CHAPTERS
OPENING SEGMENT
BLACK RAINBOW
THE WARGODDESS
BIA
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER
The raucous crowd inside the sold-out Municipal Auditorium are a frenzy of energy and excitement. Cheering, waving signs, taking video with their smartphones as they await the start of the show. The lights in the arena dim as the childlike, female voice of the Red Queen AI program from Resident Evil can be heard reciting her definitive line from the movie in her British accent.
You’re All Going to Die Down Here…
The nu-metal guitar riff of Twisted F8’s ‘Built to Last’ can be heard signaling the impending arrival of the PCW Unleashed champion, Bia. The lights to the entryway pulse red, a blanket of smoke spilling out onto the stage as the song picks up pace.
ANNOUNCER: Making her way to the ring…from Fremantle, Western Australia… she is the reigning, defending, PCW Unleashed Champion… The West Australian War Goddess… BIA!
The crowd voice their displeasure as Bia comes sauntering slowly out onto the entryway down to the ring. She’s dressed in a custom-made lace-up corset bodysuit with matching chaps complete with accents of lace and fishnet. The ornate ensemble of PVC, spandex, and leather accentuates her impressive physique. The PCW Unleashed title is tucked into the front of the chaps, dangling symbolically between her legs. She walks slowly, purposefully down to the ring, ignoring the frenzied fans.
Her makeup is minimal, and her hair is (quite out of the ordinary when she’s on a show) loose. The textured layers bounce with every step. Bia marches up the steps, getting into the ring, before she climbs onto the turnbuckles of the nearest post and poses, arms outstretched. She lets out a war cry as the three remaining ringposts let off a blast of red fire pyro. She holds aloft the championship, her eyes wild and her mouth the wide, toothy smile of a predator.
She lets her tongue trace along the edge of the leather, marking it as her song fades. The vast majority of the crowd is still booing as she hops down. She merely smirks, gesturing for one of the ringside crew to hand her a mic. Which they do post-haste, as Bia adjusts the title over her shoulder.
BIA: Well would you lot bloody look at that?! The Champ demands to open the show…and what do you get? The Champ openin’ the show! Ain’t no useless Tigress flops conveniently stealin’ me time this go ‘round. Actin’ like they ain’t got a clue how they wound up out here. NO. You get your reignin’, defendin’, undisputed, P-C-W UN-LEASHED CHAMPION! All five foot eight inches and one hundred and sixty five fit and firin’, tanned and oiled, pounds of her! You gooners can sit out there and boo me like the sheeple you are, but we all know it’ll be Jergens and Kleenex before your head hits the pillow later on tonight. So what you need to do, is sit the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and soak it in…
Bia’s eyes close, as she outstretches her arms, a shit-eating grin on her face as the crowd’s displeasure is voiced even louder. You can see Bia’s shoulders rising and falling as she giggles, her eyes slowly reopening.
BIA: What’s the matter, New Orleans? Sad you weren’t greeted by Thais Empristiki throwin’ themselves one of their famous pity parties? Where they come out here and talk about all the trials and tribulations they faced? Where they drone on and on about how they’ve looked Death square in the eye and laughed? How nothin’ scares them. How they’re unquenchable fire, destined to burn on for eternity. And that’s before they even get to their Greek ancestry. We’d be here all bloody night listenin’ to that daft cunt waffle on like an absolute tit about that stupid island, and every goat shaggin’ member of their limbless family tree!
The spite and venom are audibly laced in every word flying from the champ’s mouth. She glares out at the fans, the vocal majority of whom were squarely in the Tigress leader’s corner at No Remorse.
BIA: But thankfully for everyone with a functional auditory system…Thais, yet again, came up short at No Remorse. Just like they did in the Iron Gauntlet. You’ll never hear me claim that they aren’t tough. Course, you need to be when you’re as stupid as they are. And you also won’t ever hear me claim they aren’t talented in this ring. Heck, they managed to catch me with a backslide pin just this past weekend. They had to pull that from DEEP in their arse, BUT they won. The problem for Thais, and the rest of those useless idiots that insist on bein’ her human shield, is that when it really matters? They just can’t get the job done!
Bia glares at the fans, a look of defiance on her face.
BIA: But wait! I hear you cry. Tigress won the Voodoo Pact Championship! WRONG. They didn’t win them. No member of the Black Rainbow was pinned! Lily was never submitted! They won because Selene wasn’t tough enough. She let her emotions override her judgement and all the heart and grit and determination that Lily Briar showed at the end of that match was all for nothin’. That’s a decision Selene will have to atone for. Thais survivin’ our match the next night was purely and simply put, dumb luck. Go back and watch that match! Go back and watch what I did to them and tell me I don’t deserve to be standin’ here still the standard bearer of this company! This war is far from over…and it won’t be won off one battle! It will be won when I-
Before Bia can continue she’s interrupted.
MUSIC CUE—FIGHT MUSIC BY D12
Bia slowly turns her face towards the entryway and the stage, the anger radiating off her in waves. You can just hear her mic pick up her cry of I WASN’T FINISHED as the crowd explodes as Jenna Jillian Walker appears on the stage shaking her head before she just stares at Bia.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: What the hell is going on with Bia?
Bia rolls her eyes at Jenna’s question.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Ever since you and T had your falling out I chose to stay out of it because I still looked at both of you as friends. While Tigress thrived I felt like you and I created a bond. A bond that I valued as we won multiple tag team championships together. So it broke my heart that you felt the need to leave Tigress but I understood it because I always viewed you and T as alphas. So it was just bound to happen. I can even understand both of you fighting for the same championships but what I can’t get past is your endless need to drag the rest of the Tigress in the mud. So tell me, Bia, why do you feel the need to downplay anything those of us in the group do? I just don’t get it because you are out there killing it out there. You’re the PCW Unleashed Champion, a former PWE Prestige Champion, and had an amazing 1MW Glory Championship reign till you realized it’s beneath you. Are you just trying to impress your new buddies in the Black Rainbow? Explain it to me, Bia!!!!
Bia watches Jenna, as she slowly shakes her head. She lets out a laugh.
BIA: Explain it,” she says. “You want me to explain? Fiiiine. I’ll explain…
She gives her former tag partner a shrug of the shoulders.
BIA: First off, Thais told me to leave Tigress, Jen. That was after I told them to take their apology and their crocodile tears and shove’ em up their arse. So let’s not even start gettin’ that shite twisted. You are right though. I have been killin’ it. Hell, I got a list of bodies behind me so long I could fill a cemetery. That’s how much slayin’ your girl has been doin’. That part is true. But draggin’ ya? Jen, the only one draggin’ you lot is your fearless leader…behind them, through all the dirt and the muck. You wanna talk about what I’m doin’? I’m winnin’ Championships, I’m headlinin’ pay-per-views, I’m the face of companies, I’m cementin’ me legacy.
She smirks, knowing full well that despite the hatred and vitriol lobbed her way, she was speaking the truth. And while people may not like it, they couldn’t dispute it.
BIA: But what have YOU lot been doin’? Eh? What have any of youse been doin’? You buildin’ companies from the ground up? Makin’ yourselves indispensable? Undeniable? No. You, Hope, Val, Sandy, Cassie, the other Hope? Hell, Thais was so desperate for X factor she roped your bed bunny to come in and be a poor man’s ME cus I was no longer there! Jenna, darl’, I’ve fought beside you. And we made a hell of a team. I figured you out of everyone might’ve been able to finally snap out of it. Because you out of anyone else in Tigress have the ability to be so much more than you are. Which makes it all the more sad to see you happy to just continue cleanin’ up their messes and wastin’ all the bloody talent God has seen fit to bestow upon ya!
Bia looks out into the crowd, the fans continuing to give it to the champion.
BIA: Why don’t you flops go put that shit up on social media and watch it go viral.
She turns back to Jenna.
BIA: All youse had to do was stay out of this. For once, if youse had just listened to me instead of insistin’ on puttin’ yourselves in harm’s way we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation.
Jenna shakes her head as she gets more annoyed while she listens to Bia.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Wasted talent?
Anger creeps into Jenna’s eyes.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: Flops?
Jenna grits teeth.
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: It’s a damn shame you’ve let all this hate for us consume you! Because all the dominance you have in that very ring doesn’t mean it comes with you being a cunt to all of us that supported you as you came up through the ranks. So, if you want to put me in harm’s way, friend, why don’t we meet in that ring later on tonight? Now before you go twisting it around, like I’m just after your title—which, I am by the way but that isn’t what this is about. This is about us backing up all our talk just like we used to do back when we were on the same side!
Bia’s jaw sets as she walks over towards the ropes closest to the rampway. Bia leans over, taking the PCW Unleashed title off her shoulder and holding it out towards Jen.
BIA: I don’t hate you. I pity you. You want to protect that muppet from the consequences of their actions so god damned bad? You wanna tangle arse with the champ? Be my bloody guest! YOU. ME. IN THIS RING. TONIGHT!
For the first time that night the crowd actually explodes in cheers at Bia’s accepting of Jenna’s challenge.
BIA: You’re gonna find out firsthand that standin’ across the ring from me ain’t nearly as fun as standin’ beside me Jen! Enjoy the Main Event, ya bitch…
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER: I’ve been there before, dummy!
Bia and Jenna glare at each other as Fight Music hits again. Both women continue jawing at one another though it’s not picked up by any of the microphones.
MATCH
TIGRESS
NASHVILLE’S SWEETHEART
DEILILAH HART
vs
SKATER GIRL
WILL FARRELL
STANDARD FALL
The bell rings, and both women circle out of their corners.
Will strides directly into the center of the ring, a sharp smirk cutting across her face as she spits out a string of taunts, daring Delilah to step up and lock up. Delilah takes a slow breath, raises a hand to her ear to invite the roar of the crowd, and steps forward into a clean collar-and-elbow tie-up.
Will muscles her back a hard step, then abruptly shoves both palms against Delilah’s jaw to break the collar-and-elbow tie-up.
Delilah wipes the sweat from her jawline, flashes a knowing smile, and extends her hands to call for a second test of strength. They lock up again. Delilah drops her hips, ducks the collar tie, and slips behind into a tight waistlock. Will pries at the locked fingers, but Delilah rolls through the leverage, catches the wrist, and wrenches it into a standing wristlock. Will rolls with the pressure, pivots on her heel, reverses into a wristlock of her own, and cranks Delilah’s arm back toward the shoulder joint. Delilah rolls forward with the torque, nips up off the mat, and snaps through a clean arm drag that sends Will sliding across the canvas.
Will scrambles up and rushes back in with bad intentions, only to eat a second arm drag that Delilah traps immediately into a grounded armbar.
Delilah leans back, trapping the triceps against her thigh to dictate the pace while Marshall drops low to check Will’s shoulder blades against the mat. Will grits her teeth, fights her way up to a vertical base, and drives two stiff forearms into Delilah’s floating ribs. The grip loosens. Will whips Delilah across the ring into the cables and immediately drops her head to telegraph a back body drop.
Mistake.
Delilah slips behind the bent back and shoves Will violently into the far ropes. Will rebounds hard off the tension and collides directly into a whirling tilt-a-whirl headscissors from Delilah, whipping her flat to the canvas. Delilah hooks the legs, stacking her high into a quick cradle—
ONE—NO!
Will kicks out hard before Marshall’s hand can touch the canvas a second time.
Scrambling to her feet in a blind temper, Will charges right back across the ring. Delilah sidesteps the rush, sending Will crashing chest-first into the turnbuckle pads. Before Will can peel herself off the buckles, Delilah charges in and crushes her spine against the padding with a corner meteora. Delilah drags Will out of the corner by the waistband of her trunks and plants her hard with a crisp snap suplex.
Delilah hooks the leg for the cover—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Will thrashes her shoulder off the mat at two.
Delilah wastes no movement, wrapping her arms around the skull to cinch in a tight rear chinlock as rhythmic claps pulse through the building. Will grimaces under the torque, drags herself to one knee, and then pushes all the way to her feet, burying sharp back-elbows directly into Delilah’s solar plexus. The hold breaks—and Will instantly reaches up, snatches a fistful of Delilah’s hair, and wrenches her skull down violently to the canvas.
Delilah’s head bounces off the canvas with a hollow thud.
MARSHALL: Let go of the hair, Will! Break it up now!
Will raises both hands, palms out in exaggerated innocence, sneering down at the referee.
With Delilah prone, Will circles like a shark, drilling blunt soccer kicks into the exposed ribs and lower spine. She yanks Delilah up by the wrist, crowds her space, and drives the crown of her forehead straight into Delilah’s nose with a sickening, short-range headbutt. Delilah staggers back into the turnbuckles. Will swarms. She unloads a barrage of crowding forearms to the jaw and collarbone, pinning Delilah against the ropes. She caps the assault with an open-palm, disrespectful knife-edge chop across the chest that echoes off the turnbuckle posts, then spins around to sneer and jaw directly at the front row.
Turning back to her target, Will drapes Delilah’s throat across the middle cable and leans her entire body weight down across the back of the neck.
MARSHALL: One! Two! Three! Four!
Will steps off at four-and-a-half, breaking the choke just before disqualification. She drags Delilah by the arm, whips her hard toward the far corner, and sprints in behind her to wipe her out.
Delilah plants a foot on the middle turnbuckle, floats over the oncoming charge, lands on her feet, and catches Will on the rebound with an explosive slingblade that plants Will flat on her back.
Delilah kips up to her feet and throws both arms out, igniting the crowd into a roar.
Will stumbles up to one knee, dazed, only for Delilah to take flight with a running dropkick that lands square against the jaw and knocks Will back against the ropes. Delilah hits the opposite cables, builds full speed, and levels Will with a stiff running clothesline that turns the skater inside out. Delilah reaches down, hoists Will up by the neck, and drives her down with a sharp swinging neckbreaker.
Delilah grabs the wrist, whips Will across the ring, and sprints full tilt toward the opposite ropes. She plants both palms on the middle cable, flips through the air in a fluid handspring, and drives her elbow flush into Will’s sternum—CURTAIN CALL (Handspring Back Elbow)!
Will collapses to the mat. Delilah drops to her knees and hooks the far leg—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Will thrashes a shoulder off the canvas with violent desperation.
Delilah stays on the attack, hauling Will to her feet by the collar and rocking her head back with a cracking European uppercut. Delilah grabs the arm and whips Will toward the cables once more, but Will hooks the top strand with both arms, halts her momentum, and slides straight out under the bottom rope to the floor.
Delilah charges the ropes, feinting a springboard launch over the top strand.
Will panics, backpedaling wildly up the entrance ramp and tripping over her own heels as she scrambles for space. Realizing she was bluffed, Will gathers herself, wipes her face, and wags a condescending finger toward the booing crowd, shouting insults back at the ringside seats.
Delilah steps up onto the second turnbuckle, posing high and gesturing for Will to drag herself back inside the ring as Marshall’s mandatory ten-count begins to climb.
Will paces back and forth along the protective mats on the arena floor, adjusting her gear and deliberately stalling the clock while a wall of boos rains down on her from every direction.
Marshall’s count reaches six before Will finally slides a shoulder and leg beneath the bottom rope, rolling back inside.
Delilah steps forward to close the distance, but Will immediately slides back out across the apron and drops to the floor with a broad, insolent grin. She offers a mocking flick of her fingers, beckoning Delilah out into her element while boos cascade over the guardrails. Delilah doesn’t take the bait. She shakes her head, retreats to the center of the ring, and gestures for Will to step inside.
Will climbs onto the apron and ducks between the top and middle cables, forcing Marshall to step between them and physically wall off Delilah to ensure a clean break. Once Delilah is held back, Will steps inside, circles out into the center, and raises both hands with an easy smirk, calling for a classic test of strength.
Delilah reaches up to lock fingers.
Will feints high, drops her hips, and buries the point of her boot deep into Delilah’s midsection. The breath leaves Delilah with a harsh gasp. Before Delilah can double over, Will snatches a fistful of hair and runs her face-first into the top turnbuckle pad with a dull, rubbery thud.
Will traps Delilah in the corner, planting her weight and drilling repeated, targeted stomps down into Delilah’s left shoulder. She hooks Delilah’s left arm, drapes it over the top rope, and leans all of her body weight down across the exposed joint, wrenching the rotator cuff over the steel cable.
MARSHALL: One! Two! Three! Four! Break it, Will!
Will releases the torque on four, stepping back with both hands held high in mock compliance. She drags Delilah toward center ring with a hard arm wringer, twists the wrist, and drives a blunt knee down across the hyperextended joint. She follows through immediately, stomping an armbreaker directly across Delilah’s left arm, driving the limb into the canvas. Not done. Will drags the limb to the perimeter, lays Delilah’s left arm across the bottom rope, and stomps it flush against the tension.
Will drags Delilah back toward the middle of the mat and drops into a casual, arrogant cover, hooking the far leg—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Delilah gets her right shoulder off the canvas.
Will sits up, flashes two fingers directly in Marshall’s face, and sneers at the cadence.
Without skipping a beat, Will floats over Delilah’s upper body, isolating the left arm and wrenching it behind the shoulder blades into a tight kimura lock. She cranks the wrist toward the shoulder, pinning Delilah’s torso against the mat. Delilah’s face tightens in pain, teeth grit, shaking her head violently as Marshall drops to check the submission.
MARSHALL: Do you want to quit, Delilah?
DELILAH: No!
Around the ringside mats, a rhythmic clap starts up, spreading through the arena. Delilah claws at the canvas with her free hand, digs her boots in, and drags herself up to one knee. Carrying Will’s weight, Delilah powers all the way up to a vertical base while Will hangs onto the torque. Delilah drives her boots backward, ramming Will violently into the corner turnbuckles. The impact jars the grip loose. Delilah catches the wrist, pivots hard on her heels, and whips Will across the canvas with an arm drag escape.
Will scrambles to her feet, but Delilah cracks her across the jaw with a flush forearm smash. Delilah hits the ropes, accelerates, and plants Will flat with an explosive slingblade. Delilah hauls Will up to her knees, takes off toward the opposite cables, and rebounds with a running knee strike that caves straight into Will’s sternum.
Delilah drops down for the cover—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Will kicks out, driving her shoulder off the canvas.
Delilah reaches down to hoist Will back to her feet, but Will thrusts her hand upward and jabs a stiff thumb across Delilah’s open eyes.
Delilah reels backward, blinded. Will lunges forward, yanks Delilah forward by the hair, and rocks her with a short forearm smash. Will hooks the waistband, snaps through Delilah’s hips, and flattens her with a snap suplex. Will stands tall over the fallen body, spreading her arms wide to absorb the venomous chorus of boos echoing down from the bleachers.
She grabs Delilah by the scruff, drags her to the ropes, and slings her throat-first over the middle cable. Will drops down, driving her kneecap into the small of Delilah’s back while choking her down against the rope.
MARSHALL: One! Two! Three! Four!
Will steps back at four, immediately barking at the official.
