November 18, 2022,
13:22 local time,
Corsair Memorial Arena,
Mogadishu Capitol Area, Sultanate of Mogadishu
The hallway smelled faintly of sweat, rosin, hairspray, and the metallic tang of fog machines. Combat Arts always felt like a cross between a circus tent, a gym, and a cathedral — and today was no different. Wrestlers in half-gear hurried past with coffee cups, makeup artists darted between rooms, and a camera operator muttered apologies as he backed out of a doorway.
Thomas McCrain cut through the chaos like he owned the place.
He didn’t — not this one — but Vince McGeady, the owner of the World Fighting Empire MMA and wrestling conglomerate, owed him enough favors that it didn’t matter.
Behind him came Bruce, hands in his pockets, chin tucked into his hoodie — polite but guarded.
And next to him, hobbling energetically on crutches, was Kyle Edwards, looking wide-eyed like a kid being given a backstage Disney tour. The back brace under his shirt made every step stiff and painful, but he wasn’t about to complain. Not today.
Bruce walked a step behind his father, hands in his pockets, jaw set.
Thomas noticed — of course he noticed — but he didn’t comment. He never commented.
“Try to look like you’re enjoying this,” Thomas murmured.
“I’m here,” Bruce replied, neutral. “That’s enough.”
Kyle shot Bruce a quick sidelong look, as if bracing for impact. He’d become the unofficial buffer between them lately, and both McCrains knew it, even if no one said a word.
“Thomas,” Bruce muttered, “you sure we’re not in the way?”
“If Vince thought you were in the way,” Thomas replied dryly, “we wouldn’t be here. This is his version of paying me back. Enjoy it.”
A cluster of wrestlers passed — one of them, a masked luchadora, did a double take and whispered, “Is that Bruce McCrain?”
Bruce offered a shy nod. Kyle waved enthusiastically, nearly losing a crutch.
A burst of cotton-candy pink entered their path — literally.
Carly Sweeting, who goes by Cotton Candy in the ring, was in street gear but unmistakable even without the pigtails. She skidded to a halt.
Her eyes widened.
“Is that— oh my God, it is Bruce McCrain.”
Bruce lifted a sheepish hand. “Hey.”
Carly covered her mouth like a teenager meeting her boy-band crush.
“You’re so much taller in person. Can I—? Just one picture? I swear I won’t post it until after the show.”
Bruce agreed immediately. Kyle watched, eyebrows climbing, gripping his crutch like he might challenge the photo itself to a duel.
After the snap, Carly turned to them with a warm, almost shy grin.
“You’re all so down-to-earth. I expected such a big star to be cockier.”
“It’s funny,” Kyle said. “You play the ‘mean girl’ so well, I didn’t expect you to be this nice.”
Carly blushed and lowered her head, her fingers brushing Kyle’s arm in a soft, absent-minded gesture that shot straight through him.
“You’re sweet,” she said. “I could never be Cotton Candy in real life. It’s not worth it.”
Then she straightened, pointed playfully at the trio, and added, “But don’t test me.”
She winked, then bounced down the hall, pink streak swinging behind her.
“You’re off to a great start,” said Kyle as Bruce sheepishly smiled.
“I'm sure your moment will come,” said Bruce.
Then, as if on cue—
“OH MY GOD—IS THAT WHO I THINK IT IS?!”
A hurricane of glitter and Texas twang barreled around the corner.
Sugar Cane — Evangeline Elliott — the Human Sugar Rush herself.
Kyle’s face lit up. “Sugar!? Hi—hi—hi—wow—holy—”
She did not let him finish.
She engulfed him in the kind of rib-crushing hug that would have snapped an uninjured spine in half.
Kyle made a noise halfway between joy and agony:
“nnNNNRRGhh—hi—big fan—everything hurts—”
Sugar immediately recoiled, eyes wide. “Oh bless your heart, baby, I forgot you’re the one who folded like a hay wagon last month!”
Bruce snorted. Thomas pinched the bridge of his nose.
Kyle, red-faced and breathless, wheezed, “Worth it.”
Sugar cupped Kyle’s cheeks affectionately. “Aw, look at you trying to die backstage in my arms. Don’t you go doin’ that. I already got good news today—you ain’t allowed to ruin my streak.”
“What news?” Bruce asked, more engaged than he expected himself to be.
“My girls!” she beamed. “My Banger Britches! They just got called up from the Academy. All three of ‘em. Tonight’s their debut match. I swear I could break into song. It is raining blessings today.”
She then turned to Bruce and softened. “And honey… I’m real sorry about the World Series. Y’all played your hearts out.”
Bruce swallowed, only slightly flustered. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”
When Sugar hugged Kyle and nearly folded him like a lawn chair, Bruce laughed under his breath.
Then she turned and wrapped him in a warm, careful hug — one of those soothing, mom-energy embraces that made even the toughest wrestlers melt.
And without meaning to, without understanding why, Bruce’s shoulders loosened.
Just a fraction.
Barely perceptible.
But Sugar Cane’s the kind of person who notices things like that.
She eased the hug just slightly, like someone adjusting a blanket over a sleeping kid.
Like she sensed an old bruise you couldn’t see.
Bruce let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
When she pulled back, she touched his arm gently.
“You’re okay, baby,” she said softly. Not a question. A certainty.
Bruce blinked — startled by how calm he suddenly felt.
Thomas saw it.
Kyle saw it.
Bruce pretended he didn’t.
Kyle then leaned in.
“You good?” he asked quietly.
Bruce nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Just—”
He paused, searching for a reason, a shield, anything.
“…she’s… grounding. Didn’t expect that.”
Kyle smiled. “That’s her superpower.”
Bruce shrugged, looking away. “She’s… a lot. In a good way.”
