AWS women's championship #1 contender's match

Boomie Vs Veronica Rodriguez

Singles match

A soda bottling factory. Conveyor belts moving. Metal clanking. Pressurized carbonation lines hissing. Pallets of red-labeled bottles stacked like ammunition.
In the background—
🎵 “HELL YEAH” – Rev Theory kicks in.

Loud.

Wrong.

Too celebratory for a title contender match.

The camera cuts in mid-motion.

Boomie is already running.

Not away.

Just running.

They dart alongside a conveyor belt of soda bottles, fingertips skimming plastic tops as they move. Every bottle rattles when they pass. Static energy in sneakers.

Red and white gear under a half-zipped hoodie.

Hair slightly wild.
Eyes bright.
Too bright.

A bottle pops open in their hand.
Fizz erupts.

Boomie laughs.
Not villainous.
Not nervous.
Joyful.

“I GOT BOOKED.”

They say it to no one.

Then to the ceiling.
Then to a forklift driver who absolutely didn’t ask.

“I GOT BOOKED.”

They chug.
Wipe their mouth with the back of their taped hand.
The song hits the chorus.

Boomie jumps onto a pallet stack and spreads their arms.

“NUMBER ONE CONTENDER.”

The bottles beneath them rattle.
Boomie crouches low.

“I’M NOT EVEN TRYING TO WIN A TITLE.”

A grin.

“I’M TRYING TO SEE WHAT HAPPENS IF I DON’T SLOW DOWN.”

They leap off the pallet and roll to their feet without pause.
A machine clangs.
They slap it.

“HELL YEAH.”

Boomie walks backward along a moving conveyor belt.
Balance perfect.
Energy vibrating under the skin.

“I heard her name.”

They don’t say it yet.
They let the carbonation hiss fill the silence.

“She studies brains.”

Boomie taps their temple twice.

“She dissects people.”

A bottle in their hand explodes slightly when twisted too hard.
Fizz spills down their wrist.
Boomie watches it like it’s fascinating.

“She thinks everything has a reason.”

Boomie tilts their head.

“What if I don’t?”

They grin.
Too wide.
Too fast.
The song crescendos again.
Boomie hops down.
Starts pacing.
Faster.
Faster.
Words speeding up.

“I don’t bluff. I don’t posture. I don’t build tension like you want me to. I don’t move slow so you can measure me.”

They grab another bottle.
Pop.
Chug.
Laugh.

“I don’t wait.”

Boomie suddenly stops moving.
Dead still.
The machines continue humming around them.
The sugar is peaking now.
Breathing uneven.
Shoulders rising and falling too fast.
They speak quieter.

“If I hit you.”

A pause.

“I’m not going to study it.”

Another pause.

“I’m going to mean it.”

The smile flickers.
Not gone.
But thinner.
The conveyor belt clatters loudly behind them.
Boomie flinches—not from fear.
From speed.
They start pacing again.
Harder.
Too fast.
Words blur together.

“I’m not chasing a belt. I’m chasing release. And if you stand in front of it and try to analyze me—”

They snap a bottle cap off without looking.
It ricochets off metal.

“I might not stop.”

That’s the first time it sounds unstable.
Not playful.

Footsteps.
Slow.
Measured.
Hearthammer steps into frame.
Doesn’t grab Boomie.
Doesn’t restrain them.
He just steps into their path.

Boomie almost collides into him.
Stops short.
Breathing hard.
Fizz dripping from their fingers.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

“Breathe.”

Boomie laughs once. High.

“I AM.”

Hearthammer shakes his head slightly.

“No. You’re burning.”

Boomie’s shoulders twitch.
Another half-step forward.
He doesn’t move.

“You don’t need to explode to prove you’re ready.”

The machines hiss.
The song fades out in the background.
Boomie’s breathing slows incrementally.

“Say it,” Hearthammer says.

Boomie looks up at him.
Struggling.
Then—

“I don’t have to go faster than I am.”

