The Vision vs. Colleen MacDonald & Scarlett Carsons

[Kemal Yilmaz]

4 RP Limit for tag

3500 Word Per RP

Deadline: 11:59:59 pm ET SATURDAY, April 11, 2026

[The Assassin]

1 of 2
=====

==========
April 8th, 2026
Miami, Florida
Off Camera
==========

Dinner at the nice Miami home of Glory Braddock and her husband Kurt Logan would, obviously, be a little awkward for The Vision, considering the fact that Melinda Braddock has been claiming for a couple of years now that she intends to tear the Braddock legacy away from her mother and make it her own. The Third Generation Goddess has brought her adopted sister, Fiona Logan, along for the ride. So why would these two rebels who wish to craft their own vision of the Braddock wrestling legacy return to Glory Braddock’s home in Miami, Florida for this uneasy and awkward family dinner? Simple; there is a bigger problem that forces the family to come together for a common cause and that common cause is the protection and comfort of one Fiona Logan. Melinda and Fiona have been quite successful since they came together; they currently are the MWCW Tag Team Champions and the MWA World Tag Team Champions. They are even making waves in SCW’s tag team division having beaten Hollywood at Retribution. But with that success comes attention and it has drawn the attention of Todd Osbourne, Fiona’s former foster father whom she had hoped had removed himself from her life permanently. Unfortunately he has returned and is seeking reconciliation.

The home itself sat in a quiet Miami neighborhood tucked away from the noise of the beach and the busy downtown streets, a place where tropical plants crowded the edges of the yard and the air smelled faintly of salt and sun warmed greenery even after dusk. Inside, the atmosphere was a blend of lived in softness and the lingering sharpness of a family accustomed to chaos. The dining room glowed under a warm overhead fixture, casting gentle shadows against the pale walls. The table, solid wood and slightly scarred from years of use, was already set with mismatched plates that somehow looked intentional. Glory had never been precious about perfect presentation. What mattered was that people she loved were sitting together in one place. The scent of dinner drifted through the room, savory and familiar, a comfortable anchor in a house filled with strong personalities. Melinda Braddock sat at the table with the sort of poised elegance that always made her look perfectly at ease in any setting. Her long blonde hair fell in smooth waves over her shoulders, the soft glow of the overhead light catching the highlights as she leaned back slightly in her chair. She wore a fitted pale blue blouse with delicate button detailing down the front and a skirt in a soft neutral shade that brushed her knees every time she shifted. Even here, in the comfort of her family’s home, she was meticulously feminine, her posture naturally straight, her hands resting lightly on the table as she listened to the rhythm of the house. The calmness around her felt deliberate, a steadying presence she carried into every room.

Across from her, Fiona Logan sat with a tension that clung to her no matter how hard she tried to shake it off. She had dressed simply but in her own unmistakable style, wearing a black tank top layered under an open plaid shirt in deep red and charcoal tones. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, revealing the lean strength in her arms, and her long black hair fell loose down her back, slightly mussed as if she had run her hands through it one too many times. She wore worn in black jeans and her usual heavy boots, which she had kicked under the chair in an attempt to look more relaxed than she felt. Fiona always carried a little edge, but tonight it was sharper, settling like a coiled energy under her skin. The meeting with Todd Osbourne still hung on her the way humidity clings to clothing, invisible yet suffocating. Even in the safety of this house, the memory left her unsettled. At the end of the table, Glory Braddock moved with the easy confidence of someone used to balancing authority with affection. She had the build of an athlete and the posture of someone who had spent years standing her ground, whether in a ring or a boardroom. Her long blonde hair, slightly tousled from being tied back earlier in the day, framed a face still youthful despite the marks of experience around her eyes. She wore a simple fitted black t shirt and a pair of gray joggers that softened the sharpness of her otherwise assertive presence. Kurt Logan sat beside her, his dark hair still damp from a late shower, combed back but already beginning to fall into its natural wave. His build was solid, steady, the sort of dependable presence that made the room feel balanced just by him being there. He wore a casual button down shirt in a forest green shade with the top button undone, paired with dark jeans that fit comfortably. Kurt had a way of filling space without dominating it, his calmness complementary to Glory’s more direct energy. When he leaned back in his chair, one arm resting along the side, he looked every bit the stabilizing center of the household.

The room around them seemed to breathe with the familiarity of countless meals and moments shared. The soft hum of the ceiling fan overhead, the faint clatter from the kitchen where dishes waited to be washed, and the gentle warmth of the evening pressing through the windows all formed a backdrop that made the house feel undeniably lived in. Yet the mood at the table carried an undercurrent of something heavier. Fiona sat slightly rigid, her fingers brushing the edge of her plate as though unsure what to do with her hands, while Melinda kept a quiet, watchful calm at her side. Glory and Kurt exchanged occasional glances, the kind of silent communication developed only after years of working as a team. Both of them could sense the tension lingering around Fiona, even without a word being spoken. It hovered in her posture, in the way her gaze dropped and shifted, in the restless way her boot tapped once against the floor before she caught herself. Tonight was meant to be a normal family dinner, but normalcy felt like a fragile layer stretched over something much more complicated. Everything was set. The room was warm, the table full, and the family gathered.

“I am happy to have both of you back home.” Glory says pleasantly. She isn’t ready to broach the real subject of why her daughters have come home; she will let them do that. “You were good at Retribution. Real good. After beating Hollywood, and if you can get this win over Scarlet and the Television Champion Colleen, I’m sure you two can convince one of the two guys in charge to give you a tag team title shot.”