He did not look at Thomas when he said it.
Then she gave Thomas a friendly punch on the arm.
“Don’t let these boys get into trouble back here. Wrestlers are like raccoons — they’ll feed on your innocence if you leave it out.”
“You’re thinking of quokkas,” Thomas deadpanned.
“Oh right,” she said. “Y’all got those in Toronto, huh?”
She blew them a kiss and trotted off in her sparkly boots.
Kyle sighed dreamily. “I love her.”
Bruce elbowed him lightly. “She nearly killed you.”
“Worth. It.”
Roman Cesar emerged from a dressing room — bare shoulders, wrapped hands, the perpetual aura of a titan trying very hard to be just a man. Even off-camera, he moved with that gladiator stiffness, that iron calm.
His eyes landed on Thomas first.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“Doctor McCrain.”
“Roman,” Thomas replied, matching his tone. “You’re walking clean. Good.”
Roman stepped forward and extended his hand — not as a formality, but with gratitude heavy in the gesture.
Thomas clasped it, firm and professional.
“You rebuilt me,” Roman said simply. “Everything I’ve done these past two years, every match I should not have been physically capable of… it’s because of you.”
Kyle blinked. Bruce straightened.
Thomas shrugged it off. “It was your discipline that carried you through recovery. I just gave your spine a second chance.”
“You gave me my life back.”
Roman then turned to the boys.
Roman shook Bruce’s hand firmly.
“Your season was phenomenal,” Roman said. “You have the calm of your father.”
Bruce’s throat tightened.
He tried to hide it — but not even Roman missed the flicker in his eyes.
“Thanks,” Bruce said, voice carefully neutral. “I’ve… heard that before.”
Kyle shot Thomas a quick glance. Thomas pretended not to see it.
Roman, perceptive as ever, shifted the compliment.
“More importantly, you have your own identity. Your own spirit on the field. That matters.”
Bruce’s shoulders lowered by an inch — the tension easing.
“And you—” Roman turned to Kyle. “—must be the one with the reckless footwork.”
Kyle flushed. “Y-yes sir.”
“You fight hard,” Roman said. “Too hard. You burn your body to buy moments. Respectable. But wasteful.”
Kyle tried to laugh it off. “My spine agrees.”
Roman looked at Thomas again.
“He reminds me of me,” he said. “Before you opened my back like a book.”
Bruce exhaled sharply, amused. Kyle stared at Roman like he was hearing prophecy.
Then Kyle said it.
Not shyly. Not hesitantly.
But with the certainty of someone who had been carrying the question for weeks.
“Thomas,” he said, “will you… will you do the surgery on me? The same one you did for Roman?”
The hallway froze.
Bruce turned sharply.
Roman’s expression became solemn.
Thomas inhaled, slow.
“Kyle,” Thomas began.
“I know I’m not Roman. I know I’m not… whatever. But I can’t keep living like this. If there’s even a chance I can fight again — or play, or run, or just do anything without feeling lightning down my leg every time I breathe — I have to take it.”
Kyle swallowed.
“Please. You’re the only one I trust.”
For a moment, Thomas said nothing.
When Kyle asked, out of nowhere, “Thomas, will you do the surgery on me?”, Bruce froze.
Not because he was opposed.
Because he knew exactly what that meant.
Thomas performing a miracle on someone else’s spine.
Someone who wasn’t him.
Someone he cared about — but who wasn’t his son.
Bruce looked away, staring at a production crate.
Not jealous — just… stung, in a way he didn’t want to examine.
Kyle didn’t see it.
Roman didn’t see it.
Thomas did — but as usual, he pushed forward, clinical, composed.
“You’re in luck,” Thomas said.
Bruce closed his eyes for a moment — exhaling through his nose.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t say a word.
He let Kyle have his moment.
Kyle blinked.
“When Roman had the surgery,” Thomas continued, “it was experimental. Dangerous. New. The tools have improved since then. The technique has evolved. The risks are lower. The recovery is shorter.”
Thomas stepped closer, looking him dead in the eye.
“And you’re younger than Roman was. Stronger. If we do this — if you listen, if you follow every instruction — you could come out of it better than he did.”
Kyle’s eyes glistened.
Bruce exhaled in relief.
Roman rested a massive hand on Kyle’s shoulder.
“Then you must commit,” Roman said. “Recovery is not a battle. It is a pilgrimage.”
“I’ll do anything,” Kyle whispered.
Thomas nodded once.
“Then we’ll schedule it.”
Kyle tried to hug him — Thomas intercepted with a fatherly hand on his forehead.
“No hugging until after surgery.”
Kyle laughed. Bruce laughed. Even Roman cracked a smile.
As they walked deeper into the backstage corridors — wrestlers calling out greetings, crew members snapping photos, Sugar Cane shouting “DON’T BREAK HIM BEFORE I SEE HIM AGAIN!” from across the hall — Kyle leaned toward Bruce.
“Tell me this isn’t the coolest day ever.”
Bruce nudged him gently. “It is. Just don’t let Sugar hug you again.”
“No promises.”
As they walked deeper backstage, Kyle bubbling with excitement, Thomas discussing logistics with Roman, Bruce drifted a few steps back.
Kyle noticed and fell in beside him.
“You okay?” he whispered.
Bruce nodded slowly. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
“You’re not mad he’s doing the surgery, right?”
Bruce shook his head. “No. God, no. Kyle, it’s not that.”
He hesitated — then admitted, barely audible:
“It’s just weird seeing him do the dad thing so easily with someone else.”
Kyle’s expression softened.
“Bruce… he’s trying with you too. He just doesn’t know how you want him to.”
Bruce gave a humorless half-smile.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
From ahead of them, Thomas turned and called, “You two coming, or should I get Sugar to drag you by the ears?”
