CHAPTERS
MATCH
THE TWILIGHT SIREN
JOSSLYN SPENCER
vs
THE TWILIGHT SIREN
SKYE EVERMORE
TRUE GRIT TOURNAMENT
The opening bell echoes through the arena.
Skye Evermore and Josslynn Spencer circle the canvas. Hands raised. Eyes locked. No sudden rush. Mutual assessment in the center of the ring. Spencer steps in, forcing a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Evermore meets her halfway. Deadlocked. Fingers dig into collarbones. Neither woman gives an inch.
Spencer pivots, wrenching Evermore down to the mat with a grinding side headlock takeover. Evermore endures. She bridges up, driving her weight backward. Shoots the legs. Reverses the hold into a suffocating front facelock on the canvas.
Spencer kips up, breaking the grip. Sprints the ropes. Drops low for a leapfrog as Evermore rebounds. But Evermore hits the brakes mid-run. Dead stop. She tilts her head. An eerie, wide smile stretches across her face. She effortlessly cartwheels over the prone Spencer. Both women pop to their feet simultaneously. Dead stare.
The crowd buzzes in appreciation of the stalemate.
PCW!
PCW!
PCW!
Spencer offers a faint smirk. Evermore’s smile just gets wider. Reset in the center.
Evermore lunges, snatching a wristlock. Spencer rolls through the torque, trapping Evermore’s arm in a hammerlock. She drives a hard knee directly into Evermore’s shoulder blade. Evermore counters instantly. Snap mare takedown. Floats over the top, trapping Spencer in a front chancery. Cranking the neck. Wrenching the cervical spine. Spencer fights to a vertical base. Drives sharp elbows into Evermore’s ribs. Shoves her hard into the ropes.
Evermore rebounds. Spencer drops levels. A crisp dropkick catches Evermore flush on the kneecap. Evermore collapses to one knee. Spencer follows up instantly. Hits the ropes. A blistering basement dropkick crashes into the seated Evermore’s jaw.
Lateral press.
ONE—NO!
Evermore kicks out clean.
Spencer stays on the attack. Grapevines the left ankle. Dropping back for a kneebar. Torqueing the joint. Evermore rolls with the pressure. Kicks violently with her free heel, shoving Spencer away.
Both women scramble up. Evermore tests the left leg. A slight hesitation. Favoring the knee. Spencer sees it. She feints a high kick, immediately dropping for a single-leg takedown. Evermore sprawls hard. Catches Spencer in a front facelock, spinning around the back into a waistlock. Spencer reaches out, grabbing the middle rope.
REFEREE: Break it!
Evermore releases immediately. Backs away, bouncing on her heels. Waiting. Spencer exhales sharply, nodding once.
Spencer charges. Evermore leapfrogs high. Spencer slams on the brakes. Evermore lands, but Spencer is waiting. She hooks Evermore, hoisting her up. Drops her violently over the knee with a tilt-a-whirl backbreaker.
Hook of the leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Evermore bridges a shoulder off the mat.
Spencer transitions smoothly, trapping Evermore in a seated abdominal stretch. Wrenching the ribs. Digging her knuckles into the exposed midsection. Evermore grits her teeth. Enduring the squeeze. She violently shifts her weight, hip tossing Spencer to the mat. Both women scramble to their feet.
Evermore explodes. A blistering forearm strike to the jaw. Spencer fires right back. Forearm exchange in the center of the ring. Heavy leather. Trading blows.
SMACK. CRACK.
Spencer gains the edge. Drives a knee deep into Evermore’s gut. Whips her hard into the ropes. Evermore rebounds, launching her body into a rolling forearm that flattens Spencer to the mat.
Evermore kips up instantly. Head tilted. Pacing the ring with an unsettling gait. She points a finger gun at Spencer. Beckons her to rise.
Spencer gets up cautiously. Evermore charges, feinting a lariat. Drops low for a leg sweep. Spencer hops over the extended leg. Lands perfectly. Pivots on a dime.
MOST WANTED (Spinning Heel Kick)!
The boot crashes into Evermore’s temple. Dead weight hits the mat. Spencer hooks the far leg.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Evermore kicks out with authority.
Spencer wastes no time. Drags Evermore by the hair into the corner. Mounts the second turnbuckle. Raining down heavy right hands.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three! Four! Five!
On the sixth count, Evermore shoves Spencer hard off the ropes. Spencer lands on her feet. Charges right back at the corner. Evermore slips out of the way. Spencer crashes chest-first into the turnbuckle pad. Stumbles backward. Stunned.
Evermore capitalizes. A brutal running knee strike to the back of Spencer’s skull. Spencer collapses to her knees. Evermore hits the opposite ropes. Builds momentum. A vicious sliding knee strike drills the seated Spencer in the side of the head.
Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Spencer gets a shoulder up.
Evermore immediately transitions. Locks in a crossface. Yanking back on Spencer’s jaw. Wrenching the neck. Spencer screams out, clawing desperately at the canvas. Dragging the dead weight. Inch by agonizing inch toward the bottom rope. She stretches her arm. Grabs the rope.
REFEREE: Break it! One! Two! Three! Four!
Evermore releases the hold right at four. Clean separation.
Both women rise slowly. The physical toll already showing. Evermore rolls her neck, working out a kink. Spencer shakes out her wrist, breathing heavy. Eyes meet across the ring. A single, mutual nod of respect as they reset.
The restart is instantaneous.
Spencer shoots a lightning-fast single leg. Evermore sprawls heavy. Hips down to the mat. She snatches a front facelock, quickly spinning around to Spencer’s back. Standing switch into a waistlock. Spencer doesn’t panic. She grabs Evermore’s wrist, violently rolling forward through the legs. Torquing the joint into a smooth armbar attempt. Evermore reacts instinctively. Shifts her weight and stacks Spencer flat on her shoulders.
ONE…
TWO—
Spencer breaks the hold before three.
Both women scramble to their feet. Evermore feints a lariat and drops low. Spencer leapfrogs over the back, hits the ropes, and rebounds. Cartwheel Kick connects perfectly flush on the point of Evermore’s jaw.
Evermore staggers backward into the ropes. She springs forward wildly. Spencer catches her mid-air. Violent rotation. Tilt-A-Whirl DDT! Spikes her on the crown of the head.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Evermore kicks out.
Spencer stays right on the neck. Scrambles into a top mount and locks in a Snap Applied Armbar. Wrenching the shoulder socket. Evermore screams. Pain ripping through the joint. She rolls violently, bridging her neck on the canvas to power Spencer completely onto her shoulders.
ONE…
TWO—
Spencer rolls through, keeping the arm laced tight. But Evermore snaps up. A freakish kip-up with the armbar still applied. She yanks the trapped limb free.
WHISPER SNAP KICK (Short-range Kick)!
Boot meets temple with a sickening thud. Spencer crumbles.
Evermore doesn’t cover. She paces the canvas. Head tilted. A quiet, unsettling laugh echoing near the ropes. Waiting. Spencer drags herself up by the top rope. Turning around. Evermore charges.
GLASS SMILE DROPKICK (Springing Dropkick)!
Spencer catapults backward. Spine crashes violently against the turnbuckles. Air vacates her lungs. She slumps forward, dead weight. Evermore drags her to the center of the ring. Hooks the head. Slow, hesitant setup. Almost freezing in time. Then, a violent snap.
EVERMORE TILT SUPLEX (Snap Suplex)!
She bridges perfectly.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Spencer kicks out at 2.9.
Evermore slaps the canvas. Smiling wider now. She scales the turnbuckles. Perches on the middle rope. Launches. Top Rope Leg Drop crushes Spencer’s throat.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Spencer gets a shoulder up.
Evermore transitions instantly. Wraps the neck. Locks in the body scissors.
QUIET HOUR (Choke Submission)!
Squeezing. Calm. Quiet. Spencer’s face flushes a dangerous red. Fingers clawing desperately at Evermore’s forearms. Suffocating. Spencer finds the will. She powers up to a single knee. Then her feet. Carrying the dead weight, she blindly walks them backward. SMASH. Drives Evermore into the corner once. Twice. The grip breaks at the referee’s count of four.
Evermore stumbles out, gasping. Spencer explodes out of the corner. Running Double Knee Strike caves in Evermore’s chest.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Evermore kicks out.
Spencer calls for the end early. Setting up for MALIBU’S MOST WANTED (Curb Stomp). Evermore sees it and scrambles frantically out to the ring apron. Spencer follows. War on the edge of the ring. Trading brutal forearms on the ring skirt. Meat hitting meat. Spencer gains the edge. Grabs the back of Evermore’s head and drapes her neck violently over the top rope.
Spencer scales the ropes. Springboards backward.
ZODIAC KILLER (Springboard Flatliner)!
Over the ropes! Both women plummet, crashing with sickening force onto the thin ringside mats.
Bodies scattered on the concrete.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three!
Spencer stirs at four. Coughing. She drags a limp Evermore up at five. Rolls her under the bottom rope at seven. Slides in right behind her at eight. Hooks the leg desperately.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Evermore’s shoulder twitches up.
Spencer argues briefly with the official. Half a second of frustration. She drags Evermore up and hooks the head.
BLACKLISTED (Snap DDT)!
Plants Evermore face-first into the canvas.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Barely a kickout.
Spencer retreats to the corner. Tuning up the band. Stomping the mat. Waiting for the prey. Evermore rises. Groggy. Swaying on her feet. Turns.
MOST WANTED (Spinning Heel Kick)!
The boot connects flush with the jawbone. Spencer doesn’t cover. Tunnel vision takes over. Evermore is dazed, draped over the middle rope. Spencer hits the opposite ropes. Rebounds. Running Blockbuster crushes the kneeling Evermore.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
At the last possible fraction of a millisecond, Evermore survives.
