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GOD BLESS THE HOLIDAYS

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December 13th, 2025
Boston, Massachusetts
Off Camera
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The TD Garden had begun its slow exhale, hours earlier the building had been alive with color and sound, with light rigs burning hot and music rattling through concrete and steel. Now it felt cavernous and tired, the echoes of the crowd lingering like a memory that refused to fade. The upper sections were nearly empty, rows of chairs standing at attention beneath dimmed lights. Crew members moved with quiet efficiency, breaking down equipment, rolling cables, dismantling barricades. The air still carried the sharp scent of sweat and smoke, mixed with the faint sweetness of spilled beer soaked into the floor. Somewhere beyond the curtain, in the liminal space between spectacle and reality, Clyde Sutter, Melinda Braddock, and Fiona Logan existed in the aftermath of SCW Shattered Reality. The adrenaline that had driven them through their matches had begun to drain away, replaced by a heavier, more oppressive weight. All three had stepped into the ring with purpose; Melinda and Fiona to become SCW World Tag Team Champions and Clyde Sutter to end Shaun Cruze’s return before it could even begin. All three had left without victory. Loss hung around them not as a single moment, but as a collective presence, something that followed them down the hallway and settled into their shoulders.

Clyde Sutter moved with a measured calm that bordered on numbness. His long black hair, usually tied back with care, now hung loose around his shoulders, damp and clinging to the collar of his jacket. He was well built, the result of years of disciplined training, but tonight that strength felt muted, as if his body had done everything it could and now demanded stillness in return. Raised in Birmingham, England, Clyde carried himself with a reserved intensity that had always been mistaken for confidence. Tonight it read as restraint. His face was composed, jaw set, eyes forward. There was no outward sign of frustration, no visible crack in the armor, only the quiet presence of a man who had already replayed every mistake in his head and found no comfort in doing so. Beside him walked Melinda Braddock, her almost platinum blonde hair pulled back but already beginning to escape its hold, wisps catching the harsh overhead lighting. In her early twenties, she possessed a natural elegance that remained even in exhaustion. London had shaped her in subtle ways, in posture and in the way she held her silence. Her expression mirrored Clyde’s, stoic and controlled, as if emotion were something to be addressed later in private, not here under fluorescent lights and watchful eyes. The loss weighed on her just as heavily, but she wore it like a tailored coat, fitted and precise, refusing to let it show more than she allowed. There was a sense of distance about her, not from Clyde, but from the moment itself, as though she had already begun to compartmentalize the night and file it away for future reckoning.

Fiona Logan was incapable of such restraint. Where Clyde and Melinda moved through the space with controlled detachment, Fiona radiated tension. Her black hair was pulled back hastily, strands sticking to her neck, her hands clenched and unclenched as she walked. She was visibly angry, the kind of anger that burned hot and fast, fueled by frustration rather than shock. Raised in Boston, Massachusetts, this arena was not just another stop on the circuit for her. It was home territory, and the loss felt personal in a way that cut deeper than usual. Her shoulders were tight, her steps sharp, each movement betraying the effort it took not to lash out at the nearest inanimate object. The echoes of the crowd felt louder to her, the memory of cheers and boos alike ringing in her ears long after the last bell had sounded. Tonight was supposed to be Fiona’s glorious hometown return, her big moment of celebration. She was supposed to win the SCW World Tag Team Titles alongside her sister Melinda right in Boston. Yet fate had other plans.

Fate. It is a word that Melinda and Clyde often discuss. They hang their hat on the philosophy of fate. They believe fate is in control of everything and, even in defeat, they are convinced that fate is in control. Perhaps that is their way of coping but it doesn’t help The Boston Badass. Fiona doesn’t like being told to be patient and wait on fate. She wants what she wants and she wants it now. She definitely doesn’t want to be told that fate had decided that The Vision would have to wait a little longer to become tag champions, that fate had decided that they would not be victorious here in Boston at Shattered Reality. What’s worse is that now, the first show of the new year, is Fatal Fortunes. Fiona’s sister and tag team partner Melinda Braddock will eat that one up. The idea of fate controlling their very fortunes will satisfy The Third Generation Goddess to no end. For Fiona it just means more talk of fate, more nonsense, and less control she has over her own destiny.

The hallway they occupied was narrow and utilitarian, lined with concrete walls scuffed by years of foot traffic and equipment cases. Posters from past events clung to bulletin boards, curling at the edges, their bold promises now relics of nights long gone. The lighting was unforgiving, flattening everything it touched, stripping away the glamour that existed just beyond the curtain. In this space, they were not larger than life figures framed by pyrotechnics and entrance music. They were three wrestlers dealing with the immediate reality of defeat. The contrast between them was striking. Clyde and Melinda moved as a unit, their proximity suggesting solidarity without the need for reassurance. They did not look at one another, yet there was an unspoken understanding in the space they shared, a quiet agreement to endure the moment without spectacle. Fiona, walking just a step apart, felt the separation acutely. Her frustration seemed to push outward, filling the corridor, challenging the stillness that Clyde and Melinda maintained. Every loss she had ever carried threatened to resurface, layered atop the fresh sting of tonight. Beyond the walls, Boston continued on, unaware or unconcerned with the emotional wreckage left in the wake of the event. The city lights glowed through distant exits, cold and indifferent. Inside the TD Garden, the night pressed on, stripping the event down to its aftermath. For Clyde Sutter, Melinda Braddock, and Fiona Logan, this was the quiet before whatever came next. The losses were done. The questions had begun. The story waited, heavy and unresolved, in the space between what had just ended and what would inevitably follow.

“Fiona, you seem troubled…” Melinda speaks first, finally breaking a tense silence. Fiona just rolls her eyes.

“No shit, ya think?” Sarcasm drips from her voice. “I mean, we had our best…OUR VERY BEST CHANCE…to become SCW World Tag Team Champions, and we blew it. Nah! Why would I be troubled?”

“Fiona, my dear, it was Fate.” Clyde answers stoically, calmly without any emotion. “We must accept it. Your sister has.”