WILL: That’s clean! Watch the match, Marshall!
Turning back to the hunt, Will grabs Delilah by a handful of hair and drags her back to the center of the ring. Will drops down, locking her hands around the skull in a grounded, seated rear chinlock, grinding her forearm against the chin and pulling back with everything she has. Delilah gasps for air. Marshall drops low and lifts Delilah’s right arm.
It falls limp.
The crowd erupts into a desperate surge of noise, pounding their feet against the floor. Marshall lifts the arm a second time. Delilah clenches her fist, holding the arm rigid in the air. Delilah throws sharp elbows into Will’s ribs, breaking the lock, and sprints toward the ropes.
Will tracks the rebound, steps in, and uncorks a lifting knee straight into Delilah’s midsection, cutting off the sprint cold. Will grabs the wrist, whips Delilah hard into the turnbuckles, and charges in at full throttle.
Delilah leaps, planting both boot soles square into Will’s oncoming face.
Will staggers backward, dazed. Delilah scrambles up to the middle rope and launches herself into the air, wiping Will out with a missile dropkick that rattles the ring boards. Both women scramble up from the canvas.
CRACK.
Delilah throws a forearm. Will returns fire with a heavy forearm to the jaw. Back and forth. Delilah winds up and catches Will with a cracking European uppercut. Will wobbles. Delilah steps in and drills a second uppercut that snaps Will’s head back. Delilah spins on her heel, driving a spinning back elbow into Will’s cheek, then grabs the head on a dead sprint, planting Will into the canvas with a textbook running bulldog.
Delilah clutches her left arm, wincing, and shakes it out before waving both hands to ignite the crowd. She sends Will into the ropes with an Irish whip. Delilah charges the adjacent ropes, springs off the middle cable, and flies across the ring to intercept Will on the rebound—SPOTLIGHT SPLASH (Springboard Crossbody)!
The impact flattens Will. Delilah hooks the leg—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Will gets a shoulder up just before the three-count.
Delilah doesn’t let her breathe. She grabs Will by the wrist, drags her to her feet, and reels her in—spinning Will right into the strike—GOLDEN HOUR (Ripcord Roundhouse Kick)!
Will’s head snaps back, and she collapses to the mat. Delilah drops down and hooks the leg with urgency—
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Will kicks out at the absolute last microsecond, thrusting her shoulder off the canvas!
Delilah pushes her hair back from her face, nods toward the roaring fans, and slips behind Will’s dazed frame. She loops her arms under Will’s chin and traps the head over her shoulder—HART BREAKER (Standing Dragon Sleeper)—
Delilah strains to lock her fingers, but the throbbing pain in her damaged left shoulder betrays her. The grip isn’t set. Will feels the slack, reaches straight back, and rakes her sharp fingernails across Delilah’s eyes.
Delilah staggers away, blinded and clutching her face.
MARSHALL: Will, I’m warning you! Watch the eyes!
Will ignores the referee entirely. She grabs a handful of Delilah’s gear, yanks her forward with vicious momentum, and leaps upward, driving Delilah’s face directly down into her kneecap—CURB CHECK (Jumping Single-Knee Facebuster)!
Delilah crashes face-first into the canvas. Will rolls her over and hooks both legs—
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Delilah kicks out at two and a half, throwing her shoulder up out of pure muscle memory!
Will slams both palms violently against the canvas, leaping up to scream directly into Marshall’s face.
WILL: That was three! Count faster, damn it!
Marshall steps right back into Will’s space, flashing two fingers firmly in the air.
MARSHALL: It was two! Back off, Will! Back off!
Will grits her teeth, dragging both hands down her face in furious frustration as the arena buzzes with adrenaline. Delilah clings to the bottom rope on the far side, desperately blinking the sting from her eyes, while Will seethes against the opposite turnbuckle, chest heaving.
Both women drop to a knee on opposite sides of the ring as the crowd roars. The match has officially tipped into a war.
The crowd noise builds as the two stare into one another’s eyes. Then slowly, both rise off their knees at the same moment and collide dead-center in the ring.
Will fires a stiff forearm smash straight into Delilah’s cheek. Delilah absorbs the blow, sets her feet, and answers with a crack of her own, firing a forearm flush across Will’s jawline. CRACK. CRACK. The exchange accelerates, tearing wide open into a brutal mid-ring slugfest as the crowd roars. Will winds up for a heavy haymaker, but Delilah slips underneath the swing and drives a European uppercut directly under the chin.
Delilah grabs the wrist, whips Will across the ring into the corner turnbuckles, and charges in after her.
Will throws her right leg high, jamming the flat of her boot square into Delilah’s oncoming face. Delilah staggers backward, clutching her nose, and Will explodes off the turnbuckle with a jumping knee strike straight into the chest. Will drags Delilah up by the scruff of her gear, turns her, and whips her back hard into the corner padding.
Will charges across the ring, elevates, and drives both knees straight into Delilah’s collarbone—WIPEOUT (Running Corner Meteora)!
Will remains pinned against her, crowding Delilah’s space, shouting taunts directly into her face. She grabs Delilah by the arm, drags her away from the turnbuckles onto open canvas, and hooks the leg—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Delilah gets her shoulder off the mat.
Will yanks Delilah back up to her feet and cracks a disrespectful knife-edge chop across Delilah’s chest that echoes off the rafters. Will shoots Delilah into the ropes and winds up for a heavy clothesline. Delilah ducks under the arm, rebounds off the opposite cables, and catches Will with a high tilt-a-whirl headscissors, whipping her across the ring.
Will scrambles to her feet, reeling backward, and Delilah shoves her hard into the corner turnbuckles. Delilah charges in, hooks Will’s head in a front facelock, runs up the turnbuckle pads, pivots through the air, and spikes Will into the canvas with a tornado DDT.
Delilah hooks the leg for the cover—
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Will thrashes her shoulder off the canvas.
Will rolls across the canvas and spills out onto the apron to regroup, both hands clinging tightly to the top rope. Delilah spots the opening, gathers speed, and charges toward the ropes. Will leaps, planting her boots on the top cable, springs inward, and whips her back leg through the air—PLAN C (Springboard Roundhouse Kick)!
The kick catches Delilah flush across the jawline, dropping her instantly. Will scrambles forward and hooks the far thigh—
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Delilah gets a shoulder up at the last fraction of a second!
Both women lie flat on the canvas, spent, as Marshall steps back and begins a standing ten-count.
A rhythmic clap starts up in the seats, vibrating through the building. At five, both competitors begin to stir. Marshall reaches the count of seven as Will and Delilah pull themselves upright, hauling their weight up by the ropes.
Will snatches Delilah in a front facelock and scoops the near leg—CONCRETE KISS (Cradle DDT)—
Delilah slips out the back door, drops her weight, and shoves Will violently into the ropes. Will rebounds off the cables straight into a stiff forearm smash from Delilah. Delilah hits the ropes, accelerates, and buries a running knee strike deep into Will’s midsection. Delilah hauls Will to her feet by the wrist, hits the ropes again, and levels her with a slingblade on the rebound.
Delilah kips up to her feet, arms outstretched, feeding off the noise of the crowd. She grabs Will by the arm and whips her hard across the ring into the turnbuckles.
Delilah charges in, grabs a fistful of Will’s hair, and slams her face directly into the top turnbuckle pad—
ONE!
Delilah pulls back and smashes her into the top buckle again—
TWO!
Again—
THREE!
Will’s hair flies in every direction with each collision. Delilah drops her grip a level lower and drives Will’s face into the middle turnbuckle—
FOUR!
Again—
FIVE!
Again—
SIX!
Delilah drops down to the bottom turnbuckle and hammers Will’s forehead against the padding—
SEVEN!
Again—
EIGHT!
Again—
NINE!
Delilah rears back, gathers everything she has left, and rams Will’s skull into the bottom buckle one final time—
TEN!
Delilah releases the hair. Will slumps forward, dead weight against the canvas, propped up only by the bottom turnbuckle.
Delilah steps away toward center ring, pumping both fists to bring the crowd to its feet. In the corner, Will slumps into a seated position against the bottom turnbuckle, glassy-eyed and gasping for breath. Marshall drops down directly in front of Will, leaning over to check her responsiveness.
Delilah spins around, spots her mark, and sprints full tilt across the ring—VELVET CRUSH (Running Hip Attack)—
At the final split-second, Will reaches up, snatches Marshall by the referee shirt, and yanks the official directly into the line of fire.
Delilah crashes backside-first directly into Marshall, sandwiching the referee against the turnbuckle pads. Marshall drops limp, collapsing onto the canvas.
Delilah steps away from the corner, eyes locked forward, certain the victory is sealed. She turns back—and freezes.
Marshall is sprawled motionless across the mat. Delilah clutches both hands to her head in disbelief as bedlam erupts across the arena.
Will wastes no time, rolling under the bottom rope out to the ringside floor. Delilah shakes off the shock and scrambles through the ropes, dropping to the floor after her. Will reaches down beside the steel ring steps and scoops up her skateboard by the truck. Delilah grabs Will by the shoulder and spins her around.
Will drives the sharp edge of the deck directly into Delilah’s exposed ribs and gut. Delilah doubles over, wheezing, and stumbles backward. Will winds up, brings the skateboard down with violent force, and cracks the flat of the deck across Delilah’s forehead.
CRACK.
Will drops the board to the concrete. Delilah collapses flat onto the ringside mats beside it, motionless.
Will turns toward the screaming fans, spreading her arms wide to absorb the vitriol. She drags Delilah up by the trunks, shoving her limp body under the bottom rope back into the ring. Will slides under the ropes behind her, hauling Delilah away from the cables into the center of the canvas.
Will heads straight for the corner, scaling the turnbuckles until she is crouched on the top rope. She perches there, watching as Marshall begins to stir groggily on the canvas and Delilah pushes herself up on trembling knuckles.
Will stands tall on the top rope, sneering down at the ring.
FARRELL: DROPPING IN!
Will launches herself off the top cable—BOARD BREAKER (Diving Double Foot Stomp)!
Both boots crash directly down through Delilah’s upper back and neck, driving her chest and face violently into the canvas. Will rolls Delilah onto her back and hooks the leg deep.
Marshall crawls over on hands and knees, reaching the cover to count—
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
WILLOW FARRELL WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Marshall calls for the bell.
Will rolls out to the floor, scoops up her skateboard, and marches up the ramp, raising the board overhead with a crooked, challenging smile. In the ring, Marshall kneels over a motionless Delilah as an unrelenting chorus of boos rains down from every corner of the arena.
SEGMENT
SHEISTY SO
SOLAR MUNDO
As things move outside the arena a peach colored u haul could be seen backing up into the building. As it comes to a halt some backstage workers of PCW open the back of the U-Haul and begin unpacking some boxes. One of the workers can be heard saying “Man who is lifting all this for nothing?” as the driver door to the U haul opens.
Stepping out of the driver’s seat is Solar Mundo. She just recently signed on the dotted line with the company, and from the way she looks into the camera with that big wide exuberant smile of hers it’s easy to tell that the vibes is high with this one. There has been some reports that the young professional wrestler would be signing with PCW which is why their is a minor pop coming from the crowd. Solar places a finger to her lips and shakes her head before she voices…
SOLAR MUNDO: “Shhhhh, don’t let them know that the party is moving in. Someone might try and stop it and we cannot have that.” (She waves her hand in a jokingly way) I know some of you…maybe expect for the ten or twenty of you that may know me already are wondering who is this fine looking chicka standing before you? Like look at the smile, look at the attire, look at the aura, Just who is this person right, I’ve never seen her…”
As someone is coming off of the u haul with a portrait of just a giant peach Solar steps in to make sure they don’t drop it while continuing to introduce her to the crowd she’ll be rocking for the foreseeable future.
SOLAR MUNDO: “Some people know me as the girl who loves peaches who is always doing something entertaining. Some people know me as that girl who will trick you out of your position because you just quite haven’t come across someone like me. Some know me as the girl who never holds back. Just always full throttle, but most importantly I am known as the one who brings the party to the ring. The one who keeps the crowd rocking, wanting more and leaving with their money’s worth. I am Solar Mundo and I am just for the people.”
Cameras follow Solar and the crew inside the arena where it seems to be a little hold up.
CREW WORKER: “We thought you said that this was your locker room? Are you sure it’s this one?”
Solar smirks like only she can, digging in her pocket and pulling out a card that she uses to crack the door open.
SOLAR MUNDO: “You’ didn’t see that right?”
She smiles once more, giving a wink, before entering the room. She doesn’t know who the room belongs too or if it’s occupied for anything. To her this is her’s now. Taking in a deep breath to enjoy the moment of finally having her own locker room, and just knowing that she has made it she exhales taking a chance to look around the room.
SOLAR MUNDO: “The Solar Lounge.”
She begins imagining how she wants the room to look, prancing from corner to corner thinking about the things she wants to put in place.
SOLAR MUNDO: “For three years I’ve been turning up crowds in Chicago. Making a name for myself and perfecting my style. It feels so good to finally be able to see my dedication paying off…people don’t know how much I work on what I do and man…We are finally here.”
As on que some workers bring in her peach couch. As they place it where she wants them too she flops down on it continuing to introduce herself to PCW.
SOLAR MUNDO: “I want everyone out there in the crowd, and everyone at home watching to know that you have a friend in me. I wouldn’t be able to be here or do anything in the ring if it wasn’t for you all. You mean so much to me and if you know me…you know I’m here to spread the peace and all the love, but don’t get it confused. I’m not a push over.”
She shakes her head no while laying back in the couch.
SOLAR MUNDO: “That’s not how things are gonna go Gang. We will party, have fun, love one another but we will also be respected and take what’s ours. I know everyone backstage sees me as just some young kid or whatever trying to make a name for themselves, but that’s not it. I could care less about the name because what I do in the ring the name comes with it…and there isn’t someone on this roster or anywhere can do what I do. SoGang Style hits that different.”
Solar arises from the couch and steps up toward the camera. She lifts it up to be eye level with her before saying her final words.
SOLAR MUNDO: “I will be stepping into the ring here for you all really soon. Now is your time to get a little familiar and start rocking with your girl. This party will never stop and gangers….its time to party soon. Peace and all the love.”
She blows a kiss before throwing up a peace sign as things fade to Solar Mundo and the crew of workers moving her into PCW.
MATCH
THE MISSOURI RIVER AMAZON
SAM TOLSON
vs
K.A.T.
STANDARD FALL
The bell rings.
Both women step out of their corners, stalking inward along the circumference of a slow, measuring circle. Eyes locked. No wasted motion.
They collide at the center in a collar-and-elbow tie-up. Tolson immediately engages her core, leveraging twenty-five pounds of solid muscle to drive forward. Her boots dig into the canvas, shoving KAT backward step by step until KAT’s shoulder blades hit the top strand.
REFEREE: Break it up! Clean break on the ropes!
Tolson breaks the grip without a cheap shot, stepping back with hands raised, fixing KAT with a cold, unblinking glare. KAT rolls her shoulders, resetting her base.
They lock up a second time. Tolson instantly floats over the collar tie, clamping her forearm tightly around KAT’s skull in a side headlock. With a sharp torque of her hips, Tolson drops her weight, snapping KAT down to the mat with a textbook headlock takeover. Tolson squeezes down hard on the headlock, grinding her forearm against the jawline to wear down the smaller woman’s neck.
KAT refuses to stay grounded. She plants her palms against the canvas, drives her shins beneath her, and forces herself to one knee despite the crushing downward leverage. Gritting her teeth, KAT pushes all the way back up to a standing base with the hold still cinched around her neck. KAT digs her heels in, drives her hands into Tolson’s ribcage, and shoves her straight off into the ropes. As Tolson rebounds, KAT drops flat to her stomach across the mat.
Tolson hurdles cleanly over her back, hits the far cables, and charges back in. KAT pops up, but Tolson anticipates it, hooking KAT’s wrist and snapping through with a deep Japanese arm drag.
KAT does not hit the mat. Fluid and acrobatic, she rotates with the momentum, cartwheels clean through the drag, and lands square on both feet.
Tolson spins around and immediately charges with a heavy swinging clothesline. KAT ducks underneath, letting the wind of the strike pass inches over her head. Tolson hits the opposite ropes with full momentum. As she rebounds, KAT drops flat to her spine, catches Tolson by the hips with both soles, and launches her high overhead with an explosive monkey flip across the ring.
Tolson lands, tucks her shoulder, and rolls through the impact, immediately springing back to her feet. Both women spin to face each other, squaring up in a tense, breathless standoff at center ring.
KAT breaks the silence first. She smirks, slowly clapping her hands together in a sarcastic round of mock applause.
Tolson’s expression does not change. She steps straight into KAT’s space and shoves both palms hard against her chest, knocking her back half a step.
KAT fires back instantly. CRACK. A blistering forearm smash crashes into the side of Tolson’s jaw.
Tolson’s head snaps sideways, but she pivots back on her heel and returns fire, driving a heavy forearm flush into the bridge of KAT’s nose.
Neither gives an inch. The exchange accelerates into a vicious, full-speed brawl. Forearms hammer back and forth with bone-rattling velocity, leather striking flesh, the cadence rapid and unforgiving.
Tolson breaks the rhythm. She winds up and unloads an open-palm knife-edge chop across KAT’s chest. WHACK. The impact leaves an instant crimson handprint.
KAT snarls, digs her toes in, and answers with a deafening chop of her own that echoes off the rafters.
Before KAT can follow up, Tolson drives the toe of her boot straight into KAT’s solar plexus, knocking the wind from her lungs. KAT doubles forward. Tolson catches her on the way down with a stiff European uppercut that snaps KAT’s head back and staggers her rearward on rubbery legs.
Tolson swivels behind the dazed KAT, locks her hands around the waist, and arches back with brutal torque. She launches a high-release German suplex, sending KAT airborne before dumping her violently onto the back of her head and neck.
THUD.
KAT folds up and rolls toward the turnbuckles, groggily pulling herself up by the pads on wobbly, unsteady legs. Tolson gives her zero time to recover. She charges into the corner and unleashes a rapid-fire barrage of machine-gun knife-edge chops, blistering KAT’s chest with every furious swing.
Tolson grips KAT by the wrist and whips her hard across the squared circle. KAT collides spine-first into the opposite turnbuckle, the impact rattling the ring posts.
KAT staggers blindly out of the corner. Tolson is already there, slipping behind into a tight rear waistlock. Tolson bridges back with explosive power, planting KAT directly onto the back of her shoulders with a bridging German suplex. Tolson arches her spine high off the canvas, holding the bridge firm for the lateral press.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
KAT kicks out, thrashing her shoulders off the mat.
Tolson does not relent. She stays attached, grabbing KAT’s arm and wrenching it into a vicious wristlock, leaning her entire body weight over the joint to grind KAT’s shoulder blade flat into the canvas.
