile I’ve worn for 12 years, still wearing gold, still being la estándar—the standard no one can touch.
Because when you’ve done it all, when you are the prototype, matches like this aren’t challenges. They’re public service announcements to the audience that the standard doesn’t fade just because others can’t reach it.
When I step through that curtain, they don’t see a wrestler. They see an institution. A brand. The way the light hits the gold, the way I carry myself—it’s intoxicating. The light hits me different because I am different. Some of you call it arrogance. I call it awareness. I could walk into that arena in Tempe, say absolutely nothing, and still outshine both of you without breaking a nail or smudging my lipstick.
Harper, Cassie, you wear heart on your sleeve. I wear gold on mine. That’s the difference between believing you’re special and actually being it.
When Climax Control ends, the world will talk about this match. They’ll praise your courage, your performance, your effort. They’ll admire your drive. But they’ll remember us. They’ll remember Fire & Fury standing victorious, the standard still unbroken, the throne still secure. Porque las leyendas no caen. Evolucionan And evolution’s never been kind to those who think heart can outlast history.
So bring your fight. Bring your fire. Bring every ounce of that “Justice” you think you stand for. Because once the Fury hits, justice won’t save you—it’ll drown with you.
In the end, the question won’t be whether Young Justice could hang with Fire & Fury—it’ll be how long you lasted before you burned out.
And when your fairy tale ends, I’ll be standing over you, fixing my hair, adjusting my title, and saying exactly what the whole world already knows: I told you so.~~~
THREE WEEKS LATER
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
INT. MERCEDES’S LIVING ROOM - DAY
[Sunlight cuts through dusty blinds, hitting a cluttered coffee table piled with takeout containers, wrestling tapes, and a half-empty protein shaker, and a lopsided pumpkin pie tin from last night's rushed Thanksgiving leftovers. Mercedes attacks a shelf of faded title belts and framed posters with a feather duster, her tank top clinging from the effort. Irma hunches over a crumpled checklist, scribbling furiously. Ricardo sprawls on the sagging couch, tossing his jacket over an upturned chair amid scattered laundry.
A sharp knock rattles the door. Mercedes freezes mid-swipe, eyes flicking to the wall clock.]
MERCEDES
Okay, everyone! Landlord’s here in five—this place has to look like a Pinterest board.
[Irma glances up from her list, nodding toward the kitchen.]
IRMA
I already vacuumed twice, but the kitchen sink is a disaster zone. Gravy everywhere from Tomas's "experimental" stuffing.
[Ricardo slings another jacket over the chair, smirking as he sinks deeper into the cushions.]
RICARDO
I threw my dirty socks in the closet. Out of sight, out of mind, right?
[Door swings open. Tomas steps in with a neatly dressed woman carrying a suitcase. The woman scans the room, eyebrows climbing as Ricardo and Irma freeze in mid-argument over a mop.]
TOMAS
This is Abby, my new "ideal roommate"—just until I sort my stuff out after the hospital shift shake-up. Abby, meet the crew: Mercedes the ring general, Irma the list queen, Ricardo the... uh, vibe curator, and that's Hugo lurking in the shadows.
[Abby sets her suitcase down with a deliberate thud, arms folding across her crisp blouse as she takes in the chaos: pie crumbs on the rug, protein powder dusting the TV remote.]
ABBY
Ideal? Cozy's one word for it.
[Hugo edges in from the hallway, camera raised, a sly grin splitting his face as he frames the shot. Abby narrows her eyes at the bickering duo.]
HUGO
Perfect lighting for the chaos. This will make an amazing documentary.
[Mercedes waves the group into line, her duster jabbing the air.]
MERCEDES
Remember, no fights, no messes. Pretend we’re all the responsible adults the landlord hopes we are. And if he asks about the pie crumbs, blame Ricardo.
[Ricardo straightens half-heartedly, sarcasm dripping.]
RICARDO
Pretending’s our strong suit. I'm thankful for pie and plausible deniability.
[Irma tips a wobbly vase of fake flowers in her rush to straighten a curtain; Tomas lunges to catch it, colliding shoulder-first with Abby. It shatters on the hardwood anyway, ceramic shards skittering like escaped marbles. Silence drops heavy, broken only by Hugo's stifled chuckle behind the lens.]
MERCEDES
Act natural. Like we actually live in harmony.