“I don’t want to hear shit about fate right now!” Fiona exclaims angrily. “Seriously? I get that fate makes you two lovebirds feel all sweet and mushy inside but me? How do you think it makes ME feel when I go out there and LOSE my first crack at the SCW tag straps and I’m told fate decided I would lose?” She shakes her head. “Nuh-uh, if I wanna be pissed at someone I’d rather be pissed at myself for fucking it up, not at some myself being called fate.”

“Fate isn’t…” Clyde begins to speak but Melinda, seeing the anger boiling up inside her sister, holds up a hand to silence him. Sutter instantly obeys with a quiet nod of his head. Melinda steps forward and gently embraces Fiona in a hug. They break the embrace and Melinda keeps one hand rested on her shoulder.

“It’s the fact that we lost in Boston, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Fiona admits, nodding her head. “I grew up here. I have no real family to speak of but I do have good friends still here and I invited them, I paid for their tickets so they could come watch me, see what I have made for myself. I wanted them to see me win gold.” She shakes her head. “And we lost.”

“All is not lost, dear sister.” Melinda says with a half grin. Fiona looks up into Melinda’s eyes and recognizes that look. She shakes her head instantly.

“No way! If I hear you say ‘fate’ one more time…”

“I hate to say it, Fiona, but there is no way around it. The next two events for SCW are Fatal Fortunes.”

“God damn it!” Fiona exclaims. “Nothing but fate for the next few weeks! I’m sure you and the big guy will be thrilled…”

“Clyde and I will try to tone it down, we promise.” Melinda winks. “However, you should not focus on the negative of Fatal Fortunes. Focus on the positives. We did not leave Shattered Reality with gold. But these next two Fatal Fortunes events, with EVERY championship being on the line against random opposition, we are in a unique scenario where one…or two…or all three of us could win a championship.”

“I see where you’re going…” Fiona smirks knowingly “...Cid, Luz, Deanna, The Glimmers, Enigma…they have everything to lose.”

“While The Vision has EVERYTHING to gain and NOTHING to lose.” After a momentary pause to think on the words, Fiona finally grins from ear to ear.

“Alright, you convinced me, Mels!” Fiona nods her head. “Maybe this Fatal Fortunes deal won’t be so bad after all?”

“Of course it won’t.” Melinda shakes her head. “The last time we had Fatal Fortunes in SCW, Clyde made his grand return and dismantled my mother. It was for the Adrenaline Title. He didn’t leave the championship but he had the opportunity. That is what Fate can gift us at Fatal Fortunes; opportunity.”

“Fine, opportunities, I like the sound of that, and maybe we can get lucky?” Fiona shrugs her shoulders. “I mean, outside of tonight I have felt rather lucky myself. Things have been going my way. Even the mail from that creepy stalker dude has stopped.”

“Oh really?” Melinda asks, arching her brow out of curiosity. Fiona nods her head quickly, excitedly.

“Yup. Maybe the creep dropped off the earth?”

“Maybe he finally gave up?” Melinda suggests. “Many of these stalkers do quit when they realize their attempts are futile.”

“Well let’s not speak it back into existence, eh?” Fiona snickers uneasily. “He or she quit and let that be that.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Clyde chimes in, stepping in between the two sisters. “But I swear to you, Fiona, if this stalker does happen to resurface…” he makes a fist and pounds it into the palm of his other hand “...I will take care of it personally.” Fiona laughs and pats the intimidating Assassin on the back.

“That’s why I love you big guy!

The transition from the interior of the TD Garden to the outside world was abrupt. The concrete corridors gave way to loading bay doors and service exits, and then suddenly they were stepping into the open air. The night in Boston was cool and restless, the kind of chill that crept through sweat soaked clothing and settled into tired muscles. The parking lot stretched out beneath harsh overhead lights, pools of brightness separated by long shadows that seemed to swallow sound. Trucks and cars were scattered across the asphalt, some belonging to crew members still packing up, others to wrestlers already gone, their engines long since cold. The city loomed just beyond the edges of the lot, its skyline visible in fragments between buildings. Distant traffic hummed like a constant undercurrent, and somewhere a siren wailed briefly before fading away. The crowd from SCW Shattered Reality had dispersed, leaving behind an emptiness that felt heavier than the noise ever had. This was the quiet aftermath, where thoughts grew louder and emotions no longer had the roar of an arena to hide behind.

Clyde walked with the same steady composure, his posture unchanged, his gaze scanning the lot out of habit rather than concern. Melinda remained close, her expression unreadable, her attention turned inward as if she were already replaying the night in her mind. The loss still clung to them, but they carried it with control, each step deliberate, each breath measured. Fiona lagged half a step behind as they moved deeper into the lot. At first her anger still dominated her body language, sharp and coiled, but then something shifted. Her pace slowed, her shoulders stiffening as her eyes caught movement ahead. A lone figure emerged from between two rows of parked vehicles, walking with purpose but without haste. The overhead lights revealed only fragments at first, the outline of a frame, the way the person carried themselves. To Fiona, it was enough.

Recognition struck her instantly, not as a clear image but as a visceral reaction. Her breath caught, shallow and quick, and the heat of her frustration was replaced by a sudden cold that spread through her chest. The tension in her body changed quality, transforming from anger into something far more unsettling. Her hands trembled slightly before she forced them still, fingers curling into her palms as if bracing for impact. The figure drew closer, features still indistinct, but familiarity radiated from every movement. Fiona’s eyes widened despite her effort to keep control, and she instinctively shifted her weight back, as though distance alone might offer protection. The parking lot felt exposed now, too open, the lights too bright, the shadows too deep. Every sound seemed amplified, the crunch of footsteps on asphalt, the faint buzz of the lights overhead, the distant murmur of the city.

“Fiona…”

Melinda’s voice snaps The Boston Badass back to attention. She turns to her sister who looks on with concern. She has rarely seen Fiona, someone so brave, look like this. Fiona quickly shushes her.

“Don’t say my name out loud!”