KAT grits her teeth through the torque. She plants a foot, climbs back to her base, and executes a tight cartwheel to unwind the pressure. Freeing her arm, KAT leaps and wraps her thighs around Tolson’s neck, snapping her over with a sharp hurricanrana.
Tolson tumbles into the corner, propping herself against the bottom turnbuckle. KAT sprints across the ring, throwing her entire body forward in a running crossbody that crushes Tolson against the pads.
Tolson stumbles out of the corner, dazed and disoriented near mid-ring. KAT breaks away, sprints to the opposite ropes, and leaps onto the middle strand. Springboarding backward, KAT catches Tolson around the head with a lightning-fast springboard hurricanrana that sends the heavier woman tumbling across the canvas.
Tolson scrambles up and lunges forward on pure instinct. KAT drops low to the mat, hooking Tolson beneath the thighs and pulling her down into a deep sunset flip.
KAT hooks both legs tight, stacking Tolson’s shoulders flat against the mat.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Tolson powers her shoulder up with authority.
KAT refuses to let the tempo slow down. She scrambles up and charges full tilt at Tolson.
Tolson drops to her knee, hooking KAT’s ankle with a sharp drop toe hold. KAT’s feet are swept out from beneath her, sending her crashing face-first into the canvas.
Tolson instantly swivels, mounting KAT’s back. She rains heavy, short-range forearm strikes down across the side of KAT’s face and skull. Tolson grabs KAT by the arm and hauls her up to her feet.
The moment her boots touch the mat, KAT rips her arm free and uncorks a sharp forearm smash to Tolson’s jaw. KAT follows up with a rapid-fire barrage of forearms, driving Tolson backward step by step until Tolson’s back hits the ropes.
Tolson uses the rebound to reverse the position, grabbing KAT by the wrist and launching her off into the far cables with an Irish whip.
KAT rebounds at maximum speed, spinning 360 degrees on the approach to throw a wicked spinning back fist.
At the exact same fraction of a second, Tolson steps in and swings a devastating lariat with all of her forward momentum.
SMACK.
Both blows connect flush simultaneously. The ring shudders as both women are violently swept off their feet, collapsing dead-weight onto the canvas in opposite directions.
REFEREE: One! … Two! … Three! … Four!
The crowd rises to their feet, the roar swelling in the arena as the referee delivers the double knockdown count.
REFEREE: Five!
Both competitors begin to stir. KAT rolls onto her stomach, groaning as she drags herself toward the bottom strand. Tolson pushes off the mat, clawing her way up the opposite cables.
By the count of seven, both women haul themselves vertical using the ropes for support. They turn and stagger back to the center of the ring, chest to chest, eyes burning with white-hot intensity in an exhausted, furious staredown.
The mid-ring staredown lasts two seconds before KAT shatters it. CRACK. A forearm smash hammers into Tolson’s jaw.
Tolson rebounds off the blow and fires right back, snapping a stiff forearm into the bridge of KAT’s nose.
Tolson winds up for a heavy haymaker, but KAT ducks underneath. KAT pivots on her front foot, spinning entirely around to whip a vicious spinning back kick straight into Tolson’s temple.
Tolson wobbles sideways, crashing heavily into the corner turnbuckles to stay upright. KAT charges in without hesitation, leaping off the mat to drive a running high boot flush against the side of Tolson’s skull.
The impact bounces Tolson out of the corner, stumbling blindly toward the center on rubbery legs. KAT sprints past her, leaps onto the middle cable, and springboards backward with pinpoint precision, burying both soles into Tolson’s sternum with a springboard dropkick.
Tolson crashes to her back. KAT instantly hooks the far leg in a lateral press.
ONE—NO!
Tolson powers out on one, thrusting her shoulder off the canvas with sheer force.
KAT refuses to let her breathe. She straddles Tolson’s chest and clubs down a series of heavy, close-quarters forearm smashes against Tolson’s face and collarbone. Dragging Tolson up by the hair, KAT herds her back against the ropes and unloads a pair of blistering knife-edge chops across the chest.
WHACK. WHACK.
Tolson’s upper body reels over the top strand. KAT measures her distance, takes a step back, and explodes forward with a running bicycle kick that catches Tolson flush on the jaw.
The momentum lifts Tolson’s boots, flipping her through the middle ropes and sending her tumbling out of the ring, crashing hard onto the thin padding of the arena floor.
KAT turns and sprints toward the far ropes, rebounding to build maximum velocity. She dives through the middle cables head-first, hurling her entire body outward in a reckless suicide crossbody.
THUD.
The collision takes both women down hard on the concrete floor. The referee leans through the ropes, starting the mandatory ten count as the impact echoes through the ringside area.
REFEREE: One! … Two!
KAT stirs first, shaking the cobwebs loose as she uses the steel ring steps to haul herself up. A wild, unhinged smile spreads across her face as she stalks Tolson. KAT steps in and cracks a forearm smash that snaps Tolson’s head back against the steel guardrail.
Tolson snarls. She plants her back against the barricade and fires an open-palm knife-edge chop directly into KAT’s sternum.
SLAP.
The brutal strike drives KAT down to one knee, gasping for air. Tolson grabs her by the wrist and tries to whip her violently toward the steel barrier. KAT digs her boots in, reverses the momentum with a hard tug, and sends Tolson crashing spine-first into the metal barricade with a loud clatter.
KAT charges in to capitalize, but Tolson explodes off the railing. Tolson catches KAT around the waist on the dead run, scoops her clean off her feet, and drives her down onto the concrete with a bone-jarring snap suplex.
Both women collapse in a heap on the floor.
REFEREE: Five! … Six!
Tolson groans, rolling onto her stomach at the count of seven. She grabs KAT by the collar and hauls her dead weight toward the ring apron. Tolson shoves KAT under the bottom rope, rolling her into the ring before sliding under the bottom cable herself just ahead of the count of nine.
Tolson drags KAT up to a vertical base and drills a stiff European uppercut under the chin.
KAT wobbles back a step, but fires right back with a sharp forearm smash. Tolson returns fire. The two women stand toe-to-toe mid-ring, trading stiff, heavy blows on exhausted, jelly legs.
Tolson swings a wild right hand. KAT ducks cleanly under the arc, hooks Tolson behind the head, and snaps down into a layout neckbreaker.
BANG.
Tolson’s head rebounds off the mat. KAT immediately kips up to her feet, flips her hair back, and lets out a blood-curdling screech like a banshee.
PCW!
PCW!
PCW!
The crowd roars in appreciation. KAT stalks the rising Tolson with a wide, manic grin. As Tolson gets to one knee, KAT dashes to the ropes, leaps to the middle strand, and drops back down, driving the sole of her boot into Tolson’s jaw with the Eat Defeat.
Tolson drops flat on her spine. KAT scrambles quickly back to her feet over her grounded opponent. Without wasting a breath, KAT plants her feet and launches into a crisp standing moonsault, splashing directly across Tolson’s ribs and hooking the leg.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Tolson thrashes her shoulder up.
KAT slaps the canvas in frustration, leaning over Tolson and barking at her to stay down. Recognizing the opening, KAT scrambles to the corner and climbs to the top turnbuckle.
Tolson stumbles back up to her feet near the center of the ring, dazed and unsteady. KAT launches off the top rope, soaring through the air in a high crossbody.
Tolson tracks the descent. She braces her base, catches KAT out of midair across her chest, and absorbs the flight. Tolson hooks her arms tight around KAT’s torso, arches back with sheer power, and launches an overhead belly-to-belly suplex that sends KAT flying halfway across the ring.
KAT hits the canvas hard, rolling into the corner and clutching her lower spine in agony. Tolson stalks across the ring, drags KAT out of the turnbuckles, and hoists her vertically into the air. Tolson stalls with KAT held completely inverted, letting the blood rush to her head, before slamming her down with a delayed vertical suplex.
Tolson does not release the grip. She rolls her hips over, keeping her hands locked around KAT’s waist, and muscles the smaller woman back to her feet. Tolson swivels behind into a rear waistlock, bridges back violently, and folds KAT in half with a high-angle German suplex.
Tolson stands over KAT with cold, calculating eyes as KAT crawls blindly across the canvas. Tolson yanks her up into a front facelock, leaps backward, and spikes KAT’s forehead into the mat with a vicious snap DDT.
Tolson hooks the outside leg for the cover.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
KAT kicks out, barely getting the shoulder off the canvas before the three.
Tolson stays on the offensive. She wraps herself around KAT in a seated body scissors, lacing her muscular legs tightly around KAT’s midsection while clamping her hands under KAT’s chin, wrenching the neck back and squeezing the remaining air from her lungs.
KAT gasps, trapped in the vice grip. Desperate for oxygen, KAT drives sharp, rapid-fire elbow strikes down into the meat of Tolson’s thighs. The pain forces Tolson to loosen the lock. KAT twists her hips violently, prying Tolson’s ankles apart, and breaks free.
KAT scrambles up on shaky legs as Tolson rises. KAT fires a sharp front kick directly into Tolson’s abdomen, doubling her over. KAT immediately snaps a superkick upward, catching Tolson on the point of the chin. In a blur of motion, KAT whips entirely around and drills a spinning back kick clean into the side of Tolson’s head.
CRACK.
Tolson collapses flat onto the mat. KAT drops to both knees, completely spent, chest heaving for air.
The referee checks on both competitors as the crowd volume swells. Tolson is the first to move, pulling herself up hand-over-hand along the cables, fixing KAT with a dead, icy stare. KAT climbs back to her feet to meet her, both women squared up at center ring, battered, bloodied, and breathing heavy.
The mid-ring standoff disintegrates the second their eyes lock.
They collide chest-to-chest, immediately trading stiff forearm smashes. CRACK. THUD. Each impact lands heavier, uglier, and slower than the last. Neither gives an inch. Sweating, bruised, and gasping for air, both women refuse to take a backward step.
KAT breaks the rhythm with a sudden, violent forward snap of her skull—a brutal headbutt that crunches against Tolson’s nose.
Tolson reels backward on rubbery legs, but fires back on instinct, whipping a stiff, lead-pipe elbow strike across KAT’s cheekbone.
KAT absorbs the shot, grabs Tolson by the wrist, and whips her into the ropes. As Tolson rebounds with full momentum, KAT bends at the knees, scoops Tolson’s thighs, and hoists all one hundred and sixty pounds of her up into a fireman’s carry. KAT spins three hundred and sixty degrees through the air and sits out, driving Tolson into the mat with a thunderous spinning sit-out powerbomb.
KAT hooks both legs, stacking Tolson’s weight on her shoulders.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Tolson powers her shoulder up off the canvas.
KAT immediately hauls Tolson back to her feet by the hair and whips her across the ring. Tolson reverses the momentum on the fly, sending KAT rebounding off the far cables instead. As KAT sprints back, Tolson elevates and drives both soles flush into KAT’s sternum with a crisp dropkick.
KAT staggers back up near the ropes, completely disoriented. Tolson charges forward, steps into the pocket, and turns KAT inside out with a devastating, short-arm lariat that levels the smaller woman flat on her back.
Tolson drags her bruised body over to the turnbuckles and scales the rungs one by one. Reaching the top rope, Tolson balances her footing, arches her spine, and sails backward through the air, crashing down across the downed KAT with a textbook moonsault.
Tolson hooks the far leg for the cover.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
KAT kicks out, thrashing her shoulder free.
Both competitors crawl toward the center of the ring. Dragging themselves up to their knees, they lock eyes once more.
From their knees, they begin trading forearm smashes. SMACK. CRACK. The strikes echo cleanly off the concrete and steel of the arena. Without breaking the cadence, both women dig their toes in and fight their way up to a standing base, still hammering away at each other’s jawlines.
KAT suddenly accelerates. She uncorks a blinding flurry of rapid-fire forearm smashes that rocks Tolson back on her heels. KAT spins entirely around on her back foot and whips a vicious spinning back fist across Tolson’s jaw.
Tolson drops, sitting upright in the center of the ring, glassy-eyed and limp.
KAT sprints to the cables, hits the ropes, drops to her knees, and slides across the canvas, driving her forearm straight through Tolson’s face—THE FIRST KATACLYSM (Sliding Forearm)!
CRACK.
KAT scrambles directly into the lateral press, hooking both of Tolson’s legs tight.
ONE…
TWO…
TWO—NO!
Tolson gets the shoulder up with a fraction of an inch to spare.
KAT sits up in pure disbelief, staring down at her own trembling hands. She slaps both palms hard against the canvas and screams at the referee, furiously claiming the count was three.
Composing herself through raw adrenaline, KAT grabs Tolson by the singlet and drags her dead weight toward the corner, slumping her down against the bottom turnbuckle pad. KAT retreats to the opposite corner, measuring the distance.
KAT charges across the ring at full speed, leaps high into the air, and thrusts both boots forward for the kill—TEMPER TANTRUM (Jumping Double Footstomp)—
Tolson rolls violently out of the way at the final split-second.
KAT’s boots slam violently into the empty corner pads, jarring her ankles and sending her tumbling awkwardly backward, crashing hard onto the canvas.
KAT pounds her fists against the mat in unbridled fury, her mask of composure visibly cracking as she screams into the air.
Tolson uses the ropes to pull herself vertical, violently shaking the cobwebs from her head. KAT scrambles up and charges blindly in a wild, reckless rush.
Tolson sidesteps the charge, slips behind KAT’s back, and locks in the kata hajime grip, snaking her arm under the chin and behind the neck. Tolson arches back with all her remaining strength, launching KAT overhead—NIGHTFALL (Kata Hajime Suplex)!
THUD.
Tolson keeps the grip locked tight as they hit the canvas, rolling KAT to her side in an attempt to lace her legs around the midsection for the KATA HAJIME (Kata Hajime)—
KAT thrashes in absolute panic before the body scissors can lock. She claws frantically across the canvas with her free arm, lunging outward until her fingertips clamp firmly onto the bottom rope.
REFEREE: Rope break! Break the hold!
Tolson breaks the submission, a flash of pure irritation crossing her features.
Both women use opposite sets of cables to haul their exhausted bodies back up. KAT pushes off the ropes and charges across the ring in one final, desperate, reckless sprint.
Tolson reads it, sidesteps, and clamps a rear waistlock. KAT thrashes violently, hammering sharp back elbows into Tolson’s ribs until the grip breaks. KAT pivots around to face her, and Tolson steps straight in, swinging a sledgehammer running lariat that cuts KAT clean in half.
KAT collapses limp onto the canvas.
Tolson’s temper flares, a tight, cold sneer hardening her jaw as she looks down at the wreckage. She grabs KAT by the wrist, hauling her limp dead weight across the ring to the corner. Tolson hoists KAT up, propping her seated on the top turnbuckle pad.
Tolson climbs the rungs directly behind KAT, hooking her arms under the shoulders and trapping the leg. Tolson leaps backward from the top rope, somersaulting through the air while swinging KAT around—VICTORY DROP ALPHA (Victory Star Drop)!
BOOM.
The ring shudders as KAT’s back is pulverized into the canvas. Tolson lands prone across KAT’s chest, hooking the leg tight and burying her full weight.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
The final bell rings.
SAMANTHA TOLSON WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
The driving riffs of STARSET’s “Kashmir” blast through the arena sound system.
Tolson slowly pushes herself up to her feet at 14:45, her chest heaving as she stands over the wreckage. The referee steps in, taking Tolson’s bruised, taped wrist and raising her hand in victory as she glares out into the raucous crowd with a hard, weary scowl. On the canvas behind her, KAT lies completely motionless, staring blankly up at the arena rafters as the reality of the defeat sets in.
Tolson paces the squared circle, chest heaving, her hands raised as the adrenaline from the brutal victory continues to surge through her veins. Over in the corner, KAT has dragged herself into the bottom ropes, holding her bruised ribs as referee Grade Garret kneels down on one knee to check on her condition.
Suddenly, the heavy bass warps into high-pitched screeching static. The music cuts out entirely.
The arena murmurs with unease before the roaring guitars explode through the PA.
MUSIC: LOVE BITES BY HALESTORM
Tolson’s head snaps toward the ramp. She rolls her eyes with utter disgust, letting out a sharp sigh as she turns to face the curtain.
Taeler Virelle steps through the entranceway. She moves like sex personified—slow, calculated, entirely unhurried, bathing in the heat radiating from twelve thousand fans.
Tolson steps back to the center of the ring, dropping her base slightly and motioning with both hands, aggressively waving Taeler down the ramp and into the ring to fight.
Taeler doesn’t budge. She has other plans. Raising a microphone to her lips, her voice purrs through the venue.
TAELER: I have been playing it safely with you, darling Samantha, these last couple of rounds. Taking my time, and testing out a new environment. But you really haven’t gotten to see the honest me. Perhaps because you think your cynicism will shield you. That pretending you’re too tough, and too fearless to ever react. I’ve faced your type before. So strong, so stoic, so… unimpressive. And I can see just how easy it would be to really become your obsession if we had the opportunity to become a little closer, darling.
Tolson shakes her head in pure contempt. She stalks over to the ropes and demands a microphone from ringside. A ringside producer scrambles over, sliding one through the bottom strands. Tolson snatches it and marches back to the center of the ring, raising the mic with zero hesitation.
TOLSON: The only closeness that will occur between us, is me crushing you into the mat and getting the one, two, three. I already told you. You bring witchcraft, I bring a chair. But I don’t see any witches with you. What’s a matter, did they quit because they realized you’re just a cosplay Poison Ivy with a few extra pounds?
The crowd lets out an explosive roar of laughter and cheers.
On the entrance stage, Taeler’s expression twists into pure, incandescent fury. Her jaw tightens, eyes narrowing into slits. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the scowl begins to dissolve. It melts away into a confident, sensual smile, dripping with venomous condescension.
TAELER: I have to admit, you were right about one thing, Sam. A chair beats witchcraft…
Taeler’s head tilts forward. Her gaze locks onto Tolson, her smile morphing into something cold, ancient, and terrifying.
TAELER: But blood drowns Amazons.
SNAP.
The arena plunged instantly into pitch blackness.
A deafening roar swells from the crowd as thousands of voices react in the darkness.
BZZT.
The overhead house lights surge back to full brightness.
The entire ring canvas is completely drenched in a pool of thick, viscous crimson blood. Samantha Tolson lies flat on her back at center ring, motionless, soaked from head to toe in red gore.
In the near corner, the visceral splatter has sprayed all the way up the turnbuckles, coating the gear and hair of KAT.
KAT’s eyes bug out in pure horror. She mouths the words silently to herself:
What the fuck?!
Gasping, KAT scrambles in terror, rolling under the bottom rope and crashing to the arena floor while clutching her battered chest.
Inside the ring, referee Grade Garret rushes toward Tolson’s body, his boots immediately losing traction. His feet slide out from under him, and Garret wipes out, falling hard into the crimson mess as he tries desperately to check on Tolson.
On the entrance stage, Taeler Virelle stands motionless under the spotlights. A slow, maniacal laugh echoes through the air as she taps her bottom lip with two fingers, staring at the carnage with wide, wild eyes.
