[SCW Staff]

Please post all roleplays here! Have fun and good luck!

[Amelia Reynolds]

mirrors
01. proof  over promises

★★★★★★★

It was a different kind of feel, being backstage in an environment like this Halloween edition of Climax Control. The crowd flooded the theme park, filling in holes to see the sights and the wrestler in this weird set. Even in all of that, she was able to slip through unseen and unmitigated. Amelia’s eyes washed over the crowds as she tugged her hoodie closer to her body. It wasn’t that California was particularly cold, but it most certainly was that she was anxious.

As she approached the makeshift office in the park for the General Manager, an assistant sat at a table, typing furiously onto a macbook. She glanced up as Amelia’s boots clicked against the pavement inside the little conference room that had been provided to Sin City for internal, out of public operations for the night. Concept posters for High Stakes XV were lined on the table next to her, some matches already completed and created. Others were waiting on the result of tonights’ festivities. Bold typeface announced other people’s destinies while hers waited, quiet, in the marrow of her bones.

In her pocket, a seam of wrist tape slid beneath her fingers, as if it might bite her. She had kept a piece of it, from the last time, like a penance.

Last time.

She let herself slip. It wasn’t melodrama so much as it was the simple arithmetic of it. Add increased preparation, subtract presence, multiply pressure, and divide the heart – all of the math was wrong and she’d ended up watching a woman who didn’t even bother to speak her name – or anyone else’s – somehow win a match that she didn’t even care about. For the first time in years, she hadn’t known how to stand back up. Amelia had vanished then, not because she didn’t love this sport, but because loving it and losing to indifference felt like swallowing little, bitty shards of glass. She couldn’t.

The monitor next to the assistant crackled to life with her brother’s match completely under way with Alexander Raven. She knew the look he was giving, the all he was providing to the match. His shoulders were square, the rhythm of his footwork was something she’d known since childhood. But there was also something in his eyes. A throttle held too tight or a wire pulled one thread too far. She couldn’t name it, and that unsettled her more than she let on. She pinched the bridge of her nose, steadied her breath, and turned her head away from it.

“You here to talk to Ms. Hall?” The assistant, Hayley, questioned as she took a sip from her milkshake. Hayley was dressed up for the night in something that was akin to attire a stripper might wear on Halloween, a bad production of a nurse’s costume.

“I don’t know if she’s expecting me, but yeah,” Amelia nodded, her Queensland accent a stark contrast to the dumb blonde that fell out of the assistant’s mouth.

Evelyn Hall peered out of her small office through the half-open door, and then took a few poised steps forward. She placed a well manicured hand on the doorframe and leaned forward. “Miss Reynolds,” she addressed her, her tone cool but not unkind. Firm lines, tidy posture, a gaze that measured without lingering. “Come in.”

Amelia followed Evelyn into the office and shut the door. Evelyn sat at the desk and folded her hands, gesturing just so in a way that invited Amelia to sit. Amelia stood rather than sink into the chair, as if sitting before she’d earned her place back would be presumptuous. “Thank you for seeing me. I’ll…be direct, so we don’t waste your time.”

Evelyn’s brow tipped with an invitation. A small smirk.

“I want to be here for the long run,” Amelia began, her voice steadier than she thought it would be. “I don’t want to be a marquee hit for you or Christian, someone you can spot in as a cutesy name to garner interest. I left poorly, and that’s on me. I don’t expect grace just because I say the right words. I expect to do the work, consistently, whether a camera is pointed at me or not. The job hasn’t changed, the desire hasn’t changed. I just want to be respected by the people I work with enough to be addressed.”

Unsurprisingly, Evelyn’s eyebrow did not tip any lower. She tilted her head.

“If you need it in writing, I’ll sign the contract. Dates. Deliverables. Media. Whatever the standard is, hold me to it. I just don’t want to be treated as if I don’t matter because I do matter. You and I both know it. I had that match won and in less than a millisecond, it was stolen even though I’d done the exact same thing that was expected. I know I can be good. But I want to be valued for that success too.”