“Oh I am quite certain of it, mother.” Melinda says with a knowing smirk on her face. “Hollywood was a walk in the park for Fiona and I. Now while Carsons and MacDonald are Clyde’s problem, we have no problem taking care of them for him.”

“Doing Clyde’s dirty work, eh?” Glory smirks.

“We are a TEAM.” Melinda insists. “Besides, you pointed out accurately that Colleen MacDonald IS the Television Champion. Defeating a CHAMPION of any sort in SCW will help our standing and help us make our case for a future title shot.”

“Hey!” Fiona exclaims, waving her arms wildly. “I know you two love to talk shop but why don’t we skip the small talk and get to why we are really here?” Fiona sighs. “Because I think both you and Kurt know full well that we aren’t here on no damn social call.”

Glory Braddock and Kurt Logan exchange nervous glances after Fiona’s outburst. After a tense moment they both sigh. Kurt nods his head.

“Yes…Todd Osbourne, your foster…”

“EX-Foster.” Fiona makes it a point to emphasize that.

“Correct.” Melinda nods her head in confirmation. “After much discussion and deliberation, Fiona decided to have a meeting with Todd. She agreed to hear what she had to say.”

“Really?” Kurt asks. Both he and Glory seem surprised. But Melinda nods her head.

“Yes. I was there with her to support her. And Clyde watched from afar.”

“Let me guess,” Glory begins “you instructed Clyde to tear his head off if he tried something. Am I right?”

“One can never be too safe, mother.” Melinda smirks knowingly. “And Clyde really does enjoy inflicting pain.”

“And you wonder why I have my doubts about you and him.”

“Ahem!” Fiona speaks up again. “Remember me?”

“Oh, sorry.” Glory shakes her head. “I apologize. Go ahead, tell us how the meeting went.”

“I…well…” Fiona sighs “...I can’t…”

“If you don’t want to…” Kurt begins but Fiona shakes her head.

“No, you need to hear it.” Fiona looks at Melinda. “Will you tell them?”

“It’s ok.” Melinda says calmly. “I’ll tell them.”

“Thanks, Mels.”

“It was…strange.” Melinda begins. “I expected a monster but what I saw was a tired man who had seen better days. I expected to see a slimy con artist but what I saw was someone who appeared to be sincere and genuine. He showered Fiona with praise.”

“Did he apologize?” Glory asks. Melinda nods her head.

“He did. Many times.”

“What do you think, Fiona?” Kurt asks. Fiona sighs and shrugs her shoulders.

“Honestly? I don’t know what to think.”

“I hate to be the negative one, but…” Glory sighs “...predators don’t always look like monsters. Sometimes predators look like men who apologize. And Mel, you were expecting a con artist? I have encountered many con artists in my time and the really good ones can get you to believe anything…including that they are sincere and genuine.”

“That’s what I’m thinking.” Melinda remarks.

“I hear you both,” Kurt says “but people CAN change. How many times have you needed redemption?” Kurt asks, looking straight into Glory’s eyes.

“Fair point.”

“But you know what?” Fiona chimes in. “Changed men don’t send gifts in parking lots. Changed men don’t stalk people like Todd has been stalking me!”

“So what are YOU thinking, Fiona?” Melinda asks.

“Honestly?” Fiona sighs and shakes her head. “I have no damn clue! I know the version of him I remember…the slimy, sleazy, abusive jerk. The con artist. I also saw that guy I met at the cafe, who seemed genuine and sincere, who seemed to be repentant.”

“And you don’t know which version of him is real?” Melinda asks. Fiona nods her head.

“Bingo.”

“If I may make a suggestion?” Glory asks. Fiona and Melinda turn their attention to their mother. “I am skeptical of this guy…but Kurt is right, people are capable of changing and people do deserve second chances.”

“Only if they have earned it.” Melinda states.

“Right. So maybe Fiona can give Todd a second chance? But on HER terms.”

“Structured.” Fiona chimes in. “Supervised, with backup just like the last time?”

“If that’s what it takes to help you feel better.” Melinda smiles warmly. “You know me? I am always there for you and I always will.”

==========
April 9th, 2026
Miami, Florida
Off Camera
==========

The sisters had remained overnight so that they could take advantage of Glory and Kurt’s private gym in the basement of their home. The Braddock private gym carried its own atmosphere, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the rest of the house. It was spacious, bright, and undeniably serious, a place designed for discipline rather than comfort. Floor to ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting the entire room in clean uninterrupted panes. The opposite wall was dominated by mounted equipment and neatly arranged racks of free weights, everything organized with a precision that felt almost military. Thick mats covered the center of the room, each panel fitted tightly against the next in a patchwork of muted gray and charcoal. Overhead, industrial lighting cast a steady, unflinching glow, eliminating shadows and leaving no room for ambiguity. The faint scent of rubber, sweat, and disinfectant hung in the air, grounding the space in familiarity for anyone who trained there regularly.