Kyle grinned. “Coming!”
Bruce sighed, then answered:
“Yeah. We’re coming.”
He moved forward — slowly, but forward nonetheless.
Thomas shook his head as he led them onward.
He’d come here to collect a favor from Vince McGeady.
But instead, he realized he’d granted one — to his boys.
To his family.
And that, he decided, felt like the better deal.
The boys followed Thomas down a quieter hallway, away from the noise of production crew chatter and the distant thrum of entrance music. Two Combat Arts security personnel nodded as Thomas passed, opening a door with a practiced sweep.
Inside was an improvised office space — a folding table buried under paperwork, three monitors showing live camera angles from the arena, and a smell of expensive cologne clinging stubbornly to the air.
In the center of it all stood Vince McGeady —
emerald velvet suit gleaming, grin wide, arms already opening like he was greeting a long-lost brother.
“THOMAS MCCRRAIN, YOU MAGNIFICENT DEVIL!”
Bruce flinched. Kyle startled.
Thomas… forced a smile that read perfectly polite and absolutely unwilling.
“Vince.”
Vince swooped in and seized Thomas’s hand with both of his own, shaking it hard enough to count as cardio.
“My friend, my healer, my miracle man! The surgeon who saves my main-eventers from permanent retirement! Every time a spine in Combat Arts bends the wrong way, do you know what I say? ‘Call Thomas. He’ll glue ‘em back together.’”
Thomas’s smile froze a degree colder.
Bruce noticed immediately.
Vince finally released the handshake and turned to the boys with an overly dramatic sweep of his arms.
“And THESE must be your lads!”
Bruce nodded politely. Kyle waved shyly on his crutches.
Vince gasped like he’d discovered buried treasure.
“Bruce McCrain — baseball’s young ace of ice-cold nerves! And Kyle Edwards — the soccer hero who kept playing after turning his lumbar spine into alphabet soup!”
Kyle blushed violently.
Bruce couldn’t hide a small smirk.
Vince leaned toward Kyle, eyes sparkling.
“You, my boy — YOU have the heart of a performer! You played through pain, didn’t you? Real pain. Spine pain. The kind that tells you, ‘Stop right now or you’ll regret this for ten years,’ and you said, ‘No, thanks, I’ve got a game to win.’”
Kyle coughed. “Uh… pretty much, yeah.”
“That’s SHOWMANSHIP!” Vince crowed.
Thomas interjected, deadpan:
“That’s stupidity.”
Vince slapped Thomas’s shoulder so hard the man had to reset his stance.
“Same thing at that age!”
Bruce’s eyebrows shot upward.
Kyle tried not to laugh.
Vince swung toward Bruce with theatrical flare.
“And YOU, young man — I watched every inning of your playoff run. Every at bat. You play like the field shrinks around you. Like pressure doesn’t even breathe in your direction.”
Bruce ducked his head, embarrassed. “…thank you, sir.”
“You ever decide that baseball isn’t your forever home?” Vince said, leaning in like he was offering forbidden knowledge. “Wrestling fans LOVE baseball athletes. You’d carry a crowd just by stepping through a curtain.”
Bruce put up both hands, smiling politely. He contemplated saying he was considering switching to football from baseball but thought better of it, feeling Vince would perceive it the wrong way.
“I think I’ll stick with baseball,” said Bruce, demurring.
“A shame!” Vince declared. “But forgivable. You’ve got the aura. Presence. An entire arena would fall silent when you walk in.”
Behind Vince’s back, Thomas’s jaw clenched tight.
Bruce caught it.
Kyle was too busy glowing.
“And YOU, Kyle, my boy,” Vince continued, “you’d make a star in the ring. Agile. Expressive. Charismatic. You’ve already got half the roster talking about your face when Sugar squeezed you!”
Kyle sputtered. “Wait—SUGAR talked about me—?!”
“Honey, EVERYONE talked about you,” Vince said, patting his cheek. “One hug and you looked like you were seeing God.”
Bruce burst into laughter.
Kyle covered his face.
Thomas exhaled slowly.
Vince’s grin widened.
“You’ve got that spark, both of you. That intangible thing that makes a camera love you — that makes a crowd invest before you even speak.”
He turned back to Thomas, suddenly warm, almost paternal.
“You raised good boys, Thomas.”
Bruce blinked.
Kyle froze.
Thomas’s polite mask strained but held.
“They’re not mine,” he corrected gently. “Bruce is my son. Kyle is…”
He hesitated.
Kyle looked up at him.
Thomas cleared his throat. “…family.”
Kyle’s eyes softened.
Bruce glanced down, moved in spite of himself.
Vince clasped his hands together like he’d just witnessed an emotional plot twist.
“Ohhh, that is LOVELY!” he boomed. “The camera EATS that kind of bond up!”
Thomas turned his head very slightly, just enough that Bruce saw the micro-expression:
Vince, shut up.
But aloud, Thomas said, “Thank you, Vince.”
Vince strode back around the desk and swept his arms over the monitors like presenting a kingdom.
“Now that you’re here,” he announced, “I insist we get you three seats near the ramp. Best view in the building. You’re not leaving this arena without watching at least two matches from the front row. It’s non-negotiable. A McGeady commandment.”
Kyle’s jaw actually dropped.
Bruce let out a surprised laugh.
Thomas sighed the sigh of a man who already lost the argument.
And Vince spread his arms wide, like a ringmaster unveiling the next act.
“Gentlemen… welcome to Combat Arts.”
Vince then looked at his watch and clapped his hands like a ringmaster ready to unveil the next act.
“Perfect timing! My creative team meets in five minutes. Thomas, boys — come sit in. You’ll LOVE this.”