Hearthammer nods once.

“Again.”

Boomie swallows.

“I don’t have to go faster than I am.”

The sugar doesn’t vanish.
It settles.
Contained.
Directed.

Boomie takes one slow breath.
Then another.
They hand Hearthammer the bottle.
Cap still off.

Boomie turns to camera.
No music now.
Just factory hum.

Still bright-eyed.
Still smiling.
But steady.

“Veronica.”

They say her name like they’re testing its shape.

“You’re smart.”

A nod.

“You know how people work.”

They tap their own chest.

“I don’t.”

A faint grin.

“I don’t have layers you can peel.”

They step closer to camera.

“I have impact.”

A pause.

“You can study trauma. You can diagnose patterns. You can try to slow my pulse.”

Boomie shrugs lightly.

“But if I sprint at you and don’t hesitate—”

A slight tilt of the head.

“Can you diagnose that before it hits?”

They straighten.
Smile returns.

Not manic.
Not unstable.
Focused.

“I’m not here to outthink you.”

A beat.

“I’m here to collide with you.”

They step backward onto the conveyor belt again.
Balance perfect.

“Hell yeah.”

Camera cuts on the hiss of carbonation.

Boomie is alone.
No hoodie.
No jacket.
No soda.
Just red and white gear under harsh light.
They’re standing in the middle of the ring.
Still.
Too still.

Their hands are taped unevenly tonight. More tape than usual. Fingers wrapped tight. Too tight.
They inhale.
Hold it.
Exhale.
They try again.
Their foot twitches.

They start pacing.
Slow at first.
Then faster.
Then stop again.

“I’m excited,” Boomie says out loud.

Silence answers.

They nod.

“I’m happy.”

Another nod.

They grin.

The grin fades immediately.
Their jaw tightens.
They grab the top rope and pull hard enough that it hums.

“I am not angry,” they say.

The rope vibrates.
They let go.

The rope snaps back.
Boomie flinches at the sound.

That’s new.
They look down at their hands.

“They think I’m unstable.”

Their voice is steady.
Their breathing isn’t.

“I’m not.”

A pause.

“I just move faster than people are comfortable with.”

They begin running the ropes.

Once.
Twice.
Three times.

Harder each time.
The ring shakes.
They stop abruptly in the center.

Chest heaving.

“I don’t want to hurt her.”

There it is.
The sincerity.
Raw.
Unfiltered.

“I don’t want to be the reason someone doesn’t get back up.”

Their hands shake now.
Not from fear of Veronica.
From fear of themselves.

“I don’t want to lose control.”

The word control lingers.
They drop to their knees.

Press their palms into the canvas.
Grounding.

Breathing shallow.

“I’m not trying to destroy people.”

The instability creeps in now.
A flicker behind the eyes.

“What if I can’t tell when I’ve gone too far?”

That’s the real fear.
Not losing.

Not being outsmarted.
Going too fast.

And not knowing how to stop.
They stand suddenly.

Too fast.
They charge the corner and hit a full-speed dropkick into the turnbuckles.

The ring shakes violently.
They land hard.

Sit up instantly.
Eyes wide.

Breathing ragged.
They stare at the corner.

“I meant to do that.”

Silence.
They laugh once.
It’s wrong.

Short.
Uncomfortable.

“I meant to.”

They get up and pace again.

Faster.
The sincerity and the instability start overlapping.

“I respect her,” Boomie says.

They spin.

“But I won’t hesitate.”

Spin again.

“But I don’t want to hurt her.”

Stop.

“But I won’t hesitate.”

Their voice raises without meaning to.

“I WON’T.”

The echo hits them harder than expected.

They freeze.
Their breathing is loud now.
Too loud in the empty room.

They swallow.

“I don’t want to be feared,” they whisper.

A long pause.

“But I don’t want to be handled.”

Their hands curl into fists.
The tape creaks.

“I’m not a problem to solve.”

There’s anger there.

Clean.
Sharp.