Evelyn let the silence sit for a moment, orderly and deliberate, to see if Amelia would flinch. Amelia did not. Instead, the Australian folded her hands in front of her and waited for a response. If there was anything that Amelia was not going to do, it was to be taken as a foolish human being with a penchant for making the wrong decision.

“The company’s expectations are not a mystery, Miss Reynolds,” Evelyn said at least, her voice more steady than Amelia’s ever could be. “Attendnace, promo compliance. Professional conduct. You meet those, and your work speaks on its own. You miss them, and there are consequences that are not personal, only procedural.” Her gaze trimmed down to a finer edge. “Your last departure created instability. You understand that we will need proof over time, not promises tonight.”

“I do. Bench me if I wobble, fine me if I miss. Don’t shield me from the mirror.”

A small concession curved the corner of Evelyn’s mouth. She slid a folder across the desk. “Appearance schedule. Standard addendum for ringside personnel. A conduct pact…you initial every line you agree to. If a clause gives you pause, raise it now.”

Amelia didn’t sit. She balanced the folder against her forearm and read. Every line. Every sub-bullet. Then, she uncapped the pen and began to initial. Her signature didn’t flourish as much as it resolved. When she reached the conduct pact, she slowed on one sentence.

In adversity and victory, I will show the ring the regard it has earned from me.

The words caught in her throat and then went clean through.

She signed.

Evelyn waited until the pen was still and the last page lay flat beneath Amelia’s palm. “I believe there is one more matter, as your email requested? A manager. Although we have several personalities backstage, I would have to find one that would be suitable to complete your return and make it presentable. Perhaps you–”

“With all due respect, I’d prefer to bring in someone that I know. I’d like permission to credential Dimitri Watson as a contracted manager at High Stakes and beyond. He would, of course, observe every boundary that the company rules are crucial to remember. If he breaches, then eject him. I won’t contest it.”

Evelyn’s fingers came up to her lips as she surveyed Amelia. “Dickie Watson?” She obviously knew the name. “Another one of Wolfslair to make themselves comfortable on my show?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “State your why.”

“Because I let my compass spin last time,” Amelia admitted clearly. “I don’t need interference, and he wouldn’t do that anyway. I need calibration. He steadies me and keeps me in the match I trained for instead of the one in my head. I’m asking for guidance so I don’t lose my head again.” Amelia reached into her pocket and handed her the paper that she was sure Evelyn didn’t need, but that she looked at anyway.

Dickie’s credentials, training, everything that was remotely important in hiring someone who would be on the payroll, but not necessarily Sin City sound lay on that paper. His current companies, the fact that he was active. Evelyn glanced over them, raising an eyebrow. “He seems…busy.”

“He is. But he won’t fail in showing. Won’t cause a ruckus. Might help interact with fans, but that’s about it. He’s not interested in being a competitor here, even though the rest of his family basically is here. He’s busy where he’s busy, but he’s here for me.”

Evelyn considered, and then nodded. Once. The decision in her expression settled like a stamp, an official seal of okay, I hear you. “Very well, then. Mr. Watson is approved to serve as your manager at High Stakes and on subsequent dates. The rules are simple, of course: he doesn’t get involved in matches. He is not a competitor here, so he will be fined if he involves himself in anything other than the standard managerial fare. He listens to the referee–” Amelia’s brain smirked at that, considering the fact that he didn’t like listening to referees to begin with, “...and defers to them at all times. If there is even a hint of him encroaching on the ring, he will be removed. Understood?”

Her brain logged every single time Dickie or Aiden interfered in the other’s match.

That wasn’t going to last very long.

“I understand,” she nodded, regardless. “He’ll maintain himself during my matches.”

Evelyn caught the loophole in her words, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “And should I expect him at your brother’s side as well?”

Amelia’s mouth tipped a small, hesitant smile, and she let one shoulder lift in an honest concession. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility, since they’re best mates. The Commonwealth runs what it runs together and…I mean, if they happen to be sharing a brain cell at one point or another…”

“I sincerely hope it’s not just one brain cell.”

“It more than likely is.” She confirmed, gravely.

With a small smile hinging at the edges of her lips, Evelyn tapped her pen on the folder for a couple of seconds before stilling her fingers.