Thomas opened his mouth —
“No tha—”
But Kyle was already halfway toward the conference door on his crutches.
“Yes! Absolutely! That sounds AMAZING!”
Bruce stifled a laugh.
Thomas shut his mouth, resigned.
“…fine.”
Vince grinned and ushered them into a medium-sized conference room with a long table, ring binders, cold coffee, half-eaten protein bars, and about twelve exhausted-looking writers. They perked up slightly when they saw Vince.
Then they wilted again when they saw he had company.
“Everyone,” Vince announced proudly, “we’ve got VIP observers today: Dr. Thomas McCrain, baseball phenom Bruce McCrain, and soccer sensation Kyle Edwards!”
Kyle smiled and waved.
Bruce nodded with modest politeness.
Thomas looked like he desperately wanted a window to jump out of.
Vince gestured toward the back row of chairs.
“You three, sit, relax, enjoy the show.”
The writers exchanged glances — Vince being cheerful was always a warning sign.
Vince planted both hands on the table.
“All right, my creative geniuses — BIG announcement. I’ve just made a deal with San Pedro of Philemon.”
Every head in the room lifted.
Even Thomas looked up sharply.
“We,” Vince declared, “are bringing a WFE SUPERSHOW to PHILEMON!”
Half the writers groaned under their breath.
One audibly whispered, “Oh God.”
Kyle blinked. “…Philemon?”
Bruce quietly said, “Oh dear.”
Thomas didn’t say anything — he just massaged the bridge of his nose.
One brave writer raised a hand.
“Uh…sir? How exactly can the women wrestle there? Philemon has, uh… restrictions.”
Vince’s face lit up like Christmas.
“Oh, they’ll wrestle,” Vince said proudly.
“Oh-ho-ho, they’ll wrestle.”
He paused dramatically, arms spread wide.
“The women will be wrestling… MUD WRESTLING! IN THE NUDE!”
Silence.
A few writers visibly deflated.
One put his face in his hands.
A woman writer slammed her pen down so hard the click echoed.
Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Kyle mouthed, “Mud… wrestling? Nude?”
Thomas inhaled slowly, gathering patience like air.
Kyle stiffened — not loudly, but noticeably. He leaned toward Bruce, voice only for his row.
“Philemon?” he whispered, horrified. “Why would he send women there?”
Bruce glanced back, uneasy.
Kyle’s voice dropped even further.
“They’ve got those… beauty officers. The ones who stop women on the street if they’re not ‘pretty enough.’ Make them fix their hair. Buy makeup. Fine them if they don’t ‘look sexy.’”
Bruce grimaced. “Yeah. I know.”
Kyle swallowed, shaken.
“Sending our roster there… for that…?” He shook his head. “It feels wrong.”
Thomas heard him — and gave the quiet, approving nod of someone who fully agreed, but understood why Kyle couldn’t speak up.
Meanwhile Vince, oblivious, clapped his hands excitedly.
“It’s PERFECT! Philemon LOVES this kind of show!”
Several writers looked physically ill.
Kyle said nothing more — jaw tight, posture rigid, eyes troubled.
Vince didn’t notice any of it.
“It’s PERFECT!” he repeated. “San Pedro says the crowd’s gonna lose their MINDS! No more overproduced entrances! No more restraint!”
He slammed both palms on the table.
“We’re giving them RAW, UNCUT, SLOPPY VIOLENCE — JUST LIKE THEY WANT!”
And then, with the bravado of a man born without shame:
“…AND ALL THE T* AND A** THEY COULD EVER WANT — AND THEN SOME!**”
Several writers exchanged horrified looks.
One whispered, “We’re going to jail.”
Vince waved them off.
“Anyway! On to the card. Let’s finalize tonight’s show. I want everything locked down before we go live.”
He reached for the stack of printed script pages in front of him — hundreds of them — skimmed the top page for about five seconds…
…then smiled.
“Oh, this is TERRIBLE!”
And, with the swift, theatrical flourish of a man destroying lives for fun, he ripped the entire script in half.
Pages fluttered like snow.
Writers gasped.
Someone swore.
Someone else actually whimpered.
Kyle’s jaw dropped. “Wait—you guys wrote all that?!”
Bruce muttered, “He’s done this before.”
Thomas closed his eyes. “Many times.”
Vince stood triumphantly in the blizzard of torn paper.
“ALL RIGHT, TEAM! We’re going off the script! REDRAFT EVERYTHING! NEW IDEAS! FRESH ENERGY! I want a masterpiece!”
A senior writer stared at him, dead-eyed.
“Sir… we only have three hours until showtime. That script took us six weeks.”
Vince grinned like that was the point.
“And I’m paying you to WRITE. So WRITE. Figure it out.”
Another writer asked, strained: “Do you at least have a direction?”
Vince waved his hand dismissively.
“Yeah! Just make it good.”
One writer whispered to another, “I’m going to die in this chair.”
Another muttered, “I swear he hates us.”
Bruce tried not to smile.
Kyle looked like he was watching the world’s most stressful circus.
Thomas sat back, expression unreadable — until he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Bruce and Kyle to hear:
“This is why his father drank.”
Bruce choked back a laugh.
Kyle looked between Thomas, the writers, and Vince like he’d been let behind the scenes of a train crash.
Vince clapped loudly.
Then he clapped his hands again, brimming with another terrible idea.
“OH! Before I forget — big announcement number TWO!” he said with theatrical triumph. “We’re creating a new faction!”
The writers collectively braced.
Thomas muttered under his breath, “Oh no.”
Vince spread his arms wide like presenting a parade float.
“THE. TOTAL. BABES!”
He waited for a reaction.
None came.
He continued anyway.
“Sugar Cane! Cotton Candy! Georgia Peach! Magnolia Wine! The four most mouthwatering women on our roster — together at last!”