“But I am a problem if you stand in front of me.”

That’s the instability speaking.
They recognize it immediately.

They step back from it.
Literally.

One full step backward.
They close their eyes.

“I can choose.”

Breath in.

“I can choose.”

Breath out.

“I can choose.”

The shaking slows.
The room quiets.
They open their eyes.

Not bright now.
Not manic.
Focused.

“I’m not at war with her,” Boomie says quietly.

“I’m at war with the part of me that thinks speed is the only answer.”

They look at their taped hands.
Untape one finger.

Retape it properly.
Neater.

“I don’t have to explode to be powerful.”

They nod once.
The instability doesn’t disappear.

It waits.
But now it’s waiting behind a door.

And Boomie is holding the handle.
They look directly into the hard cam.

No smile.
No sugar.

No bounce.
Just truth.

“I’m sincere,” they say.

“And I’m dangerous.”

A beat.

“Both can exist.”

The overhead light flickers once.
Boomie doesn’t flinch this time.

Cut to black.

Years ago. No arena. No music. No red and white.

A warehouse.
Not abandoned.

Used.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Too bright. Too white.

Inside the ring in the center of the space, there’s no crowd.
There are people with clipboards.

There’s a timer on a wall.
There’s a number taped to the corner post.

Not a logo.
A number.

Inside the ring—
They weren’t Boomie yet.
They were smaller.
Lighter.

Tape up to the elbows.
Hair shorter.

No red.
No white.

Just gray gear.
No smile.

Someone on the outside yells—

“Again.”

They hit the ropes.

Sprint.
German suplex.
Pop up.
Sprint again.

Miss.

“Again.”

They go again.
Harder.
Faster.

Over and over.
If they slow down, someone whistles.

If they hesitate, someone writes something down.
They weren’t allowed to think.

Only accelerate.
Only detonate.

They weren’t called by a name.
They were called by a metric.

“Unit 14.”

Again.
They collapse after a missed knee.

Breathing ragged.
The whistle blows.

“Too much drift.”

Not unstable.
Not emotional.

Just… drift.
They try to sit up.

Someone kicks the rope.

“Reset.”

They nod.

Because that’s what you do when your value is tied to output.
That’s what you do when you’ve been told your speed is the only thing about you worth keeping.

That’s what you do when the only praise you get is:

“Effective.”

They start to stand again—
And the warehouse door opens.

No fanfare.
No slow-motion entrance.

Just a heavy door sliding.
Hearthammer steps in.

He’s not dressed for a show.
Boots.

Work jacket.
Hands already taped.

He watches one full cycle.
Doesn’t interrupt.

Watches the whistle.
Watches the clipboard.

Watches the reset.
He sees the hesitation after the missed knee.

Sees the flinch before the whistle even blows.
Sees the way they look at the floor instead of at the people.

He steps forward.
The clipboard guy looks up.

“You here to try out?”

Hearthammer shakes his head.

“Who owns this contract?”

The question lands wrong.
There’s no contract.
Just an arrangement.

Just “development.”

Hearthammer steps closer to the ring.

“Unit 14,” someone calls.

They look up.
That’s the first time he sees their eyes.

Not wild.
Not violent.

Just… tired.
And still trying.

“Again.”

They move.

Sprint.
Hit the ropes.

Dropkick.
Land hard.

Don’t get up fast enough.
The whistle blows.

“Too slow.”

Hearthammer steps up onto the apron.

The clipboard guy frowns.

“This isn’t your business.”

Hearthammer doesn’t look at him.
He looks at them.

“You done?” he asks.

The question doesn’t make sense to them.

Done?
There is no done.

There is only next repetition.
They shake their head automatically.

“Again,” someone says.

Hearthammer steps between them and the corner.
They almost collide into him.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

That question makes sense.
No one has asked that before.

Their mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.

The whistle blows again.

“Unit 14.”

They flinch at the number.
Hearthammer hears it.

“Is that your name?” he asks.