Spencer slaps the mat. Frustrated but composed. She climbs the turnbuckles. Seeking higher ground. Setting up for the DEAD END (Top Rope Backstabber). But Evermore is alive. She lunges, throwing her own weight into the top rope! The cables violently shake. Spencer loses her footing. Lands awkwardly, crotched on the top turnbuckle. She clutches her midsection in agony.
Evermore scales the ropes. Eyes vacant. Hooks Spencer from the second rope. Heaves her over. Superplex! The ring shakes as both women crash to the canvas. Double down.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three! Four!
Both women stir at five. Dragging themselves up to their knees. Forearm exchange. Heavy, exhausted strikes from Spencer. Sharp, snapping elbows from Evermore. They fight to their feet. Trading bombs. Neither willing to back down.
Spencer fires a kick. Evermore catches it. Spins.
MIRROR FLICKER (Rapid Feint)!
Slipping completely behind Spencer. Freezing her for a fraction of a second. Then a violent yank backward.
STATIC CLUTCH SLAM (Sudden Slam)!
Evermore kips up. Heads to the corner. Hits the ropes at a jagged angle.
DOLLSTEP LARIAT (Awkward-Angled Lariat)!
An awkward, looping lariat crushes Spencer’s chest.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Spencer kicks out.
Evermore doesn’t hesitate. Grabs the leg. Slides around the back.
QUIET HOUR (Choke Submission)!
Locked in deep, right in the center of the ring. Spencer gasps. Eyes wide. She fights. Dragging the dead weight of both bodies across the canvas. Inch by agonizing inch. Fingertips grazing the ropes. She grabs the bottom rope.
REFEREE: Break it! One! Two! Three! Four!
Evermore releases cleanly. But immediately grabs Spencer by the hair, dragging her violently back to the center of the ring.
Evermore points to the lights. Signaling for the EVERMORE DROP (Spinning Implant DDT). She stalks Spencer. Waiting for the rise. Spencer drags herself to a single knee. Evermore charges. Leaps into the air to plant the DDT—but Spencer counters mid-air! Catches the descending weight.
BLACKLISTED (Snap DDT)!
A second Snap DDT out of absolutely nowhere! Skulls crack against the mat.
The ten-minute mark hits. Double down. Blood trickles from Spencer’s mouth. Evermore’s chest heaves. Shattered but refusing to stay down.
Spencer rises first. Her fingers twist into a fistful of Evermore’s hair. Evermore snatches Spencer’s wrist in return. A desperate grip battle on a vertical base. Forearms scraping violently against jaws.
Spencer snaps forward. A sickening headbutt. Evermore absorbs it. Snaps forward with a headbutt of her own. Bone on bone. Spencer throws a third headbutt. Cracking Evermore squarely between the eyes.
Evermore just laughs. Blood stains her split lip.
WHISPER SNAP KICK (Short-range Kick)!
The boot digs brutally into Spencer’s floating ribs. Spencer doubles over in agony. Evermore hits the ropes.
DOLLSTEP LARIAT (Awkward-Angled Lariat)!
The chaotic momentum turns Spencer completely inside out. Shoulders hit the canvas.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Spencer kicks out.
Evermore doesn’t argue. She drags dead weight off the mat. Hooks both arms tight.
EVERMORE TILT SUPLEX (Snap Suplex)!
Higher angle. Maximum impact on the neck and shoulders. She holds the bridge.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Spencer’s shoulder twitches off the mat at 2.99.
Evermore slumps backward. Chest heaving. Breathing ragged. She stares dead-eyed at the arena ceiling for a long beat. Slowly, methodically, she crawls to the corner. Scaling the turnbuckles.
Spencer stirs. Grabbing the bottom rope to pull herself up. Evermore leaps. High-angle Crossbody!
Spencer catches her mid-air. Rolls completely through the impact. Hooks the arm on the way down.
Snap Applied Armbar!
Locked in deep. Dead center of the ring. Evermore screams. Thrashing wildly. She rolls, stacking Spencer on her shoulders.
ONE…
TWO—
Evermore doesn’t wait for the break. She bridges completely over the stack. Rolling the pressure violently backward. The sheer torque forces Spencer to release the grip to save her own shoulder.
Both women scramble up. Scrapping for survival. Spencer charges. Enziguri! Evermore ducks underneath. Spinning Backfist! Spencer ducks the heavy leather. Cartwheel Hurricanrana! Evermore lands perfectly on her feet. Backflips away to create distance. Tilts her head. That eerie, unsettling smile returns.
Spencer charges like a bullet. Running Double Knee Strike crushes Evermore against the turnbuckles. Evermore collapses in a heap. Spencer hops onto the second rope. Launches. Top Rope Leg Drop connects flush across the sternum.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Evermore throws a shoulder up.
Spencer slaps her own thigh. A loud, sharp crack. Setting up for MALIBU’S MOST WANTED (Curb Stomp). She stalks backward to the center of the ring. Waiting.
Evermore rises slow. Legs wobbling. Jelly. Spencer measures the distance. Sprints.
Evermore drops instantly to her back. A perfect matrix dodge. Spencer sails through empty air, lands on her feet, and spins around. Evermore is already up. Hooking the head. Attempting the implant DDT!
Spencer blocks it. Shoves Evermore hard into the ropes. Evermore rebounds, launching into a Springboard Crossbody.
Spencer catches her in mid-air. A mid-air hook of the head.
BLACKLISTED (Snap DDT)!
A devastating counter. Driving Evermore’s skull into the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Evermore kicks out.
Spencer sits up. Staring a hole through the referee in pure disbelief. She grabs a handful of hair, dragging Evermore up. Setting up for the DEAD END (Backstabber).
Evermore fights the lift. Throwing sharp, desperate elbows into Spencer’s temple. She lands on her feet behind Spencer. Hooks the waist. German Suplex! She holds the high bridge.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Spencer kicks out.
Evermore pops up instantly.
LOST SIGNAL (Sudden Freeze)!
Dead motionless in the center of the ring. Spencer hesitates. A fraction of a second of confusion. Evermore snaps back to reality. A brutal Running Knee Strike detonates flush on Spencer’s jaw. Spencer collapses against the ropes, dead to the world.
Evermore scales the turnbuckles. Launches for a Top Rope Crossbody.
Spencer throws both knees up!
Evermore crashes sternum-first onto the kneecaps. Air violently leaves her lungs. Both women collapse.
REFEREE: One! Two! Three! Four!
Spencer sits up at five. Crawling across the blood-stained canvas. She drags Evermore up by the chin.
Eat Defeat (Swinging Neckbreaker)!
Plants Evermore into the mat.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Evermore kicks out again.
Spencer slams the mat. Jaw clenched tight. She points to the corner. Scaling the turnbuckles once more. Second attempt. DEAD END (Top Rope Backstabber).
Evermore moves.
Spencer drops to the canvas, landing on her feet but wobbling. Ankles giving out. Evermore charges from the blind side. Sliding Knee strikes the back of Spencer’s skull. Face-plant.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Spencer survives.
Evermore exhales sharply. A single, knowing nod. She drags Spencer up. Wraps the neck. Locks in the body scissors.
QUIET HOUR (Choke Submission)!
Dead center of the ring. Squeezing the remaining life out of Spencer. The referee checks the arm.
It raises. Drops once. Raises again. Drops twice. Raises a third time… and stays up. Spencer’s hand balls into a fist.
Spencer fights. Clawing blindly. She sinks her teeth directly into Evermore’s forearm! A desperate, primal bite. The referee shouts a warning, but the pain does the job.
Evermore shrieks, releasing the hold and clutching her torn arm. Spencer gasps for air, crawling frantically to the ropes. Dragging herself up as the clock ticks past thirteen minutes.
Evermore stalks her. Bouncing on her heels. Setting up for the finish. She waits. Head tilted. Eerily patient.
Spencer turns. Eyes completely wild. Pure desperation. She charges blindly for MALIBU’S MOST WANTED (Curb Stomp).
Evermore sidesteps.
Spencer’s boot catches nothing but the canvas. Her own violent momentum carries her forward. She stumbles two heavy steps and spins around to find her target.
Evermore pops up right behind her. A sharp kick to the gut.
Spencer doubles over, instinctively turning toward the threat. Evermore hooks the head and the arm.
EVERMORE DROP (Spinning Implant DDT)!
Spiking Spencer’s face directly into the mat. Dead weight.
Evermore hooks the far leg deep.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
REFEREE: Ring the bell!
SKYE EVERMORE WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The arena explodes. Evermore rolls off the lifeless body of Josslynn Spencer, staring blankly up at the rafters. The referee raises her hand. She doesn’t celebrate. She simply tilts her head, flashing that unnerving, wide smile as she surveys the damage.
Spencer remains face-down on the canvas. Broken. Unconscious. A True Grit casualty in the center of the ring.
SEGMENT
THE GOLDEN GIRL
DELILAH HART
The camera heads backstage to a softly lit interview set. The area is decorated with gold and white accents as Delilah Hart stands with her signature warm smile. Dressed in a white jacket over her ring gear, she takes a moment to look around before turning her attention to the camera.
“THE GOLDEN GIRL” DELILAH HART: You know… people often like to talk about first impressions. Their first match. Their first promo. Their first chance to show everyone exactly who they truly are.
I guess this is mine.
My name is Delilah Hart. I was born in London, but somewhere along my travels, Nashville became home. Since then, I’ve travelled all over the world chasing a dream that started when I was a wee girl.
A dream that led me here.
Delilah lets out a quiet laugh to herself before gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“THE GOLDEN GIRL” DELILAH HART: I’ve heard people talk about PCW, saying it has the best women’s division in wrestling. Good. That’s exactly where I want to be. I didn’t come here expecting anything to be handed to me. I came here to earn my place, to test myself against the very best, and to prove that I belong here just as much as anyone else.
Delilah smiles.