[Mercedes wipes down a framed photo on the shelf—her younger self and Crystal Zdunich, arms raised high with grins wide as arenas. Dust motes dance in the light. She mutters under her breath.]
MERCEDES
If the landlord sees one more speck of dust on that shelf, we’re toast. This place needs to look like we’ve got our act together, even if half of us don’t. At least Thanksgiving gave us an excuse for the mess.
[Irma clutches her checklist, shooting a glance at Ricardo slouched against the wall, thumb scrolling his phone with feigned innocence, ignoring the laundry avalanche beside him.]
IRMA
Ricardo, could you at least put your phone down and help? The pile of laundry in the corner isn't going to fold itself.
[Ricardo raises an eyebrow, smirk widening as he pockets the phone.]
RICARDO
Hey, I’m folding it in my mind. Very thoroughly. Zen laundry. You should try it—less stress wrinkles.
[Mercedes rolls her eyes but pivots to Tomas, who fumbles unpacking a box, a hospital ID badge peeking out.]
MERCEDES
How’s Abby holding up? Settling in okay?
[Tomas straightens, defensive edge sharpening his tone, glancing at Abby who's now eyeing a suspicious stain on the couch arm.]
TOMAS
She’s trying, but you know how first impressions go. Abby thinks this place is practically a disaster zone. She’s not wrong, but we survive. Turkey toughens you up.
[Abby stands by the couch, lips tightening as she crosses her arms tighter, her polished nails tapping an impatient rhythm.]
ABBY
I just don’t get how you all live like this. Wrestling careers or not, there’s a level of dignity missing here. My family's Thanksgiving was Martha Stewart clean.
[Hugo chuckles low, camera dipping as he captures her skepticism.]
HUGO
This is gold for the documentary. The sacred art of the messy wrestler’s lair.
[Mercedes shoots him a hard stare, snatching a rag.]
MERCEDES
Don’t embellish. We’re not circus animals.
[Irma's gaze snaps to a juice spill by the kitchen door.]
IRMA
Who spilled juice here? And don’t say Ricardo.
[Ricardo spreads his hands, mock-innocent.]
RICARDO
Wasn’t me this time. Maybe the ghost of the last tenant?
[Mercedes sighs deep, raking fingers through her hair before clapping once, sharp.]
MERCEDES
Let’s circle up, quick pep talk. Abby, you’re new, so here’s the deal. We don’t always see eye to eye, and our definition of clean might differ, but this isn’t just a place to crash. It’s home. And right now, it’s survival mode till the landlord’s satisfied.
[Abby uncrosses her arms slowly, a reluctant nod forming as she glances at the mismatched crew.]
ABBY
Okay. No mess, no fights, and pretending we’re adults. Got it.
[Ricardo's phone buzzes loud from his pocket; he fishes it out, eyes lighting up.]
RICARDO
Looks like the landlord’s texting. This is it, folks.
[Mercedes claps again, surging forward as the group scatters into motion.]
MERCEDES
Final push! Irma, mop those spots. Ricardo, hit the closet with those socks. Tomas, unpack quick, make the space look lived-in but tidy. Abby, help me organize the kitchen counter—no counters should have crumbs after I’m done.
[A loud CRASH erupts from the kitchen. Irma bolts toward it.]
IRMA
What was that?!
[Tomas calls back, shards crunching underfoot.]
TOMAS
The plate slipped. Don’t worry, it’s fine!
[Mercedes starts for the kitchen, but Abby waves her back and kneels amid the glittering pieces, lifting a shattered frame delicately—a younger Mercedes beaming beside a handsome man in a wrestling singlet, arms slung brotherly around her shoulders. Abby pauses, her voice softening amid the debris, eyes tracing the faded photo.]
ABBY
Looks like there’s more history here than just wrestling belts. This guy... he meant something big.
Mercedes drifts over, eyes lingering on the photo, a flicker of old pain crossing her face before she steels it.
MERCEDES
That’s my wrestling trainer, Eddie. Passed a few years back—car wreck after a show. Taught me every hold, every hustle. This place has memories, messy or not. Keeps him close.
[Hugo lowers the camera, breath held on the quiet beat. He whispers to himself.]
HUGO
Moments like these—this is what tells the real story.
[Mercedes scans the room, shoulders easing as the frenzy quiets.]
MERCEDES
Okay... maybe the place isn’t perfectly picture-perfect. But it’s ours. And that’s what counts.