SEGMENT
HERALD OF THE GREAT DREAMER
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE
The camera opens on a place that looks as though it has been abandoned for centuries. Black water covers the floor of an ancient stone chamber, rippling gently despite the complete absence of wind. Massive pillars disappear into darkness overhead, their surfaces covered in unfamiliar symbols and weathered carvings. Sickly green candles burn along the walls, their flames bending toward something unseen. Somewhere beyond the chamber, there is the slow, distant sound of water dripping.
At the far end of the room, Milisandre Crowthorne stands completely motionless beside an ancient stone altar. Her black cloak hangs around her frame in ragged layers, and the dim emerald light catches against the strange jewelry and occult symbols adorning her. Her expression is calm, almost serene, as she looks directly toward the camera. She doesn’t appear to have been waiting for the camera to arrive. She looks more like she has been waiting for someone else.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Two weeks ago, at No Remorse, Justice Cross stood across the ring from me believing that she could stop what is coming. She fought with everything she had. She endured the pain. She refused to surrender until there was simply nothing left for her to give. And in the end, Justice learned what I have known for a very long time. You cannot fight something that was never meant to be stopped.
Milisandre slowly walks around the altar, her fingertips brushing across the ancient stone as she moves. She keeps her eyes on the camera, her movements deliberate and unhurried.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I did not defeat Justice because I was stronger than her. I did not defeat her because I was faster, or because I possessed some secret advantage she could not comprehend. I defeated her because I was willing to be patient. I was willing to let her fight. I was willing to let her believe that every time she escaped one hold, every time she found another breath, every time she managed to stand back up, she was getting closer to victory. All the while, I was simply waiting for her body to give me what I needed.
She stops beside the altar and slowly turns her head toward a darkened corner of the chamber. Something appears to move beneath the black water, creating a series of small ripples across the floor. Milisandre watches it without surprise before returning her attention to the camera.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Justice Cross was not some great obstacle that had to be conquered. She was simply another person who believed that determination alone could protect her from what waits beneath the surface. She became another sacrifice. Another reminder that courage does not make you immune to suffering, and strength does not make you immune to the inevitable. Perhaps she understands that now. Perhaps she has begun hearing the whispers herself. Either way, it makes very little difference to me.
Milisandre’s lips curl into the faintest smile as she turns away from the shadow and begins walking toward the camera.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: The Great Dreamer is patient.
She takes another slow step forward.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: So am I.
The camera remains fixed as Milisandre approaches, the green candlelight casting long shadows across the stone behind her.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And now there is Datura.
She pauses for a moment, studying the camera as though considering exactly where to begin.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: A scholar. A professor. A woman who has spent years surrounding herself with knowledge because knowledge gives you something that the world rarely provides. Control. You have studied potions. You have studied spells. You have studied submissions and the delicate art of causing pain. You have filled your mind with answers because answers are comforting. They give you the illusion that there is always a solution if you are simply clever enough to find it.
Milisandre slowly tilts her head, her expression becoming almost curious.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: But for all of that knowledge, Datura, I suspect there is one thing you understand better than most.
She lets the silence linger.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You are afraid.
Milisandre begins walking again, slowly circling the altar.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You are afraid of failure. You are afraid of losing the people you love. You are afraid of what might happen to them if you are not strong enough to protect them. And that fear is what makes you dangerous, because I have no doubt that you would gladly sacrifice yourself if it meant keeping them safe. You would walk willingly into suffering for their sake. You would poison anyone who threatened them. You would martyr yourself without hesitation and call it devotion.
She stops and looks down at the black water covering the floor.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I understand devotion, Datura. Perhaps more than you realize.
Her eyes slowly rise back toward the camera.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: But devotion has a weakness. It gives someone something to take from you.
Milisandre reaches down and trails her fingers through the water, watching the ripples spread outward across the chamber.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You have something to lose.
She slowly pulls her hand from the water.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I gave everything I had to the Great Dreamer a very long time ago.
The candles around the room flicker violently before settling again.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: That is why I find you so interesting. You will come into our match with your books, your potions, your spells, and that brilliant little mind of yours. You will try to calculate every possibility. You will try to anticipate every movement. You will look for patterns and weaknesses and ways to protect yourself. And perhaps you will even convince yourself that understanding me will make you safer.
Milisandre gives a small, almost sympathetic smile.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: It won’t.
She steps away from the altar and begins walking toward the center of the chamber.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Because there is a difference between understanding pain and accepting it. You may know exactly how a submission works. You may know where the pressure is going to come from, how the joints are being manipulated, and precisely how long a body can endure before it begins to fail. But knowing what pain is does not make you immune to it.
Milisandre stops in the center of the chamber.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: And I am not interested in whether you understand what I am going to do to you.
Her expression becomes cold and completely emotionless.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I am interested in how long you can endure it.
The distant sound of dripping water continues.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Justice Cross fought until she couldn’t fight anymore. She discovered that there is a point where determination stops mattering, and the body simply refuses to continue. You will discover that same point, Datura. The difference is that you already know what it means to sacrifice yourself for something you love.
Milisandre slowly turns toward the camera.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I wonder what happens when the sacrifice is no longer you.
She holds the camera’s gaze for several long seconds.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: When the bell rings, there will be no books to hide behind. There will be no lecture hall, no laboratory, and no safe place where you can retreat into your own mind and convince yourself that everything can still be controlled. There will only be you, me, and the consequences of everything you have spent your life trying to protect.
Something large moves beneath the black water behind Milisandre. She doesn’t turn around.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You believe that knowledge gives you power. Perhaps it does. But knowledge has never been enough to stop the tide.
Milisandre reaches toward the altar and picks up her tentacled skull mask, turning it slowly in her hands as she examines it.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Two weeks ago, Justice Cross learned what happens when you refuse to accept the inevitable. At our next meeting, Datura, you will learn what happens when the inevitable finally catches you.
She slowly places the mask against her chest and looks directly into the camera one final time.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: You can bring your spells. Bring your potions. Bring every lesson you have ever learned and every ounce of courage you can find. Bring everything you have because I want you to understand something before we meet.
Milisandre’s faint smile returns as the shadows behind her seem to deepen.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I am not coming to prove that I am better than you.
She lowers the mask to her side.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: I am coming to find out what you are willing to sacrifice before you finally surrender.
The candles begin to extinguish one by one around the chamber, leaving Milisandre standing in the fading emerald light. She remains completely still as the darkness gradually consumes the room, her expression never changing.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: Justice Cross was an offering. Datura will be another step toward the awakening. And when you are lying on that canvas, exhausted and wondering why your body no longer obeys you, perhaps you will finally understand what I have been trying to tell you.
The final candle flickers but does not yet go out. Milisandre looks down at the black water surrounding her feet before raising her eyes one last time.
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE: The tide does not care how intelligent you are. It does not care how brave you are. It does not care who you are willing to die for. The tide comes for everyone eventually.
The final candle goes dark. The chamber disappears into complete blackness. For several seconds, there is nothing but silence. Then, somewhere beneath the water, something ancient shifts in the darkness. A low, distant sound echoes through the chamber as the camera slowly fades to black.
The Great Dreamer is still dreaming.
And His Herald is waiting.
MATCH
THE BLACK RAINBOW
DATURA
vs
HERALD OF THE GREAT DREAMER
MILISANDRE CROWTHORNE
STANDARD FALL
The ring crew worked fast. The bloodied canvas is gone, hauled out through the curtain, a clean white one stretched tight beneath the ropes in its place. It doesn’t erase what happened to Sam Tolson minutes ago. The front rows still wear the memory of it, and the air holds that faint copper trace. But the ring is clean. A silent reset.
The bell rings.
Datura and Crowthorne step out of their corners slow. Circling. Reading. Datura’s eyes move across Crowthorne’s stance, her hands, her weight—the scholar taking inventory. Crowthorne gives nothing back. Head tilted a degree off center. A faint smile that never touches her eyes.
Datura stops and extends her right hand.
The crowd hums its approval. Crowthorne looks at the open palm the way something studies meat on a hook. The smile widens a fraction. She doesn’t take it. She just stares—through Datura, into some dark water behind her.
Datura holds the offer one beat longer. Then closes the fist, steps in, and ties up—collar-and-elbow, foreheads pressed together. Both women strain. Feet churning, hips twisting, neither surrendering an inch. Datura slips left first and snatches Crowthorne’s right arm into a wristlock. Crowthorne doesn’t fight it. She steps with the torque, rolls her arm through, and folds Datura’s arm up behind her back. Hammerlock. Datura rolls forward off her shoulder, comes up behind on the rise, and traps Crowthorne’s skull in a side headlock.
Crowthorne plants both palms against Datura’s spine and shoves her off into the ropes. Datura rebounds and runs straight through her with a shoulder block, all hundred and thirty pounds at a sprint. Crowthorne hits the mat. Scrambles up as Datura hits the far ropes—drops flat for the drop-down. Datura hurdles her, keeps going, comes off the far side and plants both boots into Crowthorne’s sternum with a running dropkick.
THUD.
Crowthorne tumbles back into the corner, and the crowd rises with Datura. She drags the Herald out by the wrist and whips her across the ring into the opposite buckles, charges in behind and smashes a running forearm across her jawline. Snapmare out of the corner. Crowthorne’s spine bounces off the canvas, and Datura steps through and buries a kick between her shoulder blades.
CRACK.
Crowthorne’s face tightens. That’s all she gives.
Datura pulls her up. Hooks the head. Snaps her over with the suplex and floats into the cover.
ONE—NO!
Crowthorne kicks loose. Datura doesn’t waste a breath—drags her up and hooks for a second suplex. Crowthorne blocks it. Plants her boots. Dead weight. Blocks it again—then drives a knee into Datura’s midsection that doubles her over. A European uppercut cracks up under her jaw and stands her straight. Crowthorne sends her into the ropes and nearly takes her head off on the rebound with a leaping clothesline, Datura flipping inside out off the canvas.
The mood in the building curdles.
Crowthorne hauls Datura up and hurls her into the corner, hard enough to shudder the ring. Charges in and drives a running high knee flush into Datura’s jaw. Her legs go to water. She slumps between the ropes. Crowthorne drags her out of the corner by the ankle and plants her face-first with a quick STO. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out. And here is the horror of Milisandre Crowthorne—nothing. No frustration. No glance at the referee. She simply takes Datura’s left arm and goes back to work, as if the kickout were part of the design. She wrenches the arm up behind Datura’s back, cranking the shoulder joint. Datura fights to her feet, jaw clenched, and fires an elbow backward into Crowthorne’s ribs. Once. Twice. The grip loosens—Datura tears free, spins through, and cracks Crowthorne across the jaw with a discus forearm that echoes like a bat off a wall.
Crowthorne staggers backward. Her eyes never leave Datura. She drops and rolls under the bottom rope to the floor, regrouping in the shadow of the apron. Datura slides out after her—and that’s the mistake. Crowthorne sidesteps and blindsides her the second her boots touch the floor, then clubs a forearm across her back that drops her to a knee.
The boos rain down. Venom. Genuine disgust.
Crowthorne doesn’t hear any of it. She peels Datura off the floor, rolls her under the bottom rope, and follows her inside. Pulls her up. Wraps her in a tight side headlock and grinds the whole match down to a crawl. Datura claws at the grip, dragging both of them toward the ropes one boot-length at a time. Crowthorne wrenches tighter. Wrenches again. Then she leans in—close enough that her lips brush Datura’s ear—and whispers something. Too low for the cameras. Too low for the crowd.
Whatever it was, Datura’s face twists like she’s tasted rot.
The boos swell. Datura fires elbows into Crowthorne’s ribs—three, four, five—until Crowthorne breaks the hold and shoves her back into the ropes. Datura rebounds—and Crowthorne launches, catching her with a rolling ranhei that snaps her over and spikes her into the canvas. Cover, leg hooked.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out again.
Crowthorne sits up on the mat. Slowly. And just stares at her—head tilted, unblinking, that faint smile ghosting her lips. The building goes quiet in pockets, unease crawling up the rows. Datura lies flat, blinking at the lights, trying to shake the fog loose.
Crowthorne rises and pulls her up by the left arm. Arm wringer—the elbow torqued skyward. Then she drapes the arm across her own shoulder and snaps it down, and Datura’s whole body jolts. The hammerlock comes next, cranked high between the shoulder blades. Datura drops to one knee under the torque. Crowthorne forces her the rest of the way down, chest to canvas, follows her into the grounded hammerlock—then drives her kneecap into Datura’s shoulder blade like she’s hammering a nail.
The referee drops low, checking on Datura. Asking the question.
Datura shakes her head. Claws at the canvas with her free hand, nails scraping for purchase that isn’t there.
Crowthorne keeps the hold cinched. Settles her weight across Datura’s back. Leans down once more, lips at her ear, and whispers something else—soft, patient, meant for an audience of one.
Datura’s free hand closes into a fist.
The hammerlock stays cinched. Crowthorne settles her weight across Datura’s back and drives another kneecap into the shoulder blade, grinding it in like a screw. The referee slides in low, close to Datura’s face.
REFEREE: Do you want to quit?
Datura shakes her head. Jaw set. Eyes open. No.
Crowthorne adjusts her grip off the hammerlock into a wristlock and wrenches the arm upward between Datura’s shoulder blades—higher, higher, until Datura cries out, the sound torn loose before she can swallow it. Crowthorne hauls her up by that wrist, one slow inch at a time, then steps in and snaps the arm down across her own shoulder. Datura drops to a knee, the joint shrieking. Crowthorne gives her no room to breathe—a knee drop crashes down on the exposed arm, all of her weight behind the point of the kneecap. Then she plants her boot over Datura’s hand and stomps it flat against the canvas.
STOMP.
Datura clutches the arm to her chest and rolls toward the ropes, shoulder-first, desperate. Crowthorne walks after her. Unhurried. She drags Datura back to the center of the ring by the wrist, sits down behind her, and traps her in a seated surfboard—boot planted between the shoulder blades, both arms drawn back like a bowstring pulled past its limit.
Datura screams.
The referee drops in again, watching her face, her free hand. Datura claws at the canvas, dragging for ropes that live miles away. Crowthorne wrenches tighter, drawing both arms back another inch—then leans over Datura’s back, lips nearly brushing her ear, and whispers something no one else will ever hear.
Whatever it is, it doesn’t break Datura. It enrages her. Her face contorts—naked, immediate fury—and she fires an elbow backward into Crowthorne’s midsection. Crowthorne grunts. Keeps the hold. A second elbow cracks into her ribs, and the surfboard finally comes apart, Crowthorne staggering back with an arm wrapped around her midsection.
Datura scrambles up, left arm dangling, and turns. The discus lariat arrives with everything behind it—right arm, full rotation, flush across Crowthorne’s jaw. Crowthorne staggers. A stiff uppercut snaps her head back and sends her reeling. Datura grabs the right arm, twists into the hammerlock, and backdrops Crowthorne directly onto her own right shoulder.
Crowthorne crashes down clutching it. For the first time tonight, something crosses her face that isn’t a smile.
Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out. Datura doesn’t linger on it—pulls her straight up and whips her into the corner. Charges in with the running forearm—and Crowthorne sidesteps at the last heartbeat. Datura crashes shoulder-first into the turnbuckle. The left shoulder. The ruined one. She staggers backward out of the corner, the arm hanging like dead meat, and Crowthorne hooks her from behind into an inside cradle.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks loose. Both women scramble up—Crowthorne a half-step faster, and the leaping clothesline wipes Datura out before she can square herself. She hits the mat hard. Crowthorne pulls her up by the hair, the referee immediately in her ear with a warning, and plants her with the STO before the sentence finishes. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out.
Crowthorne sits up. Slowly. And just stares down at her—that flat, unblinking study, head tilted a degree off true. Datura lies spread across the canvas, chest heaving. Crowthorne rises without hurry and circles her. Once. Twice. Reading her the way Datura usually reads other people.
Then she stops at her feet. Hooks both legs. Steps through, crosses them, and turns Datura over into the cloverleaf.
Datura’s scream cuts the building in half.
Crowthorne sits back into it, pouring her weight through Datura’s knees and lower back. Cranking. Datura claws at the mat. Drags herself an inch. Another. Crowthorne leans back harder, and Datura’s whole frame bows under the strain—her nails dig furrows into the canvas while the clapping builds around her in waves, twelve thousand people willing her forward. She lunges—gets two fingers on the bottom rope. Then the whole hand.
The building erupts.
REFEREE: Rope break! Let it go! One! Two! Three! Four!
Crowthorne holds it through the count and lets go only when the referee steps between them, backing away with her hands up and that faint, awful smile—drinking in the venom pouring down from every corner of the room.
Datura pulls herself up the ropes one rung at a time, left arm cradled against her ribs. Crowthorne charges—and Datura drops, dragging the top rope down with her. Crowthorne tumbles over the top and crashes to the floor.
The pop shakes the ring. Datura collapses to the mat, sucking air, one hand pressed to her lower back.
Outside, Crowthorne peels herself off the floor. Slides back in—and Datura meets her with a kick driven into the ribs. Pulls her in. Hooks her. The snap German suplex deposits Crowthorne directly on the back of her neck, her frame folding wrong against the canvas.
Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out. Datura pulls her up and hooks for a second German—Crowthorne blocks it, plants, and fires an elbow into Datura’s jaw. Spins behind, hooks her, and puts her over with a vertical suplex, Datura crashing flat across the mat. Crowthorne drapes herself into the cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out. Crowthorne’s hand finds the left arm—the ruined one—and she spins through into the Fujiwara armbar, hyperextending the elbow across her own thigh.
Datura screams again. She rolls, hunting any angle to bleed the pressure off. Crowthorne wrenches the arm straighter, and Datura’s legs kick wildly, boots hammering the mat. She rolls once more—keeps rolling—and turns the whole thing over. Suddenly Crowthorne’s shoulders are down, pinned beneath Datura’s weight.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne kicks free, the armbar tearing apart. Both women scramble up. Datura strikes first—the Yakuza kick cracks flush off Crowthorne’s jaw and echoes up the rows. Crowthorne staggers, glassy, and Datura traps both arms behind her and spikes her with the straight jacket DDT, skull bouncing off the canvas. Cover, everything hooked.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out at the last instant. Datura stares down at her—and something flickers across the scholar’s face. Frustration. Foreign. Unwelcome. Real.
She pulls Crowthorne up. Positions her. Crosses the arms over her back for the package—
THORN-APPLE DRIVER (modified package piledriver)—
Crowthorne fights the lift. Refuses to rise. Sandbags, kicks, twists—and hurls Datura over with a back body drop that sends her crashing spine-first into the mat.
WHAM.
Crowthorne staggers upright, one hand clamped over that right shoulder. She drags Datura up, hooks her—
PATH OF HASTUR (rolling ranhei roll-up)!
—and rolls through, trapping Datura’s shoulders, both legs hooked tight.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Datura kicks out at two and a half.