Silence.
They don’t answer.

They don’t have another one to give.
The clipboard guy steps forward.

“They’re under evaluation.”

Hearthammer steps down from the apron and into the ring fully.

“Not anymore.”

There’s tension.
Shouting.

Threats about wasted potential.
About investment.

About “they’re almost ready.”

Hearthammer doesn’t argue.
He unlaces their wrist tape himself.

Slowly.
Carefully.

The tape peels away.
Underneath, the skin is raw.

Overused.
He looks at them.

“What do you want to be called?”

They stare at him.
Like the question is too big.

Like it requires a version of them that doesn’t exist yet.
They shake their head.

“No name,” they say quietly.

It’s the first thing they’ve said.
Hearthammer nods once.

“Then we’ll find one.”

He doesn’t drag them out.
He doesn’t carry them.

He walks toward the door.
Waits.

They look back at the ring.
At the number taped to the corner.

At the clipboard.
At the whistle.

Then they step out.
No applause.

No music.
Just the sound of boots leaving concrete.

It didn’t happen immediately.

For weeks after, they didn’t respond to anything.

Not to “kid.”
Not to “rookie.”
Not to “talent.”

Not even to silence.
Hearthammer didn’t push.
He trained them without a name.

Corrected form.
Slowed pace.
Taught them recovery.
Taught them breath.

One night, after they sprinted too fast and crashed into a wall pad, they laughed.
For the first time.
A short, explosive sound.

It startled them.
He looked at them and said:

“You sound like a detonation.”

They blinked.
He shrugged.

“Boom.”

They tilted their head.

He added:

“Boomie.”

They smiled.
Not wide.
Not manic.
Just… chosen.

They repeated it under their breath.

“Boomie.”

He nodded.

“You answer to what you choose.”

From that night on, they never responded to anything else.

Not “Unit.”

Not their birth name.
Not insults.
Not praise.

Only:
Boomie.
Because Boomie wasn’t assigned.

It wasn’t evaluated.
It wasn’t written on a clipboard.
It was the first sound that belonged to them.

Boomie is attached to choice.
Hearthammer never calls them anything else.

Not even when he’s angry.
Not even when they scare him.

Not even when they almost lose control.
Because the name isn’t branding.

It’s proof.
They were rescued from being optimized.

From being measured until they disappeared.
From being told speed was the only thing they were good for.

Now—
They move fast because they want to.

They detonate because they choose to.
And when Hearthammer stands behind them on the ramp—

He isn’t afraid of the explosion.
He’s the reason it isn’t involuntary.

Boomie is sitting on the apron, legs swinging.
Not bouncing.

Just… moving.
Hearthammer is taping his wrists nearby. Methodical. Even.

Boomie watches the dark arena like it’s something confusing.
After a while—

“Why does everything move so slow?”

It’s not a joke.
It’s not sugar.

It’s not manic.
It’s quiet.

Hearthammer doesn’t answer immediately.
He keeps taping.

Boomie continues, voice thoughtful.

“I feel like I’m always waiting for the world to catch up.”

Their foot taps against the apron.
Not frantic.

Just restless.

“In the ring, it makes sense. Everything speeds up. It’s loud. It’s immediate. It’s honest.”

A pause.

“But outside… conversations take forever. Decisions take forever. People hesitate.”

They tilt their head.

“Why?”

Hearthammer finishes taping one wrist before responding.

“Because most people don’t live under pressure.”

Boomie looks at him.

“I don’t feel pressured.”

He meets their eyes.

“You don’t recognize it anymore.”

That lands.
Boomie absorbs that slowly.

“My head is loud,” they admit.

“Yeah.”

“It’s not angry,” Boomie says quickly.

“I know.”

“It’s not violent.”

“I know.”

“It’s just… fast.”

Silence settles between them.
Boomie slides down off the apron and stands in front of him.

“When I’m not moving,” they say quietly, “it feels like I’m wasting something.”

Hearthammer studies them.