Kyle’s eyes widened.
He didn’t speak, didn’t breathe, didn’t move — but his shock radiated like heat.
Sugar… with them?
Not with her girls she’d been waiting months to see again?
Before he could even process it, a writer near the front spoke up — bluntly, tiredly:
“…Sir, we just brought the Banger Britches up.”
Another writer nodded. “They literally debut tonight, Vince.”
Kyle blinked hard. It was exactly what he was thinking — but he still said nothing.
Vince waved a hand dismissively.
“I only brought the Britches up because it would shut Triple X up. He’s been begging for that team call-up since last year. Congratulations, they’re here. Now we move on.”
Kyle’s heart sank.
Evangeline had been SO excited.
She told him an hour ago she could ‘break into song.’
Now Vince was throwing her away like a prop.
Another writer spoke tentatively:
“…Those four haven’t worked together before.”
Vince snapped around, irritated.
“I don’t CARE. They don’t NEED chemistry — they have ASSETS. The group prints money on the name alone.”
Groans filled the room like the air had been poisoned.
One writer dropped his head onto the table.
Another muttered, “You can’t be serious.”
A third scribbled angrily in the margin: I hate this job.
Thomas stared at Vince with an expression of absolute clinical disgust — the same face he made when looking at an infected wound.
Bruce rubbed his forehead, shaking his head.
Kyle frowned, shoulders slumping as he imagined Evangeline’s face when she heard the news. He stayed silent — not out of fear of Vince, but out of respect for the room not being his battle.
But his sadness was obvious.
Vince, oblivious or uncaring, kept going.
“SO!” he declared. “Rewrite tonight’s show so Sugar Cane is pulled away from the Banger Britches and slides naturally into the Total Babes’ orbit.”
A writer raised a hesitant hand.
“We… we spent three weeks writing the Britches reunion arc.”
Vince shrugged. “Then unwrite it.”
Another writer protested, “We have their first match scheduled—”
“CANCEL IT!” Vince barked.
Someone near the back muttered, “Triple X is gonna lose his mind.”
Vince smirked. “Let him.”
Kyle swallowed hard, jaw tightening.
He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Bruce looked over at him, reading the hurt instantly.
Thomas put one reassuring hand on Kyle’s shoulder — simple, steady, grounding.
Vince continued like he hadn’t just shattered morale.
“Okay, people! TOTAL BABES needs a segment, a vignette, a teaser for next week, and a full entrance package ready by Friday. Chop-chop!”
The creative team stared at him in exhausted disbelief.
Vince beamed like Santa Claus.
“OKAY, PEOPLE! LET’S MAKE MAGIC!”
And the room descended into frantic scribbling, chaotic brainstorming, coffee-chugging, and writers arguing over whether the tag-team turn should happen before or after the pyro test — with Vince smiling broadly through the entire meltdown.
A few hours later,
Backstage corridor, Corsair Memorial Arena
Shortly after the creative meeting
Joseph Achen — Joey Ace backstage to everyone — jogged down the concrete corridor with the posture of a man heading toward a firing squad.
He wasn’t even in gear, but he still adjusted his jacket collar the way he did before big promos.
Old habits.
He spotted Evangeline Elliott — Sugar Cane — sitting on a production crate, chatting excitedly with two techs. Her eyes were bright. She was animated. She looked happier than he’d seen her in months.
His stomach dropped.
This is going to suck.
Sugar noticed him and hopped off the crate, her boots hitting the floor with a cheerful thud.
“Well hey there, Joey! You look like somebody told you Santa died. You okay, sweet pea?”
Joey forced a smile. “Yeah. Yeah. Just need to talk to you a sec.”
Sugar’s smile didn’t fade — yet — but her posture changed.
She could read people like they were neon signs.
“What’s wrong?”
Joey cleared his throat. “Mind if we… step somewhere quieter?”
Her face tightened. She nodded.
They slipped into a small gear-storage room. The hum of arena generators vibrated in the walls. Sugar stood with her hands clasped in front of her, bracing.
Joey took a breath.
“Evie… I gotta tell you something. And I’m real sorry about it.”
Her expression stiffened — gentle, nervous.
“You’re scarin’ me, Joey.”
He winced.
“Vince… uh… Vince made a change to tonight’s show.”
She froze.
“A change to my girls’ debut match?”
Joey hesitated. His silence answered for him.
Her voice shrank to something softer.
“…what kind of change?”
Joey rubbed the back of his neck, exhaled, and finally said it.
“Vince is forming a new faction. The Total Babes. Sugar Cane, Cotton Candy, Georgia Peach, Magnolia Wine.”
Sugar blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The color drained from her face.
“Joey… my girls just got called up.”
“I know,” Joey said quickly. “I know. And it ain’t fair. But Vince— he— he thinks this group is money. He wants you with them right away.”
Sugar swallowed hard.
Her voice was thin.
“And the Britches…?”
Joey flinched again.
“He… wants you pulled from them. For now.”
The breath left Sugar’s body like someone had punched her in the ribs.
She turned away — not dramatically — but to gather herself.
Her hand came up to her forehead, fingers pressing tight.
“I promised ’em,” she whispered. “I promised ’em we’d debut together. I told ’em we’d show the world what we built. I told ’em I’d be right there beside ’em.”
Joey stepped forward, pained.
“I know. I know you did. And Vince knows you’re good with ’em, Evie — that’s why he brought ’em up in the first place. But now he wants a different direction.”
Sugar didn’t cry.
She didn’t yell.
Her voice stayed calm, even, heartbreak carefully folded into her words.
“Joey… this could kill their momentum before it starts.”
He nodded helplessly.
She turned back to him, eyes glistening but steady.