“Huh?” Melinda is now thoroughly confused but quiets down anyway. “What is wrong?”

“We just need to leave.” Fiona insists. “Now.”

“That was the plan but…” before Melinda can finish her sentence, Fiona ducks behind Melinda and Clyde, shielding herself from the view of the mysterious figure “...Fiona, what on earth…”

“Him!” She exclaims quietly, pointing to the figure in the darkness. “He found me!”

“That guy?” Melinda asks quietly. “Who is he?”

“That’s Todd Osbourne.” She says in a hushed whisper, almost fearful of saying his name. “He’s my foster father.”

“And he happens to be here in Boston for SCW Shattered Reality.” Clyde says stoically. “How convenient. It is obvious he was the stalker all along.”

“You think so?” Melinda asks. She looks down at Fiona who nods her head.

“It all makes perfect sense. The stalker knew so much about me and my past. Todd would have known.”

“It’s still not necessarily a guarantee it was him.” Melinda states. “Still, if you are worried you can just get a restraining order against him.”

“Alternatively I could go over there and end this myself.” Sutter remarks coldly, implying a physical altercation between himself and Fiona’s foster father. Fiona shakes her head vehemently.

“No! I just…I just want to get out of here! I want to leave! Now!”

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Vlog 68
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Hello my social media lovelies! Melinda Braddock here with my sister, my partner, my co-hostess with the mostess, she is The Boston Badass Fiona Logan. Together we are the MWCW Tag Team Champions and MWA World Tag Team Champions. Say hi to the people, Fiona.”

Fuck you, dweebs.

As you can tell, my sister is still upset over what happened at Shattered Reality. The Glimmers managed to find a way to delay their fate yet again. But Gia, Gina, mark my words, your fate IS sealed. You will lose those SCW World Tag Team Championship and if we have anything to say about it, you will lose those championships to The Vision. Fiona and I are not finished with you or with the tag team division, not by a longshot. Our Fate has been written in the stars. Fate is smiling down upon us. It is just a matter of time before we are ruling this division.

Yeah but in the meantime let’s get a few things straight…Mels is right, I am not exactly in the most pleasant of moods right now. I should be holding my first SCW title right now but I’m not and that pisses me off. Ordinarily I would not want to sit here and listen to my girl Mels rant and preach about fate but y’know what? I think right here and now is one time I am willing to make an exception because Fatal Fortunes is next up on the list. Every single dipshit on the roster is up for the draw, you never who you will get booked against.

Hell, Mels and I might get lucky enough to get another crack at those tag straps.

We might get individual tag title shots. I know I am a damn fine brawler. I might enjoy stepping into the Underground and claim that strap. Mels would love to win…well…anything golden that’s NOT the Underground.

You know me so well!

Quite frankly, I don’t care who or what I am up against. I am in a bad mood and I want to beat someone’s ass. So Fate can give me anything it wants at Fatal Fortunes. And I pity the poor bastard who draws ME as an opponent.

Oh, perfect time for hashtags!

#PoorBastard
#FatalFortunes

And yes, anyone who ends up facing myself or Fiona is indeed a poor bastard, because this is Fatal Fortunes. You hear that, darlings? FATE! Fate is what drives us. Fate is what motivates us. We fight on behalf of Fate and Fate rewards our loyalty. Fatal Fortunes was built for The Vision. And seeing as we were unsuccessful in capturing gold at Shattered Reality, that leaves us in what is actually a very good position.

Champions such as Cid Turner…

…La Pequina Luz…

…Deanna Frost…

…Glimmers…

…Enigma…

…Just Some Loser…

You should hashtag that one, Mels.

Good idea!

#JustSomeLoser

In any event, these champions have everything to lose. Nothing to gain. But myself and Fiona? Nothing to lose. EVERYTHING TO GAIN!

#EverythingToGain

And at Fatal Fortunes, we will seize whatever opportunity fate deems fit to reward us with.

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December 16th, 2025
New York City
Off Camera
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Shattered Reality was a bittersweet event for The Woman Scorned. Sure, she had hoped to defeat Syren. Primarily she wanted to keep her as far away from the SCW World Championship as humanly possible. Earning a world title match of her own would be nice, too, because The Woman Scorned is well aware that she is one world title victory away from Supreme Championship status, something she would not mind earning before her tenure with SCW is over. Still, even in defeat the erratic and eccentric Kimberly Williams can find a bright spot in it all. Now that she is finished humoring CHBK and other SCW management with these other “side quests”, Kimberly can focus on what she really wants; a return to the Underground Division and hopefully reclaiming her SCW Underground Championship. Kim currently sits tied for most Underground Title victories and wants desperately to hold that record all to herself. She has had to sit by on the sidelines watching from afar as Enigma, Colleen, and Xander have all challenged for the gold that she believes should be hers. Now Colleen is out of the discussion and so is Xander. Kimberly is no longer distracted by silly things such as world championships. The Queen of the Death Match can now return to where she rightfully belongs; in the Underground.

Kimberly can see her path back to the Underground getting even clearer now with the return of Fatal Fortunes. The first event of 2026 will be Fatal Fortunes, an event based entirely on chaos and The Woman Scorned thrives on chaos. This event where chaos reigns supreme is designed for someone like her. If there was ever a more opportune time to reach up and snag opportunity by the throat, it was now. Fatal Fortunes is providing the Queen of the Death Match with just the opportunity she needs to advance her goals. But before she can make preparations for Fatal Fortunes, for a night of chaos and mayhem, Kimberly must take care of some much unwanted business, business that even has someone as defiant and fearless as Williams a little nervous and uncomfortable.