“THE GOLDEN GIRL” DELILAH HART: “I know there are women here, in that locker room, who have been here for years fighting to get to the top. I respect that true grit, and I hope every one who faces me brings their best. Because this is my promise, so will I. “
She places her hand over her heart.
“THE GOLDEN GIRL” DELILAH HART: “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But someday when people talk about what it meant to have true grit… Maybe my name will be in the conversation.”
Delilah smiles one last time before walking out of the frame, as the screen fades to black.
MATCH
CHERRY BOMB
CHERRY PHILLIPS
vs
THE V.I.P.
CHRIS MOSH
Six private security contractors wearing black tactical gear ring the perimeter of the canvas. The letters “VIP” are stenciled starkly across their chests.
Ding. Ding.
Chris Mosh explodes from his corner. No hesitation. He swarms Cherry Phillips immediately, driving a rigid forearm straight into her throat and crushing her back against the turnbuckles.
REFEREE: Break it! Back away!
Mosh takes a forced step backward. He does not keep his eyes on his opponent. Instead, he frantically scans the front rows of the audience. Paranoia bleeding through. Hunting for faces in the crowd.
Cherry sees the distraction. She lunges. She buries a sudden, frantic barrage of energetic forearm strikes into his jaw.
Mosh absorbs the leather. He steps into the assault and buries a brutal knee deep into her midsection. The air rushes from Cherry’s lungs. She doubles over. Mosh cinches in a tight side headlock and grinds her down to the mat. He twists her neck, shouting paranoid, frantic threats outward toward the jeering crowd.
Cherry slaps the canvas, rallying herself as the crowd claps a rhythm. She fights up to a vertical base. Sharp elbows crack backward into Mosh’s ribs. The hold breaks. Cherry hits the ropes.
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY (Flying Crossbody)!
She crashes chest-first into Mosh, collapsing his posture and rolling through the impact to hook the leg.
ONE—NO!
Mosh powers out at one. He violently shoves Cherry across the ring. She scrambles to her feet, but Mosh is waiting. He snatches her waist and launches her backward with a snap belly-to-belly suplex.
Cherry hits the canvas hard.
Mosh floats over instantly. He traps her arm, locking his hands violently across her face and wrenching backward into a grounded cross face.
Cherry screams. She claws blindly at the mat. Dragging her dead weight inch by inch. She extends a desperate boot and hooks the bottom rope.
REFEREE: Rope break! Let her go! One! Two! Three! Four!
Mosh releases the hold. He steps backward, his head snapping sharply toward the floor. One of his security guards is yucking it up with a hot chick at ringside. Mosh glares at the contractor, his focus completely shattered by the movement.
He leans through the ropes, screaming frantically at the guard. His paranoia blinds him to the ring.
Cherry explodes from the opposite corner.
CHERRY POP (Running Hip Attack)!
She launches sideways, crushing her hip flush into Mosh’s jaw and pinning him against the pads.
FIRECRACKER RUSH (Corner Forearm Flurry)!
She traps him against the ropes, unleashing rapid-fire forearm strikes and driving her shoulder deep into his midsection. She slaps the top turnbuckle, feeding off the energy. The building roars, counting along with every brutal impact.
Mosh staggers forward on jelly legs. Blindly, he throws a heavy, desperate lariat.
Cherry ducks underneath the swinging arm. She springs off the ropes, hooking his head and whipping her body weight downward into a violent Tornado DDT that spikes Mosh skull-first into the canvas.
She hooks both legs tight.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Mosh thrashes his shoulder off the mat, kicking out with absolute desperation.
Cherry grabs a fistful of hair, dragging the heavier man toward the corner. She steps through the ropes, climbing up the turnbuckles.
Mosh surges up. A burst of adrenaline. He lunges at the corner and violently shakes the top cable.
Cherry loses her balance. She plummets downward, her legs splitting awkwardly as she crashes hard across the unforgiving steel turnbuckle connector.
She collapses backward, tumbling onto the canvas. She clutches her midsection, writhing in pure agony.
Mosh does not wait. He drags her limp body upward, snapping on a front headlock and sweeping his arm down to hook her leg.
MOSHPLEX (Perfectplex)
He hoists her vertical, snapping his hips and suplexing her over. He holds the bridge, locking her shoulders flush against the canvas.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Ding. Ding. Ding.
CHRIS MOSH WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Mosh does not wait to have his hand raised. He rolls instantly under the bottom rope, dropping to the floor and aggressively snatching a microphone from the timekeeper’s hands.
Inside the ring, Cherry is crushed. She pushes blindly against the canvas, struggling slowly to lift her battered weight off the mat.
Mosh slides back under the ropes. He glares outward, his chest heaving.
CHRIS MOSH: I am a former UNLEASHED Champion! I deserve respect! Not getting hit by a cybertruck!
He grabs a fistful of Cherry’s hair, hauling her up just enough to ruthlessly drive the heavy steel microphone directly across her skull.
Cherry collapses back to the mat.
Referee Stephanie Marshall steps in, shoving her hands toward Mosh’s chest.
STEPHANIE MARSHALL: Stop it, Mosh!
Mosh does not even look at her. He points a finger toward the apron. A nameless security guard steps through the ropes, grabs Marshall by the uniform, and violently shoves her out of the ring to the arena floor.
Mosh stands over Cherry. Paranoia radiates off him.
CHRIS MOSH: I demand to know who hit me with that UGLY TRUCK. I know it was someone back there. I know it wasn’t that douche bag, fake ‘VIP’ Isaac. So who was it?
A half-full plastic cup flies from the third row and bounces off Mosh’s shoulder. Then another. The crowd turns hostile.
Mosh spins toward the floor, screaming wildly at his tactical detail.
CHRIS MOSH: HEY! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? GET IN HERE!
The masked contractors slide under the ropes. They quickly close rank, forming a tight, impenetrable perimeter around Mosh.
Protected by the wall of bodies, Mosh mercilessly stomps down on Cherry. Heavy boots driving into her ribs. Easily overwhelming her exhausted attempts to fight back.
He raises the microphone to his mouth.
CHRIS MOSH: I am going to give whoever it was… ten seconds to come out here. If you don’t, I’m going to assume it was Cherry here who did it, and take it out on here. ONE. TWO. THREE.
He throws the microphone to the canvas. He does not stop counting. He grips Cherry’s hair with his left hand and clenches his right hand into a tight, brutal fist.
CHRIS MOSH: FOUR. FIVE.
Down at the broadcast desk, Reno pulls down his headset and pleads at the top of his voice.
RENO: C’mon, Mosh! You know it wasn’t her!
Mosh’s head snaps toward the announce desk. He glares through the ropes.
CHRIS MOSH: If at the time I knew you weren’t sitting behind that desk looking like a methhead who broke into a Men’s Warehouse I’d think it was you!
Reno stands up, throwing a hand in the air defensively.
RENO: HEY! They said I’d like the way I look! And I do!
Mosh ignores him. He spins back toward the center of the ring. His fist still balled tight.
CHRIS MOSH: SIX!
Directly behind Mosh, the smallest of the security guards breaks formation. He bends down. He picks up the discarded microphone.
The atmosphere in the arena shifts. The hatred dies down into a flat, buzzing anticipation.
The small guard slowly stands up. He rips off the black tactical mask.
American
Moderator
He lifts the microphone.
AMERICAN MODERATOR: IT’S ME, MOSH!
Mosh whips around. Utter shock. The crowd erupts! Staring at the skinny, fired referee Mosh had previously destroyed.
Moderator reaches calmly into his tactical vest. He pulls out a pair of aviator eyeglasses. Pushes them up the bridge of his nose.
AMERICAN MODERATOR: IT WAS ME ALL ALONG, MOSH!
Mosh’s face contorts. His eyes visibly swell with absolute, unchecked fury.
AMERICAN MODERATOR: You thought you could attack a state certified professional wrestling referee and get away with it! You thought there would be no repercussions! Well, allow me to educate you on a little something called Manifest Destiny!
Mosh does not let him finish. He lunges.
SUPERKICK (Side Kick)!
Flush on the jaw. Moderator crumples violently to the mat, dead weight before he even hits the canvas.
Mosh drops directly onto Moderator’s chest. He unleashes a savage barrage of closed fists. Splitting skin. Bloodying the former referee’s face with every sickening impact. The surrounding security guards stand perfectly still, watching the violence.
More trash rains down from the stands.
Reno rips off his headset.
RENO: I… I can’t watch this.
Reno abandons the desk. He sprints down the aisle. The crowd roars as the broadcaster slides under the bottom rope.
He never gets close. Two guards instantly intercept Reno, shoving him violently backward and pinning him against the turnbuckles. Reno struggles against the tactical gear, totally trapped while Mosh continues to repeatedly hammer Moderator’s skull.
Movement on the ramp.
Head Official and PCW Original Grade Garret sprints from the backstage area!
Garret slides under the bottom rope. He doesn’t hesitate. He bullies his way straight into the outer ring of guards.
One contractor steps up to block him. Garret grabs the man by the collar and delivers a brutal, sickening headbutt.
CRACK.
The guard flies backward. Bright red blood spews from his lips, spraying through the mouth-hole of his tactical mask.
The remaining guards freeze. They look at the bleeding contractor. They look back to Garret. They slowly step backward, fear overtaking their orders as the PCW legend walks through them.
Garret reaches the center of the ring. He grabs Mosh by the shoulders and physically yanks the VIP off the bloodied, unresponsive Moderator.
Mosh stumbles backward. Furious. Chest heaving.
Garret points a stiff finger straight toward the entrance ramp.
GRADE GARRET: GO. Or else…
Mosh puffs his chest out aggressively. Squaring up.
Garret closes the distance. He steps directly into Mosh’s face, staring the VIP straight in the eyes.
The crowd erupts. A deafening wall of noise.
Mosh holds the stare. Then, slowly, a smug smirk breaks across his face. He backs down just slightly.