“Whatever Mr. Watson and Mr. Reynolds choose to do is between them, and yet still subject to all of the same fines as they would have been before. He’s contracted as your manager, not a competitor. On your dates, he maintains himself. No encroachment,” she repeated, “no physical involvement. Clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.” Evelyn thumbed through her stacks of papers, finding the paperwork of an unfinished show. In the background, the monitor highlighted the moment in which Aiden Stubby Kick’d Alexander Raven into the remaining thumbtacks. Amelia’s head whipped over, the crowd going absolutely nuts and entirely grossed out at the same time. She didn’t realized she’d stepped closer until her knee touched the edge of the desk. On the screen, Aiden’s shoulders stacked, Raven folded, and the ref’s hand slapping the canvas like a drumbeat she’d grow up marching to.

…one…

…two…

Her heart leaped up into her throat…

…three!

Air rushed out of her before she could catch it, a soundless laugh that trembled at the edges. Pride flared, sharp and clean; beneath it, the unsettled seam still tugged at her brain. Whatever was off in his eyes hadn’t left with the bell. But for this heartbeat, all of the math checked out and made a neat solution. He’d done it.

“Congratulations to your family,” Evelyn said, tone level but not unwind as she slid the unfinished show packet into a manila sleeve. She didn’t look at the monitor. Instead, she looked at Amelia, weighing her steadiness and not the spectacle. “Proof over promises, Miss Reynolds.”

“Proof over promises,” she echoed, softer.

Evelyn capped her pen with a neat click. “I am in the process of finalizing the show, but you’ll face Candy at High Stakes. I think that would be a good place to begin – a beloved icon of our company versus the girl who walked away. Candy. I’m sure you’re familiar with the name. Security will have your laminates in Tucson upon your arrival.”

Amelia gathered the folder that Evelyn set upon the desk. The crowd’s roar from the monitor bled through the walls. Post-match aftershock, all brass and thunder. She let herself look once more: Aiden on the ropes, sweat-struck and staring past the hard cam into a private horizon. Pride lifted in her chest, clean as a bell, though the hairline worry still ran beneath it like a fault. She didn’t reach for her phone yet. Boundaries were part of the repair.

“Welcome back, Miss Reynolds.” Evelyn’s tone was tidy, final. “Make it durable.”

“Of course,” Amelia said, meaning it fully. She turned on her heel then, and when she stepped into the hallway again, it tasted like fog fluid and kettle corn. Hayley flicked eyes up from her MacBook, waved, and ushered Amelia on her way. Amelia’s hoodie stayed up as she walked, and she shoved a free hand into a pocket. The wrist tape in her pocket felt less like penance, but more so now a reminder of what it cost to forget herself for a second.

Amelia felt an instinct to sprint towards gorilla, to throw her arms around her brother and stitch herself into his moment, reflexive so that she could burn herself into it. She let it crest and fall, and as if reading the air around her, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Park entrance. Two minutes?

Four words, accompanied with a picture of a smoothie that was likely that godawful banana flavor he knew she liked. A smile circled her lips – it didn’t matter if he was throwing up walls whenever it came to his business dealings that had nothing to do with wrestling – he still was there, gremlin catch and all. And when she arrived at the park entrance, he was there. Dimitri, or so she called him. The only person who could without him raising the hackles of his lips. Curly hair pulled into a bun at the top of his head, smoothie with the paper still wrapped on the straw, lackadaisical in his lean against the topiary barrier.

His eyes floated over the wayside. “Three?” He inquired, and she knew what he was asking. Did his best friend succeed?

“Three,” she confirmed. Pride warmed her voice, but she stuffed it down. She hooked her pinky into his free hand and pulled his arm back and forth a little. “You’re approved, too. Manager lane though, only. When you’re with me…you’re Switzerland.”

“Neutral with opinions?”

“Neutral with discipline.” She corrected. They began walking back towards the parking lot, where she knew his rented Toyota Land Cruiser was waiting like a giant blue box. She leaned into him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder and smiling.

He kissed her on the forehead as they walked. “And Aiden?”

“That’s between you and Evelyn and Aiden…” she looked up at him. “You two share a brain cell…you’ll have to spare it for the paperwork.”