Melinda and Fiona were in the thick of their sparring session, the rhythmic cadence of their movement echoing softly in the open room. The two of them always made an interesting contrast on the mats. Fiona moved with the sharpness of someone fueled by instinct as much as training. Her long black hair had been tied back only loosely, strands already coming free and clinging to her skin as she circled. She wore a fitted black athletic tank and compression shorts under dark grappling leggings, practical gear that clung close to her frame, revealing the lean muscle and coiled tension in her body. Her expression held the same seriousness she brought to most physical challenges, though today it was clearly fueled by more than simple focus. Every shift of her weight carried a little extra edge, every step a faint residue of whatever she was still carrying from the meeting with Todd. Melinda, on the other hand, presented a calm that almost seemed out of place in the middle of a sparring match but was entirely her own. She wore a soft lavender sports bra and matching leggings that fit like a second skin, her blonde hair pulled back into a sleek high ponytail that barely budged as she moved. Sweat glistened lightly along her temples, yet she carried herself with the same collected elegance she showed in everyday life. Her movements were smooth, controlled, deliberate. She didn’t waste energy; she redirected it. When she stepped or pivoted, it was with precision rather than urgency, as if she had rehearsed every possible angle in her mind before committing her body to it. The two of them moved around each other in a silent exchange of skill and intention. Fiona lunged forward, testing distance. Melinda responded with a swift change of footing, avoiding contact by inches. Then Melinda advanced, drawing Fiona into motion. Their feet whispered against the mats, their breath steady but audible in the quiet gym. It felt like a dance stripped of grace and filled with purpose, a push and pull where neither woman sought dominance so much as clarity. Both understood each other well enough by now to know when sparring was about technique and when it was about emotion. Today, Fiona’s tension was doing half the talking.

Across the room, Kurt Logan observed from a respectful distance. He leaned casually against a wall near the free weights, arms crossed loosely over his chest, but his attention was unwavering. His dark hair was slightly tousled from his earlier workout, and he wore a gray moisture wicking T shirt and black athletic shorts. The look suited him, the ease of a man who lived in gyms as naturally as some people lived in coffee shops. Even at rest he carried a presence of quiet strength. From where he stood, he could see the whole exchange unfold with practiced eyes. He knew their forms well, knew where each excelled and where each tended to slip when distracted. Fiona’s footwork was tighter than usual, her reactions quicker, but her body telegraphed a restlessness she couldn’t quite hide. Melinda’s form was impeccable, almost serene, but Kurt could see the way she subtly adjusted her rhythm to match Fiona’s mood, pushing just enough to challenge her without tipping her into frustration. The room was nearly silent apart from the sounds of their movements. No music played. No conversation floated between them. The air felt charged in that way only physical exertion and unspoken emotion could create. Fiona’s jaw clenched tightly each time she steadied her balance. Melinda’s focus narrowed, her eyes following every shift in Fiona’s stance with calm attention.

“Easy you two.” Kurt calls out. “Remember this is sparring not an actual match.”

Melinda and Fiona do not react at first. Instead they clinch. Fiona, the stronger of the two, quits holding back, she drives Melinda hard into the mat. The thud even causes Kurt to flinch as he runs over towards them.

“I told you to back off a little.” He scolds. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” Fiona sighs. She reaches out a hand to help Melinda. Melinda accepts the hand and Fiona pulls her back up. The two embrace in a hug.

“It’s ok, Fiona.” Melinda smirks. “Just do me a favor and save that anger for Colleen and Scarlet.”

“Will do.”

“Well before I let you two go back for a round two, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you?” Kurt asks Fiona directly.

“I guess…” Fiona pauses for a moment. Melinda places a comforting hand on her shoulder. Finally Fiona sighs. “...I guess I’m still upset about Todd…”

“We talked about this yesterday.” Melinda points out.

“I know but…”

“If you’re having second thoughts about letting him back into your life you can always back out.” Melinda remarks. “Remember, he hurt you. The consequences of his actions are on him. You are in no way obligated to give him a second chance.”

“I know.” Fiona nods her head. “But I DO want to give him a second chance.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I am afraid of being hurt again.” Fiona states. “I am worried that he’s still the same con artist he once was, that he hasn’t changed, that he sees my success and wants to use me again to cash in.”

“There is that possibility.” Melinda pats her on the back. “And if he does? You have back up. You have myself and you have Clyde. If he tries anything to hurt you, anything at all, he will pay.” She touches Fiona’s chest. “Remember, YOU make the rules. YOU set the structure. Not him.”

“Thanks, Mels.”

“I will pretend I didn’t hear that not so subtle threat of bringing physical harm to Todd Osbourne.” Kurt snickers. “Now you two finish sparring. You have a tag match to win.”

==========
Vlog #70
==========

Hello my darlings and welcome to my 70th Vlog! I am your host, “The Third Generation Goddess”, Melinda Braddock. And as always I am joined by my sister, my tag team partner, my best friend in life, “The Boston Badass” Fiona Logan.

Greetings, losers.

Speaking of losers, how about we start with a very special hashtag? Hashtag LOSERS!

#HollyLOSERS

Yeah, Chris and Ryan learned really quick that we weren’t kidding about kicking their asses at Retribution. They may have gotten one up over the tag champs but now? Now they are back where they belong; in the gutter, in the back of the line, beneath us. And by whipping their asses we have taken one great big step closer towards getting what we really want; a shot at the SCW World Tag Team Championship.

There are two more losers we can talk about; Colleen MacDonald and Scarlet Carson. The one thing that makes them both losers is the fact that they actually thought that they could fight fate and win.

#FateAlwaysWins
#Losers

Y’know Mels, I’m not gonna preach your fate gospel. I’ll leave that to you and the big guy. But everyone should know by now that The Boston Badass loves a good fight and right now Colleen and Scarlet are staring dead in the eyes of a good fight.

But can they trust each other? Not when Scarlet clearly wants what Colleen has.

#Jealousy
#Envy

I don’t blame her for wanting the Television Title. And it sucks for Colleen that her partner wants to kick her ass almost as much as we do. But that’s not my problem. All I care about is getting the dub because beating Scarlet…and a reigning champion…will get The Vision closer to what we really want; the SCW World Tag Team Championship.

And we’ll be doing the big guy a favor too.