He looks down at Moderator’s ruined face. Then back to Garret.
CHRIS MOSH: Fine. Cleanup on aisle one, Grade.
Mosh turns his back. He exits through the ropes, waving for his remaining security force to gather around him as he begins backing slowly up the entrance ramp.
The guards in the corner release Reno. The broadcaster rushes out, sliding to his knees beside Garret as the two men desperately check on the bloodied, unresponsive body of American Moderator.
SEGMENT
TIGRESS
HOPE LEVIT
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER
Jenna Jillian Walker is in her wrestling gear walking down a hallway of Municipal Auditorium when a smile comes over her face. The camera pans over to see Jenna’s partner and newest member of the Tigress, Hope Levitt, emerge from getting tapped up in the trainer’s room.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: There she is…How are you feeling, girl?
Jenna and Hope give each other a fist bump. Hope is grinning as she bounces on her feet a little, and then nods at Jenna happily.
HOPE LEVITT: I’m good. Ready to Rock and Roll all over those Fitness girls. Time to show them that Vilaro Fitness is NO MATCH for Tigress Power!
Hope starts shadow-boxing but then turns towards Jenna with a big grin.
HOPE LEVITT: How about you? Ready to show PCW what we can do?
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: I’m in my new home of the Big Easy, I got my homies in the Tigress by my side, and we have our sights set on the VooDoo Pact Championships. Damn right I’m ready! So those posers in #VilaroFit can bitch all they want but we’re moving one step closer to becoming the champs by walking out victorious tonight!
Hope grins and nods, bouncing excitedly on her feet as she watches Jenna.
HOPE LEVITT: Big Easy! Hey! My Mom was born there…..or raised there…….I think.
Hope stops bouncing, glancing up and going silent for a moment. Jenna stares at her quizzically for a moment and then Hope turns to Jenna, arms crossed over her chest.
HOPE LEVITT: You know, its almost impossible to get a straight answer from my Dad about Mom? I even googled her name and it came up with some weird page saying she was born in the 18th century. But thats impossible, right? Do you think I should call Dad now and ask him? I really should try and g—
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Hope!
Jenna’s tone is short and it makes Hope’s head do a double take and straighten up as she looks at Walker, who merely smiles and reaches out to put a hand on Hope’s shoulder.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Focus. Match and Gold first. THEN you can try and decide whether to call your Dad. This is Tigress business. Lets go earn ourselves a shot at the VooDoo Pact gold.
Hope stares back at Jenna for a moment and then grins again, starting to bounce on her feet again.
HOPE LEVITT: YAY! My first title, here I come! And I get to hold it for my girls in Tigress. ROOOOOOAAARRRRRR!!!
Hope roars and growls, fists slamming into her chest, but then stops and whimpers, rubbing at her chest and looking at Jenna apologetically. Jenna smiles softly and puts a hand on Hope’s back.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Hurt your chest hitting yourself?
Hope nods and Jenna laughs softly, before pushing her back towards the trainers room.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: You are adorkable. Come on. Lets ice you down before the match.
MATCH
TIGRESS
HOPE LEVIT
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER
vs
MARISOL VILARO
TAYLOR LANDRY
NICK
WINNER DECLARED NUMBER #1 CONTENDER FOR THE VOODOO PACT CHAMPIONSHIP
The bell rings. Marisol Vilaro and Taylor Landry immediately turn their backs to the opposition. They crowd referee Stephanie Marshall. Landry waves her arms, her opportunistic instincts temporarily replaced by pure entitlement as she demands to know the whereabouts of their missing bodyguards. Vilaro points aggressively at the entrance ramp, shouting in the referee’s face.
Hope Levitt doesn’t wait. The bubbly, energetic rookie capitalizes instantly. She explodes out of her corner. A blur of motion. Levitt leaves her feet and drives a leaping forearm smash right across Landry’s jawline.
Landry stumbles backward. Jelly legs. She falls squarely into the VilaroFIT turnbuckles. Vilaro instinctively reaches out and slaps her partner’s shoulder. A blind tag.
Vilaro steps through the ropes. The arrogant Fitness Queen is absolutely disgusted by the disruption. She steps right into Levitt’s space and shoves her violently by the collarbone, shouting that she does not have time for this nonsense.
Levitt answers with pure speed. She shoots forward, hooking the wrist and the triceps. A lightning-fast Japanese arm drag. Vilaro goes airborne and crashes hard onto her spine. The impact rattles the canvas.
Vilaro scrambles in a panic, trying to find her footing. Levitt is already moving. She drops low and snaps a blistering basement dropkick right into the bridge of Vilaro’s nose.
Levitt swarms. She wraps her arm tight around Vilaro’s skull, hooking a side headlock. Grounding the billionaire. Refusing to let the pace slow down. Levitt turns it into a frantic, physical struggle.
Vilaro snarls. She plants her boots. Raw lower body strength. She powers forward, driving Levitt backward until they crash into the VilaroFIT corner. Vilaro buries a heavy shoulder deep into Levitt’s midsection, driving the wind from her lungs.
On the apron, Landry leans through the ropes. She screams at Stephanie Marshall, covering her ears, demanding the official quiet down the deafening crowd noise. Marshall steps in to back her off.
The official’s back is turned. Vilaro strikes. She reaches up and rakes all four fingers brutally across Levitt’s eyes. Levitt recoils, blinded. Vilaro hooks the head and arm, hoists Levitt up, and drops her with a punishing snap suplex.
Vilaro turns and slaps Landry’s outstretched hand. Tag made. Before stepping out to the apron, Vilaro delivers a stiff, mean kick right into Levitt’s exposed ribs.
Landry steps in. She leaps up, bouncing lightly off the middle rope, and launches into a springboard forearm. The strike catches Levitt flush, flattening her in the center of the ring.
Landry drops down. A quick, arrogant lateral press.
ONE—NO!
Levitt kicks out easily, throwing Landry off before Marshall can even bring her hand up for two.
Landry hauls Levitt out of the corner by the hair. She drives a series of rapid-fire running knees directly into Levitt’s face, scrambling the rookie’s senses. Landry drags the dead weight toward her corner. A quick slap to Vilaro’s hand. Tag made.
Vilaro steps through the ropes. She drops a pointed elbow squarely onto Levitt’s sternum. Vilaro doesn’t hook the leg. She drops beside the prone rookie, planting her palms flat on the canvas. Arrogant push-ups to taunt the crowd. The audience responds with pure, venomous heat.
Vilaro grabs the ankles. She torques the spine, sitting back to lock in a Half Boston Crab dead center of the ring. Grounding the high-flyer. Ripping at the lower back muscles. Levitt grinds her teeth. Pure heart. She claws at the mat. Dragging herself inch by agonizing inch toward Walker.
Fingertips away. Vilaro breaks the hold. She grabs a fistful of hair and violently drags Levitt back to the center of the canvas. Vilaro measures her prey. She sprints. VILARO EXPERIENCE (Corner Handspring Elbow).
Levitt rolls. Pure speed. Vilaro crashes blindly into the top turnbuckle. Levitt leaps. A sharp step-up enziguri cracks across Vilaro’s jaw.
Both women fold like wet cement. The crawl begins. Desperation on both sides. Levitt lunges forward. Tag to Walker. Vilaro slaps Landry’s hand. Double tag.
Walker steps over the top rope. Pragmatic and focused. Landry charges with a wild clothesline. Walker ducks underneath. No wasted motion. Walker wraps the waist. She hoists Landry high and launches her across the ring with a devastating German Suplex.
Vilaro storms the ring illegally to stop the momentum. Walker turns, catches her mid-stride, and drives her into the canvas with a crushing Spinebuster.
Walker stalks her prey as Landry struggles to her knees. Walker secures a tight front facelock. TRUST THE PROCESS (Northern Light Suplex). Walker drives Landry over with a flawless Northern Lights Suplex, bridging deep for the pin.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Vilaro drives a desperate kick into Walker’s shoulder, breaking the bridge. Stephanie Marshall barks orders, physically backing Vilaro into the corner and forcing her to retreat to the apron.
Walker powers through the sting. She drags Landry to her feet, immediately hooking the left arm and securing the crossface. SNAP, CRACKLE, POP (Crossface Chicken Wing).
Landry thrashes. Pure panic. She throws her dead weight backward, crushing Walker’s spine into the turnbuckles to break the hold. Landry slumps. Walker charges. Landry escapes, scrambling under the bottom rope to the arena floor.
Walker pursues. Vilaro drops from the apron, charging blindly for the ambush. Walker anticipates the strike. She pivots, catching the Fitness Queen mid-stride, and launches her upward. Vilaro crashes face-first into the thin protective mats with a brutal flapjack.
Walker grabs a fistful of Landry’s hair. She violently rolls her back under the bottom rope. Walker slides in, slapping Levitt’s hand. Tag made.
Levitt scales the turnbuckles with wild agility. She cups her hands around her mouth
LEVIT: GERONIMOOOOOO!!
The crowd screams with her, then roars as she launches into the sky. GERONIMO SPLASH (Black Arrow).
Landry rolls. Survival instinct. Levitt hits empty canvas but lands cleanly on her feet, rolling through the impact.
Landry lunges. Levitt uses the momentum, catching Landry around the neck and driving her down with a flying headscissors. Landry staggers backward into the turnbuckles.
Levitt hits the opposite ropes. A human pinball building maximum velocity. She sprints, launching herself forward. HERE I COME (Charging Double Knees in Corner).
Landry acts on pure cruelty. She reaches out, grabbing Stephanie Marshall by the collar, and yanks the referee directly into the line of fire.
Levitt tries to brake. Too much momentum. She crashes violently into the official. Marshall collapses in a heap. Levitt goes down, horrified, clutching her own knees.
Landry capitalizes. She grabs the reeling rookie and unceremoniously dumps her over the top rope. Levitt hits the floor hard.