Crowthorne turns and stares at the referee. Actually stares—disbelief cracking through the calm like light through split stone. The referee holds up two fingers. Firm.
And something in Crowthorne curdles.
She pulls Datura up and, instead of covering, unloads. Forearm after forearm, smashed across the jaw, the temple, the side of the neck. Datura stumbles. Crowthorne keeps swinging. No setup. No cover. The calculation drowning in the cruelty. She backs off a step, charges, and the running high knee caved Datura’s jaw—Datura collapses in a heap.
Crowthorne stands over her, chest heaving, hair hanging loose across her face. And slowly—deliberately—she backs away. No cover. The referee rushes in to check on Datura, waving her off.
REFEREE: Back up! I said back away!
Crowthorne doesn’t hear him. She stalks back in, grabs Datura by both ankles, and steps through for the Boston crab—and Datura plants both boots into her chest and kicks her away with everything left in her legs. Crowthorne staggers backward across the ring.
Datura scrambles up. Left arm dead at her side. She traps Crowthorne’s wrist—
LADY DEATH (straight-jacket bullhammer forearm)!
The forearm lands like a gunshot. Crowthorne drops like a stone.
Datura falls into the cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out—barely, a shoulder lurching up at two and a half.
Datura sits up, chest heaving, sweat tracing lines down her face. She looks at the referee. Down at Crowthorne. And the crowd finds its voice for her.
DA-TU-RA!
DA-TU-RA!
DA-TU-RA!
Datura rises first. Slowly. Chest heaving, left arm hanging at her side like it belongs to somebody else. Across the ring, Crowthorne stirs—pushes up to all fours, hair curtained over her face.
Datura walks over and pulls her up by the hair. Garrett barks a warning about the grip that goes unheard—or unheeded. Datura whips her into the ropes, and the rebound runs straight into the kitchen sink—Datura’s knee buried to the thigh in Crowthorne’s midsection. Crowthorne doubles over, air gone. Datura snatches the right arm—the arm with a history—and drops into the double knee armbreaker, both kneecaps punching into the joint.
Crowthorne cries out, clutching the arm against her chest.
Cover. Referee Grade Garrett slides in.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out. Datura pulls her up and hooks for the snap suplex—Crowthorne blocks it, shifts her weight, and folds Datura into a small package out of nowhere.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks loose. Both women scramble up—and the running high knee catches Datura flush on the jaw. She staggers backward, and the leaping clothesline takes her off her feet. Crowthorne pulls her up and puts her over with the vertical suplex, dropping her flat and hard. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out.
Crowthorne sits up. The ritual again—that flat, empty stare, fixed on Datura while the scholar lies on the canvas gulping air. Crowthorne pulls her up by the arm, wrenches it into an arm wringer, and Datura drops to one knee, teeth bared. Crowthorne floats behind her and traps her in the crossface chickenwing—one arm torqued up her back, a forearm ground across her jaw.
Datura screams. Then she fights to her feet with Crowthorne riding her back, and drives them both backward into the corner, crushing Crowthorne against the turnbuckles. The hold breaks.
Datura spins. The discus lariat detonates across Crowthorne’s jaw—right arm, everything behind it. Crowthorne staggers out of the corner—and walks into the snap German suplex, landing on the back of her neck for the second time tonight. Datura holds on. Rolls through. Drags Crowthorne up for a second—and Crowthorne fires elbows into the side of her head until the grip tears loose. Jawbreaker. Datura stumbles backward and collapses flat to her stomach.
Crowthorne drops with her, grabs the left arm, and sinks in the Fujiwara armbar.
Datura screams. Rolls, hunting slack. Crowthorne wrenches the elbow straighter. Datura claws at the canvas, dragging both of them toward the ropes, and finally gets her hand on the bottom one.
GARRETT: Rope break! Let it go! One! Two! Three! Four!
Crowthorne holds it through the whole count. Releases only when Garrett physically wedges between them—and backs away wearing that faint, awful smile while the boos come down hotter than before.
Datura climbs the ropes to her feet, shaking out the left arm, wincing hard. Crowthorne charges—Datura drops her head and backdrops her over the top rope. Crowthorne lands on the apron—and Datura crashes a running shoulder block through the ropes that knocks her clean off to the floor.
Crowthorne hits the ground hard. Datura slides out after her as Garrett starts his count. She pulls Crowthorne up and whips her spine-first into the barricade—the whole front row jolts back from the impact. Datura charges in and drives a running knee into her, crushing her against the steel a second time.
THWACK.
Crowthorne slumps against the barricade. Datura rolls her back into the ring and slides in after her. Pulls her up. The Yakuza kick cracks flush off Crowthorne’s jaw—she staggers, glassy—and Datura traps both arms and spikes her with the straight jacket DDT, skull bouncing off the canvas. Cover, everything hooked.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out at two and a half. Datura stares down at her, and the frustration isn’t a flicker anymore. It’s moving in.
She pulls Crowthorne up and hooks for the suplex—Crowthorne blocks it and pounds a series of knees into her ribs. Datura doubles over. The neckbreaker drops her. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Datura kicks out. Crowthorne pulls her up and snakes on the sleeper hold, wrapping herself around Datura’s back.
Datura thrashes. Fights. But there’s nothing left in the left arm and the oxygen is going, going—her knees buckle, and she collapses limp to the mat with Crowthorne riding her down, hold still cinched.
Garrett drops beside her. Raises the right arm.
It falls.
He raises it again.
It falls again. The building is one giant held breath.
Garrett raises the arm a third time—and twelve thousand people clap in a single rolling wave, begging it to stay up.
It stays up.
The place detonates. Datura fights to her feet, Crowthorne still clinging to her back, and hammers elbows into her ribs—one, two, three—until the sleeper tears loose. Datura turns, traps the wrist—
LADY DEATH (straight-jacket bullhammer forearm)!
Crowthorne drops like a stone.
Cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out at two and a half.
Datura sits up, chest heaving. She looks down at Crowthorne—and for a moment the frustration and the respect sit side by side on her face. Whatever this woman is, she does not stay down.
Datura pulls her up by the arm. Hooks her. Positions for the lift—
ON THE VINE (inverted brainbuster into dragon sleeper)—
Datura lifts her high—and Crowthorne twists in midair. Lands on her feet behind her. Datura spins around and Crowthorne is already leaping, both hands grabbing for her head—
BOW DOWN (double knee facebreaker)—
Datura feels it coming. Throws herself forward and rolls away—and Crowthorne crashes flat onto her back with nothing but empty air in her grip, landing hard.
The crowd gasps at the exchange, then roars.
Datura scrambles up. Sprints past Crowthorne as she pushes to her hands and knees. Hits the ropes. Comes back—
DELIRIUM (crash rabbit heat knee strike)!
The knee detonates against the back of Crowthorne’s skull. She crumples forward, face-first, dead weight.
Cover.
ONE…
TWO…
THR—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out just before three.
Datura turns to Garrett, disbelief written across her whole face. He holds up two fingers. She drags Crowthorne to her feet and whips her into the ropes—the rebound meets a dropkick square to the chest. Crowthorne goes down. Datura pulls her up and snaps her over with the suplex. Cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
Crowthorne kicks out. Datura pulls her up and hooks for the German—Crowthorne blocks it and cracks a back elbow off her jaw. Datura staggers. Crowthorne smashes a forearm across her face. Datura fires one back. Crowthorne answers. Datura answers harder—the crowd riding every shot, venom for one woman and thunder for the other.
Crowthorne buries a kick in Datura’s midsection. Datura doubles over. Crowthorne hooks for the DDT—Datura shoves her off violently. Crowthorne stumbles back. Datura charges with the clothesline—ducked—and Crowthorne hooks her waist from behind. O’Connor roll.
ONE…
TWO—
Datura rolls through, shifting her weight—and reverses it, ending up on top of Crowthorne’s shoulders, stacking her. And out of Garrett’s sight, her hand closes on a fistful of tights.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
The bell rings. The roof comes off the place.
DATURA WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
Garrett raises Datura’s arm—and she pulls free without ceremony, rolling under the bottom rope to the floor before the announcement can even settle. No celebration. Nothing.
Crowthorne pushes up slowly, one hand braced against the canvas. She rises to her feet. She doesn’t look at the official. Doesn’t argue the tights. She just stands there, chest heaving, eyes fixed on Datura.
Datura starts up the ramp without turning around. The camera drops to a low angle in front of her, her silhouette filling the near frame, the lens focusing past her shoulder. In the distance, beyond the ropes, Crowthorne stands in the center of the ring. Motionless. Staring at Datura’s back with unblinking intensity.
The shot holds. Datura walks on, and never once looks back.
MATCH
EVOLVE
THE DEVIL INCARNATE
UNCLE SINISTER
vs
ACE OF DIAMONDS
HELENA HANDBASKET
STANDARD FALL
DING!
DING!
DING!
The bell dies and Sam Steele is already posted at ringside in Sinister’s corner, arms folded, chin up, watching the ring the way a man watches a car he’s already set on fire. On the floor. In position. A twelve-and-a-half stone shadow.
Helena doesn’t wait for him to settle. She’s moving before the echo fades, circling on the balls of her feet—quick, light, boxer footwork, hands loose at her chin. Left. Right. Left. She gives him nothing to grab.
Sinister stalks forward. No hurry. He cuts the ring in half with long, patient strides, herding her backward until the ropes kiss her spine. The hum in the building climbs. He feints. She bites—no. He lunges anyway, a full lariat aimed at taking her head off at the jawline.
Gone. She ducks under it and the arm whistles over her scalp.
She pivots on the spot and opens fire on his lead leg—shin kicks, rapid-fire, instep cracking off the outside of his knee. Snap. Snap. Snap. Each one lands flush, each one would fold a smaller man.
Sinister doesn’t fold. He eats them. A wall taking hail.
Then he lunges. His hand shoots out and clamps around her throat like a bear trap snapping shut, and he shoves—violently—sending her spine-first into the turnbuckle. Her back cracks against the top pad. Air leaves her in a wheeze.
He charges in behind it, corner clothesline loaded—
Helena slips through the ropes to the apron. He hits the empty turnbuckle at full freight. THUD. The whole ring frame shudders.
She’s already climbing. Top rope. Springboard. She comes off like a dart—knee driving into the back of his neck. CRACK. Kneecap off the base of his skull. He lurches forward, stumbling toward the center of the ring, legs suddenly answering late.
Helena lands on her feet. No pause. No pose. She hits the opposite ropes at a dead sprint and leaps—a flying crossbody, all hundred and twenty-five pounds of her in flight—
And he catches her. Mid-air. Easily. Like a father catching a kid off the couch.
Then he plants her. Snap scoop powerslam, her spine driven through the canvas, the ring barking underneath them.
He stays on her. Hooks the leg. The referee slides in and slaps the mat—
ONE—NO!
Shoulder up. Clean. Hard. At one.
Sinister doesn’t argue. He drops his full weight across her chest and locks in a wrenching grounded chinlock, forearm bar wedged under her jaw, torquing her neck at an angle necks don’t appreciate. Helena’s boots scrape the canvas. Her face goes red. The referee drops to one knee beside her.
REFEREE: You done, Helena? Give me something!
The crowd starts clapping. Rhythmic. Stomping. Trying to carry her out of the hold on noise alone.
She fights. Inch by ugly inch—one knee, then a foot, then vertical, his arm still cinched across her throat. She starts throwing short, sharp elbows backward into his midsection. One to the ribs. Two. Three. He grunts. The grip frays. She rips free.
Separation.
Thrust kick—heel buried in his gut, doubling him half over. Then she lets the hands go. Boxing lefts and rights, a tattoo of knuckles, his head snapping side to side. Sinister wobbles. The monster sways like a cut tree deciding which way to fall.
HEL-ENA!
HEL-ENA!
She loads everything she has into a forearm shiver. CRACK. Off the jaw.
He drops. One knee. The building detonates.
Helena turns away from him—and sprints for the ropes to build momentum for the rebound.
On the floor, Steele crouches. A hand slides under the bottom rope.
He snags her ankle mid-stride.
The trip is instant. Helena pitches forward and crashes face-first into the mat, nose-first, the chant dying in twelve thousand throats and curdling into boos. Steele stands there, palms up, the picture of innocence. The referee is already pointing at him.
REFEREE: Hands off! Get ’em up or get out!
Helena scrambles to her feet—furious, blood in her eyes, no plan and no patience—and charges blindly.
Sinister is waiting. He’s up. He reads her the whole way, intercepts her momentum mid-run, and swings her skyward—tilt-a-whirl—and brings her down spine-first across his knee. CRACK. The backbreaker bends her the wrong direction and she rolls off his knee onto the canvas, writhing, clutching her lower back, boots hammering the mat.
Sinister rises to his full height over her. Stands there. Lets her feel it.
On the floor, Steele applauds. Slow. The vitriol pouring down on both of them is loud enough to rattle the ring posts.
Sinister stands over her and lets the moment stretch. Then he buries a fist in her hair and drags her upright, her scalp doing the work her legs refuse.
He whips her into the ropes—hard, the whole arena able to hear the cable snap taut—and waits on the rebound. Big boot. The sole of his boot catches her flush in the face and turns her lights down to a flicker. She goes flat. THUD.
He peels her off the canvas, folding her arms tight across her own chest, wrists locked behind her neck—a standing straightjacket. His arms crush hers inward. Her chest compresses. Her lungs have nowhere to go. The referee is in close, checking her face.
MARSHALL: You good? Answer me!
Helena’s answer is a wheeze. Her legs shake. The crowd claps for her—stamping, rhythmic, begging her to move.
She moves. A sharp stomp, heel driven straight down into his instep. CRACK. His grip spasms open. He swings a retaliatory lariat—she’s already under it, the wind of it parting her hair—and she’s off the ropes at full sprint.
She leaps. Flying hurricanrana, legs scissoring around his skull, rotation already snapping—
He catches her. Mid-air. Hands clamped around her waist, her momentum strangled to nothing, her body hanging inverted off his grip like laundry.
He overpowers her. Powerbomb. Spine-first, full authority, the canvas swallowing the impact. BOOM. The ring ropes shudder.
Sinister doesn’t cover. He stalks. A slow circle around her broken-open body, and as he orbits he rains down heavy stomps—boot, boot, boot—shoulder, ribs, hip. She curls tighter with each one. A shark that’s stopped bothering to pretend.
He hauls her up again, hooks her, and hoists her vertical—suplex lift, her boots pointing at the rafters, blood flooding her skull—
She flips. Backward over his shoulder, a full rotation, landing on her feet behind him. Light. Clean.
He spins—fast for his size—but she’s already airborne. A wild, leaping knee strike off one foot, kneecap to chin. CRACK.
Sinister goes down hard. The building detonates.
Helena scrambles on top of him. Hooks the leg. The crowd counts it for her—slapping railings, screaming the numbers—but the numbers are coming from the stands, not the mat. Because Sam Steele is on the apron, howling, and Marshall has her back to the pin, jawing at him.
Helena looks over. Sees it. Marshall’s back. Steele’s grin.
She curses—a snarled curse the front row hears word for word—and breaks the pin, springing to her feet and charging the ropes straight at Steele.
Steele drops off the apron. Gone. Smiling.
Helena pulls up short. Turns back around—
Into Sinister. Recovered. Charging. The clothesline takes her over the top rope and to the floor, a violent, full-send lariat that sends her cartwheeling through the air before she lands in a crumple on the concrete. He rolls out under the bottom rope after her.
Marshall hits the ropes, leans through, arm up. Her cadence starts.
Sinister grabs the back of Helena’s jacket and whips her across the ringside floor—
ONE!
—into the steel barricade. Spine-first. The barrier rattles against the arena concrete, fans stumbling back from the impact.
TWO!
Helena collapses off it in a heap. Curls onto her side. Both arms clamped around her ribs.
THREE!
Sinister stands over her and spreads his arms wide, soaking it in. The front row pounds the railing, screaming obscenities into his face from a foot away. He drinks it.
FOUR!
His glare drops back down to her. He rolls his neck. Crack. Crack. Resetting his base.
FIVE!
Helena’s fingers claw weakly at the lower railing of the barricade. She strains. Her upper body peels an inch off the concrete, tendons standing out in her neck.
SIX!
She slumps back down. No purchase. The metal too smooth, her arms too shot.
Sinister takes two heavy strides, closing the distance between them.
SEVEN!
He plants the sole of his boot directly onto her chest. Pins her to the floor. A choked wheeze escapes from under the weight.
EIGHT!
Steele slides under the bottom rope and into the ring, marching straight into Marshall’s face, barking furiously, demanding she stop the count.
Marshall—already wearing the marks of whatever war she refereed earlier tonight—is not having it.
She shoves him hard in the chest, sending him back two full steps despite the size difference. Then she smirks directly into his face. Turns. Motions toward the ramp. The ejection.
Steele’s face floods with fury. Marshall points and yells into it.
MARSHALL: You got five seconds or Sinister is disqualified!
The crowd roars. Steele’s head whips around, eyes wide in sheer panic, the roar closing over him like a wave.
Outside the ring, Sinister ignores all of it. He drags a helpless Helena up by the hair, hoists her, and sets up a slam over the exposed concrete.
MARSHALL: ONE!
Steele bolts—across the ring, through the ropes, up the entrance ramp at a dead sprint, disappearing behind the curtain to a wall of noise.
Sinister executes the scoop slam. The exposed floor. THUD. Helena bounces once, a rag doll dropped from a window.
He grabs her by the hair and shoves her under the bottom rope, back into the ring, then slides in after her.
Sinister stands over a battered Helena, chest heaving, letting her feel his shadow. Then he reaches down and drags her up off the mat one more time.
He hoists her and drives her down—a crushing spinebuster, dead center of the ring, the impact bouncing her off the canvas. He hooks the leg. Marshall slides in and slaps the mat.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
A desperate shoulder, thrust up off the mat with everything she has left.
Sinister glares down at her. Furious. A man being disobeyed by physics. He rips her back to her feet and whips her into the ropes, loading his arm to take her head clean off on the rebound.
She ducks the massive lariat—the wind of it parts her hair—hits the opposite ropes, and launches. Flying crossbody, full flight.
He catches her. Mid-air. And this time he doesn’t even plant her—he simply hurls her, an effortless transition into a devastating fallaway slam that sends her skidding across the ring. He’s on her instantly. Another cover.
ONE…
TWO—NO!
The last microsecond. A shoulder up by a fingernail, Marshall’s hand and Helena’s shoulder separated by nothing.
Sinister snaps.
He’s up and in Marshall’s face, a wall of fury backing the official deep into the corner, his massive frame swallowing her whole—her line of sight to the ring, to the entrance tunnel, everything, gone.
And behind him, the tunnel.
Michael Shaw comes racing out of the curtain, another soldier of EVOLVE, sprinting down the ramp with a steel chair clutched in both hands.
