The Breach and the Ransom
It has been a long time since Kirsten Scott felt the need to look over her shoulder. It has been a good feeling—a hard-won peace that allowed her to settle into the quiet rhythms of normalcy. She had finally carved out a life for herself, and more importantly, a safe harbor for her family.
Unfortunately today, that peace is executed.
As she strolls through Menards, looking for some wire ties, a familiar prickle begins at the base of her skull. Someone is watching. She stops by a display of vanities, using the mirrors to catch a glimpse of the aisle behind her—a reflex she thought she'd buried years ago. She is unaware if it's a fan or something that should make the hair on her neck raise. She takes a deep breath and elects to believe that her nerves are just acting up, forcing herself to continue shopping.
Upon finishing up inside the store, she makes her way back out to the parking lot, wheeling her groceries by one hand—always keeping her dominant hand free and ready. She opens the back driver's side door and puts the groceries in. As she closes the door, she is immediately startled; she jumps at the sight of a man towering over her, standing in her blind spot with practiced, predatory ease. She prepares to turn and fight, her weight shifting to the balls of her feet, until she recognizes the familiar, arrogant smirk on the man's face.
Kirsten Scott: What in the FUCK do you want, Jake?
Jake Starr: Simple... It's been a while, you've had time to decompress and rethink, and I felt that it was time we revisit the little offer I put on the table for us... I mean, you...
Kirsten grits her teeth and turns around. She realizes Jake isn't just standing there; he's blocking her exit, using the same aggressive spacing the Prophets taught their disciples in the Compound.
Kirsten Scott: There is nothing to discuss, Jake. Quite frankly, there never was. And on top of that, the NERVE of being "there for me," and then disappearing for this long shows you don't give a rats ass about anyone but you...
Jake Starr: You have...
She cuts him off, her voice becoming a cold, flat line.
Kirsten Scott: ... I don't know what your endgame is, I don't know what you want from me, but you can shove it.
Jake Starr: You want to know my endgame? Make you what you COULD be. Help you with the TOOLS, IDEAS, and STRENGTHS you wouldn't even know existed without me. I'm here to give you keys to the kingdom, Kirsten, and let you walk a path few could even dream of...
Her eyes roll. He sounds like a brochure. He sounds like a recording of Her—The Prophetess.
Kirsten Scott: I can't even believe you said that... You're so full of yourself, you're starting to sound like a script.
Jake Starr: And look where it has led me...
She smacks her car in frustration, the metal-on-metal echo punctuating her anger. She immediately turns to push her cart toward the cart return, her movements sharp and mechanical. She pauses and turns back, the civilian mask slipping just for a second.
Kirsten Scott: Just fuck off, Jake...
She turns again and begins, again, pushing her cart back. She can feel his gaze, heavy and expectant, like a shadow stretching across her path.
Jake Starr: I'm telling you Kirsten, you're walking away from history...
She stops again, but doesn't turn back. She stands perfectly still, the shopping cart the only thing between her and a total breakdown.
Kirsten Scott: You know Jake... You're right. I'm walking away from YOUR story... and FINALLY walking toward my own.
Jake simply smiles and nods, almost like a proud papa who has seen his "little one" grow up.
As Kirsten pushes her cart into the metal return, she notices a sudden, vacuum-like silence. She turns to throw one last message Jake's way, but instead of seeing Jake, he is no longer there. He has vanished without a sound—a Prophet's exit.
What remains is a white, heavy-stock linen envelope tucked under her windshield wiper.
It's a strange sight, and one Kirsten doesn't know how to decipher. She keeps looking side to side, her "The One" instincts finally overriding the civilian as she scans for a secondary team or where Jake could have vanished to so quickly. Seeing nobody, she begins to proceed with caution back toward her vehicle. She's unsure of this envelope, who left it, even if it was Jake, and what its contents may bring.
As she reaches her vehicle, she doesn't feed into her emotional side and rip it open. She stays disciplined. She performs a visual analysis of the envelope, looking for "funny" edges or anything that could present an initial hazard. She wonders if it had been there even before Jake appeared—a distraction while she was being approached.