The office sat high above the street, insulated from the noise of New York by height and money. The building itself was an old one, its stone exterior scrubbed clean and modernized just enough to remain respectable without losing its sense of authority. Inside, the attorney’s suite carried that same careful balance. Everything was deliberate. The walls were paneled in dark wood polished to a quiet sheen. Framed certificates hung in perfect alignment, their glass reflecting the muted light of the city beyond the windows. Even the air smelled expensive, a restrained blend of leather, paper, and something faintly citrus that suggested money well spent rather than comfort sought. Kimberly Williams sat in one of the waiting chairs, her posture stiff despite her best efforts to appear relaxed. The chair was upholstered in a fabric that did not invite slouching, its firm structure pressing her spine into compliance. She noticed that immediately, because she noticed everything today. Every detail felt sharper, more intrusive, as if the room itself were aware of her discomfort and intent on amplifying it. Her reflection stared back at her from the darkened glass of a display cabinet across the room, and she hated what she saw. Her red hair was brushed smooth and styled with care, falling into place instead of fighting gravity and common sense the way it usually did. Her clothes were immaculate, tailored and clean, chosen with purpose rather than instinct. Nothing was ripped. Nothing was stained. Nothing was loud or defiant or careless. The look sat on her like a costume she had agreed to wear under protest, one that fit too well to be shrugged off but never quite felt like her own skin. She shifted slightly, the faint rustle of fabric sounding too refined for her liking. Kimberly was used to movement that made noise, to boots scuffing floors and jackets creasing where they were not supposed to. She was used to looking like someone who did not care, because most of the time she truly did not. Today, though, every line of her appearance suggested restraint and control, and the contradiction gnawed at her. It felt wrong to be this polished in a place that demanded seriousness. Wrong to look like someone who belonged.

If that were not enough, Lucian Floreschu sat beside her. He occupied his chair with an ease that irritated her on principle alone. Black hair neatly combed, posture relaxed but alert, he looked entirely comfortable in the space. There was something about him that seemed to absorb the room rather than be shaped by it. He did not fidget. He did not glance around with curiosity or impatience. His presence felt settled, as if he had already been here many times before, even if that were not true. He carried himself with the confidence of someone who had learned long ago how to wait without wasting time. His Romanian features were sharp and expressive in a way that made Kimberly uneasy, as though every neutral expression concealed calculation beneath it. Even when he was still, she sensed movement behind his eyes, thoughts lining up and reorganizing themselves with quiet efficiency. She did not trust him. She did not particularly like him. The fact that she was here with him at all made her jaw tighten. But she had no choice but to be here with him on this day; Lucian knew most of Kimberly’s deep dark secrets, secrets that she had kept hidden…or at least she thought she had kept hidden.

The disappearances of Emma and Sorina Floreschu, Lucian’s sisters. Both were murders committed by Kim herself. Lucian knew of them and had evidence against her. The disappearance of Damian, the abusive ex-boyfriend of Kim’s identical twin Marie Jones. He, too, was murdered and Lucian could prove it. All of this was being used to blackmail The Woman Scorned into doing what he wanted and today he wanted Kim by his side to meet this fancy New York City attorney for reasons that are still unknown to her. Lucian simply told her to be there and that all would be explained. Kimberly has no choice but to obey…for now.

The silence between them stretched, broken only by the soft hum of the building’s climate control and the distant, filtered sound of traffic far below. Kimberly focused on the view outside the window, where the city pressed on in miniature. Cars crawled along the streets like toys, pedestrians reduced to motion and color without detail. It felt strange to be so removed from it all, perched above the chaos in a room designed to make decisions that would ripple outward into lives she could not see. Her knee bounced once before she caught herself and forced it still. She folded her hands together, then immediately separated them again, irritated by how unnatural the gesture felt. The tension had nowhere to go. She could not pace. She could not swear. She could not even glare properly without feeling like she was drawing attention to herself in a place that thrived on discretion. Lucian, meanwhile, remained composed, his presence a steady reminder that this situation was not accidental. He belonged to the kind of world that produced offices like this, rooms where power was quiet and consequences were written in careful language. Kimberly existed on the fringes of that world at best, crashing into it only when circumstances forced her hand.

“I feel ridiculous…” Kim remarks, finally breaking the silence.

“You look lovely.”

“Maybe, but I do not do LOVELY.” Kim snaps back. “I do chaos. I do eccentric. I do insanity. I do not do lovely.”

“Well you are my niece now, you are part of the family, and any member of my family will most certainly look the part.”

“I am NOT your niece and I am NOT part of your damn family. I am a Jones.”

“Yes and your sisters, your mother, they all seem to be ok dressing the part, do they not?” Lucian smiles arrogantly. “What seems to be your problem with dressing like you come from money?”

“What can I say? I enjoy being the black sheep of the family.”

“I know that you do. Nevertheless, you will play the role of my niece and you will play it to perfection if you wish to stay out of trouble.” He sneers. “Do I need to remind you, dear sweet Kimberly, that my sister Emma…you know, the one you murdered…she trained you well, she groomed you to take over her operations one day. She would never have molded you into a piece of garbage and filth. Therefore I know that YOU KNOW how to play the role and I expect you to do so.”

“Yeah, fine, whatever.” Kim folds her arms over her chest and pouts. She stares across at the empty desk, it stood empty, its surface meticulously arranged. A leather blotter, a pen placed parallel to its edge, a closed folder waiting to be opened. Everything was prepared, waiting for the person who would soon occupy the space and give the room its purpose. The absence felt heavy, like a held breath.

Time stretched. Each passing second sharpened Kimberly’s awareness of why she was here, of what this meeting represented, of the fact that once it began there would be no pretending it was just another strange day. She inhaled slowly, then exhaled, steadying herself without quite calming down. Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps approached, measured and confident, and the quiet of the waiting room shifted in response, signaling that the moment she had been dreading was finally about to arrive.

The sound of footsteps stopped just outside the office door, followed by the soft click of a latch turning. The door opened with practiced smoothness, revealing a man who looked as though he had been shaped by rooms like this rather than merely working in them. The attorney was tall and trim, silver threading neatly through dark hair that had not yet surrendered to age. His suit was charcoal, impeccably pressed, the cut conservative but expensive in a way that did not need to announce itself. He carried a slim leather portfolio tucked under one arm, worn just enough to suggest frequent use rather than carelessness. His expression was composed, neutral without being cold, the face of someone accustomed to walking into tension without absorbing it.