“What am I supposed to tell ’em? ‘Hey girls, welcome to the big leagues, I’m ditchin’ you for Vince’s bikini clique’?”
Joey winced. Hard.
“Look… I know it sounds awful. It is awful. But Vince says he’s got stories for the Britches anyway. He says they’re still gonna be featured. He says—”
She cut him a look.
The kind that said You and I both know what Vince’s promises are worth.
Joey raised both hands.
“Evie, I’m just repeating what he said.”
Sugar breathed in slowly, then out.
Her shoulders trembled once — a tiny shake — then stilled.
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Joey blinked. “That’s it? Just— okay?”
“I’m not gonna scream at you, baby,” Sugar said softly. “You didn’t make the call. Vince did.”
She straightened her spine.
“I’ll do the job. That’s what professionals do.”
But her eyes — her eyes were full of worry.
“For my girls…” she whispered.
Joey’s expression softened.
He put a hand on her shoulder.
“I’ll push for ’em backstage, Evie. You have my word. Triple X too. We’ll fight for ’em.”
Sugar managed a faint smile.
“I appreciate it, sweetheart.”
But when Joey stepped out and closed the door behind him…
Sugar stayed where she was, hands on the table, breathing slow and deep.
Trying not to let her heart break.
Meanwhile, Joey Ace had barely closed the door to Evangeline’s dressing room when Carly Sweeting intercepted him in the hallway, hands on hips like she’d been waiting for the commercial break to end.
“Joey,” she said bluntly. “Please tell me I’m not in this new group Creative is whispering about.”
Joey winced.
“You are.”
Carly groaned. “With who?”
“Well… the rookie. Sugar Cane.”
Carly blinked, then shrugged.
“Oh. Okay. I mean — I don’t really know her, but she seems sweet? At least she’s not scary. Or drunk. Or a pyromaniac. So that’s fine.”
Joey hesitated. “Yeah, she’s excited. But, uh… the rest of the team is the tricky part.”
Carly narrowed her eyes. “Joey. Who else is in it?”
“Georgia Peach and Magnolia Wine.”
Carly stared like he’d said the apocalypse was scheduled for Thursday.
“Leah. And Marcy. Together. With me.”
It wasn’t even a question — just a slow-burning realization.
Joey nodded.
Carly threw her head back.
“Oh, come on. Sugar Cane barely knows me. Leah knows me way too well. And Marcy has me on mute in real life even when she’s talking to me.”
Joey tried to make himself small. “Creative thinks the contrast will work.”
“Contrast?” Carly snapped. “Leah won’t even make eye contact unless she’s obligated by contract. And Marcy — God bless her — once told a reporter I reminded her of ‘the smell of a Claire’s store.’”
Joey coughed. “…She said it nicely.”
“NO ONE SAYS THAT NICELY, JOEY.”
She paced in a frustrated circle, then stopped.
“Okay, okay. Sugar’s new, but she’s talented. Maybe she’s normal. Maybe she doesn’t have baggage. Maybe she won’t judge me or write a spoken-word poem about my eyeliner.”
Joey didn’t comment.
Carly pointed a finger at him.
“You hesitated. Why did you hesitate?”
“No reason!”
“JOEY.”
He cracked.
“She thinks you’re ‘colorful.’ In a… unpredictable way.”
Carly deflated, rubbing her face.
“Great. Fantastic. I’m the wild card veteran stuck with my ex-bestie, a wine goblin, and a rookie who might already think I’m a cartoon character.”
Joey patted her shoulder. “It’s not a random tag team this time. They’re building a real stable. Long-term. Storylines, merch, the works.”
That gave Carly pause.
“A real group?” she echoed.
Not “Cotton Candy & Whoever.”
Not “Throw the pink girl in this week.”
She exhaled slowly.
“…Well. Okay. At least Sugar Cane seems cool. She might be the one person in that room who won’t judge me.”
Joey gave a sympathetic smile. “She’s optimistic about you too.”
Carly stopped mid-step.
“She is?”
“Yeah. She said you’re ‘fun’ and that you brighten things up.”
Carly froze… and then, for the first time, looked almost shy.
“…That’s actually really nice,” she muttered. Then, louder: “Okay. Fine. I’ll try. But if Leah starts getting weird and Marcy starts rhyming, I’m out.”
She stomped off, muttering under her breath:
“Peach and Wine and Cane and Candy. Dear God, we’re a charcuterie board.”
An hour later
The hallway felt louder than usual — not because of the noise, but because Evangeline could hear her own heartbeat under it.
She stopped outside the small Academy dressing room the Britches had been given for their debut night.
Inside, she heard them laughing.
That almost broke her.
She pushed the door open.
Ruby Banger — boots half-laced, hair half-crimped — looked up first.
She grinned. “Ev! You ready? We’re gonna steal this whole damn show.”
Sarah Morris was doing light stretches against a wall, ponytail whipped over one shoulder.
She added, “Triple X said our pre-tape was ‘actually not terrible,’ which basically means we’re amazing.”
Ruby snorted. “He’s right. We’re gonna kill it.”
They both froze when they saw Evangeline’s face.
Ruby’s smile faded instantly.
Sarah stood upright, serious.
“Ev?” Sarah said quietly. “What happened?”
Evangeline shut the door and leaned on it for a second.
“Girls… we need to talk.”
Ruby took a slow step forward. “Please tell me you’re not hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” Evangeline whispered. “But Vince is… changin’ plans.”
Sarah’s jaw clenched. “What plans?”
Evangeline inhaled through her nose — a steadying breath she didn’t quite steady.
“He’s… pullin’ me out of the debut with y’all.”
Ruby blinked rapidly, as if trying to reboot.
“…what?”
