Sixty Seconds of Truth

APOSTASY CHAPTER 5: SIXTY SECONDS OF TRUTH

Since hearing her father's raspy voice drifting through the speaker of that rugged silver digital recorder, The Prophets had achieved exactly the psychological effect they intended to have on Kirsten Scott. The structural foundation of her discipline had completely splintered. Since that precise moment, she had become a hollow shell of her former self, operating purely on fumes, raw adrenaline, and an all-consuming hyper-vigilance.

Instead of sitting around her empty house waiting for the next psychological strike to land, she had started to relentlessly patrol the damp, shadowed grid of the neighborhood. She walked the perimeter for hours on end, scanning every passing vehicle, tracking every shifting shadow behind drawn blinds, desperately hoping to stumble across someone or something that might know a fraction of information about what happened the night that recording miraculously appeared in her garage.

So far, absolutely nothing. The streets remained frustratingly empty, leaving her alone with the mounting dread that the trap was closing in around her.

One dark night, while out on her self-imposed perimeter patrol, she walked with a relentless, ice-cold rain pouring down on top of her, soaking through the fabric of her jacket and plastering her hair to her forehead. Near the outer edge of the district where everyone was living sat a dilapidated, very old gas station, its neon sign flickering weakly against the heavy gloom. Exhausted and chilled to the bone, she elected to walk toward the station, needing to get something hot to drink just to keep her hands from shaking, but she also picked this desolate location for the specific, archaic piece of technology it still actively employed.

A lone, weather-beaten payphone booth tucked against the rusted side wall.

As she approached the flickering canopy of the gas station, she lifted her arm and looked down at the glowing face of her tactical watch, realizing it was finally about time. She walked over to the phone booth, the gravel crunching beneath her heavy boots, and stood perfectly still beneath the dripping metal awning, waiting for the digital display on her wrist to click over to 9:43 PM on the dot. She trusted the watch. It was the only metric of control she had left.

The exact minute that specific time appeared on the screen, she picked up the cold, heavy plastic receiver, tossed a handful of coins into the metallic slot, and listened to them rattle down into the machine. With practiced, mechanical efficiency, she dialed a heavily guarded number from memory and lifted the receiver tightly against her ear, shielding it from the roaring sound of the downpour.

The receiver began to ring, a distant, hollow sound that echoed through the wire, and after a few agonizingly long tones, a familiar, tightly wound voice picked up on the other end of the line.

Hailey Brooks: Password?

Kirsten Scott: Torch...

Hailey took an audible, heavy deep breath on the other end, the sudden relief evident as she realized exactly who was calling from the dark. These periodic, highly regimented calls from Kirsten gave her some small semblance of normalcy and safety while she remained locked away at the designated safehouse. But while Hailey might have been feeling warm fuzzies deep inside her chest at the sound of her protector's voice, Kirsten knew she had to keep things strictly focused on the tactical problem at hand. She had no room left for sentimentality.

Hailey Brooks: What's the status? Safe to come home?

Kirsten Scott: Hardly...

Hailey Brooks: How do you figure?

Kirsten Scott: They are closing in on me. I'm not letting them close in on y'all, too...

Hailey Brooks: You realize we can handle this, right?

Kirsten sighed heavily, the warm breath fogging up the cracked glass pane of the payphone booth as the rain violently lashed against the exterior.

Kirsten Scott: Hailey, we could do...

As she was talking, the strict, cold professionalism of her voice suddenly caught in her throat. Through the low hum of the telephone line, she distinctly heard a soft, delicate voice drifting in the background on Hailey's end.

Kirsten Scott: ... What was that?

Hailey Brooks: Just... Hang on...

Hailey's voice sounded immediately frustrated, feeling a sharp pang of resentment because she believed Kirsten didn't have the same absolute faith in her capabilities that she once did. There was a quiet, muffled shuffling noise on the other end of the line, the sound of the receiver being handed over, and then a entirely new voice appeared on the phone.

Emma Taylor: Kirsten?

Kirsten immediately recognized the pure, fragile innocence that belonged exclusively to Emma Taylor. It was a voice she hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime, a stark reminder of everything she was desperately trying to protect. In an instant, her entire demeanor shifted, going from fiercely serious to much softer, the hard edges of her paranoia melting away.