Fate has put The Vision in a perfect situation…we can soften up two enemies of Clyde Sutter, enemies who wish to keep the Television Title away from him. In the process, we have another opportunity to take steps towards earning a tag team title opportunity. Don’t you see, ladies? The writing is on the wall. Fate is on our side and your Fate is sealed.

[The Assassin]

2 of 2
=====

==========
April 10th, 2026
Miami, Florida
Off Camera
==========

Downtown Miami carried its own pulse, a restless mix of heat, color, and noise that wrapped itself around anyone moving through its streets. Late afternoon sunlight spilled between the tall buildings, turning the glass surfaces into shifting mirrors that reflected the sky in shards of blue and gold. The sidewalks were busy but not overwhelming, populated by a steady stream of office workers, tourists, and locals weaving around one another with the fluidity of a city that never really paused. Cars crawled along the streets beside them, horns blaring occasionally, music drifting from open windows. The air smelled faintly of ocean salt mingled with street food and the warm scent of concrete that had been baking in the sun all day.

Melinda Braddock walked with a natural ease that seemed to blend smoothly into the bustling environment around her. Her outfit struck a careful balance between fashion and comfort. She wore a light blush pink sundress with thin straps, the kind that fluttered slightly with every warm gust of air. The fabric caught the light in soft highlights whenever she stepped out from beneath a building’s shadow. Her long blonde hair had been straightened and fell cleanly down her back, shifting gently against the dress with each movement. She paired the look with white sandals and a small crossbody purse in a soft cream shade. Her posture was effortlessly upright, and she moved with a composed confidence that allowed her to navigate the crowds without ever seeming hurried. Beside her, Fiona Logan walked in a noticeably different rhythm, more alert and grounded. She wore a fitted charcoal gray tank top layered under a thin black open hoodie, the sleeves pushed up past her elbows. Her long black hair was left down, though the humidity had already worked a slight wave into it. She had paired the top with olive cargo pants and her reliable black boots, which made a solid, steady sound with each step. Her hands remained tucked into her pockets most of the time, and her gaze drifted frequently to her surroundings rather than the storefronts or the people passing by. Fiona carried a subdued tension in her shoulders, a quiet vigilance that still hadn’t fully dissolved since the meeting with Todd Osbourne. It lingered beneath the surface, affecting the tilt of her head, the tightness in her jaw, and the occasional, involuntary glance over her shoulder.

The contrast between them was striking as they moved together down the sidewalk. Melinda brought a softness that stood out against the sharp edges of the city, while Fiona matched the concrete and steel with her own rougher edges. Yet they moved in sync all the same, their steps aligned out of long habit. The energy between them wasn’t tense, but Fiona’s mood influenced the air around them all the same. The city itself seemed to embrace them differently. Melinda caught the occasional friendly glance or passing compliment that she acknowledged with a small, polite smile. Fiona, meanwhile, was met with nods from people who recognized her intensity without needing to know its cause. Neon signs flickered to life ahead of them as evening began its slow entrance. A street vendor shouted about cold drinks across the intersection. A group of teenagers sped past on electric scooters, laughter trailing behind them. The sounds blended together into that unmistakable downtown hum.

“Are you ok?” Melinda asks Fiona quietly.

“Not really.” She admits. “I mean, how can I be ok? This jerk was a nightmare of a foster and yet now he’s back. He wants to be back in my life. Honestly? I’m not sure I can trust him.”

“I know.” Melinda nods her head. “Believe me, I understand.”

“You do?”

“Of course.” Melinda nods her head. “I was hesitant about accepting my own biological father back into my life.”

“Yeah?” Fiona asks. “How did that work out?”

“Wonderfully.” Melinda smiles warmly. “And it might turn out wonderfully for you too. I hope it does.”

“Yeah?” Fiona sighs. “Unfortunately I gotta put that in the back of my mind. I can’t let that loser distract me from Vision business.”

“Yes, The Vision business is important.” She nods her head. “We have made great strides recently. Chris and Ryan Hollywood own a victory over the now former SCW World Tag Team Champions. We BEAT them at Retribution. We now have the momentum and a victory against Colleen MacDonald and Scarlet Carsons not only will help Clyde but it will help us make our case for a future championship opportunity.” Melinda places a hand on Fiona’s shoulder. “But your mental health is also very important. Do not harm yourself just for The Vision.”

“Thanks for understanding, Mels.” Fiona smirks. “But I think you and I got this!”

As the two sisters crossed the street toward a stretch of cafés and small shops, a warm breeze lifted the edges of Melinda’s dress and brushed Fiona’s hair back from her face. Melinda glanced over, her expression calm, attentive. Fiona exhaled slowly, her shoulders easing just a fraction as they continued down the busy Miami sidewalk side by side, the city unfolding around them in every direction.

That’s when it caught their eyes…or rather when HE caught their eyes…

“Mels, look…” Fiona’s face goes pale as she spots the man who has caused a mixture of emotions ranging from angry, nervousness, and even fear.

Todd Osbourne. Her former foster father is making his way towards them.

“Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!”

“Calm down, Fiona.” Melinda says. “It will be fine.”

“Like hell it will!” Fiona exclaims. “You said these meetings would be on MY terms! MY rules! My structure! But here he is!” She shakes her head. “I’m not ready for this!”

“I know.” Melinda nods her head. “But at least you do have backup…” Melinda winks “...me.”

Fiona braces herself. Melinda remains calm, cool, and collected while Todd Osbourne approaches without any sign of any problems on his face. Then Todd approaches the two girls and stops. He smiles politely.

“Good afternoon, girls.”

“Buzz off, Todd!” Fiona exclaims with noticeable venom in her voice. “No one wants you here! I definitely don’t want you here!”