Walker storms the ring to protect her partner. Vilaro slides in under the bottom rope. A brutal, blindside forearm smashes into the base of Walker’s skull. Walker drops to her knees.
Landry steps up, grabbing Walker from behind and locking her arms tight. Anchoring the pragmatist in the center of the ring.
Vilaro smirks. She drops to the mat, reaches deep under the ring skirt, and pulls out a silver aerosol can of Vilaro+ Muscle Spray.
BUT SUDDENLY the PCWTron flashes to life. The live arena feed cuts to a dimly lit backstage corridor. Two figures sit slumped in steel folding chairs. Hans Richtershofen and Amethyst Caldwell. Unconscious. Bound tight with duct tape over their mouths. Smeared in vibrant neon paint. Across their chests, thick letters read: “I’M WITH STUPID,” complete with arrows pointing at each other.
The camera pulls back. Alyssa Knight-Kekoa and Gina Neon stand over the wreckage.
NEON: Hello, Marisol.
KNIGHT-KEKOA: Hey, Taylor.
In the ring, Vilaro and Landry freeze. Fury washes over their faces. Their grip loosens. On the canvas, Walker and Levitt slowly begin to stir.
NEON: It looks like your bodyguards are a little tied up.
KNIGHT-KEKOA: Gina and I know you two TOTALLY can beat Tigress without these two idiots. So we did you a favor. You can show the whole world just how you don’t need any help winning this match.
NEON: That’s right. We even took the liberty of sneaking into your locker room to make sure you didn’t feel too tempted to use this.
Neon reaches just off-camera. She pulls back a genuine, silver can of Vilaro+ Muscle Spray.
The crowd erupts into a massive roar. Vilaro looks down. Her eyes lock onto the exact same can gripped tightly in her own fist.
KNIGHT-KEKOA: Of course, we didn’t want you to realize we took it. You’d just go get another one. So we replaced it with one of our own.
NEON: A Dummy can for a Dummy.
KNIGHT-KEKOA: Enjoy.
The video feed snaps to black.
Vilaro panics. She reels back to launch the imposter can into the crowd. Too late. The canister violently explodes in her hand. A massive, high-pressure cloud of multi-colored neon paint blasts directly into her face.
Vilaro shrieks. Blinded. She drops to her knees, frantically clawing at her burning eyes. She rolls blindly under the bottom rope, tumbling out of the ring and crashing to the floor.
The sudden explosion jolts Walker awake. Adrenaline spikes. She violently rips her arms free from Landry’s weakened grip. Walker scrambles. She hits the ropes, rebounding with terrifying momentum. A crushing lariat nearly takes Landry’s head off her shoulders.
Levitt crawls under the bottom rope. She pops to her feet. Pure energy. She charges the ropes. Landry staggers blindly to her feet. Levitt springs off the middle rope. DRAGON KICK (Slingshot / Springboard Single Leg Dropkick). The boot blasts Landry flush in the jaw.
The sheer kinetic impact rockets Landry backward. Right into Walker. Walker catches the momentum, driving Landry face-first into the canvas with brutal efficiency.
Walker instantly isolates the limb. She drops her weight over the shoulder, tearing the wrist upward to snap the elbow joint. DISMANTLE (Fujiwara Armbar). Dead center of the ring.
Landry howls in agony. Half-conscious. She slams her free hand frantically against the mat.
Levitt drops beside Stephanie Marshall. She shakes the referee by the shoulders. Marshall groggily lifts her head. Her blurred vision clears just enough to see Landry visibly tapping out on the canvas. Marshall forces herself up on wobbly legs. She signals frantically for the bell.
TIGRESS WINS
SUBMISSION VICTORY
On the outside, the camera finds Vilaro. She slumps against the steel barricade. Completely blinded. Weeping thick, neon-colored tears.
VILARO: I’ll sue you… (sobs) I’ll sue all of you…
In the ring, Walker releases the hold. Levitt bounces over, helping her partner to her feet. They stand tall, hands raised, the sheer exhaustion fading into celebration as they secure their shot at The Black Rainbow for the Voodoo Pact Championships.
MATCH
THE GOLDEN GIRL
DELILAH HART
vs
EVAN CARMINE
TRUE GRIT TOURNAMENT
The house lights dip. Gold washes over the arena floor.
Garret checks both competitors. Hart rolls her neck, loose, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Carmine is already still. Already watching. The kind of stillness that isn’t calm—it’s coiled.
Garret points to the timekeeper.
Ding.
They don’t rush.
They circle. Once. Twice. The crowd hums with anticipation, that low-frequency electricity of two athletes measuring risk in real time. Hart extends her right hand for a traditional lock-up. Carmine meets her halfway. Collar-and-elbow. Tight. Both sets of knuckles go white.
Carmine drops his hips first. The collegiate instinct kicks in—he torques his weight, spins to Hart’s back, and locks his arms around her waist. A clean waist-lock. No wasted motion. He lifts, pivots, and plants her on the canvas with a textbook mat takedown. The impact thuds through the ring.
But Hart is already moving. She floats. That’s the thing about Nashville’s Sweetheart—she doesn’t panic on her back. She rolls her hips sideways, slips the waist-lock pressure, and reverses the position in one fluid motion. Now she’s got the side headlock. Her forearm presses against Carmine’s temple. She wrenches it. Not a rest hold. An active grind.
Carmine doesn’t fight the hold so much as he out-thinks it. He drives his weight forward in heavy, deliberate steps, bulldozing Hart toward the ropes. Her boots skate across the canvas. The cables catch her spine. Garret steps in.
REFEREE: Break it. Clean break.
Hart releases. Carmine backs off a step, hands raised. She comes off the ropes with velocity, drops her shoulder, and drives it clean through Carmine’s chest. Shoulder tackle. Sharp. High-impact. Carmine hits the mat flat.
Hart drops immediately. Lateral press. Hooks the far leg with her forearm.
ONE—
Carmine’s shoulder fires up off the canvas like it never belonged there. He doesn’t just kick out—he powers out. Hart rolls off, springs to her feet, and they reset.
Now they’re both standing. Both breathing. Neither moving.
The arena gets quiet. Not the bad kind. The studying kind. Hart tilts her head slightly. Carmine’s eyes narrow—not in anger, but in calculation. He’s reading her stance. Her weight distribution. The angle of her lead foot.
He lunges.
Low. Fast. Carmine traps her ankle with both hands and snaps a drop-toe hold, driving her face-first into the mat. Before she can gather herself, he floats over—his shin sliding across her shoulders, his forearm hooking under her chin. Front chinlock. His weight settles onto her upper spine like wet concrete.
Hart’s jaw tightens. The pressure is real. Carmine kneads his forearm against the side of her neck, working the hold not for a submission but for attrition. Draining seconds. Draining her.
The crowd starts to stir—not panic, but encouragement, rhythmic claps building slowly. Hart plants a palm. Then a knee. Then she’s fighting upward in increments, her thighs burning, her neck corded with strain. She drives backward. Carmine’s boots skid. She walks him into the corner turnbuckles, his spine hitting the pads.
Garret is right there.
REFEREE: Back off, Evan. Let’s go.
Carmine releases immediately. Hands up. Clean break. Code of Honor satisfied.
Hart doesn’t hesitate. She steps out of the corner and snaps a European uppercut directly into his jaw. The crack echoes. Carmine’s head whips sideways.
Hart seizes the wrist. Irish whip. Carmine hits the far corner at speed—back hitting the pads hard.
She charges. Running bulldog setup. She hooks the head.
Carmine shoves her off. Hart goes stumbling toward the opposite ropes, momentum carrying her. She rebounds. Carmine catches her on the return, dips his hips, and hoists her high. Snap vertical suplex. Her body arcs and then—CRASH—she lands flat across her upper back. The ring shudders.
Carmine scrambles. Hooks the leg. Deep cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Hart’s shoulder peels off the canvas. Carmine doesn’t argue the count. He doesn’t have time for frustration. He’s already moving.
He rolls to the apron. Steps through the ropes. Climbs.
Hart is still on her back, chest heaving, staring up at the lights. Carmine plants his boots on the top turnbuckle, finding his balance. The crowd’s noise rises—anticipation, warning, something in between.
But Hart stirs.
She’s up faster than she should be. She crosses the ring in three stumbling strides and drives her shoulder into the back of Carmine’s knee. His leg buckles. She scrambles up the ropes, hooks his head, and launches backward.
Top-rope blockbuster.
Carmine’s skull and upper spine hit the mat in one violent, twisting motion. The impact is ugly. Hart’s own back slaps the canvas from the torque.
She rolls. Both legs hooked. Garret slides into position.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Carmine’s arm shoots skyward. Two and a half. The crowd exhales—half gasp, half roar.
Hart sits up on her knees, a strand of golden hair plastered to her temple. She’s breathing hard. Across from her, Carmine is on his side, one hand pressed to the back of his head, jaw clenched.
Neither of them is done. Neither of them is close.
Carmine rolls. One shoulder, then the other, his body carrying itself toward the nearest set of ropes on instinct alone. His hand finds the bottom cable. He drags himself upright in stages—first to a knee, then doubled over, then standing. The back of his head is a knot of raw nerve endings.
Hart doesn’t pounce. She waits.
Center of the ring. Poised. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, but her eyes track him like a fighter who knows a wounded animal is still dangerous. She wants the next shot clean. Decisive.
Carmine straightens fully. He takes one step forward. Then another. Hart reads the stagger as vulnerability and explodes into motion—charging, her body low, closing the gap in a heartbeat.
Carmine drops.
Front jawbreaker. His knees buckle as he falls, catching Hart’s chin across the crown of his skull mid-charge. CRACK. Her head snaps back. Her momentum dies. She stumbles backward, arms floating, brain rattling inside her skull.