Kirsten Scott: Hey Emma, how are you holding up?

Emma Taylor: Did I do something wrong?

Kirsten cocks her head in the empty booth, a sudden knot forming tight in her throat.

Kirsten Scott: What do you mean?

Emma Taylor: Well, is that why you aren't here?

The question cut through Kirsten like a physical dagger, the raw guilt of her absence threatening to break her composure. As Kirsten went to answer, desperately trying to swallow the lump in her throat and keep herself from tearing up over the phone, the fragile connection was violently shattered.

Without warning, there was a sudden, explosive, and violent crash in the background of the safehouse. Kirsten's demeanor changed instantly, her heart hammering against her ribs as the audio on the other end erupted into a chaotic nightmare of shouting voices, the terrifying sound of splintering wood, and the unmistakable, brutal noise of an intense human fight. Through the deafening commotion and the panic, one distinct, terrified phrase could be heard shrieked directly near the phone receiver.

Hailey Brooks: EMMA! HIDE! NOW!

Kirsten violently grits her teeth, her knuckles turning stark white as she grips the plastic receiver, forced to listen to the muffled, concussive sounds of gunshots echoing through the safehouse walls, followed by the heavy, sickening thud of something, or someone, crashing hard onto the floor.

A terrifying silence followed the gunfire, and then the sound of slow, heavy footsteps approached the receiver. Whoever it was picked it up from the counter and held it tightly to their ear. Through the static of the line, the unknown intruder could be heard breathing heavily, an unsettling, monstrous sound that twisted into a low, mocking laugh to themselves.

Kirsten Scott: WHO THE FUCK IS THIS? WHAT IN THE HELL DID YOU DO?

Whomever was standing on the blood-slicked floor of the safehouse didn't answer. They simply, slowly descended the phone receiver back onto the base, the mechanical click immediately sending a hollow, mocking dial tone roaring back into the payphone Kirsten was using.

She violently slams the phone back onto the hook and just stands there, completely paralyzed, as the strength drains entirely from her legs. Slowly, helplessly, she lets her forehead fall forward into the cold, rain-streaked glass of the booth.

She is physically frozen inside the dark enclosure, the deafening sound of the downpour hammering the metal roof around her, hearing only that relentless storm, and yet, simultaneously hearing the echoes of Hailey's desperate scream and those muffled gunshots ringing out, over and over again, in her other ear as her mind forces her to relive the tragic moment.

Her entire psychological makeup completely changes in the span of sixty seconds. No longer is she the methodical, analytical hunter, planning for every possible situation with cool precision. Now, the blueprint has completely vaporized, and her mind has entered into the purest, most chaotic state of panic that a human being can experience.

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PROMO

We all know the age-old phrase, "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade."

I presume everyone here knows the underlying meaning, right? It's basically, "Take what life gives you." "When one door closes, another opens." "Every cloud has a silver lining." While they all have their subtle nuances, they're ultimately regurgitating the exact same spineless advice: No matter what happens, just go with the flow, accept your lot, and trust that there is a divine, cosmic reason for everything.

That was the exact mindset I carried when I walked back into the SCW locker room for the first time in over a year. I walked in believing I had no choice but to go with the flow, because before that hiatus, I had let every outside force dictate where I went, how I acted, and what I believed.

So I decided to look toward a philosophy that would actually define me this time around. I had to be willing to come back and NOT be the absolutely mid person I was when I left. Because if I didn't change the dynamic, I was going to fast-track myself down that exact same downward spiral and end up right back where I started—frustrated, bitter, and rotting from the inside out.

So, what did I tell myself?

I told myself that it was time—not to "change my path," but to change my shoes.

You see, everyone in this industry loves to stand on a soapbox and preach about changing their path, or walking a brand-new trail. But the reality? Life is just one relentless, straight line through time. It's finite. There is no rewriting your beginning, your middle, or your end because we don't live in a goddamn fairytale. But what you can do... Is make that walk easier on yourself. Make it more comfortable. And make sure that when you step on someone's toes, it hurts like hell.

That was the plan.