Inside the ring, Helena pulls herself up by the ropes, arm wrapped around her ribs, legs shaking. Her eyes sweep the ringside area—and find Sinister’s back, turned to her in the far corner.
Shaw closes in on the apron.
Suddenly—a hooded figure vaults the barricade from the front row. Full sprint. Charging at Shaw from a brutal blind angle, cutting across the floor like a heat-seeking missile—
THWACK.
The figure t-bones Shaw the instant he reaches the base of the ramp, the collision violently redirecting his momentum, launching him sideways into the steel ring steps. CLANG. The chair goes skidding across the ringside floor, spinning to a stop against the barricade.
The metallic crash turns Helena’s head.
She looks out. A hooded figure standing over Shaw’s crumpled body. The figure turns toward the ring and pulls back the cowl.
Helen Beck. Helena’s twin. Full drag makeup and all.
The siblings lock eyes across the ringside area. Helen gives one firm, knowing nod.
Helena nods back.
In the corner, Marshall jabs a finger into Sinister’s chest, steps closer, glaring up at him, and says one word.
MARSHALL: MOVE!
Sinister, realizing the referee’s patience was long dead, finally backs away, allowing Marshall to step out of the corner.
Helena drops into a low crouch. Coiled. Still—the first true stillness she’s shown all night, every ounce of her saved for one moment.
Sinister turns around.
He takes a single step forward—directly into FECK OFF (Bullhammer Elbow Strike)!
Flush. Temple. CRACK.
Sinister eats it on his feet. His massive frame shudders in place, eyes rolling back into his skull. Out on his feet. Frozen. One split second of a dead man standing—
Then he topples forward, face-first onto the canvas like a felled tree. THUD. The whole ring shakes.
Helena drops down beside him. She reaches over, grips his far shoulder and hip, and strains—every tendon in her neck standing out, ribs screaming—to wrench his massive dead weight onto its back. She hooks the leg.
Marshall drops to the mat.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Ding ding ding.
HELENA HANDBASKET
WINS PINFALL VICTORY
Helena rolls off the monster, completely spent, flat on her back with an arm draped over her ribs, chest heaving at the rafters. Across the ring, Sinister lies motionless—eyes shut, chest rising and falling in long, unconscious swells.
Helen Beck slides under the bottom rope and into the ring. She walks over and stands above her sister, extends a hand down. Helena reaches up. Their forearms lock—a tight, white-knuckle grip—and Helen hauls her to her feet.
Then Helen raises Helena’s arm high in the air as the fans erupt.
SEGMENT
THE PCW TRUE GRIT CHAMPION
MARILYN MATTHEWS
The opening notes of “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy hit the arena, and the reaction is immediate. Two weeks have passed since Marilyn Matthews fought her way through the finals of the PCW True Grit Championship and walked away with the title, but the crowd clearly hasn’t forgotten that night. The response that greets her tonight is every bit as loud, only now there is something different about the way she carries herself. There is no exhaustion in her eyes, no adrenaline-fueled disbelief, and no question about whether this moment is real. Marilyn steps through the curtain with the True Grit Championship fastened securely around her waist, and for the first time, she looks completely comfortable carrying the weight of being a champion.
She stops at the top of the entrance ramp and looks out over the arena with a broad smile spreading across her face. She places one hand over the center plate of the championship and gives it a small pat before starting down the ramp. Her usual carefree energy is still there as she points toward fans along the barricade, reaches out to slap hands, and laughs when someone shouts something that catches her attention. Every so often, she glances down at the championship around her waist, and each time she does, that same proud smile returns.
At ringside, Marilyn takes her time. She walks around the perimeter of the ring, acknowledging the fans on each side before finally climbing the steel steps. She pauses on the apron and looks out over the arena one more time before stepping between the ropes. Once inside, she walks toward the center of the ring and slowly turns, taking in the reaction. She reaches down and unfastens the True Grit Championship from around her waist, holding it in both hands as she looks down at the center plate. Two weeks ago, she had been fighting for the right to hold it. Tonight, she doesn’t have to wonder whether it belongs to her. It does.
Marilyn raises the championship above her head, and the arena erupts. She lowers it onto her shoulder and accepts a microphone from the ringside attendant, waiting patiently as the cheers continue. She smiles and shakes her head, almost amused by how much the reaction still affects her after two weeks. Eventually, she brings the microphone toward her lips and looks around the arena with a playful grin.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Well… damn. Two weeks later, and this thing still looks pretty damn good on me.
The crowd responds loudly, and Marilyn laughs before beginning to pace slowly around the ring. She runs one hand along the edge of the championship resting against her shoulder, her expression gradually becoming more thoughtful.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’ve had two weeks to think about what happened that night. Two whole weeks to wake up the next morning and remember that it wasn’t some crazy dream. Two weeks to look over at this thing and realize that I’m actually the PCW True Grit Champion. And honestly? I still haven’t gotten tired of saying that.
Marilyn pauses near the ropes and looks down at the championship before slowly turning her attention toward the entranceway.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: But I’ve also had two weeks to think about what it actually means to be the True Grit Champion, because winning this thing was one thing. Keeping it is something completely different. And before I talk about what’s next for me, I want to talk about the person who made me earn this. Yuna Obsidian.
Marilyn gives a respectful nod toward the entrance.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Yuna, I haven’t forgotten you. I haven’t forgotten what you brought into that ring two weeks ago, and I haven’t forgotten how hard you made me fight for this championship. You wanted this just as badly as I did, and you made damn sure that I knew it. You made me earn every single inch of this thing, and because of that, I’m never going to treat this championship like it was something I was entitled to. I earned it.
She taps the center plate of the title with her fingertips before turning back toward the crowd.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: That’s what True Grit means to me. It’s not about getting something handed to you. It’s not about having everything go your way. It’s not about being the strongest person in the room, or the fastest, or the one everybody expects to win. True Grit is what happens after everything goes wrong. It’s what happens when you get knocked down and decide you’re getting back up. It’s what happens when you’re hurt and decide you’re not finished. It’s having somebody tell you that you aren’t good enough, that you don’t belong here, that somebody else deserves your spot, and deciding you’re going to make them regret saying it.
Her familiar grin returns as she looks around the arena.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And apparently, I’m pretty damn stubborn.
The crowd laughs and cheers, and Marilyn shakes her head before removing the championship from her shoulder and holding it carefully.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: That’s why I’m not going to treat this title like an accessory. I’m not going to walk around with it because it looks cool around my waist and then forget what it represents the moment I leave this building. This championship deserves better than that. It deserves a champion who’s willing to fight for it, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
Marilyn lifts the championship slightly, letting the arena see it.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’m going to defend this thing. I’m going to defend it against anybody who earns the right to challenge me. I don’t care who you are, how big you are, how dangerous you are, or how many people think you’re going to beat me before the bell even rings. If you earn your shot at the True Grit Championship, I’m going to stand across from you and give you one. But if you want this championship, you’re going to have to take it from me.
The crowd roars, and Marilyn lowers the title with a satisfied smile. She slowly walks toward the center of the ring again, keeping the championship tucked securely against her side.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: And I’m not going to stand here and pretend I’m invincible, because that’s not what being the True Grit Champion is about. Someday, somebody might beat me. That’s wrestling. But when that day comes, I want that person to know they earned it. I want them to know they beat the True Grit Champion. I want them to know they had to fight for every single inch of this championship, because if I’m going to hold this title, I’m going to hold it to the standard it deserves.
Marilyn settles the belt back against her shoulder, her expression becoming increasingly determined.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’m going to defend it honorably. I’m going to give people opportunities. I’m going to step into this ring with people who might be stronger than me, faster than me, more experienced than me, or maybe just crazy enough to think they can knock me flat on my ass. Hell, I’ll even fight people who are just really, really annoying.
The crowd laughs again, and Marilyn grins before letting the moment settle.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Because this isn’t about simply having a championship. It’s about what I do with it. I want every defense to mean something. I want every opponent who steps into this ring with me to know that they were given a legitimate opportunity to earn this title. I want every person who eventually holds the True Grit Championship after me to know that Marilyn Matthews took being its champion seriously.
Marilyn looks down at the championship, her expression softening for a moment.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I don’t know how long this reign is going to last. Maybe a month. Maybe a year. Maybe somebody walks into this building next week and knocks me flat on my ass. I’m not going to pretend that can’t happen, because that’s wrestling. What I can promise is that while this championship is around my waist, I’m going to give it everything I’ve got.
She looks toward the entranceway, then slowly turns her attention back toward the crowd.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I don’t know who’s next. I don’t know who’s going to walk through that curtain and tell me they’re coming for me. I don’t know who thinks they have the answer to Marilyn Matthews. But you know what? I can’t wait to find out.
Marilyn smiles and begins pacing slowly again, the confidence returning to her expression.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: I’m not interested in being the champion who wins the big match and then spends the rest of her reign talking about how great that night was. I want to be the champion people remember. I want to be the champion who made the True Grit Championship mean something simply by carrying it. I want the next champion to have to live up to the standard I’m setting right now.
She turns toward the hard camera with a mischievous grin.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: So if you’re back there thinking you’re next, congratulations. You just gave me something else to look forward to.
Marilyn takes another look around the arena before lifting the championship high above her head.
MARILYN MATTHEWS: Two weeks ago, I became the PCW True Grit Champion. Tonight, the reign starts for real. And now let’s see just how far I can take it.
The crowd erupts as Marilyn lowers the championship onto her shoulder and “Centuries” by Fall Out Boy begins playing again. She stands proudly in the center of the ring, soaking in the reaction while the True Grit Championship rests against her shoulder. She raises the title overhead one final time, smiling as the audience continues to cheer. The tournament is over. The celebration has had two weeks to fade. The excitement of winning has had time to become something more substantial. Now Marilyn Matthews has a championship to defend, a standard to uphold, and a future to build.
The hard part isn’t winning the title anymore.
The hard part is proving what kind of champion she can become.
MATCH
HOUSE OF GEMSTONES
DAHLIA SERPENTINE
OPHELIA ONYX
YUNA OBSIDIAN
vs
TIGRESS
VOODOO PACT CHAMPIONS
HOPE LEVITT
HOPE RUSSO
THAÏS EMPRISTIKÍ
SIX PERSON TORNADO MATCH
VOODOO PACT CHAMPIONSHIP
The bell rings and the ring collapses inward.
All six women charge the center at once. No lockups. No feeling out. Six bodies meeting in the middle of the canvas like a car crash.
Levitt gets to Dahlia first and swarms her—rapid forearms, short and sharp, one after another. Dahlia slips one. Ducks a second. The third catches her flush across the jaw and staggers her into the ropes.
Two feet away, Russo and Ophelia stand toe to toe and trade—Russo’s heavy right hands against Ophelia’s snapping European uppercuts. Neither gives a step. Russo finally breaks the stalemate by burying a knee in Ophelia’s midsection and doubling her over.
In the corner, Thaïs has Yuna pinned against the buckles, unloading knife-edge chops. CRACK. CRACK. CRACK. Welts rise across Yuna’s chest. She doesn’t move. She smiles.
Then, without a word, the champions read each other. Three glances. Half a second.
Levitt grabs Dahlia’s wrist and whips her across the ring. Russo launches Ophelia after her. Thaïs steps out of the corner and sends Yuna along. Three bodies hit the far ropes on the same heartbeat—three rebounds—and Tigress leap as one. Six boots. Three dropkicks landing flush on three chests at the same instant, the impact carrying all three members of the House backward into the ropes. They spill underneath the bottom rope and hit the floor in a tangled heap.
The arena erupts.
On the mats below, the House scramble to regroup—Dahlia pulling herself up by the barricade, Ophelia hauling Yuna in by the arm, all three backing into a knot directly in front of the ring.
Exactly where Tigress want them.
Three champions hit the far ropes in unison, boots hammering canvas—and launch through the ropes together. Three bodies threading the same needle at the same instant. CRASH. Russo plows through Ophelia into the barricade. Thaïs splatters Yuna across the mats. Levitt bowls Dahlia over, and the whole knot of the House of Gemstones collapses under the impact.
And Tigress are immediately back on their feet—fists raised, roaring right along with the crowd, feeding the frenzy while the House writhe on the thin mats around them.
Levitt wastes zero time. She snatches a dazed Dahlia by the hair, rolls her under the bottom rope, and hops up onto the apron.
Inside, Dahlia drags herself upright on wobbling legs. Levitt grips the top rope, springboards high, and twists—a 720 tornado DDT that spikes Dahlia on the crown of her head.
THUD.
Levitt hooks the leg, pressing all her weight down across Dahlia’s chest, a half-step from the corner.
Marshall sees it—but she can’t get there. At ringside, Thaïs and Russo are stomping Yuna and Ophelia into the barricades, directly in the referee’s path, and Marshall has to dodge wide, hands up, waiting for a gap in the brawl. She finally finds one and slides in, scrambling into position—
ONE—NO!
Dahlia kicks out. The delay is all she needs. Levitt sits up, arms thrown skyward, pleading at the official. Marshall backs away, palms open, watching the ring.
Behind her, Dahlia rolls over, hooks Levitt’s ankle, and trips her forward—Levitt’s face bounces off the middle turnbuckle and she reels back, clutching her forehead.
Dahlia slumps against the ropes, chest heaving, and smiles through it.
Outside, the brawl turns. Yuna, being booted against the barricade, rakes her fingers across Thaïs’ eyes—and while the Flame Bringer claws at their own face, blind, Yuna yanks them forward and drives them face-first into the hard edge of the ring apron. No padding there. Thaïs drops.
Ophelia follows suit—a knee buried in Russo’s gut, then a methodical, two-handed hurl that sends Russo shoulder-first into the steel ring steps. CLANG. The steps skew sideways with Russo crumpled against them.
Yuna crouches and reaches under the ring skirt. Out come two kendo sticks and two steel chairs. She leaves the chairs on the mats, picks up a stick, and snaps it across Thaïs’ spine—the crack of rattan splitting the noise as Thaïs arches in agony.
Then Yuna and Ophelia take their time. Two wooden tables come out from under the ring, dragged across the floor and set up side by side near the corner. Legs planted. Tops leveled. No hurry. Nobody is stopping them.
Inside the ring, Dahlia sits up and reaches into her boot. Out comes a small black velvet bag. She unknots it with her teeth and pours a pile of silver thumbtacks across the canvas near the center of the ring. They scatter in the light like dropped coins.
Ophelia slides in under the bottom rope and rises. Two on one.
Dahlia strikes first—a jumping knee that cracks into Levitt’s jaw and stands her straight up. Ophelia catches her on the way down, snatches an arm behind her back, and folds her into a standing arm trap stretch, wrenching the shoulder up between her shoulder blades.
Levitt screams. Her legs kick wildly, boot heels drumming the canvas, searching for anything to push off of.
There is nothing.
Dahlia takes a slow lap around her. Circling. Smiling. She stops in front of Levitt, blows a mocking kiss, and buries a stiff kick into her exposed ribs. The air punches out of Levitt’s lungs. She sags, boots sliding, body going slack in Ophelia’s grip—the fight draining out of her a kick at a time.
The building rains boos. The House of Gemstones has total control.
Russo claws her way up to the apron and tries to slide in for the save. She never gets there. Yuna steps up beside her and drops a heavy forearm smash across the back of her neck, and Russo tumbles back off the apron to the floor.
Yuna stands tall on the apron, looking down at her. No hurry. No anger. Just a cold, unsettling smirk—while behind her, Ophelia keeps twisting and Dahlia lines up another kick.
The Toxic Bloom steps through the ropes and joins Dahlia and Ophelia, the three of them standing over what’s left of Levitt.
Yuna takes a slow circle around her. Leans down. Her lips move beside Levitt’s ear—something low, something meant only for her—and whatever it is makes Levitt screw her eyes shut. Then Yuna straightens up and digs a stiff, mocking kick into her ribs. Casual. Like kicking a tire.
Dahlia and Ophelia haul Levitt upright, each one wrenching an arm behind her back, presenting her. Yuna rolls her shoulders and steps in—
Levitt’s boot snaps up into her chest.
Yuna staggers, and Levitt plants her feet and hauls both captors forward at once—a frantic double arm drag that sends Dahlia and Ophelia tumbling into a heap.
The crowd rises with her. Stomping. Clapping. A rolling thunder of belief as Levitt scrambles under the bottom rope and pulls herself up on the apron, gasping, eyes locked on the three bodies in the ring.
She grips the top rope. Springboards. Soars, arms wide—
VENOM PROTOCOL (Rolling Elbow Strike)!
Yuna steps calmly into the flight path and spins through, her elbow detonating against Levitt’s jaw in mid-air. Levitt drops out of the sky like a stone and crumples to the mat, unmoving.
Half a second of dead silence. Then a tidal wave of boos.
Yuna kneels and hooks the leg, her stare ice-cold, as Garett slides into position.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
ELIMINATION: Levitt is eliminated by Yuna.
The boos turn venomous. Medical personnel hurry down and slide in to check on Levitt—glassy-eyed, blinking at the lights—before easing her up and walking her toward the back, the fans applauding the rookie’s fight the whole way.
In the ring, three heads turn toward the floor.
Three of the House. Two of Tigress left standing. If you can call it standing.
Ophelia and Dahlia slide out under the bottom rope, stalking along the mats toward Thaïs and Russo like predators who’ve caught a scent. Yuna stays in the ring, arms draped over the top rope, watching.
Ophelia reaches Thaïs first. She yanks them upright and drives them spine-first into the barricade—THUD—then does it again, methodically cutting off any route of escape.
Dahlia finds one of the steel chairs lying on the floor. She picks it up, grinning, savoring the weight of it—and swings it full-force into Russo’s unprotected skull.
CRACK.
Russo drops like her strings were cut. The chair clatters away across the mats.
Her forehead is split wide open. Blood sheets down her face within seconds, a crimson mask forming before she even stops moving.
Yuna rolls out under the bottom rope to join the slaughter. She grabs Russo by the hair, wrenches her head back, and drags her own palm slowly across the gash—then holds her red hand up toward the crowd, turning in a circle, showing them. The disgust comes down on her in a roar.
Thaïs claws their way to their hands and knees—and Ophelia is on their back immediately, wrapping them into a crossface right there on the thin floor mats. No padding. No escape. Ophelia wrenches back, and Thaïs screams, fingertips digging into the mat, dragging their body an inch at a time toward Russo. Ophelia doesn’t say a word. She just watches their face. Constant. Emotionless. Eye contact that never blinks.
Russo is on her knees ten feet away, blood in both eyes, shaking her head to clear it. She hears the scream. She reaches under the ring skirt, pawing blind, and comes out with a kendo stick.
She swings it blind—a wild backhand arc—
CRACK.
—straight across Yuna’s spine. Yuna pitches forward with a hiss, and the House of Gemstones scatters, Ophelia finally breaking the hold as everyone peels away from the swinging stick.
Russo plants the stick on the mat and leans on it, gasping, dragging her forearm across her eyes. That’s when she sees it—the chair Dahlia dropped, lying a few feet away.