She notices writing on the backside of the envelope. She lifts the corner with the tip of her fingernail and sees the words, "To 'The One.'" The naming of "The One" feels deliberate. It's a dead-name—a title she thought she had buried under three years of normalcy. She grabs it, her pulse steadying into a cold, rhythmic beat. She can feel something inside, paper or card-stock, but takes no chances. She moves upwind, away from the car, and uses a pocket knife to precisely cut the corner, checking for any ailments or powders meant to cause her harm.
When nothing emerges, she takes the envelope and slides into the driver's seat, locking the doors immediately.
Feeling uneasy, she takes a deep breath and rips the envelope open along the cut. She reaches in and slides out an old-school Polaroid photograph, sepia-toned and smelling faintly of jasmine and kerosene.
The image is haunting. A couple sits at a wooden table, illuminated by the orange glow of a lantern. Her parents. They look like ghosts from another century.
Kirsten's eyes narrow, her analytical brain taking over. Her mother's face is a washed-out gray, her eyes wide with a fear that bypasses the sepia tint. They are holding hands on the table, but it's her father's other hand that stops her heart. Sitting on his knee, his fingers are curled into a specific, cramped position—the signal he had created for the family to signal legit danger.
Kirsten notices it. She doesn't gasp. She doesn't cry. She just goes cold.
She flips the photo over. The handwriting is elegant, familiar, and terrifyingly calm.
"He who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon." - Your elders for OUR Oracle...
Kirsten stares at the words. The "Oracle." That was the role they had groomed her for. The "long spoon" was their way of saying she hadn't stayed far enough away. She looks at the picture of her parents again, specifically her father's hand.
The "The One" persona, the one she had tried to kill, isn't just back—it's the only thing that can save them now. She realizes then that Jake wasn't the threat. Jake was just the delivery boy, a distraction to keep her eyes busy while the real monsters stepped into her life.
She slowly puts the car in gear, her movements rhythmic and terrifyingly calm. The groceries in the back seat—the eggs, the bread, the mundane wire ties—felt like relics from a life that had ended ten minutes ago.
Kirsten Scott: You want your Oracle back?
She whispers the words to the empty car, her voice devoid of the shaky fear she felt just moments before. She reaches into the glove box and pulls out a burner phone she hasn't touched in eighteen months. She doesn't call the police. She doesn't call Hailey. She knows the rules of the Compound: if you involve outsiders, the collateral is liquidated.
She looks in the rear view mirror. For the first time in years, she doesn't see Kirsten Scott, the woman who liked quiet Sunday mornings. She sees the sharp, predatory gleam of "The One."
Kirsten Scott: Fine. But you forgot one thing, Mother. You taught me how to see the future... and yours looks like ashes.
She slams the accelerator, the tires chirping against the asphalt as she peels out of the Menards lot. She isn't driving home. She's driving toward the only person who knows how to disappear as well as she does.
The peaceful delusion was shattered. The ransom wasn't just her parents; it was her soul. And as she speeds toward the edge of the city, Kirsten Scott realizes she isn't just walking away from history anymore. She's walking toward a war.
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PROMOIt has been over 365 days since the professional wrestling world heard from me. And let’s be honest—it’s been longer than that since any soul in this business bothered to look for me in catering, let alone a ring. I can’t blame them. I can’t blame anyone for watching the hype I brought myself in with and then watching me squander every bit of it.
There is nobody to blame but the woman in the mirror.
Not Jake Starr... Not Nicole Kinnick... Just me.
I walked into this company and I made the world buzz. I had people talking about the no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, fuck-the-world mentality I brought to the table. I proved I could face off with people twice my size and ten times my experience and still come out on top. I was a weapon that everyone wanted to hold, but nobody—not even me—knew how to aim.
But then I got caught up in the one thing that ruins every great strategist: Paranoia.