[The doorbell rings. Ricardo jolts upright.]
RICARDO
Landlord’s here. Showtime.
[They scramble to posed spots—calm facades cracking at the edges. Mercedes whispers fierce as her hand hits the knob.]
MERCEDES
Let’s show them what responsibility looks like—Messy or not.
[The door swings wide. Lights flare.]
[END]
~~~
Present Day ♦ T E M P E, A R I Z O N A [REC•][Scene opens with handheld camera footage—grainy, sun-bleached from the Arizona heat. The Tempe landscape hums in the background: cars, footsteps, faint chatter. Mercedes Vargas stands under the shadow of an overpass, dressed like she’s perpetually unbothered, phone in hand, sunglasses perched on her head. Her hair sticks a little to her face—the kind of sweat you earn. No music. Just the low hum of traffic and the clatter of a skateboard rolling by somewhere off-camera.
She’s quiet for a moment, then finally speaks—not to anyone in particular.]
"There’s a story people tell about this town. People come here chasing the sun. They think heat equals heart. They think if they sweat enough under that Arizona sky, it somehow baptizes them into greatness. But let me tell you something about heat—it doesn’t build character. It exposes it. It peels back the shine and the smiles until all that’s left is who you really are when the spotlight burns too long."
[Mercedes slowly turns toward the camera. She smirks, almost to herself.]
"So here we are. Climax Control. Main event. Fire & Fury setting the ring on fire, as usual, because when you’ve got me and Crystal Zdunich on the same team, that’s what you call inevitability. You can dress it up however you like—new talent, next generation, changing of the guard—but what’s really happening is the same thing that’s always happened. Legends lead. The rest follow."
[She tilts her head slightly. The smirk widens.]
"Oh, I can already hear the sound bites. “Mercedes, you’ve been at this too long. Mercedes, you’ve had your time. Give the kids a chance.” The kids.
"That’s what you call Cassie Wolfe and Harper Mason, right? Young Justice. Cute name. Nostalgic in that Saturday morning cartoon kind of way. But you know what cartoons have in common? They end after thirty minutes. And when the credits roll, the heroes go back to being ideas. Not champions. Not foundations. Just fantasy."
[She chuckles under her breath and steps closer to the camera, lowering her voice.]
"You want reality? The reality is I built this. This Bombshell division that you all love to hashtag and romanticize? This is my house. I turned it from promise into permanence. From experiment into empire. Every title reign built on that work. Every newcomer walking through the locker room doors owes their introduction to people like me—and people like Crystal Zdunich—who didn’t just show up when the lights came on. No. We’re the reason the lights even come on."
[She pushes her sunglasses up into her hair and looks straight into the camera.]
"So when I hear, “Mercedes, the future has arrived,” I laugh. Because the future can only exist if the past allows it to."
[Pause. She folds her arms, leaning casually against a concrete pillar. The sounds of traffic echo around her. For a moment, she looks up at the overpass lights flickering above.]
"Legacy never clocks out, mamita. It adapts, evolves, and waits for the next pretender to make the same old mistake—thinking youth equals dominance. Thinking ambition is the same thing as accomplishment. Cassie Wolfe and Harper Mason, you’ve got ambition, I’ll give you that. You’ve got spirit, too. You come flying down the ramp all bright-eyed and bulletproof, swinging at every shadow that looks legendary. But here’s the thing about experience: it doesn’t just fight back—it rewrites the ending."
[Her tone drips with calculated sweetness, each word deliberate, teasing.]
"Crystal calls me her ride-or-die for a reason. You don’t survive this long at the top without someone equally unafraid to get her hands dirty. Fire & Fury isn’t just a name—it’s a declaration. Fire destroys what shouldn’t last. Fury humbles what gets in the way.
"Tell me, Young Justice... which one do you think you can survive?"
[Mercedes lets the rhetorical question hang in the air. A breeze kicks up her hair. She pushes off the pillar and starts pacing slowly, eyes trained on the ground, voice mellow yet sharp.]
"You girls remind me of myself once upon a time—believing the world was waiting for me to claim it. But there’s a difference between believing you’re the moment and proving it. Belief talks. Proof walks. And when the bell rings, belief doesn’t mean anything if you can’t stand toe-to-toe with greatness without trembling.