Carmine doesn’t wait for her to find her feet. He hits the ropes. Runs through the recoil. His knee drives upward and forward, connecting flush with her jawline. Running knee to the face. Hart’s head whips back and she hits the mat flat.
Carmine hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Hart kicks. Not a power-out. A survival response. Carmine exhales sharply through his nose. No frustration. Just recalibration.
He doesn’t stay on the canvas. He stands. He pulls Hart up by the wrist, then the waist. He dips, threads his arm between her legs, and hoists her across his shoulders. Fireman’s carry. The weight settles. Carmine adjusts his grip—one arm hooked around her thigh, the other clamping her head. He’s setting. The crowd rises.
He’s looking for the CARMINE DRIVER (Death Valley Driver) .
Hart feels it. The shift in his hips. The momentary pause before the drop. She kicks her legs. Writhes. Slips. She slides down his back like water through fingers, landing on her feet behind him.
Carmine spins. Too late.
Hart hooks both his arms from behind—trapping them, locking them against his sides. She snaps backward. Butterfly suplex. Carmine’s body arcs over her head and crashes into the canvas, shoulder blades first. The bridge is immediate—Hart arches her spine, her toes digging into the mat, her body a perfect crescent of tension.
ONE…
TWO—!
Carmine kicks out. The bridge collapses. Both bodies separate, rolling in opposite directions.
Carmine is the first to move. Not up. Not toward her. Away. He crab-walks backward until his shoulder blades hit the turnbuckle pads. He uses the corner to climb, hand over hand, pulling himself upright. His legs are heavy beneath him. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts.
Hart is already standing.
She sees him slumped in the corner. She sees the glassiness in his eyes. She runs.
VELVET CRUSH (Running Hip Attack in the Corner)!
She charges. Three quick steps. Her body rotates at the last possible instant and she drives her hip directly into the side of Carmine’s skull. The impact snaps his head sideways. His body goes slack against the turnbuckles, held up only by the ropes.
Carmine reels out. He’s not walking so much as gravity is pulling him forward, a man without his legs underneath him. Dazed. Vulnerable. His arms hang at his sides.
Hart grabs the wrist.
She pulls. The ripcord motion spins Carmine toward her. Her hips are already rotating, her leg already rising, the roundhouse cutting through the air at temple height—
GOLDEN HOUR (Ripcord Roundhouse Kick)—
Carmine ducks.
Instinct. Pure, lizard-brain survival instinct. He drops his head beneath the arc of her kick, and the strike that would have ended his night finds nothing but air.
Hart overrotates. The missed momentum carries her leg through, spinning her body further than it wants to go. Her plant foot slips. Her knee hits the canvas. She’s down on one knee, back turned, scrambling to stand.
Carmine doesn’t think. He runs.
Opposite ropes. Full sprint. The cables groan under his weight and then fire him back across the ring. Hart is still rising. Still on one knee. Her face is turned, eyes widening. TOMMY EGAN (Curb Stomp)!
Carmine closes the distance in three strides. His right boot leaves the canvas. Comes down—
Hart rolls.
The boot crashes into empty canvas. The mat shudders from the impact, but there’s no skull beneath it. Carmine’s momentum carries him forward, off-balance, his planted leg absorbing the shock meant for her head.
Hart is already on her feet.
She spins him by the shoulder. His eyes are wide—the split-second realization of a man who knows he just missed his window. Hart seizes his wrist. She pulls. The ripcord yanks him into the rotation, his body stumbling forward, and her hips are already turning, her leg already cutting a golden arc through the air—
GOLDEN HOUR (Ripcord Roundhouse Kick)!
Her shin connects flush against the side of Carmine’s skull. The impact is clean. Brutal. The sound carries to the nosebleeds.
Carmine doesn’t fall.
He rocks backward. His spine goes rigid. His eyes fix on the arena lights, glassy and unseeing, a man whose body hasn’t yet told his brain that it’s over. He sways. One beat. Two.
Then he topples forward.
Hart catches him. Not to save him—to finish him. Her arm hooks around his neck. She plants her feet, turns her hips, and launches into the rotation. Her body corkscrews through the air, dragging Carmine’s head and neck with her—
KISS GOODNIGHT (Twisting Corkscrew Neckbreaker)!
Carmine’s skull drives into the mat at full torque. The impact is final. No kick-out coming. No survival instinct left to summon.
Hart scrambles. Hooks the far leg. Presses her weight across his chest. Garret slides in.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Ding.
DELILAH HART WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Hart rolls off Carmine and onto her back. Her chest heaves. A strand of golden hair clings to her lips. She stares at the ceiling, and then—slowly—she smiles. Exhausted. Radiant. Real.
Garret lifts her wrist. Her arm goes up. The crowd pours down on her—noise, adoration, relief. She climbs to her feet on unsteady legs, one hand pressed to the small of her back, the other still raised.
Carmine stirs. He pushes himself to his elbows. His hand goes to the side of his head—the leg is still echoing inside his skull. He looks up. Hart is looking back at him.
She extends her hand.
Carmine stares at it for a long moment. Then he takes it. She pulls him to his feet. He’s unsteady, his legs still somewhere else, but he stands. They stand. Center of the ring.
Carmine nods. Once. Respect. He exits through the ropes, one hand on the back of his head, leaving the spotlight to the woman who earned it.
Hart climbs the turnbuckle. Second rope. She raises both arms. Gold light spills across the arena.
DELILAH HART!
DELILAH HART!
DELILAH HART!
She’s moving on.
SEGMENT
MARILYN MATTHEWS
YUNA OBSIDIAN
The arena lights go out while the intro to “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy starts to fill the arena.
Some legends are told
Some turn to dust or to gold
But you will remember me
Remember me for centuries
Purple and Green strobe lights go off before a spotlight finds Marilyn Matthews standing just past the entrance. She raises her arms out wide with a smile as the crowd cheers. She makes her way towards the ring, giving the fans high-fives along the way. She circles the ring, continuing the high-fives with the fans, before climbing the ring steps.
And just one mistake
Is all it will take
We’ll go down in history
She walks along the ring apron before climbing one of the turnbuckles from the outside. She raises her hands as the crowd cheers again. She jumps down into the ring and climbs the opposite turnbuckle. She raises her hands, getting another pop from the crowd. She then jumps down and waits for the match to start.
Remember me for centuries
(Hey yeah, oh hey, hey yeah)
Remember me for centuries
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Hey everyone!
The familiar grin stretches across Marilyn Matthews’s face as she leans casually against the top rope, microphone dangling loosely from one hand. The crowd gives her a mixed reaction, and she simply laughs.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Been a minute, hasn’t it?
She pushes herself away from the ropes and slowly paces the ring.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: You know… coming back after being away for a while is funny. Everybody’s got an opinion. Some people are excited. Some people are hoping you fall flat on your face. And then you’ve got the idiots who think somehow all that time away erased everything you’ve ever done. Spoiler alert…
She smirks.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: It didn’t.
A cheer rolls through the crowd as Marilyn nods.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: My second match back? Thaïs Empristikí. Winner gets a shot at the PCW Unleashed Championship.
She points toward the entrance ramp.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And before I say anything else, let’s get one thing straight. Thaïs… you earned that win.
Marilyn gives a respectful nod.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: You were the better woman that night. You came prepared, you capitalized when the opportunity presented itself, and now you’ve got yourself a championship opportunity. I genuinely hope you make the absolute most of it.
She pauses before a crooked grin slowly creeps across her face.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: But don’t get comfortable thinking that means you’ve somehow solved the puzzle.
She chuckles to herself.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Because here’s the thing about me… I’ve never been defined by one match.
She begins circling the ring again, pointing toward different sections of the audience.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’ve lost before. I’ve bled before. I’ve damn near died before. And every single time…
She taps her chest
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …I came back meaner than I was before.
The smile fades into a determined stare.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I didn’t come back because I missed hearing my music. I didn’t come back because I needed attention. I came back because I still have something to prove.
She plants herself in the center of the ring.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Not to the fans. Not to the locker room. To myself. I came back to remind everybody—including me—that I am exactly who I’ve always been. The woman that walks into a company and changes the conversation. The woman that refuses to stay buried. The woman who doesn’t wait for opportunities…
A pause
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …she takes ’em.
The crowd pops as Marilyn raises the microphone again.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And speaking of opportunities… The True Grit Championship Tournament.
A wicked smile spreads across her face.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: History. The first-ever True Grit Champion.
She slowly nods as if savoring the words.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Now that sounds like something worth fighting for.
She leans forward against the ropes.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: My first stop? Justice Cross.
She laughs.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’ve been looking forward to this one. One-on-one. No distractions. No excuses. Just you… and me.
She points directly into the camera.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Justice, I’ve heard the hype. I’ve seen what you can do. I respect anybody willing to step into that ring and fight. But respect doesn’t win tournaments. I do.
She starts pacing once more, her energy steadily building.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: So here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to walk into that tournament. I’m going to beat Justice Cross. I’m going to beat whoever stands across from me after that. And when the dust settles…
She stops dead center and slowly raises an imaginary championship above her head.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: There won’t be any debate. There won’t be any questions. There won’t be anybody wondering whether Marilyn Matthews still has it.
She lowers her arms, a sinister grin returning.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: They’ll know. They’ll know that the woman standing before them…
Another pause.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …is exactly who she’s always been.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And the first name etched into the lineage of the True Grit Championship…
She winks at the camera.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: …is going to be mine.
The screen flickers to life as the camera glitches to static before cutting backstage. Yuna sits atop a production crate, wearing her black bomber jacket with a pair of headphones resting around her neck. She slowly claps for Marilyn, a faint smile spreading across her face as she looks up at the camera.
Yuna: That was… sweet.
Yuna begins laughing quietly to herself.
Yuna: No, really.
She continues applauding, the smile never leaving her face.
Yuna: I mean it.
Yuna slowly brings her clapping to a stop.