“Fiona…”

“No! I’m not done!” Fiona interrupts him. “I have no problems giving you a second chance but any future meetings with me, if they happen at all, will be on my terms, NOT yours! Are we clear?!”

Her voice is stern. She is clearly trying to sound strong despite the fear and nerves welling up inside. Fiona hopes that she got through to him. Todd nods his head, still smiling politely, and holding up his hands as if to back off.

“I understand. I am grateful you are at least willing to give me a chance, Fiona, because I do genuinely want to make things right between us…”

“We’ll see.” Fiona remarks, sounding very skeptical.

“...BUT honestly, I saw you two here and I had to stop and talk.”

“I told you that we could talk on MY terms. Not yours!”

“I know but I’m not here to talk to you.” Todd says. He turns to face Melinda. “I want to talk to your sister.”

“Me?” The usually stoic and calm Melinda Braddock is surprised by this turn of events. Todd nods his head.

“Yes. As you know I have tried to keep up with Fiona’s career. And she has had quite the successful career. I can’t help but notice how much of that career has involved you.” He smiles warmly. “You two seem inseparable. You make quite the team. And honestly, Melinda? You are good for Fiona.”

“Why are you talking about me as if I’m not even here?!” Fiona exclaims. Melinda ignores her outburst.

“You don’t know her, Osbourne. You might have been her foster but you were never truly a father. You merely managed her career as a model. Nothing more.” She shakes her head. “But I was there for her as family, as a sister.”

“Yes, I know.” He nods his head. “That’s why I said…you are good for her.”

There is an awkward pause. Then, just as quickly as he came, he turns and walks away. Melinda and Fiona watch in silence as he leaves. Once he is gone Fiona finally feels as if she can breathe normally again. Still, she is shaken by the entire event.

“What the hell was that about?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Melinda answers.

“Actually, I’ll tell you what I think…” Fiona begins “...he thinks I’m fragile. He thinks I need someone. He always thought that I couldn’t make it on my own, that I needed someone to hold my hand. He thinks I need him. That’s why he said you were good for me…because he doesn’t think I could have made it on my own.”

“He’s wrong.” Melinda answers quickly. “You are more than capable of surviving and thriving in this business on your own. My mother and Kurt saw to that. Yes, I gave you more tools and knowledge but that doesn’t make me greater than you. We are equals.”

“Damn right.” Fiona says. “Equals.”

“And going forward we will make sure no one thinks less of you. Especially not him.”

==========
On Camera
==========

The camera begins rolling. Instantly we see a gray backdrop. Standing there front and center is the duo known collectively as The Vision. “The Third Generation Goddess” Melinda Braddock is wearing an elegant, golden silk dress that falls to just below the knee and high heeled sandals. Her MWCW Tag Team Championship is draped over her right shoulder and her MWA World Tag Team Championship is draped over her left shoulder. “The Boston Badass” Fiona Logan is wearing a matching two piece set ring gear, consisting of a crimson red top and short fitted bottoms, complete with a black leather jacket and black fishnet tights and a pair of thigh high black boots. Her MWCW Tag Team Championship is wrapped around her waist and her MWA World Tag Team Championship is draped over her right shoulder.

“Sophocles says that trust dies but mistrust blossoms.” Melinda Braddock says with a stoic, emotionless tone. Fiona Logan snickers.

“Hey, ya didn’t start out of the gate with the fate stuff. I’m proud of ya, sis!”

“Oh don’t get me wrong, Fiona. Fate is important. Fate is very important. As my man, Clyde Sutter, has often said, Fate has written the script. Fate has written the endgame already and each and every person on the SCW roster foolishly believes that they can fight against Fate. Including Scarlet Carsons and the SCW Television Champion Colleen MacDonald. They believe that they can bypass Fate’s grand plan. Scarlet probably believes that she can write her own destiny and become Television Champion. Colleen probably believes that if she fights hard enough and with enough heart and determination then she can maintain her grip on the Television Championship. They likely believe that they can somehow put their differences aside and work together for one night only and defeat The Vision.”

“If they believe that nonsense then they are a couple of idiots deserving of the ass kicking coming their way.” Fiona quips.

“Ah but Fate has put Scarlet and Colleen in a most unique situation….a situation involving trust.”

“Now THAT is one thing I can get behind, Mels.” Fiona smirks knowingly. “Forget the fate talk. Trust? You really got me on that one, babe! I grew up without a damn person I could trust. Now there are very few people who I trust entirely. One of them is standing right here next to me. Mels…I would take a bullet for ya and you know it.”

“Likewise.” Melinda says, nodding her head.

“I trust you fully. That trust is why we have been so successful as a tag team. Trust is something you need to succeed as a tag team in this business. Without trust you are as good as done. Without trust in your tag team partner, the match may as well be over right then and there. Mels and I trust each other. But what about Scarlet and Colleen? The last time I checked they were beating the hell outta one another at Retribution. Sure, they may have a common enemy when it comes to the big guy, Mels’s boyfriend, but face facts; both of you dweebs can’t have that Television Title. Colleen, you have it and Scarlet, you want it. That is a recipe for a disaster. That is an implosion just waiting to happen.”

“Trust, the kind of trust The Vision has, cannot be mastered in a few mere days. It takes years of practice. Even the greatest of tag teams…Light in the Darkness, for example, have their moments of weakness and their trust is arguably one of the greatest. Do you wish to talk about trust? TRUST ME when I say that your pathetic attempt to get along for one night only will fail and The Vision will take full advantage.”

“One mistake…” Fiona holds up a finger “...just one mistake is all we need and when you got a couple of clowns who can’t get along standing across from us, I just KNOW that mistake will come sooner rather than later.”