Dickie closed one eye and grimaced. “Bold of you to assume we have paperwork.” His response was dry enough to make the corner of her mouth lift anyway.

He tipped the cup toward her hand without looking, the paper-wrapped straw crinkling as she peeled it down. The first pull tasted like childhood and chalk. The banana was too sweet, the protein too present; still, it settled the static in her chest.

“Evelyn will like you,” she said after a beat. “You follow rules when they’re written on the floor.”

“When they’re written in tape,” he corrected, mouth quirking. “Paint is for people who want to argue.”

They passed beneath a string of orange bulbs sagging between poles, the theme-park soundtrack thinning into the night hum of generators and distant traffic. The parking lot opened ahead: rows of metal beasts catching the carnival glow, the rented Land Cruiser hulking like a patient ship. She kept his pinky, swung it twice more, then let go.

“Call time on the ninth?” he asked.

“Early,” she said. “Security wants us at zone brief before doors. I’ll send you the map.”

“Manager lane. Switzerland. I’ll remember.” He cut her a sidelong glance. “Any other rails?”

She considered. “Yeah. Don’t fix my face with your face.”

“That’s…specific.”

“It means let me ride the nerves,” she said. “Don’t sand them off. Or try to make me feel better. Just make sure they point forward.”

“Copy,” he said softly. “Forward, not down.”

They reached the car. He opened the passenger door like he always did, lifting a hand in case she needed balance to get in. She slid in, tugging the hoodie free and breathing in the interior’s faint dealership-cleaner scent. He rounded to the driver’s side, the keys chirped, and the dash woke in pale blues.

She didn’t look at him when she asked, “Your week?”

A pause, clean as a cut. “Booked.”

“I figured.” She kept her tone neutral; there wasn’t any point in reminding him about the overextension of himself. “You’ll tell me what I need to know for my dates.”

“I will.” The engine settled into a low purr. “And I’ll be there.”

She accepted that as the answer it was…the wall where the wall lived, the promise where it belonged. No leverage, no prying tonight. She wasn’t here to pick a lock; she was here to set her feet.

He pulled out, the park shrinking in the rearview. She thumbed open her phone, checked the confirmation from production, the message from security, the calendar block she’d made before she walked into Evelyn’s office. Proof over promises. She typed it in her notes anyway.

“Candy’s fun,” he said, as if observing the weather. “Crowd likes their sugar.”

“They should.” She replied. “I don’t have to hate a person to beat them. I just have to be better at the bell.” A breath. “She’ll get respect. From me and from the room.”

“And from you when you say her name,” he added.

They hit the main road. Night smoothed out into lanes and speed-limit signs; palm shadows raked the windshield and fell away. She let the smoothie sit in the cup holder, fingers finding the seam of wrist tape in her pocket again. It didn’t bite this time. It just reminded.

“You going to check on him?” she asked, eyes still forward.

“Aiden?” He rolled his shoulder like a thought. “I’ll find him. Later. Not to crowd the frame.”

“You don’t need to,” she said, but knew he’d do it anyway. “He did it.”

“He did. Still. Brain cell courtesy requires a touch base.”

She laughed once, quiet. “Fine. Share custody. Alternate weekends.”

They pulled into the hotel lot. The engine ticked down, the world exhaled. He didn’t reach for her; he didn’t need to. She felt the compass notch again anyway. She opened the door, the night air threading cool across her collarbones. Before she stepped out, she leaned back in. “One more rail.”

He arched a brow.

“Don’t sell me to the building,” she said. “Let me sell myself.”

He nodded, solemn for once. “Wouldn’t dare.”

She closed the door. The click sounded like a period. Upstairs, a window glowed; somewhere a vending machine hummed. She walked toward the stairwell with the folder tucked to her ribs and the banana aftertaste ghosting the back of her tongue, feeling the balance land where she’d aimed it.

Say the names. Respect the bell. Outwrestle the moment.

Proof over promises.

The park’s lights were a distant constellation now. She didn’t need them to find the way.