Yuna: Everyone loves a comeback story.
She shrugs.
Yuna: You fought your way back. You wanted to prove people wrong. You wanted to remind everyone exactly who Marilyn Matthews is.
Yuna nods to herself.
Yuna: Good.
The grin never leaves her face.
Yuna: But then…
Yuna tilts her head from side to side.
Yuna: You started talking about the True Grit Championship like you, Marilyn Matthews, had already won it.
She laughs softly.
Yuna: That’s my favorite part.
Yuna slowly pushes herself off the crate.
Yuna: Everybody keeps talking about the tournament. How they’re going to win. How they’re going to become the first champion. How they’re going to make history.
She rolls her eyes.
Yuna: It’s adorable.
Yuna begins pacing back and forth.
Yuna: Because while everyone in this tournament is busy imagining what it feels like to hold the championship… I’m imagining what it feels like to take it away.
She smiles into the camera.
Yuna: Marilyn, I don’t care how many times you’ve come back. I don’t care how many people you’ve beaten. And I definitely don’t care about the stories people tell about you.
She pauses.
Yuna: When we finally stand across from each other, I’m going to find out if all that confidence belongs to you…
A small smirk crosses her face.
Yuna: …or to the woman you used to be.
The lights behind Yuna begin to flicker.
Yuna: You want your name to be the first one etched onto that championship?
She laughs as she stares into the camera.
Yuna: So do I.
Yuna pauses, slowly lifting her headphones back around her neck.
Yuna: The difference between you and me is that I’m not going to tell everyone I’m going to win.
She smiles.
Yuna: I’m just going to do it.
The screen glitches to black before cutting back to the ring, leaving Marilyn standing alone.
MATCH
FLAME OF THE MOON
SELENE PYRE
vs
THE MISSOURI RIVER AMAZON
SAM TOLSON
The bell sounds. Selene Pyre does not wait. She explodes out of the corner. A dead sprint across the canvas. She launches into a high-angle Yakuza kick. Sam Tolson just plants her boots. She brings thick forearms up like a shield. The boot connects with a heavy thud, but Tolson barely flinches. The powerhouse shoves forward, violently throwing the rookie backward into the center of the ring.
Pyre scrambles to her feet. Unfazed. She pivots hard, whipping a rapid spinning backfist—Tolson ducks beneath the strike. She crashes into Pyre’s hips. A vice-grip waistlock. Tolson heaves. Dead weight launched backward.
SUPLEX (Bridging German Suplex)!
The impact shakes the ring. Tolson holds the bridge. The referee drops to the mat.
ONE—NO!
Pyre firmly kicks out, breaking the hold. Tolson doesn’t let up. She floats over the scrambling rookie and wrenches in a grinding side headlock. Smothering the pace. Pressing her body weight down on Pyre’s skull. Pyre grits her teeth. She bridges up on her neck. Finding leverage. She violently rolls backward, snapping Tolson’s weight over her shoulders into a sudden crucifix trap. Shoulders are down.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Tolson forcefully kicks out, throwing Pyre off. The veteran rises quickly. Jaw set. Eyes narrowed. Visibly frustrated by the rookie’s maneuvering. Tolson steps in and uncorks a blistering European uppercut straight to the jawline.
CRACK.
The crowd groans at the sharp impact. Pyre’s eyes roll back for a fraction of a second. The heavy blow sends her staggering backward, crashing hard against the turnbuckles.
Tolson smells blood. She charges the corner, throwing all her momentum into a massive lariat—Pyre drops out of the way. Blind empty space. Tolson plunges shoulder-first into the unforgiving steel of the ring post. A sickening metallic ring echoes. Tolson recoils. Pyre is instantly back on the hunt. She slides across the canvas and delivers a targeted basement dropkick directly into the injured arm. Tolson drops to one knee.
Pyre bounces off the ropes. Building maximum velocity. She zeroes in on the kneeling veteran and drills a blistering running pump kick straight into Tolson’s chest. All the air leaves Tolson’s lungs. She collapses flat onto her back. Pyre scrambles over the bigger woman, hooking the far leg, pressing her body weight down for the lateral press.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Tolson aggressively powers her shoulder off the mat just after the two-count, violently breaking the pin. She then shoves herself up from the canvas. She rolls her shoulder, shaking off the lingering sting of the ring post. Pyre doesn’t hesitate. The rookie charges. A desperate, rapid leaping strike aimed high.
Tolson steps into the chaos. She catches Pyre perfectly out of mid-air. Dead momentum. Pure structural power. Tolson locks her grip and hoists Pyre straight up.
SUPLEX (Stalling Vertical Suplex)!
Tolson holds her suspended. Gravity hanging in the balance. Blood rushing to Pyre’s head as the veteran parades her immense strength. Tolson snaps her hips and drops Pyre violently onto the canvas.
A heavy thud shakes the ring. Tolson instantly hooks the leg, pressing her forearm deep across Pyre’s jaw for a firm cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Pyre kicks out, gasping for air. Tolson is relentless. She snatches the rookie by the scruff of the neck, dragging her up from the mat like dead weight. Pyre thrashes. She twists wildly and fires a sharp, unexpected elbow strike directly into Tolson’s jaw.
CRACK.
Tolson stumbles blindly. Pyre seizes the opening. She hooks the head, violently whipping the larger woman forward and spiking her down onto her upper back.
SNAPMARE DRIVER!
Instead of fishing for a submission, Pyre flows instantly into a lateral press, throwing her entire body weight across Tolson’s chest.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Tolson forcefully kicks out, throwing Pyre off with raw fury. The veteran rolls to her knees. Her chest heaving. Pure, unadulterated anger twisting her features. Pyre scrambles behind her. She snakes an arm around Tolson’s neck, clamping on a tight sleeper hold. Choking off the oxygen.
Tolson gags. She plants her palms flat on the mat. With a guttural yell, she powers to a vertical base, hauling Pyre’s entire body weight up onto her back. Tolson backpedals blindly. She forcefully rams Pyre spine-first into the corner turnbuckles.
The impact breaks the chokehold. Pyre gasps, but she doesn’t drop to the floor. She scrambles wildly up the ropes. Finding her footing on the second turnbuckle, she launches backward, driving a springboard back elbow directly into Tolson’s face.
The heavy strike finds the mark. Tolson’s legs turn to jelly. She collapses flat onto her back. Pyre dives on top. She hooks both legs, burying her chin into Tolson’s sternum for a deep, desperate pinfall attempt.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Tolson powerfully thrusts her shoulder off the mat, snapping the count just a fraction of a second before three.
Then, she sits straight up.
No grogginess. No pain. Just an intense, hyper-focused stare drilling right through the rookie.
Pyre charges. A desperate, scrambling lunge at the seated veteran.
Tolson explodes off the canvas. A massive lariat tears through the air, crashing into the rookie’s neck and nearly decapitating her. Tolson doesn’t let her breathe. She hauls Pyre up by the hair, backing her into the ropes.
Smack. Smack. Smack.
Tolson unleashes a blistering, rapid-fire barrage of knife-edge chops. Pyre’s skin turns raw red. The rookie stumbles blindly backward toward the center of the ring, clutching her battered chest. Tolson steps right into the pocket. She hooks the head, drops her weight, and spikes Pyre into the mat with a crisp snap DDT.
Tolson hooks the leg.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Pyre barely gets her shoulder up. Tolson stalks. Patient. Lethal. She waits for the prey to rise.
Pyre drags herself up on unsteady legs. Tolson steps in to strike. Pyre suddenly pivots, whipping a desperate, heel-focused reverse roundhouse kick directly into the side of Tolson’s head.
Tolson drops to one knee. Vision swimming. Pyre bounces off the ropes. Gaining maximum momentum, she drives a heavy running pump kick squarely into the bridge of Tolson’s nose. Tolson collapses backward. Pyre falls on top of her, desperately hooking both legs for a frantic cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Tolson violently powers out, throwing the rookie off just a fraction of a second before three.
Pyre is running on fumes. She grabs Tolson by the hair, dragging her dead weight toward the corner. Pyre scales the turnbuckles. Climbing high into the danger zone. She steadies herself on the top rope.
ECLIPSE CLOCK (630 Senton)—
Pyre launches. A rapid, tight rotation through the air.
Tolson rolls. Empty canvas. Pyre crashes violently, spine-first, into the unyielding mat. All the air explodes from her lungs. Tolson pushes through the exhaustion. She immediately pulls the deeply dazed rookie to her feet.
Tolson traps Pyre in an inverted facelock, stepping back-to-back. A tight, inescapable grip on the neck. Tolson spins a full three-hundred and sixty degrees, using the centrifugal force to whip Pyre’s body around before violently driving her face and chest directly into the canvas.
BEAUTIFUL OBLIVION RENDEZVOUS (Cross Rhodes)!
Tolson rolls her over and hooks the leg with absolute authority.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
SAMANTHA TOLSON WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The bell rings, echoing through the arena. Tolson sits up, her chest heaving and sweat pouring down her face as the referee raises her hand to cement a definitive, dominant victory. On the canvas, Pyre remains utterly motionless, staring blankly at the lights as the physical toll of the bout settles deep into her bones.
NEXT TIME ON UNLEASHED
FINAL SEGMENT
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
and
BIA
Thaïs had come out first. Standing in the ring looking determined. Ready on the mic.
THAÏS: Hi everybody. Nice to see you. As your new number one contender I just wanna say~
Built To Last hits, Bia comes out to mixed reaction. Title in one hand, mic in the other. Starts talking over her music as she’s walking towards the ring.
BIA: NOPE! No! Yeah Nah! Neit! Nein! Fuck that! Excuse me…but is your name Bia? Hm? Are youse the fuckin’ West Australian War Goddess? The baddest bitch on this bloody roster ten times over?! Actually, scratch all that, are you the PCW Unleashed CHAMPION?! Cus is you’re not, might I suggest you get THE FUCK outta my ring!