“Ms. Williams,” he said, his voice calm and measured, carrying just enough warmth to be polite. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucian, lingering there for a fraction of a second longer. “Mr. Floreschu. Thank you for your patience.”

Kimberly straightened despite herself, irritation flaring at how instinctive the reaction was. She rose from her chair a beat too quickly, the legs of it whispering against the floor. The movement drew her attention again to her clothes, to how smooth and cooperative everything felt, and she hated that too. Lucian stood more slowly, unhurried, offering the attorney a small, controlled smile that never reached his eyes. The attorney nodded once, acknowledging them both, then closed the door behind him with a soft finality. The room seemed to settle after that, the outside world neatly sealed away. He crossed to the desk, setting his portfolio down with care and aligning it precisely with the edge. Every movement was economical, rehearsed through years of repetition. Kimberly watched him as he moved, cataloging details without meaning to. The way he loosened his cuff slightly. The way he glanced at the folder waiting on the desk, already aware of its contents without opening it. This was a man who preferred preparation to surprise, who disliked mess in any form.

“I am Daniel Hargreeve,” he said as he reached the chair behind the desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Kimberly sat again, hands resting tensely in her lap, while Lucian mirrored the motion beside her with unsettling ease. Hargreeve adjusted the chair once, precisely, then lowered himself into it, posture straight and composed, folding seamlessly into the role the room had been built for.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Hargreeve. You served my sister, did you not?”

“Indeed I did.” He nods his head. “After her passing I served your other sister, Sorina. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Floreschu.”

“Please, no need for formalities. Call me Lucian.” He motions to Kim. “And Kimberly here is my niece.”

Kimberly can take no more of this charade. “Not by blood!” She blurts out, a smirk forming on her face. “Draw some blood and run DNA tests if ya like! Not related! Nope!”

“Ah, well, you don’t have to be blood related to be family.” Lucian answers back, shooting Kim a glare that is more of a warning than anything else. “My sister Emma raised Kimberly from birth as if she were her own.”

“I see.” The attorney answers. “She obviously got your sister’s fashion sense. You look lovely, Kimberly.”

“Gee, thanks.” Kimberly states, sarcasm dripping from her voice.

“Well, shall we get down to business?” Hargreeve smiles politely. “I believe we all know why we are here…Miss Kimberly’s real estate business will be signed over to the Floreschu family.”

This statement right there was enough to set off The Woman Scorned. She didn’t know why she was there; now she does and she doesn’t like it.

“What?!” Her voice is loud, loud enough to likely bother other people in the adjacent waiting room. Lucian again shoots Kimberly a nasty glare before turning his attention back to the attorney, who himself seems a little confused by all of this.

“Perhaps we do not know why we are here?”

“My niece is just a little nervous.” Lucian says calmly. “Would you give us time to talk things over?”

“Sure, of course.”

The attorney rises up out of his seat. He quickly walks away from his desk and exits the office, leaving Lucian alone with Kimberly Williams. The moment they are alone, Lucian instantly turns up the heat.

“Are you crazy?!”

“Uh, yeah!” Kim snickers. “Didn’t Emma tell you? I’m nuts. I’m bonkers. I’m a loony tune. I’m…”

“You are a murderer and I can PROVE it!” Lucian snaps back angrily. “Remember that and remember that you MUST play your role otherwise I will expose you!”

“Heh, you said ‘expose’...”

“You know what I mean!”

At this moment, The Queen of the Death Match kicks off her heels and then folds her legs up under herself in the seat. Kim finally feels a little more comfortable. Despite the situation she is a little more relaxed. She leans back with her hands over her head.

“So tell me, Loony Lucian, what ARE we doing here? Really?” Kim asks. “I mean, seriously, you never did tell me a darn thing until we got here and even then I only found out through the damn lawyer. So is there anything else you wanna tell me?”

“You already heard it from Hargreeve.” Lucian states coldly. “Your real estate business will be placed under the Floreschu family control. The attorney will prepare the documents and you will sign it over.”

“Like hell I will!” Kim exclaims, her own temper boiling over. “That real estate business is mine! I started it as a side gig to help people get affordable housing, not so you could make money! I built it! I…”

“Hush now!” Lucian holds up his hand to silence her. “It still will be yours as long as you remain part of the family.” His cold demeanor shifts slightly. He smiles smugly and arrogantly. “Besides, you do not have much of a choice, now do you? Remember you murdered three people and I have the evidence to prove it. I can ruin not just your life but your entire family’s. If you want to save their reputation and save yourself from life behind bars or maybe even the death penalty then you should really think about cooperating.”

Kimberly nervously looks from side to side, assessing her options in her head. Quickly she realizes that she has no real options other than to submit. Finally she sighs and nods her head.

“Ok, you get what you want…” she snarls “...happy now?”

“That’s all I needed.” Lucian smiles triumphantly. “Your cooperation. You will find that things run smoothly when you simply cooperate.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in while you can.”

“Excellent. Now put your shoes back on, you look foolish. I will call the attorney back in so we can finalize everything…” he leans in closer “...despite what you may think, Kimberly, I am not trying to destroy you. I am merely trying to finish the work my sister started.”

“In that case you have no idea of the ticking time bomb you are screwing around with.” Kim snaps back defiantly. “Emma wanted to mold me into one of her little puppets but all she managed to do was turn me into a monster. I have kept that monster bottled up for a very long time, Lucian, but if you keep pushing me…”

“If I keep pushing you, you will still do nothing.” He answers coldly yet confidently. “I have evidence against you, remember? Besides, my sister let greed and jealousy cloud her judgment. I will succeed where she failed and trust me, you will thank me for it when it is all over.”

==========
December 17th, 2025
Belfast, Northern Ireland
Off Camera
==========

It has been a few days since Shattered Reality and Glory Braddock is still feeling good, riding high off of another hard fought victory over Amelia Nevado. The British Bombshell knew that Nevado would bring her absolute best to the table for numerous reasons; primarily among them, Amelia had never beaten Braddock before and she was desperate for a win. Both women also wanted to earn their way back into championship contention. Glory Braddock managed to keep her streak against Amelia alive and get the inside track towards possibly earning another title match in the near future. Yet while Shattered Reality was a straight forward competition between two fierce grapplers, the next test for The British Bombshell will be the furthest thing from straight forward, and it will be something that Braddock has had to deal with before.