She grabs it, slides it under the bottom rope, then snatches Ophelia by the back of her gear and drags her into the ring after it.
Russo picks the chair up—and deliberately tosses it flat into the center of the scattered silver thumbtacks. It lands with a metallic slap, tacks jumping around it. Russo wipes the blood from her eyes and glares at Ophelia.
Ophelia rises slowly. Her expression is perfectly blank. She charges—running knee strike—
Russo sidesteps, catches her around the waist, hooks the arm, and rips her up and over—a pumphandle slam that plants Ophelia spine-first onto the steel chair and the bed of tacks around it.
Metal buckles. Ophelia’s gasp punches out of her. She writhes on the broken chair, clutching her back, silver tacks stuck through her gear and glinting under the lights.
Russo doesn’t pose. She turns to the corner and starts climbing—dragging herself up the turnbuckles one rung at a time, favoring her ribs, every pull a labor. She balances on the top rope and wipes the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand.
No kiss for the crowd this time.
She launches backward into the night.
HEAVEN’S GATE (Top Rope Moonsault)!
She crashes down across Ophelia, crushing her deeper into the chair and the tacks—and pays for it herself, tacks biting into her own arms and back on the landing.
The building is shaking.
Russo hooks both legs, wincing as the tacks press deeper, refusing to let go, and collapses her full weight across Ophelia. Marshall slides in and drops carefully to her knees just outside the perimeter of the tack pile.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
ELIMINATION: Ophelia is eliminated by Russo.
The place comes unglued.
Ophelia rolls slowly out of the ring, her back peppered with silver tacks, and rises on unsteady legs. No grimace. No complaint. She smooths her attire, slow and deliberate, and only starts up the ramp when the officials order her out—spine straight, tacks glinting between her shoulder blades.
In the ring, Russo rolls off the broken chair and pulls herself up by the ropes, blood still trickling down her face.
Outside, Thaïs is crawling toward the apron. Yuna and Dahlia stand on the mats, regrouping, staring back in.
Two on two. And a ring full of silver.
Yuna slides in from one side of the ring. Dahlia from the other. Slow. Surrounding Russo, who stands swaying between them, blood dried in streaks down her face.
Thaïs slides in right behind them.
Two and two. The final four stand face to face amidst scattered thumbtacks and broken weapons.
Nobody runs. Nobody dives. The exhaustion hits all four of them at once, and they meet in the center of the ring trading slow, heavy forearm smashes—each one thrown with everything left, each one rocking somebody back on their heels. Sweat. Labored breath. Legs barely holding.
Then the brawl splinters.
Thaïs backs Yuna toward the entrance-side corner and unloads knife-edge chops. CRACK. CRACK. Across the ring, Russo and Dahlia trade violent strikes in the corner directly above the two wooden tables still standing on the floor.
Dahlia’s fingers rake across Russo’s eyes. A kick takes her legs out from under her.
Dahlia sinks to her knees alongside her—not from damage, from debt. Several seconds of nothing but breathing, wiping the sweat off her face with both hands, while Russo crawls toward the turnbuckles.
In the opposite corner, Yuna drives a knee into Thaïs’ gut and leaves them slumped against the buckles.
Dahlia pulls herself up, drags a dazed Russo up with her, and boosts her onto the top turnbuckle. Then she climbs after her. Hand over hand. Until both women are standing on the ropes, face to face—the silver tacks glittering in the ring below them, two wooden tables waiting on the floor.
Russo fights back. Desperate headbutts. One. Two. Three. Trying to reverse Dahlia’s momentum and send her down onto the bed of tacks instead. Dahlia hooks the ropes and fires back. Short, ugly strikes, twenty feet of nothing under their heels.
The crowd holds its breath.
Across the ring, Thaïs grabs Yuna’s arm and plants to whip her—hard—into that same corner.
Then Thaïs sees it. Two bodies swaying on the top rope.
Thaïs digs in their heels and hangs onto Yuna’s arm, killing the whip halfway. Yuna skids to a halt on the canvas, turns, and charges back with a clothesline aimed at taking Thaïs’ head off.
Thaïs ducks under the swinging arm. Pivots behind. Arms locked around Yuna’s waist—German suplex—
Yuna plants her feet and blocks the lift, then fires a sharp back elbow straight into Thaïs’ jaw.
Thaïs stumbles blindly backward, toward the occupied corner—and Yuna spins and launches both feet into their chest. A shotgun dropkick that catapults Thaïs spine-first into the turnbuckles, directly beneath where Russo and Dahlia are perched.
The whole corner shudders.
And both women lose their footing.
Dahlia tips backward off the ropes, toward the floor—and her grip drags Russo forward over the ropes with her.
Both women fall.
CRASH.
They hit the two tables at the same time, wood exploding into splinters beneath them.
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
HOLY SHIT!
Inside the ring, Thaïs slides down the buckles and collapses to the mat, both hands clutching their head.
Yuna pulls herself up the ropes, hand over hand. She looks down at the wreckage—Russo and Dahlia lying motionless in the ruins—and something cold settles across her face. She rolls under the bottom rope to the outside.
Yuna scrambles through the shattered wood on her knees, grabs Russo by the hair, and drags her halfway out of the debris. Just far enough to hook both legs.
Garett dives to the floor.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
It happens so fast that Thaïs, still dazed in the ring, doesn’t even register it until the bell rings.
ELIMINATION: Russo is eliminated by Yuna.
Thaïs looks out at the wreckage. At Russo, unconscious in the splinters. At Yuna, kneeling over her.
Thaïs’ face contorts. Sheer, unbridled rage.
The crowd sees it change—and the roar is instant.
Thaïs rolls out under the bottom rope and snatches a dented steel chair off the mats.
Yuna barely makes it to her knees.
Thaïs steps up and swings the chair like a baseball bat.
CRACK.
Steel over skull. Yuna crumples instantly, face-down on the arena floor.
Thaïs hurls the chair aside, wades into the table wreckage, and hauls Dahlia’s limp body out of the splinters. Drags her across the floor. Dumps her on the mats right beside Yuna.
Then Thaïs dives across both of them—one arm over Dahlia’s chest, the other over Yuna’s. A double pinfall thrown together out of pure fury.
Garett and Marshall both drop to the floor, counting in perfect tandem.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
Yuna’s shoulder jerks off the mat a fraction of a second before the third slap.
Dahlia never moves.
The tandem splits. One count ends. One doesn’t—and the three stands for Dahlia.
ELIMINATION: Dahlia is eliminated by Thaïs.
Medical personnel rush the ringside area. A stretcher comes out for Dahlia. Russo, still bleeding heavily, gets helped to her feet—and the two of them are aided up the ramp together, one carried, one leaning, a ragged round of applause following them into the dark.
Thaïs sits up on the ringside mats. Blood is trickling from their nose now, down over their lip.
They stare down at Yuna—flat on her back a few feet away, chest heaving, eyes open.
One on one. Nobody left to save. Nobody left to blame.
Both of them struggle upright in the debris field at ringside—splintered wood underfoot, a dented chair, kendo sticks scattered like pickup sticks, dark patches of dried blood on the mats.
Yuna stumbles toward Thaïs first, fists a handful of their gear, hauls them up—and drops a slow, heavy forearm across their jaw.
Thaïs absorbs it. Their eyes are burning with fiery defiance when they fire back—a stiff palm strike that cracks into Yuna’s jaw.
Yuna rocks back a step. Then snaps a low dropkick straight into Thaïs’ knee. The leg buckles, and Thaïs goes down on the mats.
Yuna bends, gathers a fistful of hair, and starts dragging. Away from the wreckage. Up the entrance ramp. Slow. Thaïs’ boots scraping the incline.
Halfway up, they both stall. Thaïs claws at the steel guardrail and pulls themselves up it, hand over hand. Yuna stops a few feet away, hands on her knees, chest heaving—and smiling through the pain.
Then she charges up the incline and crashes into Thaïs with a running knee strike, driving them spine-first into the barricade.
Thaïs slumps against the cold metal, gasping. Yuna doesn’t follow up. She stalks. Methodical. Savoring every ragged breath.
Then she takes Thaïs by the back of the neck and drags them the rest of the way—up the ramp, onto the hard steel grating of the entrance stage.
No padding up here. No give. Just steel.
Yuna slowly spreads her arms, soaking in the boos pouring down from every corner of the building. Signaling that the end is here.
She steps in and snaps a vicious roundhouse kick into Thaïs’ chest. A spinning back elbow follows immediately, and Thaïs drops to their knees on the unforgiving grating.
Yuna looks down at them. Tilts her head. The smirk is pure predator. She backs up a step, loading the final blow—
—and spins forward, launching into VENOM PROTOCOL (Rolling Elbow Strike)—
Thaïs ducks it.
Pure desperation. Pure adrenaline. The elbow whistles over their head, and Thaïs spins Yuna around, snaps on a front facelock, threads an arm under her chin.
Every last ounce. Thaïs hoists Yuna upward, scoops the leg—
—and drops straight down into the sit-out, driving Yuna upper back-first into the steel grating with SIGN OF FIRE (Michinoku Driver II)!
BOOM.
The whole stage rattles.
Thaïs keeps the leg hooked from the seated position, Yuna stacked on the steel, as Garett scrambles onto the stage and drops beside them, his hand rising and falling against the grating.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
ELIMINATION: Yuna is eliminated by Thaïs.
The bell rings—rapid, insistent—and Thaïs collapses flat onto their back, staring up at the arena ceiling, chest heaving in total exhaustion.
A few feet away, Yuna lies motionless on the grating, eyes open, staring at nothing.
The announcement comes over the speakers:
TIGRESS WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
AND STILL PCW VOODOO PACT CHAMPIONS
Garett retrieves the three championship belts and carries them onto the stage.
Then the tunnel stirs. Levitt first, limping heavily, one arm wrapped around her ribs. Russo beside her, a thick bandage wrapped around her forehead, every step careful, her lower back barely cooperating. The building rises for them.
Garett hands a belt to each of them.
Thaïs, Levitt, and Russo raise the gold together—three battered champions leaning on one another just to stay upright, exhausted, triumphant, as their music echoes through the arena.
SEGMENT
HOPE RUSSO
HELENA HANDBASKET
EMILIA GLAZKOV
Backstage, a camera has centered on Hope Russo sitting on a stretcher backstage. An EMT is applying dermabond to her forehead to seal the cut from the chairshot. She still has visible thumbtacks attached to her skin.
Thais, her wife, and Hope Levitt stand on either side, both sharing the same bloody, battered appearance, after the three battled the House of Gemstones for nearly thirty minutes in an all out war.
THAIS: (hand in hand) You okay?
Russo looks up.
RUSSO: I’m good. Go watch Jenna beat the shit out of Bia.
Thais leans down and kisses Russo on the cheek, gently. Levitt smiles to Russo, holding her own ribs with a cold pack held to the side of her head with her hand hand.
LEVITT: (following Thais away) Come find us!
Russo looks back to the EMT.
RUSSO: Finish it up.
The medic lays down a thin line of glue and holds the wound together.
Russo’s phone goes off.
A message from a friend outside of wrestling.
Hope! Your ass is trending twice!
The friend doesn’t understand what she’s about to unleash.
Number one, RUSSOGOTBACK.
Billie Eilish even retweeted!
The second is JUSTICE4HOPE!
Some people are apparently very offended on your behalf!
Russo slams her phone down and pushes the medic aside. Her hand shoots out. She grabs the collar of a producer walking back.
The producer gasps, eyes bugging out behind his saucer-sized glasses.
RUSSO: Where the fuck is that bitch Glazkov’s office?”
He raises a shaking hand and points.
PRODUCER: That way! Two hallways down on the right! Third door on the left!
Russo’s hand loosens and he nearly falls from the release as gravity retakes him. She’s already gone, marching down the hallway, counting corridors and shut doors, face tightened into something sharper than anger, until she found a wooden door with a temporary sign that read E. GLAZKOV. MANAGER GENERAL.
Russo did not knock. She grabbed the doorknob and shoved it inward.
Inside, Emilia Glazkov was seated behind her desk, caught mid-conversation on the phone when Russo marches directly to the desk, camera at her back, and reaches for something.
Emilia puts down her phone and yells.
EMILIA: Get out of here!
Russo’s hand seals around a glass of water. She flings it into Emilia’s face, causing the Manager General of PCW to shriek in anger.
RUSSO: I should shove this cup up your ass, bitch!
Then she did something unplanned, and not considered. She threw the mug like a baseball at Emilia’s head.
Emilia ducked, the cup clearing her skull by millimeters before crashing into the way. As ceramic chunks glitter on the floor behind her, she launches out of her chair and runs, clearing the desk to go at Russo claws out.
EMILIA: I WILL KILL YOU FOR THAT
RUSSO: BRING IT ON BITCH!
The two collide. Russo, not considering her injuries, howls in pain when Emilia digs her claws into the woman’s arms that are still glittering with the flat-tops of thumbtacks.
They push and shove around the room, knocking things off the desk—a lamb, papers. Then they push into a meeting table, causing chairs to swivel away from the impact.
The roar draws interest to the door.
One rushes in.
Helena Handbasket!
HELENA: What the FECK!
She comes in behind Russo and tries to pull the woman off. At the same moment, Russo’s right arm cocked back to ready a hammer fist for Emilia’s face. The sudden backward jab and the unstoppable forward rush of Helena ended in collision. Russo’s elbow cracking against Helena’s jaw.
Helena takes a step back holding her face.
Russo felt the impact. Emilia saw it plain as day. She pushes Russo away and goes to check on Helena.
EMILIA: Oh no! My love! What did that awful woman do to you?!
Helena tries to play it down, pushing Emilia’s busy hands away from her jaw.
HELENA: It’s fine. I’m fine.
Russo opens her mouth to say something but thinks better of it. She storms straight out of the room. The camera hesitates to leave until Emilia’s eyes meet the lens.
EMILIA: Get out of here!
The camera turns on a dime and pushes out of Emilia’s office into the backstage corridor, exiting what had become an island of tension.
The operator finds Russo standing several feet from the office door, pacing back and forth across the polished concrete floor. Her boots struck the ground with sharp, impatient steps, each turn coming faster than the last. Her shoulders were rigid, her jaw clenched, and her hands repeatedly curled into fists before she forced them open again.
The argument with Emilia still burned through her.
Every step seemed to replay another
moment of it in her mind. The accusations. The frustration. The feeling that she had been pushed into a corner and expected to simply stand there and take it. Hope’s breathing remained heavy as she dragged a hand through her hair and continued pacing.
She stopped suddenly. For a moment, she stared at Emilia’s closed office door, her expression hardening.
Then she turned away. The hallway was otherwise quiet until the office door opened behind her.
Hope glanced over her shoulder.
Helena Handbasket stepped out.
There was a noticeable pause between them.
Helena’s expression was far different from Hope’s. She was no longer simply the person Hope had accidentally struck during the confrontation. There was anger in her face now, mixed with disbelief and the unmistakable look of someone who had spent the last several moments deciding exactly how she intended to handle the situation.
Hope slowly turned around.
The memory of what had happened came rushing back.
During the heated exchange, Hope had thrown an arm out in frustration. The movement had been careless and completely unintended, but her elbow had caught Helena squarely in the face.
Hope had barely registered what she had done before everything had continued spiraling.
Now Helena stood directly in front of her. She sighed, and actually extended a hand at first.
HELENA: I don’t hold the elbow against you. I know it was an accident. But this has got to stop.
The two women stared at one another in the middle of the hallway.
Hope’s anger was still there, but something else had begun to creep into her expression. Guilt. Embarrassment. Defensiveness. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, uncertain whether she should approach Helena or give her space.
Helena took a step forward.
Hope remained where she was.
The distance between them narrowed.
The chaos that had started inside Emilia Glazkov’s office had now followed them into the hallway, and with Helena standing face-to-face with Hope, it was clear that the confrontation was far from over.
Helena’s obviously angry, but holding back before Hope whips around, then she just sighs, scrubs a hand along her face with a groan.
HELENA: Can’t you just back off? For once. I’m tryin’ to be respectful of you and Thais, but this constant baitin’ people I care about shite can’t happen. I’m going to be ticked eventually.
Hope glares at Helena,she takes a step forward.
HOPE: I don’t give a shit if you get ticked. I’m tired of that bitch running her mouth. If you’ve got a problem…
She steps a little closer, face to face with Helena.
HOPE: Handle it bitch.
Helena just lifts up her hands very precisely and takes a half step back.
HELENA: Woman, I don’t give two walkin’ shites what your personal problem with the gorram world is. You’re pickin’ fights over absolutely bloody nothing, and I don’t want to hear the sanctimonious work a day tripe, the waterfall of what aboutisms and general bullshite about to fall out of your mouth. I could get Emilia to back off and shut up if you ever stopped runnin’ your cunny cleaner, but you just goddamn can’t, and I’m just so sick and bloody tired of it.
HOPE: You wanna know what I’m goddamn tired of? I’m tired of every time Tigress turns around, Emilia is there trying ro fuck us over! And I don’t believe her for one second. She put that fucking billboard up. I know it. I’m tired of her fucking voice, I’m tired of her stupid fucking face! And mostly, I’m tired of you trying to defend her!
With that, Helena pushes her hands forward, and then her whole body weight behind it, shoving Hope off balance, only to be prevented from any further follow up attacks by a security guard which lunges in and grabs her around the chest. Forcibly backing her off, Helena scrambles at the guards, lunging with as much of her admittedly small weight as she can. In the end it takes several of them to get her away from the office door and out of the hallway.
Hope is also caught by a guard, around the middle from the back as she fell to steady her and prevent her from retaliating. Hope fights the security as well, but it does no good as size and numbers are against her. She and Helena continue to scream at each other as Security drags them in opposite directions.
MAIN EVENT
TIGRESS
JENNA JILLIAN WALKER
vs
THE BLACK RAINBOW
PCW UNLEASHED CHAMPION
BIA
STANDARD FALL
PCW UNLEASHED CHAMPIONSHIP
The bell hasn’t rung yet and already neither woman is blinking.
Bia’s face is granite under the war paint, jaw locked so tight a vein ticks at her temple. Across the ring, Jenna Jillian Walker gives nothing back—breathing slow, controlled, a woman running through a checklist nobody else can see. The camera catches Bia first. Then JJW. Back to Bia, and something curls at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile. Something uglier. Back to JJW. Still nothing.
They move at the same instant. No hesitation, no feeling-out stare-down—they close the distance and go forehead to forehead in the center of the ring, and the building detonates. Neither one gives up an inch of canvas.
Referee Grade Garret wedges between them, forces the gap open with both hands, and raises the PCW UNLEASHED Championship high overhead for every camera in the building. He steps back. Calls for the bell.
DING!
DING!
DING!
Neither woman moves. The roar just keeps building around them, filling the silence where the opening exchange should be. Finally they peel apart, circling once, twice, each one hunting for the first mistake.