Bia is in the ring now, clearly upset.
BIA: Cus this is MY time mate. Yeah? What the fuck are youse even out here for?! Oh, yeah, duh…tryin’ to make everythin’ about yourself right? C’mon you lot, let’s all give the GREAT Thais Empristiki a round of applause!
Genuine applause from crowd, mocking applause from Bia.
BIA: Congratulations mate…on barely bein’ able to put away a self imposed retiree who’s two matches back from takin’ her dusty arse off the shelf because she was desperate to avoid irrelevancy! You got by her by the slimmest of margins and suddenly you think you’re hot shite? Meanwhile, I went through a GOD DAMNED WAR with Yelena Gorgo! The woman who has terrorized every company she’s ever stepped foot in! The woman who is literally and figuratively head and shoulders above damn near anyone in this industry. The woman who almost ended it all for me a few months ago when she took the Black Garnet championship, and damn near took me life! The woman who held this for over two fuckin’ years…
Bia holds up Unleashed title.
BIA: Yeah, I did that. Me. All by me lonesome. I smell like sulfur cus that broad took me straight to the maw of hell itself! She held me feet and every other bloody part to that inferno and forced me to become what I was always meant to be. Forced me to look straight into the heart of that fire and come to terms with some hard truths. And why? Because there was no one else on this roster, or any other that could do it! That could take the punishment and keep movin’ forward! That would do what would need to be done in order to uphold the prestige, the lineage, the standards that this title represents…and not think twice. I defeated the undefeatable in her own game. A game designed by her father and custom built for someone like her to destroy someone like you. But not me. My entire career had been buildin’ towards TerrorDome…I just couldn’t see it. All the blood I’ve lost, the scars I wear, the injuries, the setbacks, the wins, the losses, the doubts, the fears…were all steps along the path that led me right to this.
Bia places title on shoulder.
BIA: And you have the fuckin’ balls to come out here, stand in my ring, and address these people like what you managed to accomplish by the skin of your bloody teeth is in any way comparable to what I did on the same night? No. It is not comparable. YOU are not comparable. So Imma tell you again…get the FUCK…outta my ring.
Thaïs stands there with their arms crossed, shifting their weight slightly as Bia talks. Every now and then, they roll their eyes or raise an eyebrow, clearly having something on their mind but choosing not to say anything yet. They don’t interrupt Bia, though. They just let her finish, quietly listening, even if their expression says they’re less than impressed.
Once Bia is done, Thaïs lets out a small sigh, uncrosses their arms, and brings their mic up, giving it a quick tap before speaking.
THAÏS: Are ya done? Being an enormous wind bag? I come out here to address the people, minding my own business. And here you are, making things about you. Pot meet kettle. You sure do a lot of the shit you accuse me of. And insulting Marilyn? An excellent competitor who had previously been forced into retirement? Not cool. You used to actually respect people. Now all you care about is you. So you can get out the ring, stop wasting my time, and plant your lips back on Yelena’s ass.
Bia starts to laugh, as she shakes her head clearly amused at Thais reply.
BIA: Me get out? Me? The champion of the company? Um, ya should’ve gone to Specsavers ya flop. Check the card. Right there at the tippy top…Main Event…where I belong, closin’ out the show and celebratin’ me monumental victory! This IS where I’m supposed to be, mate…don’t you dare get that shite twisted. And these lips? Only touch the lips of Will Ryder thank you. I don’t need to “kiss Yelena’s arse”. We beat each other half to death the way warriors do. And in doin’ so, put paid to what was and buried those demons. But sure, go ahead. Waste your time and try to undermine the history I just made.
Bia scoffs as she looks at Thais with disgust.
BIA: I’ve spent over half a decade in this business NOT makin’ shite about me. I wasted too much time makin’ it about everyone else. Puttin’ meself last. Ensurin’ that you, and people like you, got your flowers. All while I stood off to the side, applaudin’. Respect is the biggest buzzword in this business and gets thrown around way too god damn much. Who has it, who doesn’t, who deserves it…in the end none of it matters. Respect doesn’t pay the bills. It doesn’t buy the house. It doesn’t put food on your table, or send your kids through college, or cement a legacy. But you know what does?
Bia nods to the title on her shoulder.
BIA: That. And everythin’ that comes with it. So yeah, I’m makin’ shite about ME now. Because that’s what Champions do! You’ll have your shot at takin’ it when the time comes. You’ll fail, mightly, but you won’t make it easy on me. For all your faults I can never accuse you of rollin’ over, even when it’s the smart thing to do. You always make things harder than they need to be. And not just for you…but Jenna, and Cassie, and Val, and Hope, and Sandra, and Russo. I know what you’re thinkin’, bringin’ some of’em in here. But I’m tellin’ ya now Emps…it’s the dumbest decision in your long, long list of dumb decisions. Because you’re gonna force me to do somethin’ I don’t want to do. You’re gonna make me cross a line that I don’t want to cross. And I just want you to know, that when this is all said and done…and those girls are broken, and bleedin’…their careers, their lives changed forever…I am NOT gonna be held responsible.
Bia closes the gap between them.
BIA: You’re gonna be lookin’ for someone to attack. Someone to vent all that fire and rage out onto. A scapegoat you can rally against. And when that happens, I want you to find the nearest mirror, and I want you to look into it. Long, and hard. Because the person starin’ back atcha is the only person to blame for the absolute shitshow your life will have become. YOU…Thais Empristiki…will be the architect of your own undoin’. Your career, your “family”, your marriage, white anted from within. Rotted, decayed, hallowed out…by your own arrogance, and selfishness, and ego you sanctimonious bitch!
Bia takes her hand, shoving it into Thai’s face and giving them an almighty shove. The power and force of Bia’s arm, along with the surprise element, doesn’t give Thais enough time to react and brace. The move sends Thais stumbling backwards off balance as they land, uncerimoniously, on their ass a few feet back.
Thaïs glares up at Bia after being shoved back hard enough to send them sprawling onto their ass. Their face twists with a mix of irritation and disbelief, clearly not appreciating being thrown around like that. One hand presses against the mat as they start to push themself up, ready to fire back, when suddenly Tigress’s music hits. Bia looks away towards the ramp, eyes rolling as she just shakes her head in annoyance.
The arena erupts as the familiar theme blasts through the speakers—the cover of Eye of the Tiger, complete with that bridge riff that sounds almost exactly like Go Go Power Rangers. It’s loud, dramatic, and impossible to ignore. At the top of the ramp, Jenna Jillian Walker and Hope Levitt appear, both moving with purpose. Bia’s eyes stay on Jenna and the rookie as they make a beeline down. The disappointment and frustration is evident on her face.
Thaïs’ expression changes almost instantly. The anger is still there, but now there’s relief too. A small smile tugs at their lips, clearly happy to see their friends and allies coming to back them up. Using that boost of confidence, Thaïs gets back to their feet and immediately steps right into Bia’s space again, jawing at her without missing a beat.
THAÏS: You done putting your hands on me, or are we still pretending you didn’t come out here to start a fight?
BIA: I’ll do whatever the hell I want mate! I’m not the one who needs backup to fight every battle for her am I!?
Jenna Jillian Walker and Hope Levitt quickly move in, each putting a hand out as they try to create some distance and calm things down before everything boils over. Hope Levitt tries talking Thaïs down while Jenna focuses on Bia, both clearly trying to keep this from turning into an all-out fight. Bia’s mic is at her side but the camera picks up Bia’s voice as she addresses her former tag partner.
BIA: Jenna what the hell are you guys doin’ out here? I told youse I don’t have a problem you. Take your fearless leader and her boney arse backstage, now.
Bia gestures to Hope and Thais as she speaks. For a brief second, the intervention looks like it almost works.
Almost. Because as Thai and Bia continue to gestate and point, speaking to the woman attempting to keep them apart…that’s when Maria Kanellis’ Fantasy hits.
The crowd reacts immediately, and everyone’s attention snaps toward the stage. Out storms Hope Russo. Not calm. Not amused. Furious. She marches down the ramp with purpose, eyes locked on Bia the entire time. Bia’s eyes close with resignation as she lets out a visible sigh. She shakes her head, rubbing the bridge of her nose in frustration. Every step Hope takes is sharp and deliberate, her anger written all over her face. By the time she reaches the ring, the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Hope slides into the ring and immediately gets in Bia’s face. The height difference is obvious right away. At 5’10, Hope Russo stands just a little taller, forcing Bia to look slightly upward as Hope stares daggers into her. Her jaw is tight, shoulders squared, every muscle tense. She doesn’t even try to hide how pissed off she is as she glares down at the Aussie war goddess, silently daring her to make one more move. Bia looks somewhat reluctant as she goes to reply.
BIA: Russo, I told you, I –
Hope cuts her off immediately and gets right back in Bia’s face, jawing at her without missing a beat. Bia’s patience is visibly wearing thin as Hope points toward Thaïs then back at Bia.
HOPE RUSSO: So this is what we’re doing now?! Jumping people?! Shoving people around because you’re in a mood?! (Her glare sharpens.) Try that again. I dare you.
Bia’s jaw sets, her nostrils flare as her eyes narrow. Whatever bit of patience or restraint the champion has left in her evaporates. She brings her mic up again slowly.
BIA: That’s your one pass Russo. You keep that bitch of yours on a leash, before I put her down for good!
Hope lashes out, knocking the mic out of Bia’s hand. Bia shrugs off her championship, tossing it to the mat. But just before the girls of Tigress and Bia look to start throwing hands a cavalcade of security comes rushing into the ring. They separate the girls of Tigress and Bia into opposite corners. The champ still lashing out verbal barbs as she tries in vain to get away from the heaving mass of security. A handful of others blocking both Hope’s, Jenna, and Thais and attempting to usher them from the ring.