Fatal Fortunes.

Every opponent, every match type, every championship randomly decided by luck of the draw. On the one hand the idea of earning a championship opportunity is, quite literally, thrown out the window. Glory Braddock could end up as the lucky lottery winner and drawn for a world title match or she may get drawn for something she has never participated in, the Underground Division and an Underground Title Match, neither of which she has truly ‘earned’ just yet. Yet at the same time Fatal Fortunes epitomizes Glory Braddock’s fierce competitive nature. It symbolizes the very idea of what she views as the true spirit of competition; she will take on anyone, at any time, and in any type of match. Braddock backs down from no challenge. She is that kind of competitor. Thus Fatal Fortunes provides a unique opportunity for her to truly test her competitiveness. She will not know who or what she is up against until bell time. But it will not matter to her. She must be ready at all times to take on and defeat anyone put in front of her.

Surviving, or even thriving, in an environment like Fatal Fortunes, is just the precise opportunity Glory Braddock has been look forward to; even if she does not lucky enough to get a championship match drawn, she can at least prove yet again that she is worthy of consideration. At the very least she can take a giant step forward, closer to title contention by overcoming whatever challenge she ends up against.

For today she is content with relaxing and enjoying some time with two people who have been as close to her as sibling and, in one case, is in fact her sister. She is in Belfast, Northern Ireland. She has been here in the United Kingdom for quite some time now trying to reconnect with her past and reclaim her old identity. She feels as if she succeeded and therein lies the problem; success brings her to a crossroads. Should she play it safe and stay in the United Kingdom or should she return to her adopted home of Miami, Florida? Her and her husband Kurt Logan came back as a compromise; Glory had initially wanted to sell her company, sell her Miami home, and return to the simplistic lifestyle she was raised in under her father Glenn Braddock. Kurt insisted that she was being rash and needed to take time to think it through. This was the compromise. Returning to the United Kingdom and spending several months here to think about herself and her life before making any rash decisions was the compromise. But now the time has come to make that decision and she still finds the choice just as difficult as before.

The pub sat on a narrow Belfast street that looked older than the traffic markings painted over its stones, its façade darkened by decades of rain and cigarette smoke that no amount of scrubbing had ever truly removed. A modest wooden sign creaked above the door, its lettering worn soft around the edges, as if countless eyes had passed over it without needing to read the name anymore. Warm light spilled through the windows despite the early evening gloom, catching the drifting mist in the air and giving the impression that the place glowed from within rather than being lit at all. Inside, the atmosphere settled around anyone who entered like a familiar weight. The ceiling was low, crossed with heavy beams stained nearly black, and the walls were layered with history. The scent was unmistakable: stale beer soaked deep into wood, fresh pours foaming at the bar, damp wool coats, and the faint, comforting tang of peat and smoke. The floorboards gave a soft groan beneath passing boots, not from weakness but from habit, as though the pub itself acknowledged every step.

Glory Braddock stood just inside the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, letting the space settle her. Her posture was confident without being showy, shoulders squared from years of physical discipline rather than conscious effort. Her blonde hair fell long down her back, a little wild from travel, catching the light in uneven strands that suggested she’d chosen convenience over careful styling. Her clothes reflected that balance as well: sturdy denim jeans, comfortable royal purple t-shirt, with no interest in fashion beyond what allowed her to move easily and remain herself. Belfast felt different from London in ways she couldn’t fully articulate. The noise was lower but denser, conversation layered thick with familiar accents and shared histories. Laughter erupted suddenly at one table, sharp and unrestrained, then dissolved back into murmurs and the clink of glasses. It wasn’t louder than any other pub she’d known, but it felt more rooted, as though every sound carried weight because it belonged there.

Sophie O’Brian was already inside, seated near the bar where the light was strongest. She blended into the room more seamlessly than Glory ever could, not because she tried to disappear, but because the place seemed to recognize her. Her dark hair framed her face naturally, the color echoing the polished wood and shadowed corners around her. There was an ease in how she occupied her space, shoulders relaxed, expression alert but unguarded. Belfast shaped her in subtle ways; her posture carried familiarity rather than challenge, her presence a quiet certainty rather than an assertion. Nearby stood Mark O’Brian, unmistakably Sophie’s brother long before the shared features made sense. He was built solidly, his muscular frame filling his space without apology, the kind of physical presence forged through work rather than deliberate training. His long dark hair was tied back loosely, strands escaping to brush against his shoulders, giving him an appearance that was both rugged and unconcerned. His face bore the marks of age and experience that neither woman yet carried; a heaviness around the eyes, lines earned through years of responsibility and conflict rather than time alone. Mark leaned against the bar with practiced familiarity, one arm resting along its edge as though it belonged there. He looked like someone who had spent a lifetime in places just like this, who knew which boards creaked and which stools wobbled without needing to test them.

The bartender moved with quiet efficiency, pouring drinks without ceremony, nodding in recognition to regulars, sliding glasses across the wood with practiced precision. The amber liquid caught the light as it settled, bubbles rising lazily to the surface. Somewhere deeper in the pub, a low hum of music played; not loud enough to dominate, just enough to fill the spaces between voices. Glory took another step inside, the warmth of the room fully embracing her now. The door closed behind her with a muted thud, sealing off the damp evening air and the city sounds beyond. For a brief moment, everything seemed suspended, the overlapping histories, the half-siblings who shared blood but not childhoods, the weight of unspoken thoughts that hovered just beneath the surface. The pub held it all easily, as it had held countless reunions, reckonings, and quiet understandings before.

The British Bombshell quietly finds a seat next to Sophie. Mark follows suit, sitting on the other side of Sophie. These three have a long and shared history, they were the first three students of Glenn Braddock’s Wrestling School. They were nicknamed “The Trinity” by Glenn himself due to how close they were. Yet Glory herself had no idea that their relationship would evolve and grow into this.