“There’s more…” Melinda Braddock grins knowingly “...Colleen has something Clyde wants. Fate has put us into this position to soften up an enemy who has what he wants and another potential rival for that throne. In doing so we will also be defeating a reigning champion. Fate has set the table for The Vision. Fate has put us in prime position to get back to where we want to be, to where we deserve to be…in the tag team championship discussion.”

“In other words, girls,” Fiona snickers “you’re just like the Hollyweirdos at Retribution; you are gonna serve as an example of what happens when you step to The Vision. You are gonna serve as an example of what happens to any tag team who thinks that they can stop us from getting our hands on those SCW World Tag Team Championships.”

“Your Fate…” Melinda smirks “...is sealed.”

[కᨶꪖꪹꪶꫀᡶᡶ ᨶꪖꪹకꪮ᭢క]

The vision is not gone.

It is… damaged.

Blurred at the edges like a memory you weren’t meant to survive.

And somewhere between the smoke and the silence, between the sirens that never quite stop and the ash that never quite settles…

…it begins again.

—

There was a time when the Garden was beautiful.

Not in the way they sell beauty now—polished, filtered, corporate-sponsored perfection—but in the way something wild breathes when no one is watching. Roots deep. Petals imperfect. Growth that didn’t ask permission.

Scarlett remembers it that way.

Or at least… she remembers wanting to remember it that way.

Because now?

Now the Garden is choked.

Not dead.

No—death would be mercy.

It is strangled.

Wrapped in barbed wire policy and synthetic sunlight, force-fed poison labeled as progress. The soil has been turned to soot. The roses—those that still dare to bloom—bleed red not from nature, but from the wounds inflicted upon them.

And the people?

The people walk through it like ghosts.

Eyes forward.

Mouths closed.

Hearts… outsourced.

—

“The vision is blurred.”

That’s what they say.

That’s what they want you to believe.

Because if the vision is blurred, then the truth is negotiable.

If the truth is negotiable… then they can rewrite it.

—

Scarlett Carsons stands where the Garden used to breathe.

The air is thick tonight. Not fog. Not mist.

Smoke.

The kind that doesn’t rise—it lingers. Crawls. Wraps around your throat like a hand that forgot it was ever human.

Her boots crunch against what used to be gravel pathways. Now it’s ash. Powdered memory. The remains of something that once mattered, reduced to something that stains your lungs if you breathe too deeply.

She doesn’t cough.

She never coughs.

Because she remembers what it felt like the first time the smoke tried to take her voice.

And she decided then—

It wouldn’t.

—

The mask is not for hiding.

That’s the first lie they tell about her.

It’s not anonymity.

It’s identity.

A reminder that the face beneath it doesn’t matter as much as the message it carries.

A reminder that anyone—anyone—can become what she has become…

…if they are pushed far enough.

—

“They told us to be quiet.”

Her voice cuts through the haze, not loud… but impossible to ignore.

It doesn’t echo.

It cuts.

“They told us the Garden needed to be… controlled. Maintained. Regulated. Because left alone, it would grow… chaotic.”

A pause.

A step forward.

A hand brushes against a blackened stem. It crumbles under her touch.

“They were right.”

Another step.

Closer now.

“To them… chaos is anything they cannot own.”

—

There are others watching.

You don’t see them at first.

That’s the point.

Shadows between broken structures. Figures half-swallowed by smoke. Movement that only reveals itself when you stop looking directly at it.

The Resistance doesn’t gather.

It emerges.

—

“They burned it,” Scarlett continues, softer now… but sharper somehow. “They burned it and told you it was necessary.”

A flicker of flame in the distance. A structure finally giving way after hours of slow collapse. The sound is distant, but it lands like thunder.

“They choked it… and called it air.”

Her head tilts slightly.

“And you believed them.”

—

The first figure steps forward.

A woman. Younger. Face streaked with soot, eyes wide—not with fear… but with awakening.

Then another.

And another.

Not soldiers.

Not heroes.

Witnesses.

People who saw the Garden die and realized—

…it didn’t have to.

—

Scarlett turns, just enough for the firelight to catch the edge of her mask.

A sliver of reflection.

A glimpse of something behind it that isn’t quite human anymore.

“Do you know what happens… when a garden is left to rot?”

She doesn’t wait for an answer.

“It doesn’t disappear.”

Her hand lifts slightly, palm open.

“It adapts.”

—

A gust of wind tears through the ruins.

Not gentle.

Violent.

The smoke shifts—just for a second.

And through it…

You see it.

Beneath the ash.

Beneath the ruin.

Red.

Not fire.

Not blood.

Something else.

Petals.

Growing where nothing should grow.

Thriving where nothing should survive.

—

“They thought they were burying us.”

Scarlett’s voice drops to something quieter now.

More dangerous.

“They didn’t realize…”

Her fingers curl slowly into a fist.

“…they were planting us.”

—

The figures behind her begin to move.

Not marching.

Not charging.

Just… stepping forward.

One by one.

Deliberate.

Unstoppable.

—

“The vision isn’t blurred,” she says.

And now there’s something else in her voice.

Not anger.

Not rage.

Certainty.

“You’re just finally seeing it through the smoke.”

—

Sirens begin to rise in the distance.

Closer now.

They always come late.

They always think they’re in control.

—

Scarlett doesn’t turn toward them.

Doesn’t acknowledge them.

Because this moment?

This isn’t theirs.

—

“This is the part they never show you.”

She steps forward again, now leading, not standing.

“This is the part where the Garden stops asking for permission to grow.”