Sarah’s voice sharpened. “You mean for tonight?”
Evangeline nodded. “I’m bein’ moved to… the Total Babes.”
Ruby’s hands flew to her head. “Oh my God—Ev—no—no—no, that’s not— he can’t just—”
Sarah was already pacing. “We fight it. We go to Triple X. Or we go to one of the agents. Hell, we go to Roman himself—”
“No.” Ev’s voice cracked. “No, baby. You push back against Vince on call-up day? He’ll bury y’all before you even get started.”
Sarah stopped pacing, fists trembling.
Ruby covered her mouth, tears pooling fast. “Ev… we worked our whole lives for this moment. As a team. You trained us. You brought us up. You made us.”
Evangeline stepped forward and pulled Ruby into a hug — and Ruby melted into her like a little sister who finally let herself cry.
“I know, baby,” Ev whispered. “I know. I wanted our moment too.”
Sarah wiped her eyes and tried to sound strong.
“This is bullshit. He broke us up before we even got to walk out together.”
Evangeline reached for Sarah’s hand and squeezed it.
“Listen to me. Y’all are still debuting tonight. You still get your moment. You still get to show the world who the Banger Britches are. And I’ll be right backstage. I ain’t leavin’ you.”
Ruby sniffed hard. “But you’re not with us.”
“I’m always with you,” Ev said. “Just… not in the entrance.”
Sarah stepped closer, eyes wet but determined.
“Then we do this together anyway.”
Evangeline blinked. “What do you mean?”
Sarah put her hand in the middle of their little circle.
Ruby followed.
Evangeline looked at them both — her girls — and placed her hand on theirs.
Sarah spoke softly, voice trembling but proud:
“Even if it’s brief—”
Ruby added, “…even if it’s not how it should’ve been—”
Evangeline whispered, “…even if Vince screws it all up—”
Together, all three said it at once:
“We still get to share the biggest stage together.”
Ruby broke down first.
Sarah followed a second later.
And then all three of them — Sugar Cane, Ruby Banger, and Sarah Morris — folded into one tight, shaking group hug, holding onto each other like the world outside couldn’t touch them.
For that moment?
It couldn’t.
Later...
Live on WFE broadcast
Park lights, pyro smoke, and roaring crowd noise fill the arena
The arena lights drop, then flash bright pink and denim blue.
A guitar riff kicks in — a chaotic, country-rock beat — and the cameras swing to the entrance ramp.
On the titantron:
BANGER BRITCHES
with cartoon glitter explosions and all three girls throwing up peace signs.
The crowd POPS — loud, fresh, curious.
Ruby Banger bursts through the curtain first, full of swagger and wild energy.
Sarah Morris follows, crisp footwork and confident smirk.
And right behind them, glowing like a proud big sister:
Sugar Cane.
The trio stop at the top of the ramp, arms linked.
Ruby shouts something hype into the camera, Sarah points at the crowd, Sugar beams down at her girls like this is the moment she always dreamed of.
The crowd loves them already.
COMMENTARY (excited):
“THE BANGER BRITCHES ARE HERE!
The most talked-about Academy team in years!”
The three make their way down the ramp, synchronized, matching energy… a perfect first impression.
Ruby climbs one turnbuckle.
Sarah kneels by the ropes, posing.
Sugar waves to the crowd, soaking in the noise.
A perfect debut moment—
And then it shatters.
From out of the crowd side:
WHAM.
Georgia Peach blindsides Sarah with a running forearm to the back of the head.
WHACK.
Magnolia Wine chop-blocks Ruby’s knee, sending her crashing to the mat.
The crowd GASPS — then BOOS.
The camera whips around in chaos.
Commentary erupts:
“WHAT THE— WHO THE HELL—?! THAT’S MAGNOLIA WINE! GEORGIA PEACH! WHAT ARE THEY DOING OUT HERE?!”
Ruby tries to push herself up — Magnolia stomps her down again.
Sarah grabs the ropes — Georgia shoves her into the ring post shoulder-first.
The boos turn into a wave of anger.
Camera cuts to Sugar Cane.
She spins around, frantic — and immediately:
Cotton Candy grabs her from behind, arms hooked tight under Sugar’s shoulders, dragging her back from her girls.
Sugar thrashes, panicked.
“LET ME GO— LET ME GO— RUBY! SARAH!”
Her boots scrape the floor.
Her hat falls off.
Her hair comes loose.
Cotton Candy holds her in a full restraint.
“Camera— get this—” a producer yells.
Sugar reaches out toward her teammates — inches away — but Cotton pulls her back again.
Magnolia and Georgia stomp away at Ruby and Sarah relentlessly.
And then—
Sugar Cane starts crying.
Real tears.
Streaming down her face.
The cameras catch every bit of it.
Her voice breaks completely:
“STOP— PLEASE— THEY’RE MY GIRLS— STOP!”
Cotton Candy yells into her ear, “You’re with US now! Forget them!”
Sugar sobs harder — shaking, devastated, screaming as if her heart is being torn out on live television.
The crowd BOOS louder than at any point in the night — white-hot fury.
Ruby and Sarah lie on the mat, hurt, betrayed, staring up at Sugar with disbelief and pain.
Magnolia and Georgia stand tall over the fallen Britches, smug and mocking.
Cotton forces Sugar to face the ramp, pushing her away from the ring.
Magnolia does what will become the Total Babes hand gesture.
Georgia yells “WELCOME TO THE BIG LEAGUES.”
The crowd hates them.
Commentary (furious, heartbroken):
“This was the Banger Britches’ debut! This was supposed to be their moment! What is this?! Why is Sugar Cane being held back— she’s crying! This isn’t her doing!”
As Cotton drags a sobbing Sugar up the ramp, Sugar looks back — reaching toward Ruby and Sarah, hand shaking, expression shattered.