“I am so glad you came…sister.” Sophie remarks with a sly grin. Glory chuckles.

“Ah, yes, that feels so right to hear.” Glory nods her head. “And of course I came, you’d be crazy to think I wouldn’t stop by to see you and Mark while I was staying up in my old stomping grounds.”

“Eh, you know Sophie…” Mark says, his voice trailing off. Glory nods her head.

“I DO know Sophie, and I know she knew DAMN WELL I was coming.” Glory winks playfully. “How long has it been since we had a reunion of The Trinity?”

“Bloody hell, ages!” Sophie exclaims.

“Far too long, that’s for sure.” Glory says. Mark agrees with a simple nod of his head.

Before they can continue their friendly banter, the bartender approaches. “What can I get you?”

“Oh, I’ll handle this,” Glory says before Sophie and Mark can speak up “a pint of Guinness for all three of us. Put it on my tab.” The bartender nods his head and walks off to fill the order.

“You didn’t have to do that, Glory.”

“I wanted to, Mark.”

“And I’m not complaining.” Sophie answers back quickly, bringing laughter from all three.

“Look at you,” Glory says, motioning to Sophie, “all smiles and laughing. This isn’t the cold, distant sociopath I once knew.”

“People can change, Gloria.”

“This is true.” Glory nods her head. “I should know better than anyone. Being back in London, living in a simple flat rather some extravagant luxury apartment in Miami reminded me of my roots and helped bring back the REAL Glory Braddock.”

“And who IS the real Glory Braddock?” Sophie asks.

“A good person.” She answers definitively. “Not obsessed with winning but obsessed with competition. A person obsessed with helping people. And yes, a tomboy with a love of pranking people.”

This instantly draws a look from Mark.

“You didn’t prank us did you?”

“Not today, Mark.”

“Good.” He sighs with relief.

The bartender returns with the three pints of Guinness. He places one in front of Mark, one in front of Sophie, and the third in front of Glory herself. The trio then raise their glasses and Glory speaks up in offer of a toast.

“To The Trinity…”

“...AND to sisters reunited.” Sophie adds.

“Indeed.”

“Sláinte!” They all say in unison before clinking the glasses together and taking their first sips.

“So, Gloria,” Sophie begins, “we already know you and I have both signed Uprising contracts, we will be wrestling together again, and while I DO look forward to that.” She motions to Glory. “What about YOUR own singular quest in SCW?”

“Ah, well, that is interesting isn’t it?” Glory smirks. “Fatal Fortunes is up next.”

“Fatal what?!” Mark exclaims.

“Fatal Fortunes.” Glory repeats. “Every match is randomly drawn, every championship is defended; no one will know their opponent until practically bell time.”

“That sucks.” Mark states.

“For the champions it does.” Glory nods her head. “I was Adrenaline Champion last year for Fatal Fortunes and didn’t know I was defending against Clyde Sutter until bell time. Bloody wanker kicked my ass. I barely escaped with the title.”

“What about this year?” Sophie asks.

“This year will be different in at least one respect.” She smirks. “I am not a champion. So I have everything to gain and nothing to lose as I go into Fatal Fortunes. That isn’t to say I will get a title match, I certainly hope I do, but regardless I will have the chance to prove my worth and improve my stock in SCW by defeating whoever I get put up against.”

“Whoever you face in whatever type of match you are in, I am certain you will be successful.” Sophie says with confidence. “You are the best wrestler in the world.”

“Some say that.” Glory remarks. “It is up to me to prove it.”

“We can help you!” Mark exclaims. “All three of us can stop by the Braddock Wrestling School, work on drills, we can spar, we can work you to death, Glory. Just like old times.”

“Yes, it would be like old times, dear brother,” Sophie remarks, “except we don’t have Glenn Braddock to play the role of Gunnery Sergeant Hartman.”

“Huh?” Mark asks, looking confused. Sophie rolls her eyes.

“Full Metal Jacket, you moron.”

“Give Mark a break.” Glory winks. “He is too busy drilling the next generation at the Braddock School to watch any good movies. He also has a good idea; we should stop by father’s school and get some prep time in. Sparring against each of you individually…or hell, both at once…it would help me prepare for any possible outcome that the randal draw of Fatal Fortunes might produce. Besides, it would be good to see the old place again before I return to Miami.”

“Ah, so your quest of ‘finding yourself’ has finally become complete?” Sophie asks. Glory sighs and shakes her head.

“Not quite. I need to return to Miami so I can get everything moved out of that home and back up here.” She says.

“What?”

“Yeah, I think I’ve decided to sell my home in Miami, sell my company, and move back to England permanently.”

“Hell, that’s great!” Mark exclaims. “It’ll be great to see more of…” Sophie smacks him in the back of his head, “OWWW! What was that for?!”

“For indulging her nonsense, you smelly Neanderthal.”

“Nonsense?” Glory asks curiously.

“Yes, nonsense.” Sophie nods her head. “You’re selling your company. The successful life you built in Miami. You’re quitting all of it.”

“You don’t understand, mate.” Glory shakes her head. “Being around that wealth and luxury, the responsibility of being a corporate big wig, it corrupts me. It has corrupted me several times and only now have I finally managed to regain who I once was; if I return to that, I fear everything I fought for, everything I worked for while staying in England, would be for nothing.”

“Oh I understand your FEAR, Gloria.” Sophie remarks. “That’s what it is, FEAR, and running from a challenge because of FEAR is not the Braddock way. Our father taught us to take on any and all challenges head on. Continuing to run your company, continuing to build upon this life you built for yourself in Miami, while fighting to maintain everything you hold near and dear to your heart, that is a CHALLENGE and it is one you should not run away from. It is almost cowardly.”

Very few people can get away with telling The British Bombshell she is afraid let alone call her a coward. Sophie O’Brian, due to their long history, is one of those people who can get away with it. Glory Braddock sighs and nods her head.