When I had my return match at Breakdown, I knew I had two distinct options: Go in looking like the ghost of who I used to be—completely disingenuous, pissy, and carrying everyone else's baggage—or make myself comfortable. Walk in with the same endgame of success, but with a cold, realistic mindset on how I was going to traverse the mountain. I made sure that this time, I didn't try to climb a steep peak in paper-thin slippers. I wore shoes meant for the terrain. Shoes designed to protect me.

And once I reached that first mountaintop, I finally got to look out over the landscape and see the terrain for what it actually was. I mapped out the trek, followed the trail up the next summit, and conquered that one, too.

And right on cue, SCW handed me a lovely little reality check.

No... Not because I lost.

Not because I got blindsided or jumped in a hallway.

But because I had managed to breeze through two matches with relative ease, and now the honeymoon phase was officially over. The minor summits SCW used to ease me back into the fold were gone. Management was ready to put Kirsten Scott to the ultimate test and throw her straight to the wolves.

Now, old Kirsten would have made it personal. Old Kirsten would have looked for a grand conspiracy. But I view it as purely practical. When I came back, I made it crystal clear: I am not here to do anyone else's bidding. I'm not here to rekindle the past. I'm here to put myself to the test and get an absolute, undeniable picture of where I stand in the hierarchy of professional wrestling.

And it seems SCW heard me loud and clear...

Because now, they send me Glory Braddock.

SCW decided to throw me into the ring with someone who has legitimately done everything there is to do in this company. She has held every single championship on the books. She has proven, time and again, to be one of the most dangerous, decorated competitors to ever lace up a pair of boots in this organization. And honestly? She has every right to brag about it. She earned that reputation. She has earned the right to be considered an absolute force, and frankly, on paper, anyone looking at the two of us would assume she is superior to me in every conceivable way.

Like I said... She's done it all.

And let's be real for a second—what have I done? What can I point to on my resume to rival a woman who has held every piece of gold this business has to offer? A Television Championship? Am I really going to sit here and pretend that my one single accolade compares to the mountain of gold sitting in her trophy case?

If you actually believe that... And if you think I believe that... Then I've got a couple of crumbling bridges over the Mississippi I'd love to sell you, along with a jar of vintage Prohibition moonshine.\

.:: Kirsten leans back slightly, a sharp, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of her lips before her posture hardens once more. ::.

//... But I want everyone in the back—and especially Glory—to listen very closely to what I'm about to say next.

Just because I have respect for what she's accomplished... Just because I can look at the odds and clearly see why the betting world considers her the glaring favorite... Just because she is the textbook definition of SCW success...

It changes nothing.

I'm not walking around SCW in gilded, fragile shoes anymore. I'm not walking around here with a sense of entitlement, or waiting for corporate to hand me what I "deserve." I see myself as the exact kind of fighter Glory used to be—someone who is ready, willing, and viciously able to fight anyone, anywhere, at any time. And quite frankly? I don't give a damn if you're covered in accolades. I don't care if you're God Himself.

This is a new year. A new mindset. And a completely unburdened outlook.

I don't have cult leaders breathing down my neck, dictating who I target or how I move. I don't have a pettily crafted hit-list of people to take out for reasons that aren't my own. I don't have to pretend to be a monster or a martyr. I just get to be me. And that alone makes this match entirely different from anything I've ever done in my career. I walk into that ring, I dismantle whoever is put in front of me, and when the dust settles, I move on to the next peak. If someone wants to make it personal? I'll handle that when the time comes. But right now? My vision is completely clear. My focus is absolute.

And Glory? That should terrify you.

You've done it all, Glory. You are nobody to scoff at. But the truth is, you aren't untouchable, either. You've had your high points, and you've had your soul-crushing lows. Translated? You bleed. You're human.

And when you bring that humanity into Breakdown, you might be tempted to look right past me. You might already have your sights set on Rise to Greatness. You might already be envisioning your match with Luz. But if you do that, it means you've already overlooked the one person who can derail your entire career before you even have time to exhale your next breath.

And trust me... I fully plan to derail it.

So keep your accolades. Keep your legacy. I applaud everything you've built for yourself. But at Breakdown, I'm walking into that ring in these same comfortable shoes, ready to keep walking my path. And when the smoke clears, people won't need to read a Wikipedia page to know who I am. They'll be able to look at my footprint and see everything that matters:

Where I'm going...

Where I've been...

And what happens when you step directly into MY LIGHT... And watch your entire world GO DARK!