Ruby mouths:
“Evie… why…?”
Sarah whispers:
“No… no, no…”
The camera zooms in on Sugar’s tear-streaked face.
Not heel tears.
Not fake tears.
Real, broken, helpless tears.
The crowd knows she didn’t choose this.
Fade to black.
⭐ SCENE — Ruby & Sarah vs. Georgia Peach & Cotton Candy
With Sugar Cane & Magnolia Wine at ringside
The arena is still buzzing and angry from the debut ambush.
Fans chant:
“BRITCHES! BRITCHES! BRITCHES!”
Ruby Banger and Sarah Morris walk down the ramp together — taped up, bruised, furious.
No smiles tonight.
Just fire.
Ruby points angrily at the camera:
“THIS AIN’T OVER!”
Sarah slams a fist into her palm.
The Britches are hurt, but they’re here.
Then the boos hit.
Georgia Peach and Cotton Candy come out with Magnolia Wine strutting behind them.
Magnolia steps in front, raising her arms to drink in the crowd’s hate.
Sugar Cane walks behind them.
Head down.
Hands clasped.
Eyes red from crying.
She never looks at Georgia or Cotton.
She only looks across the ring at her girls.
The camera catches Ruby whispering:
“Evie…”
Sarah glares murder at Cotton.
⭐ RINGSIDE ANNOUNCEMENT
RING ANNOUNCER:
“Per order of Vince McGeady, this match has the following stipulation:
If Georgia Peach and Cotton Candy WIN — Sugar Cane must join them and Magnolia Wine… leaving the Banger Britches.”
The crowd ERUPTS with boos.
Sugar Cane covers her face for a moment, devastated.
Ruby shouts toward the commentary table:
“THIS IS CRUELTY!”
Sarah yells at Magnolia:
“You’re heartless!”
Magnolia just smirks.
⭐ THE MATCH
Bell rings.
Ruby charges Georgia so fast the ref almost gets bowled over.
Sarah meets Cotton in the middle and takes her down with a double-leg that pops the crowd.
Ruby & Sarah DOMINATE early.
They wrestle like their lives depend on it.
-
Ruby lands stiff forearms on Georgia
-
Sarah hits her snapmare → basement dropkick
-
Double suplex on Cotton
-
Quick tags, perfect chemistry
-
Raw emotion in every strike
They’re wrestling not to win a match — but to save their sister.
⭐ THE HEELS’ DISASTER
Georgia Peach and Cotton Candy have terrible chemistry.
-
They argue over who should be legal.
-
Cotton accidentally tags herself in by slapping Georgia’s back.
-
Georgia screams “DON’T TOUCH ME!”
-
Magnolia yells insults from ringside.
The crowd laughs at their dysfunction.
Ruby hits a high running knee that sends Cotton tumbling through the ropes.
Sarah lands a huge DDT on Georgia.
The Britches cover—
ONE—TWO—
Magnolia yanks Sarah’s foot from outside.
The ref misses it.
Fans boo loudly.
Ruby climbs the ropes to yell at Magnolia —
Sugar instinctively steps between them, hands raised, pleading:
“Ruby—please—stop—just wrestle—”
Ruby freezes in heartbreak.
Cotton sneaks up behind her and shoves Ruby off the ropes.
Ruby crashes HARD.
⭐ THE FINISH
Sarah tries to protect Ruby —
charges Cotton —
but Georgia cuts her off with a cheap-shot forearm.
Cotton drags Ruby up by the hair.
Georgia hits the Georgia Slam.
Cotton immediately follows with Sweet Treat Splash.
They cover.
Sugar screams.
“NO—NO—NO—PLEASE—”
Magnolia smirks and holds Sugar back by the wrist.
ONE—
TWO—
THREE.
The bell rings.
The arena explodes with fury.
⭐ POST-MATCH
Ruby and Sarah lie on the mat, beaten and humiliated.
Sugar Cane collapses to her knees on the outside — sobbing again, real tears streaming.
She reaches through the ropes toward her girls, whispering:
“I’m so sorry… I’m so sorry…”
Ruby looks up at her with a mix of heartbreak and betrayal.
Sarah looks crushed.
Cotton Candy drags Sugar backward by the wrist.
Sugar resists, crying out:
“LET ME GO—LET ME JUST GO TO THEM—PLEASE—”
Georgia shouts back:
“YOU LOST THEM. YOU’RE ONE OF US NOW.”
The boos are deafening.
⭐ MAGNOLIA WINE TAKES THE MIC
Magnolia stands proudly between Cotton and Georgia, mic in hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen… you are witnessing history.”
She grabs Sugar’s arm and yanks it upward like a trophy.
“Your girl Sugar Cane?
Your little denim sweetheart?
She’s not with the Banger Britches anymore!”
Crowd:
BOOOOOOO
Ruby cries silently on the mat.
Sarah slams her fist into the canvas, devastated.
Magnolia continues:
“We are the hottest, the finest, the most unstoppable group in WFE!”
She raises her hand in the team’s signature gesture:
⭐ THE TOTAL BABES HAND SIGN
Two hands in a heart shape — but angled downward and tilted, making it look like a stylized “hourglass” body silhouette.
Georgia Peach copies it.
Cotton Candy copies it.
Sugar Cane… hesitates.
Magnolia grabs her wrist and forces her hands into the shape.
Magnolia beams.
“WE…
ARE…
THE TOTAL BABES!”
Pyro blasts.
Music hits.
Crowd boos harder than ever.
Magnolia’s voice echoes:
“Get used to it!”
As they drag Sugar up the ramp, she keeps looking back —
crying harder, reaching toward Ruby and Sarah until they’re out of sight.
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