—

Flames catch.

Not wild.

Not reckless.

Intentional.

Controlled destruction.

The kind that clears space.

The kind that makes room.

—

“They will call this violence.”

Her voice sharpens again, just enough to cut through the rising chaos.

“They will call this terrorism. Anarchy. Madness.”

Her eyes are fire.

“And maybe… they’re right.”

—

She stops.

Just long enough to look back.

Not at the fire.

Not at the ruins.

At the people.

—

“But understand this…”

A breath.

Measured.

Final.

“They wrote the definition of peace.”

Her head tilts slightly.

“We’re just correcting it.”

—

The sirens are loud now.

Too late.

Always too late.

—

The Red Garden Resistance doesn’t run.

They don’t scatter.

They don’t disappear.

They move forward.

Through the smoke.

Through the fire.

Through the destruction that was never theirs to begin with.

—

And Scarlett?

Scarlett Carsons steps into the thickest part of it.

Where the vision should disappear completely.

Where nothing should be visible.

Where everything should be lost.

—

That’s where she becomes the clearest.

A silhouette in red haze.

A symbol carved out of ruin.

A message that doesn’t need a face to be understood.

—

The Garden is not dead.

It is hungry.

The smoke hasn’t cleared.

It never does.

It just… shifts.

And tonight, it parts just enough for Scarlett Carsons to step through it—slow, deliberate, the kind of presence that doesn’t ask for attention…

…it takes it.

The mask tilts slightly toward the camera, catching just enough light to reflect something fractured beneath it.

Her voice follows.

Low.

Measured.

Cutting.

—

“Melinda Braddock…”

A pause.

Not for effect.

For dissection.

“You walk around like your last name is a shield. Like being tied to Glory somehow makes you… inevitable.”

A slow step forward. The sound beneath her boots is still ash.

“But I’ve seen bloodlines before.”

Another step.

“They don’t make you dangerous.”

A slight tilt of her head.

“They make you predictable.”

—

There’s no yelling.

No theatrics.

Just a quiet kind of violence in the way she speaks.

“You inherited a name.”

A breath.

“I built one out of ruin.”

—

Her attention shifts.

Not fully.

Just enough.

“Fiona Logan…”

A softer tone.

Which somehow feels worse.

“You’re different.”

“You don’t hide behind legacy.”

Another step forward.

“You hide behind proximity.”

—

Her hand rises slightly, almost like she’s tracing invisible threads in the air.

“You orbit people. Align yourself. Attach. Detach. Float from one purpose to the next like you’re waiting for someone to tell you what you are.”

Her voice sharpens just a fraction.

“And the worst part?”

A pause.

“You mistake that… for strategy.”

—

She exhales slowly.

The smoke curls with it.

—

“And then there’s this idea…”

Now her tone changes.

Not softer.

Not louder.

Just… more focused.

“Trust.”

The word lingers.

Like it means something here.

—

Scarlett turns slightly, the red haze shifting around her as if reacting to the name she’s about to say.

“Colleen MacDonald.”

Another pause.

But this one carries weight.

Respect, maybe.

Or at least… acknowledgment.

“The SCW Television Championship doesn’t sit on your shoulder by accident.”

A slight nod.

“You fight. You endure. You prove it every time you step into that ring.”

—

Her head tilts again.

“But let me make something very clear…”

—

“You don’t have to like the person you go to war with.”

The words come slower now.

Deliberate.

Heavy.

“You don’t have to share drinks, stories, or smiles.”

A step closer.

“You don’t have to trust them with your secrets…”

“Just your survival.”

—

Her voice drops.

Lower.

More dangerous.

“Because when it matters… when the smoke gets thick and the lights stop meaning anything…”

Her hand clenches slowly into a fist.

“…you need to know one thing.”

—

“They fight for the same cause.”

—

A pause.

Long enough for that to settle.

—

“And that’s where the difference is.”

Now the edge returns.

Sharper than before.

—

“Melinda… you think blood makes you loyal.”

A slight shake of her head.

“It doesn’t.”

“It makes you obligated.”

—

“Fiona… you think standing next to someone strong makes you part of something real.”

Another step.

“It doesn’t.”

“It makes you temporary.”

—

Scarlett stops.

Right in the center of it now.

Where the smoke is thickest.

Where the vision should be gone.

—

“I don’t need legacy.”

“I don’t need proximity.”

“I don’t need to like the person standing next to me…”

—

A slow inhale.

—

“I just need to know…”

The mask tilts downward slightly, as if looking through both of them at once.

“…when everything burns…”

“…they won’t run.”

—

Silence.

Then—

—

“And that’s the part neither of you have proven.”

—

The smoke swallows her again.

But the voice lingers.

—

“You don’t get to call it a partnership…”

A final whisper through the haze.

“…until it survives the fire.”

The first thing Scarlett Carsons learned about trust… was that it never arrived clean. It didn’t walk through the door like a handshake or a promise, didn’t introduce itself with a smile or a shared understanding. It came in bruises. In sweat that didn’t belong to her. In hands that gripped too tight during drills and voices that didn’t care if she understood or not. The wrestling schools weren’t sanctuaries—they were proving grounds carved out of old warehouses and forgotten gyms, places where the air smelled like canvas, iron, and something just a little too close to blood. The ring ropes were worn, slightly frayed, biting into her back every time she hit them wrong, and the mat had a way of reminding you—loudly, violently—when you didn’t respect it. And the people? They weren’t friends. They weren’t teammates. Not at first. They were obstacles with faces. Women who looked at her like she didn’t belong, men who didn’t bother hiding that they thought she wouldn’t last. Personalities that clashed like steel on steel. Loud mouths. Quiet killers. People who laughed when she got dropped and didn’t offer a hand unless the coach was watching. People she didn’t like. People she didn’t trust. And people who didn’t trust her right back.