They lock up collar-and-elbow and grind to a dead stop. Strength for strength. Neither budges.
JJW slips out first, ghosting behind into a waistlock. Bia claws at the fingers locked around her middle, drops her base, spins the grip around into a waistlock of her own. JJW answers with a standing switch, rolling Bia straight through it into a wristlock. Bia rolls forward to her feet, wrenches the arm the other way, reverses it clean. JJW ducks the follow-up and yanks Bia over with a sharp arm drag.
Both women scramble upright. Freeze. An arm’s length apart, chests rising and falling.
Bia rolls her shoulder loose and smirks. She’s seen this movie before—she knows exactly how Jenna likes to open a match. JJW’s expression doesn’t so much as twitch. She just waves her back in.
They tie up again. JJW ducks under, snatches the left arm, wrenches it into an arm wringer. Once. Twice. The elbow bends hard across her shoulder, hyperextending with each pull. Bia backpedals into the ropes to kill it.
Garret’s hand goes up.
ONE…
JJW breaks clean at two, hands raised for the crowd. Bia steps off the ropes shaking the feeling back into her fingers. Both reset to center.
Third lock-up. This time Bia turns it into a fight, bulldozing JJW backward into the corner with pure mass. A shoulder thrust buries into the midsection. A second lands underneath the ribs, and JJW folds around it.
ONE…
Bia backs off with her arms spread wide, feeding off every boo raining down. She leans in close enough that only Jenna hears it—tells her that everything she knows in that ring, she learned watching Bia carry her.
She whips JJW hard across the ring. JJW hits the corner chest-first and comes stumbling back out, and Bia is already there to meet her with a sidewalk slam.
Bia hooks the leg.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia doesn’t wait. She hauls Jenna up by a fistful of hair, muscles her into a vertical suplex, holds her there—upside down, blood rushing, seconds ticking—before finally driving her down with the stalling suplex. Bia sits up over the body, looks down, and mouths Thais’s name with a sneer twisting her lips.
Cover.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia doesn’t let her breathe. A rear chinlock, forearm grinding across the jaw. The crowd starts a slow clap, building behind Jenna beat by beat. She fights to a knee. To her feet. Elbows crack into Bia’s ribs until the hold breaks and she slips free, hits the ropes—and Bia is there on the rebound with a fallaway slam that sends her crashing.
Bia rises first, in no hurry at all, pacing a slow circle around the body on the mat. She drags Jenna up—and gets caught. An inside cradle, sudden and sharp.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Both women scramble up. Bia charges. JJW meets her with a deep arm drag, keeps the arm on the mat, drops straight into a short arm scissors. Bia growls through it, stacks her legs under her, and deadlifts Jenna clean off the canvas with the arm still trapped—pure strength—before slamming her down with a sitout powerbomb to rip the hold apart.
Cover.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia presses a forearm into Jenna’s face, barking at the crowd to get louder, to keep hating her. She hauls Jenna up and whips her off the ropes—and it reverses. JJW catches her coming back and plants her flat with a spinebuster.
Both women go down. The building comes alive.
Garret starts to count.
ONE…
Neither one stirs.
TWO…
JJW starts crawling for the ropes. Bia pushes up onto one arm.
THREE…
Both drag themselves upright as the count hits four, using each other’s shoulders like crutches. They meet in the middle and trade forearms, stiff and ugly, until JJW wins the exchange and backs Bia into the ropes. She fires her off—ducks the rebound—slips behind as Bia turns back around—and drops her with a German suplex, bridging straight into the pin.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
JJW rises, exhales once through her nose, and stalks the champion as she stirs. She locks in for a second German—but Bia fires back three elbows over her shoulder, breaking the grip cold. Bia spins with a discus clothesline. JJW ducks under it clean, and Bia’s own momentum spins her right back into her path.
Jenna slips her head under the arm, hooks the waist—
TRUST THE PROCESS (Northern Light Suplex)!
She holds the bridge, chest heaving.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Both women are down. The crowd is on its feet, roaring. JJW rises first, drags Bia up by the wrist, eyes locked on the arm—she wrenches it, hunting the joint, and Bia answers with a desperate bicycle knee that catches her flush on the jaw. Jenna stumbles back into the corner, blinking the stars away.
Bia storms in. Shoulder thrusts hammer into the midsection, one after another, driving Jenna up against the bottom turnbuckle. Bia drags a boot slowly across her face.
ONE…
She grinds it in harder, leaning down to tell Jenna this is exactly what Tigress thinking gets her.
TWO…
She holds the pose, arms wide, letting every ounce of hate in the building wash over her.
THREE…
Bia steps off at four, hands raised like she’s done nothing wrong. She hits the ropes, comes back, and connects with a running face wash that snaps Jenna’s head sideways. She peels her out of the corner, whips her off the ropes—Jenna ducks a clothesline on the rebound and keeps running—comes off the far side—
Bia explodes forward and cuts her clean in half.
SPEAR (Spear)!
Bia crawls into the cover, desperate now, dragging an arm across her chest.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia sits back on her haunches, chest heaving, staring down at the body of her former partner. Jenna lies spread-eagled, one arm draped weakly across her ribs, blinking up at the lights overhead. Bia rises slow, beckoning her back to her feet—and the crowd wills Jenna up with everything they’ve got left in their lungs.
Bia crouches low, waiting like a predator while Jenna claws her way up the ropes on the other side of the ring. The second Jenna turns around, Bia’s already moving—a running powerslam that folds her flat.
Cover.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia rises, drags her thumb slow across her own throat, and hauls Jenna up by the arm. She whips her hard into the corner and follows in behind a clothesline that buries her into the buckles. Jenna slumps there, arms draped dead over the top rope.
Bia clubs a forearm across the chest.
ONE…
TWO…
A second forearm cracks across the jaw.
THREE…
FOUR!
Bia backs off with both hands raised, eyes never leaving Garret’s. She rips Jenna out of the corner and launches her clean across the ring with a biel throw. Jenna skids across the canvas clutching at her lower back. Bia stalks after her, barking at her to get up.
She hauls her up and drapes her over one knee—backbreaker—then shoves her off and covers.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
A rear bearhug now, Bia’s arms locking around the ribs and squeezing. She leans in close and asks where the process is now. The crowd starts a slow clap building under Jenna, willing her back into the fight. Elbows start firing into Bia’s ribs, one after another, until the grip loosens enough for Jenna to tear free and hit the ropes—straight into a kitchen-sink knee that folds her over, gasping.
Bia tucks the head, snaps off a quick vertical suplex, floats over.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia turns to Garret, asking if that was three. Garret just holds up two fingers. Bia kneels beside the body and tells her, quiet enough that only Jenna hears it, that Thais isn’t coming to save her.
She pulls Jenna up—and gets cracked with a desperation forearm. Another one lands, and the crowd stirs to life. Bia answers with a single clubbing shot that drops Jenna to one knee. She sways there, refusing to go all the way down.
Bia hits the ropes to finish it. Jenna explodes up off that knee with a desperation spear that flattens the champion.
Both women down.
ONE…
Jenna crawls for the corner, dragging her own dead weight behind her.
TWO…
Bia pushes up to hands and knees, glaring across the canvas.
THREE…
Both rise unsteady as the count reaches four. Bia touches her ribs, staring at Jenna like she’s been personally insulted—like that spear was stolen property.
They trade forearms in the center of the ring until Bia lands one skull-rattling shot that sends Jenna reeling backward into the ropes, legs gone soft beneath her. Bia whips her across, sets low, ducks her head early for a back body drop—and Jenna reads it, driving a boot square into the left shoulder instead.
Bia pops upright, clutching at it.
Jenna hits the ropes at full speed. Bia sidesteps, catches her across the shoulders from the side, hoists her face-up across the back of her neck, hooks the head and a leg and pulls down on both ends—
THE SOUTHERN CROSS (Torture Rack)!
Bia parades her around the ring, bending her like a drawn bow.
GARRET: Do you quit?
Jenna screams her answer back at him, and it isn’t yes. The crowd claps her on, and she starts kicking her legs in rhythm, rocking her weight side to side until she slides down Bia’s back and lands on her feet. She shoves Bia chest-first into the turnbuckles—Bia staggers back straight into a schoolboy.
ONE—NO!
Both scramble up. Bia rushes in swinging a clothesline. Jenna ducks under it, the momentum spinning Bia half around, and Jenna hooks the left arm into a chicken wing, dragging her down—
SNAP, CRACKLE, POP (Crossface Chicken Wing)!
She wrenches it with surgical calm, bending that left arm at a sickening angle. Bia drops to one knee, teeth bared.
GARRET: Do you submit?
Bia roars a refusal straight into his face. She claws her way upright, dragging Jenna’s full weight on her back, and rams her spine-first into the turnbuckles until the hold rips apart. Jenna crumples into the corner. Bia backs off shaking the arm out, flexing the fingers, glaring at her own limb like it just turned traitor on her.
She drags Jenna deeper into the corner and climbs to the second rope, hauling her up into the lifting cobra clutch.
ONE…
Jenna dangles, boots kicking uselessly above the canvas.
TWO…
Bia rears back, lifting her even higher.
THREE…
Garret’s count hits four and Bia finally dumps her in a heap, hopping down to spread her arms wide for the jeering crowd. She scrapes Jenna off the mat, kicks her in the gut, hauls her up onto her shoulders—
THE MAELSTROM (F-5)—
The crowd shoots to its feet. Everybody in the building knows what’s coming. Jenna squirms, thrashes, slides down Bia’s back to her feet, shoves her chest-first into the ropes. Bia staggers off the rebound, stunned at the escape, and Jenna drops low with a drop toe hold, scrambling immediately for that left arm.
Bia thrashes wildly, flinging her off with both arms, then scrambles to the ropes and pulls herself up, shaking the life back into the shoulder. Jenna charges the rising champion—and Bia scoops her up over the shoulder off her own momentum—
OLYMPUS HAS FALLEN (Big Ending)!
Bia hooks the leg.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia holds three fingers up at Garret. He chops two right back at her. She drags Jenna up by the hair, screaming at her to stay down like a good Tigress, and whips her hard into the corner. Jenna hits the buckles, pulls herself up using them, leaning there as the crowd rises behind her.
Bia charges the length of the ring. Jenna gets a boot up square into her jaw. Bia staggers back, shaking the fog loose, and charges a second time—this time catching a back elbow across the jaw. Jenna explodes out of the corner with a running forearm, hits the ropes, and plants her with a running powerslam.
Both women down. The crowd roars.
Jenna rises to one knee first, jaw set, the plan back behind her eyes. She drags Bia up, locks a rear waistlock, snaps off a German suplex.
ONE!
She rolls her hips, keeps the waistlock, drags her back up, snaps off a second.
TWO!
The crowd counts along with every throw now. Jenna slithers her arms up into a full nelson. Bia thrashes, windmilling her elbows, fighting the grip with everything left in her—but Jenna muscles her up and back—
UNDER THE BRIDGE (Bridge Dragon Suplex)!
The bridge holds.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Half the building swears that was three. The roar that follows shakes the rafters.
Jenna sits back, pushing hair out of her face, recalculating—and then her spent body just gives out, collapsing flat to the canvas. Both women lie there, still.
ONE…
Bia stirs, reaching blind for the ropes.
TWO…
Jenna pushes up to her hands and knees.
THREE…
She rises to one knee.
FOUR…
Bia pulls herself up by the ropes, the left arm clamped tight against her ribs. Across the ring, Jenna stands tall, eyes locked dead on that arm.
Bia stands slumped against the ropes, the left arm cradled tight against her ribs, useless dead weight. Jenna rolls her neck once, exhales, and walks straight at the champion like there’s no clock left on this match at all.
She snatches the left wrist and wrenches Bia straight down into a hammerlock. Bia plants her feet, drives a back elbow off the right arm into Jenna’s jaw—buys herself a step of distance—and immediately cradles the ruined arm back against her body. Jenna comes right back in, kicks the back of the left elbow out from under her. Bia drops to one knee, hissing through her teeth.
Jenna wraps the wrist, takes her over with an arm wringer takedown, keeps the wrist locked and drives a knee straight down onto the shoulder. She floats over into a grounded key lock, bending the arm behind Bia’s back at an angle it was never built for. The crowd wills the champion toward the ropes.
Bia claws forward with the right arm alone, dragging her own body weight inch by inch. Her fingers find the bottom rope.
ONE…
Jenna holds to two and releases clean, no argument. Bia pulls herself up in the ropes, the left arm hanging dead at her side. Jenna doesn’t wait—she’s already charging in, clubbing the shoulder with a forearm, firing Bia off the ropes.
Bia reverses the whip with the right arm alone. Jenna rebounds straight into her path, and Bia catches her with a one-armed spinebuster, planting her flat.
Cover, right arm draped across the chest.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Bia winces, shaking the dead arm, trying to wake something in it. She pulls Jenna up, levels her with a right-arm clothesline—and stumbles into the ropes herself afterward, gasping, cradling the elbow. Jenna rises, wipes her mouth, walks straight back in like the pain doesn’t register. She ducks Bia’s next right-arm swing, slips behind into a rear waistlock, peels that left arm back into a hammerlock, and runs Bia shoulder-first into the turnbuckle.
Bia staggers out of the corner hugging the arm to her chest. Jenna drapes it over her shoulder and drops with an arm breaker. Bia rolls away screaming into the canvas. Jenna stalks after her, calm as a surgeon walking to a table.
She pulls Bia up, forces her head between her legs, reaches down and hooks both thighs—going for the BLUEPRINT (Cradle Piledriver)—
Bia deadweights. Refuses to leave the canvas. She clubs Jenna’s spine with the right forearm, once, twice, and the grip breaks. Bia drives her back-first into the buckles.
Both women slump—Bia against the turnbuckles, Jenna down on one knee. Bia drags herself upright using only the right arm on the ropes. Jenna rises and marches back in. Bia fires a desperate right forearm. Jenna absorbs it, jaw tightening, and answers with one that spins Bia clean around.
She seizes the left arm, wrings it, drops Bia to her knees. Peels it out. Drops her weight across the shoulder. Extends the wrist upward and leans back—
DISMANTLE (Fujiwara Armbar)!
Bia’s scream tears through the building.
GARRET: Do you submit?
Bia shakes her head violently, teeth bared into the mat. Jenna raises her hips, torques the arm higher.
JJW: Tap!
She commands it, cold and certain. Bia plants her right palm, pivots her whole base around, kicks her legs toward the ropes and starts dragging herself backward one furious inch at a time. The crowd rises with every one of them. Jenna leans back further, the elbow bending the wrong way entirely.
JJW: Tap!
Louder now. Less steady.
Bia keeps dragging. Garret circles the hold, hands hovering over the arm, watching close.
JJW: Tap!
The command cracks right down the middle this time. Jenna torques again, desperate to finish it before the rope. Bia’s boot stretches out, toes straining for the bottom rope.
JJW: …Tap…
It isn’t domination anymore. It’s closer to a plea. All those years as partners, as friends—and she’s about to have to break the arm to make it stop. She pulls back anyway. Bia screams as her toe grazes the rope, and Garret sees it, calling immediately for the break.
ONE…
Jenna holds on, begging her to just give it up.
TWO…
She torques the arm one final time.
THREE…
Bia screams and hooks the boot firmly over the bottom rope.
FOUR…
Jenna finally releases and rolls away, both hands pressed to her own head. She stares at that boot hooked over the rope, and for the first time all night, her face cracks with disbelief.
Bia cradles the left arm against her body. The fingers won’t close.
Jenna drags her back to center ring by the right wrist, stomps down on the ruined elbow. Bia curls around it—and still starts pushing up to her knees. Jenna pulls her up, plants her with a brainbuster.
Cover.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
Jenna sits up, breathing hard through her nose, recalculating. She pulls Bia off the mat. Bia sags against her, dead weight on the left side. A forearm rocks her—she wobbles, spits at the mat, squares back up anyway. Jenna whips her off the ropes, and Bia comes back swinging a desperate right-arm clothesline that drops them both.
ONE…
Jenna stirs first, pushing up to hands and knees.
TWO…
Bia rolls toward the ropes, dragging the dead arm behind her.
THREE…
Both rise as the count hits four. Jenna charges the rising champion—and Bia drops low, exploding forward off her good shoulder—
THE DOCK BLOCKER (Running Low-Angle Shoulder Charge)!
Jenna is launched clean across the ring, landing in a heap. Bia crawls one-armed into the cover.
ONE—NO!
TWO—NO!
The building is shaking. Bia pounds the mat with her right fist, screaming at herself to get up. She makes it first, swaying. Jenna pulls herself up in the corner, eyes glassy. Bia charges—Jenna sidesteps, sends her chest-first into the buckles—Bia stumbles backward into a forearm, held vertical now by pure refusal alone.
Jenna throws her into the ropes, crouching low to catch the rebound—
Going for ALL THE WAY UP (Pop-Up Powerbomb)—
Bia sees it coming. Plants her foot. Drives a thrust kick square into Jenna’s chest, and the impact sends her stumbling backward into the ropes. Jenna looks down at her own chest, then up at Bia, eyes wide with pure surprise. She rubs the spot and marches forward anyway, snatching the left arm, wrenching it, trying to drive Bia chest-first to the canvas for another DISMANTLE (Fujiwara Armbar)—
Bia plants her boots, resists the drop, twists underneath before Jenna’s chest ever hits the mat. She lifts her onto her shoulders with one good arm and pure spite, beginning the rotation for THE MAELSTROM (F-5)—
The left arm gives out mid-rotation. Bia shrieks. Jenna spills off the shoulders and lands on her boots.
Two stumbling steps. She turns back, goes for the kill, reaches for the left arm one more time—
Bia twists around at the last possible second, throws her leg up—
KIKKUDEMON (Roundhouse Kick)!
The boot cracks flush against the side of Jenna’s head, right on the temple. She drops in a heap. The crowd gasps—that kick doesn’t belong to Bia, everybody in the building knows exactly whose it is.
Bia drops to her knees, exhausted, in agony, dragging the dead arm as she crawls to the body. She rolls Jenna over with the right arm and drapes herself across the chest.
ONE…
TWO…
THREE!
The bell rings. It’s official.
BIA WINS
PINFALL VICTORY
AND STILL PCW UNLEASHED CHAMPION
Bia rolls onto her back, cradling the ruined arm, chest heaving at the lights above her. Garret brings the title over, and she takes it from him with her good arm, pulling herself upright slow and broken. She clutches the championship to her chest, standing over the woman she just beat by one toe and one borrowed kick.
She leans down, close, faces almost touching.
BIA: Enjoy the view, you stupid bitch!
She stands slowly, giving the cameras a long, sweat-drenched look at exactly what it cost her to still be standing. She adjusts the belt on her shoulder like it weighs a ton, and walks off with a sway in her hips. The ruined arm snakes behind her back, trembling, and she flips it off toward Jenna as her music blasts over the crowd’s roar.