“You’re right…maybe I am afraid. Returning to that luxurious lifestyle might corrupt me and I am afraid. I have only ONCE in my entire life turned away from a challenge and that was last year’s Taking Hold of the Flame and even then I turned away from that challenge and in favor of accepting an even more difficult challenge. So I think I am owed this one time to take the easier, safer route.”

“My dear sister, you are owed and no one blame you for taking the easy route.” Sophie places her hand on Glory’s in a warm gesture that is rare from this usually cold individual. “The truth is that you have always been a complex individual. Your life hasn’’t always been as black and white as you thought. You only recall life after our father left your mother, a very simplistic life where you were raised as if you were the son our father had always secretly wanted. You tend to forget that when our father and your mother were together, happily married, you lived a lavish lifestyle. Just ask Melody and Frances.”

“Yeah, you three were the mean girls of the school.” Mark chimes in. Sophie again smacks him in the back of his head. “HEY!”

“I am handling this you overgrown King Kong reject!”

“Sophie I…” Glory sighs and nods her head “...you’re right. Of course you’re right. My lifestyle and personality took a total 180 degree turn when my parents split up.”

“See? Complexity.”

“So what are you suggesting I do?”

“You are a seventeen time world champion. You are in four professional wrestling halls of fame. If ANYONE can legitimately claim to be the best in the world it’s you. Yet you fear that a life of luxury might corrupt you?” Sophie scoffs. “You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. You lived it once before and you can do it again. All you need to do is find a proper balance. You need to remember that things are never black and white but always shades of gray. Most importantly you should never ever run away from a challenge.”

“And this is a challenge…” Glory’s voice trails off.

“Correct. So do our father proud and do not run away from it.”

There is a tense pause as Glory considers her sister’s words. Finally Braddock takes another big swig of her Guinness and sets it down, she sighs and nods her head.

“Ok, you win.”

“I always wanted to hear you tell me that.” Sophie smirks.

“Don’t get used to it.” Glory snickers. “But yes, I’ll give it a try.”

Hello everyone. A lot of people know me here and some of you don't which is completely ok too - because it is my fault. For those who don't know me, my name is Charlie. It was never my intention, but I have become a bit player on the SCW scene, because of work. Because of time. Because of illness. (Yeah there is the issue of a severe stroke which nearly killed me 10 years ago and left me a hemiplegic).

This game and particularly this community have given me so much. I don't want to be a bit player anymore. I have been an efedder for 30 years and the last 14 of those have been in SCW. 8 of those years have included my character that is probably the most associated with me, Simon Lyman. Most people know him because he was my first character 30 years ago and I have played him for 23 years total now. Simon and I have grown up together in a lot of ways.

Simon was retired once, but I want to give his career a proper send off because it is the right time for me, not anyone else's, to give him that proper send off. So that is one New Years Resolution, to say that this will be end of Simon's career this year. I don't know when yet, but at some point this year, I will retire Simon, permanently, this time. It just feels right. Because that's life, everything changes, and all things must come to an end eventually. Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened

My other SCW New Years Resolution is simply to be here. Because the only way I can give Simon a proper send off is if I am here to RP with him. So I plan to be. I can't promise you my very best I can for each and every RP I write like I have in past years, but I will promise now that what I produce each event going forward will be my very best I can produce at that time. Other than that, my New Years Resolution is just to have fun, as always. Otherwise, it becomes like a job and I already have one of them.

But enough about me, SCW community, what are your New Years Resolutions for 2026?

Shattered Reality Night One: https://www.supremecw.com/results/ppv/sh...ne2025.htm

Shattered Reality Night Two: https://www.supremecw.com/results/ppv/sh...wo2025.htm

Sorry about the vanishing quotation marks and apostrophes. I'm going to try and fix that tomorrow.

Fatal Fortunes returns to start 2026. It is a night where every active competitor is booked. Every match is randomly determined, from stipulations to title opportunities. Every championship will be defended at least once. Champions can potentially be booked twice. Tag Teams can conceivably be booked together or separately in singles competition. What does fate have in store for you?

Deadline for BOTH shows is Wednesday, January 7, 2026 at 11:59:59 pm ET. 2 RP Limit for each competitor.

Night One takes place in Saitama, Japan; Night Two takes place in London, Ontario, Canada.

To roleplay, please just post a roleplay in its own thread. If you are roleplaying more than once for a wrestler, please keep both roleplays in the same thread to make it easier for me to keep track.

Hi all,

Wanted to give a quick update and place it here so everyone sees it whether they're on the Discord or not.

I want to first apologies for the delay on Shattered Reality. Ultimately, I had some work related matters to deal with during the week of roleplaying and then with Christmas coming up, I elected to focus on my paid job and spending time with family, given that we were having a break anyways. As I then started to write things, I started to just write the shows solo (for the most part - the handlers of Cid and James Evans, who both have written matches for SCW in the past, are working together on their match). The matches are all started, I've read everything, I just need to have the time to sit down and finish the shows (and hope that the hydro lasts, given the harsh weather we are experiencing where I live). The plan is to have it up to close out 2025.

As for the schedule, I've eliminated the January 1 show, but am going to go right into Fatal Fortunes for the first two shows of the year. This serves two purposes - 1) It's an easy card to book. Everyone is booked and I don't have to worry about people being double-booked so close together and 2) It allows me to start off the year on the foot I really need to. I can then have two fun shows I can jump into, and two shows that are match heavier, which allow me to have a better chance to get them up faster and start the year on the right foot schedule wise. Night One takes place in Saitama, Japan, while Night Two takes place in London, Ontario. Deadline for BOTH shows is Wednesday, January 7 at 11:59:59 pm ET. Both cards will be FULLY randomized, including stipulations, and between both shows every title will be defended at least once.

One final note - I will be hosting some form of end of the year awards, but they will be hosted on the website as I want to get back into regular updates to take advantage of that and just get back into good organizational habits that I've fallen out of doing.

Otherwise, I hope everyone is having a great holiday season.

All the best,

Olek