★★★★★★★

Headlights stitched a pale ribbon down the Ten, the desert night yawning wide and salt-blue around the car. Gas stations blinked like lonely buoys and saguaros stood with their arms up like they were saying hi the entire ride down. The dash cam sat propped against a coffee cup and a packet of sour worms, catching Amelia from the shoulders up, pony swinging, hoodie half-zipped, freckles bright when the white lines flickered through.

She cleared her throat, a little laugh escaping before she could help it. “Right. G’day—well, g’night, I suppose.” Her smile had bounce to it even now. “Summer XXXTreme… that one knocked the wind outta me, hey.”

She tapped two fingers against the steering wheel, counting a rhythm only she felt. “Six of us in there, two refs, and I flew like I meant it. I had my three in my head and then–” she snapped once, soft, “--one count beat the other by less than a heartbeat. Not a stitch-up. Just timing.”

She went quiet for a breath, eyes on the road, tongue worrying the ring in her lip.

“Still gutted me.”

Another chew. “Like I swallowed a box of thumbtacks and smiled for the cameras anyway. I got pinned once by her, once by Kate, and I still put people down. So I know I belong. Didn’t feel like it that night, though. Felt… hollow. I went home and let it all fall out, ugly and proper, till my chest stopped aching. Then I shut it down. Trial contract, trial run—trial heart. I figured if I couldn’t show up as me, I wouldn’t show up at all.”

The highway hummed under the tyres; a warm wind nosed through the cracked window and lifted a strand of silver hair. Her grin wandered back like a stray cat. “But I’m not built to sulk forever. I’m Australian; we trip over, we say ‘whoops,’ we get back up with a cheeky wave. I looked at the tape, ate my humble pie, and I figured the fix wasn’t bigger moves—it was judgment. No more chasing the first cover ‘cause it feels pretty. No more falling with style. Fly when it’s smart. Land when it counts.”

She nudged the camera straighter with one knuckle. “So…re-entry. Tucson lights up ahead, new dates inked, and my feet under me again. I’m still peppy, still a menace to any packet of lollies within reach, still ‘The Skyborn’—just with a better altimeter. July hurt. It also told me exactly what to fix.” She glanced sideways at the lens, a spark in her eyes. “And I fixed it.”

The smile didn’t stick the way it used to. It settled deeper, steadier, as if it had learned its own weight. She told the lens that she hadn’t come back with a bigger arsenal so much as a cleaner compass. The flash was still there, sure, but it wasn’t steering anymore.

“New changes,” she said, and the words came out like a small shrug and a promise. “I stopped treating the pop from the crowd like a scoreboard. I started treating my breath like a metronome. In… out… choose. If it isn’t on purpose, I don’t do it. If it doesn’t win me inches, it’s pretty for nothing, hey?”

She talked about mornings where she didn’t perform for anyone—road runs before sunrise, ring time when the building was still yawning awake, food that wasn’t just coffee and stubbornness. Confidence, she decided, wasn’t swagger or noise. It was doing the same smart thing on a good day and a bad one. It was telling herself she belonged before the bell did.

“And I’m not so alone this time,” she added, lighter. No grand reveal, no parade. Just truth. “I’ve got a second pair of eyes that knows when my head wants to race my feet. Someone to point at the mat when I’m already looking at the top rope. Not to play hero. To keep me honest.” She grinned, a quick, cheeky thing. The pep crept back in, threaded with a firmer spine. She wasn’t begging for faith; she carried it herself. She wasn’t auditioning for a spotlight; she was clocking in for work.

“So yeah,” she finished, tapping the wheel as if it were a bell. “New attitude. New self-esteem. Same girl. Just a little more grown-up about how she flies. Tucson’s up ahead. High Stakes XV. First on the ledger’s Candy. Bright, fast, loved. I respect that.” A beat; the spark flared. “I’ll meet her in the air if I have to. I’d rather meet her on purpose.”

The road unspooled ahead, steady and dark, and she let the camera hold her while she shifted the subject where it needed to go.

“Candy,” she said, and her tone warmed as if she were already across the ring. “You just came back not even a dozen shows ago. I watched. You didn’t wander. You landed. People were happy to see you, and I get why. You wrestle like you mean it and you smile like you mean that, too.”