There was one in particular—bigger, stronger, a woman built like she had been forged instead of born. They never spoke outside of drills. Didn’t need to. Every lock-up between them felt like a test neither one admitted they were giving. She hit hard. Scarlett hit harder. They’d circle each other between reps, breathing heavy, eyes locked not in camaraderie but in calculation. And still… when it came time to run sequences, to take the fall, to trust the other with momentum and gravity and the thin line between control and injury—Scarlett had to let herself go. Had to believe that the same person who wanted to prove she was better wouldn’t drop her on her neck just to make a point. And the first time she did? It wasn’t graceful. There was hesitation, a split-second delay that threw everything off, sent them both crashing wrong. The coach didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. Just looked at her and said, “Either you trust it… or you don’t belong here.” That stuck. Not because it was harsh—but because it was true. This wasn’t about liking the person across from you. It was about survival. About understanding that if you didn’t give yourself to the movement, the movement would take something from you instead.

And then there were the men. Bigger frames. Faster throws. Less patience. Some treated her like she had to earn every ounce of respect twice over. Others treated her like she wasn’t even worth the effort. They’d go stiff in drills, not enough to injure—but enough to test. Enough to see if she’d fold. She didn’t. She learned their timing, their habits, the subtle shift of weight before a takedown, the way a shoulder dips just before impact. And more importantly—she learned when to trust them. Not blindly. Never blindly. But deliberately. There was one who never spoke at all. Just nodded when it was time to work. His grips were precise, almost clinical, and when he threw her, it was clean. Every time. No wasted motion. No ego in it. Just execution. She realized something working with him—trust didn’t always come from connection. Sometimes it came from consistency. From knowing that no matter what happened outside that ring, inside it, the job would be done right. That was enough.

The locker rooms weren’t better. They were just quieter. Different kind of tension. Eyes in mirrors instead of across a ring. Tape wrapping wrists. Bruises blooming in shades of purple and yellow. Conversations half-finished or never started. There were women in there who smiled to your face and worked you twice as hard in drills just to see if you’d break. Others who didn’t pretend at all. Who kept their distance, their focus, their guard. Scarlett fit somewhere in between. She didn’t need to be liked. Didn’t want to be. But she started to understand something deeper—liking someone had nothing to do with trusting them. Trust wasn’t built in conversation. It was built in repetition. In knowing that when you went up for something dangerous, the person under you would be where they were supposed to be. That when you gave them your body mid-air, they’d give it back to you in one piece.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, she changed. Not softer. Never that. But sharper in a different way. More aware. She stopped hesitating on the catch. Stopped second-guessing the throw. Her body learned before her mind could interfere. Trust became instinct—not because she suddenly believed in the people around her, but because she believed in the work. In the hours. In the collisions that didn’t go wrong. In the ones that did—and the corrections that followed. She still didn’t like some of them. Probably never would. But when it came time to move, to leap, to fall—she didn’t think about that anymore.

Because the ring doesn’t care who you like.

It only cares who you trust.

And Scarlett Carsons learned that lesson the hard way—over and over again—until it stopped feeling like a lesson at all… and started feeling like survival.

The vision isn’t blurred to me—it never has been. That’s just what people like you say when you’re too soft to look at it head-on. What I see is precise. Clinical. Honest in a way you could never stomach. I don’t see lights and crowds and handshakes and cute little narratives about who deserves what—I see the aftermath. I see the canvas soaked so deep it stops being white. I see bodies opened up metaphorically and otherwise, every weakness pulled out and laid bare like something dissected under fluorescent light. I see the parts of you that you hide behind smiles and catchphrases—fear, doubt, the quiet little voice that tells you you’re not built for what’s coming. And in my vision? Those things don’t stay hidden. They spill. They stretch across the floor in ways you can’t clean up, in ways you can’t spin into something marketable. It’s not chaos. It’s clarity. It’s the truth you keep trying to dress up like it’s something noble.

And then there’s you—standing there, posturing, talking like this is still a game you can win with volume and confidence. Good little soldiers. Blowhards wrapped in borrowed importance, thinking that because you shout the loudest or carry someone else’s name or stand next to the right person, you’re somehow insulated from what’s coming. You think I’m just another opponent. Another voice. Another body in rotation. That’s your mistake. You’re underestimating something you don’t even understand, because you’ve never had to exist in that kind of vision. You’ve never had to strip everything away and realize that what’s left is either real… or it isn’t. And when that moment comes—when all the noise dies, when all the pretty illusions burn off—you won’t be standing there with me. You’ll be exposed. Laid open. Not because I’m reckless… but because I’m exact. Because I don’t swing wild—I choose where it lands.

So keep talking. Keep convincing yourselves that this is something you can control, something you can predict, something you can survive just by believing hard enough in your own hype. I’ve already seen how this ends. I’ve already walked through the version of this where everything you think protects you fails. And when it happens—when the vision you’ve been avoiding finally forces itself into focus—you’re going to realize too late that I wasn’t speaking in metaphor. I was warning you.

[Jay Gold]

Colleen's Chronicles: Chapter 24 - Bridging

[Jay Gold]

OOC NOTE:  This piece is a collaboration, with the story idea coming from the handler of Scarlett (Thank you for taking the reins).  Edits have been made that have been approved and she asked for me to post it for our team being she is unable to do so.



Scarlett Carsons & Colleen MacDonald in...



α ℓєѕѕσи ιи тяυѕт