"You see, Fire & Fury aren’t rattled by pressure. Pressure creates us. Every challenge makes us sharper, colder, hungrier. And this match? It’s not about survival for us. It’s about statement. We’re not just defending our reputations—we’re redefining what “main event” means in a division that sometimes forgets who made it matter."
[She smiles knowingly.]
"Crystal and I, we don’t just wrestle—we curate history. Every time she steps into the ring as World Champion, she reminds everyone why the title still means something. And me? I stand beside her, not because I need validation, but because I am validation. I’ve been the measuring stick for nearly every generation that’s come and gone. And Sunday night, when Tempe lights up with noise, all those cheers for the next big thing? They’ll fade once the bell sounds, because the audience always remembers one thing—class is forever."
[Her tone drops, suddenly serious.]
"Cassie Wolfe. Harper Mason. Let me address you directly. You said you’re coming into this match with nothing to lose and everything to gain? That’s exactly why you’re dangerous. But also exactly why you’re predictable. You mistake recklessness for bravery. You think because the cameras love your fresh faces and Twitter adores your hustle, that somehow puts you at my level. It doesn’t. Hell, you’re not even in my orbit."
[A car horn blares above. She flinches slightly but doesn’t look away.]
"I don't know how you continue to shoot at me when you underachieved. One championship, only four wins on the year? If I stop wrestling today, my career was better, way more impactful. You're not special, you're barely even average. Your resume got to be a little better to keep taking shots. Maybe you just don't have the talent to compete with your opponents and that's becoming clear. Whatever the case, things are bad, and you should
feel bad."
[Mercedes takes a step closer, the camera tightening on her expression—equal parts irritation and amusement.]
"Every time one of you swings at legacy, you underestimate the cost of the punch. You think one upset victory makes you immortal. But immortality doesn’t come from one night. It comes from decades of nights when you’re the headline, not the headline chaser. When no one questions your worth because your résumé answers for you."
[She taps her chest once, with quiet emphasis.]
"That’s me. That’s Mercedes Vargas. Thirteen years. That's my ledger. Wins, losses, nights I dragged my ass to the ring with a busted knee because the booker said so. 13 years, and still the one they mention in the same breath as greatness. Still walking into hostile arenas and leaving people silent because I don’t need permission to dominate—I was born for it."
[A faint smile returns. She glances around, noticing the faded graffiti on the pillar, then back to the camera.]
"Tempe might think they’re in for a moment of history with Young Justice. And in a way, they are. But not the kind they expect. See, history isn’t just made by who wins—it’s written by who defines what winning looks like. Fire & Fury already did that. We’re not here to earn respect; we’re here to remind everyone why respect still has our names attached to it."
[She takes off her sunglasses now. Her eyes are fierce, unwavering.]
"You want to shock the world? Beat us. You want to headline this division for the next decade? Defy us. But if you think we’re going to lie down and hand you the keys to the kingdom, darling, you picked the wrong queens to overthrow. Because no matter how fast lightning strikes, fire burns longer."
[The camera catches the shimmer in her expression—a mix of pride, exhaustion, and firebrand arrogance.]
"Every generation needs its awakening. Maybe you two are the ones destined to rattle the cage. But before you can claim the throne, you have to live through the storm. And the storm’s name is Fire & Fury. The veteran and the champion. The blueprint and the benchmark. The epitome of what you still dream of becoming."
[She shrugs, leaning closer to the lens again.]
"If it sounds harsh, it’s because truth doesn’t come gift-wrapped. It comes earned. You’ll learn that in Tempe."
[She takes a deep breath, tone softening slightly.]
"And when it’s over, when the final bell rings and you’re lying there looking up at the lights—remember that this isn’t punishment. It’s education. Because win or lose, you’ll walk out of that arena understanding something that can’t be taught in training or captured on hashtags. You’ll understand legacy."
"And you’ll remember that you didn’t just face Mercedes Vargas and Crystal Zdunich—you survived Fire & Fury."
[She looks off-camera again, voice low, near a whisper.]
"Survival isn’t shame, my darlings. It’s the first step to becoming something real."
[She slips her sunglasses back on and finally starts walking away from the camera. But before she’s completely out of frame, she turns her head just enough to deliver one last line.]
"The future might be bold, but the present? The present always belongs to the legends. See you in Tempe."
[She exits. The camera doesn’t follow. Just lingers on the graffiti and the roar of the freeway for a few seconds before fading out.]
[***FADE***]