She leaned closer, elbows light on the wheel, voice bright but measured. “So I’ll talk to you like ya know ya matter. You’re fast. You’re cheeky. You’ve got that pop that makes the roof feel lighter. When you sting, you stack it. If I blink, I’m eating it. If I give you air, you double it. That’s not fluffy. That’s craft.”

Her mouth quirked at one corner. “And I know your tricks because I bothered to learn them. I did the review. I know that you have an arsenal of moves up your sleeve that can cause damage if I’m not careful. It’s all good wrestling, and I respect good wrestling. I know you’re good, Candy. I know you can be, and the fact that you’ve lost your last three shouldn’t mean anythin’. I can’t second guess, because I’ve done that already once. Not to you, but to myself.”

She let the respect hang a second, then set her line. Her pep sharpened into purpose. “I’m not here to embarrass you. I’m here to beat you right, and I think you want that, too. Because you don’t need a shortcut to be loved. You’re loved anyway. I don’t need a shortcut to be seen. I’m done shouting for it, I’m done bein’ a woman that gets burned by the bigwigs because they wanted to put a diamond next to a lackluster pearl. I want a challenge, friend. I want this to matter. You bring your bounce. Bring Fluffy if you like; I’ll say hi before the bell. Bring the sparkle and the speed and the best you’ve got.”

She sat back, a steady little nod sealing it. “And I’ll bring a cleaner compass. Breath before bounce. Judgment before jumping. If you catch me flush, fair play – make sure you finish it. If I catch you first, I won’t pose or preen. I’ll tuck you down, hold tight, and count the sky to three.”

She let the words hang, then breathed out through her nose, shoulders easing. The wheel clicked under her palm; the indicator ticked like a lazy drummer as she slid past a long, empty exit.

“Here’s the other bit,” she said, and there was a grin in it you could hear. “I’m not walking in scared of your pop. I’m walking in hungry for the work. I’m not going to point at the sign or do the big, dramatic stare-down with the hard cam. I’m gonna check the posts, touch the ropes, and start on the bell. If you want to sprint, I’ll steer. If you want to fly, I’ll make sure there’s someone under you when you land: me.”

She tipped her head, the ponytail swaying, a touch of mischief brightening the words. “And – this is super important – I like ya. The world needs wrestlers who make kids smile and want to bounce around the lounge. But I also need the win. I need it like water after Summer XXXTreme. So I’m not going to get lost in the yay of it. I’m going to be present. Hands up. Eyes on. Feet under. If we make magic, we make it by earning it.”

The odometer ticked. Tucson glow began to lift the far horizon, a smudge of city rising out of the dark. She rolled her shoulders as if she were already warming up in the hallway outside gorilla.

“You’ll hear me before you see me,” she went on, teasing herself more than the match. “Bit of a chatterbox when I’m settled. ‘Nah, not today.’ ‘Nope, we’re not doing that.’ ‘Oi, back in the ring with me.’ You’ll get the cheek. You’ll get the speed. But you’ll also get the bit that learned how not to chase the pretty cover. It’s three counts or it’s nothing.”

She paused, and the pep softened into something careful and sincere. “And I’m not alone. Got someone to keep me honest if my head starts doing laps. He’s not there to swing. He’s there to point at the floor and remind me where my feet are. If the ref so much as looks sideways, he’ll park it. Promise. This one’s between you and me.”

For a heartbeat she said nothing, letting the tyres sing and the desert breathe. Then her smile came back, small and bright, exactly hers.

“Right then. Candy, I’ll see you at High Stakes XV. Bring the sparkle. I’ll bring the steady. We’ll make ‘em loud and then we’ll make ‘em count.”

She reached forward and tapped the screen, the camera stuttering as the focus chased her hand. The freeway widened; signs for Speedway and 22nd flicked by like cue cards. She glanced at the lens one last time, freckles ghosting gold in the spill of a passing semi.

“Three seconds,” she said, cheerful as a dare. “And I know exactly how to count ‘em.”

The dash cam bobbed as she hit the indicator, and the night folded toward the lights. The feed went black with a little thumbprint smudge and a laugh she didn’t quite swallow.
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