I created a world nobody would want to live in because I convinced myself that everyone was constantly looking to drive the final knife into my back. I built a facade of not caring if I was liked, but the truth is, it led to me always looking over my shoulder. I wasn’t just wrestling opponents... I was wrestling ghosts. I was counting exits in every room. I was measuring the distance between me and every "friend" I had. No matter how much I ran my mouth, no matter how much I said it didn't bother me, that weight wore me down. It taxed my body mentally, physically, and emotionally until the "Oracle" went dark.
So I had to get away... I had to go somewhere the noise couldn't find me.
I spent a year in the silence deciding if I wanted to continue on, or just disappear like the "flash in the pan" everyone assumed I was. In that time, I realized that when I have fallen in the past, I haven't stayed down. I don’t quit... I just recalibrate. I’ve always pushed myself that extra few feet to get across the finish line, and Taking Hold of the Flame is where that push begins. It’s not because of the stakes... It’s not because of the names on the marquee.
Quite honestly, who is and is not involved is irrelevant to my mission.
You see, many use this event as a chance to settle old scores. For me, that’s a waste of energy. My past in SCW will always be there, but it isn’t allowed to define the future I’m building. To everyone I’ve crossed paths with, everyone I’ve feuded with: if we meet in that ring, I might have reflections on our history, but I won’t be gunning for you. If you’re still gunning for me based on a grudge from a year ago, you’re fighting a ghost. I’ve already moved on... I’d be liable to just step to the side and let you fall over your own baggage while I walk forward.
So what is ahead for me? What does this return mean if it isn’t just for a title opportunity?
Truth is, it means everything.
Taking Hold of the Flame is the bedrock of SCW. It’s the moment in time where it "all begins" for the next year. Names are made... Legacies are cemented... Returns are inevitable. Most people use this to rebuild their careers, but I’m not looking for a rebuild... I’m looking for a total reclamation. I want a place where I can springboard from my past and dive headfirst into a future where people stop referencing who I was and start fearing who I am.
And that’s not something handed to anyone... Everyone has to EARN it.
So, what better way to challenge myself? What better way to show Supreme Championship Wrestling that forgetting about me—pigeonholing me into an idea where my bark was big but my bite was non-existent—was the worst decision this office ever made? I’m going to do something drastic. Something so radical and outlandish that you’d have to be insane to believe I can pull it off.
Truly... Why the hell not?!
I thrust myself into this company with nothing but ambition and a set of lady balls that surprised everyone. Now? I am going lady-balls deep again, but this time, I’m doing it for me. I’m not here to be an "A-plus player" for your posters... I’m here because I can be, and because winning this would throw a monkey wrench the size of the Girthmaster himself right into the plans of every person in that locker room.
I want to watch you all scramble... And I’m planning on reaping every bit of the benefit.
She smirks, the look in her eyes shifting from nostalgic to predatory.
So be ready... All of you who think I'm not worth a fleeting thought in a fight as chaotic as Taking Hold of the Flame... I want you to find that same crystal ball that told you I was finished. Take a good look at it. Realize it’s made of cheap plastic and has a number 8 on the back—because that’s the closest thing you’ve ever seen to a Prophet or an Oracle.
I may have been a flash in the pan over the beginning of my SCW career... And I may have ran my mouth into some pretty precarious positions... But the fact is this is NOT then.
Like I said... I am not defined by my past...
What I can do going forward will dictate how I am remembered. Many SCW Legends started off exactly like I did. Many of them were just seen as blips on a radar screen... Until they weren't. Until they couldn't be ignored. Until Air Traffic Control had to give them as much clearance as the biggest aircraft on the SCW tarmac, and eventually, the entirety of its airspace.
Now I’m no legend right now... I am no Hall of Famer or perennial guaranteed World Champion. But like them, you all doubted what and who they were. You discredited their ability to do things that became almost guarantees for them. So I have to start somewhere... And this seems like as good of a place as any.
And if you doubt that... All I can say is...
You step into my light... You'll watch your world go DARK!