“You were trained to think that.”

Boomie’s jaw tightens slightly.

“I don’t want to go back to that.”

“You won’t.”

They swallow.

“But why does it feel like I’m running and everyone else is walking?”

Hearthammer stands up fully now. Towers, but doesn’t loom.

“Because you see outcomes early,” he says.

“You skip steps.”

Boomie frowns.

“I don’t mean to.”

“I know.”

He gestures to the empty ring.

“In there, that’s an advantage. Out here… it can feel like isolation.”

Boomie’s shoulders drop just a fraction.

“I don’t want to be alone in it.”

“You’re not.”

Immediate. Steady.

Boomie looks at him.

“You don’t move slow,” they say.

Hearthammer almost smiles.

“I move on purpose.”

Boomie thinks about that.

“Is that the difference?”

“Yes.”

A long pause.

Boomie shifts their weight.

“So how do I… move on purpose?”

Hearthammer steps closer—not invading space, just grounding it.

“You slow down by choice,” he says.

“Not because someone tells you to.”

Boomie looks skeptical.

“That sounds fake.”

“It feels fake at first.”

Boomie exhales through their nose.

“What if I miss something?”

“You will,” he says bluntly.

They blink.

“But you won’t miss yourself.”

That one hits deeper.

Boomie looks down at their taped hands.

“I don’t want to outrun who I am.”
“You won’t,” Hearthammer says.

“Why not?”

“Because you keep asking questions like this.”

Boomie goes quiet.
Their foot stops swinging.

For the first time tonight, they’re still.
Not forced.

Chosen.
They take a breath.

Slower than usual.

“Okay,” Boomie says softly.

Another breath.
The arena doesn’t feel as suffocating now.
Still quiet.
Still dark.

But not hostile.
Boomie looks up at the rafters.

“Maybe the world isn’t slow,” they say.

“Maybe I just haven’t learned how to walk yet.”

Hearthammer nods once.

“We’ll practice.”

Boomie smiles.
Not manic.
Not sharp.
Just small.

“Okay.”

They step off the apron fully.
And this time—

They don’t sprint to the exit.
They walk.

It feels unnatural.
It feels wrong.

It feels… intentional.
And that’s new.
Boomie is sitting in the center of the ring.

Not pacing.

Not bouncing.

Just sitting cross-legged.

The red and white gear catches the overhead light. The tape on their hands is uneven as always.

They look straight into the hard cam.

No smile.

But no fracture either.

“I hear it a lot,” they begin.

“Behaviourally unstable.”

They roll the phrase around like it’s unfamiliar.

“People say it like it’s a warning.”

A pause.

“Like it means I’m unpredictable.”

They nod once.

“I am.”

No defensiveness.

Just truth.

“But unstable doesn’t mean dangerous without control.”

They shift slightly, adjusting their posture.

“It means I feel things before most people do.”

A small breath.

“It means my body moves before my brain finishes the sentence.”

Another pause.

“It means when I care, I care at full volume.”

Their fingers press lightly into the canvas.

“Sometimes that’s loud.”

A flicker of memory crosses their face—corridors, chat messages, sugar highs.

“Sometimes that’s too fast.”

They look up again.

“But unstable doesn’t mean I don’t know right from wrong.”

Their voice firms—not louder, just clearer.

“It means I have to choose it every time.”

A beat.

“Other people wake up steady.”

“I wake up charged.”

They don’t smile when they say it.

They don’t dramatize it.

“It’s not a villain thing.”

“It’s not a hero thing.”

“It’s maintenance.”

They inhale slowly.

“When I say I’m behaviourally unstable…”

They tilt their head slightly.

“It means I am aware that I can go too far.”

A pause.

“And I decide not to.”

That lands heavy.

“I move fast because I feel fast.”

“I hit hard because I commit.”

“I laugh loud because joy hits me like impact.”

They let that sit.

“But I stop.”

They tap the mat twice with their fingers.

“I stop when someone says enough.”

“I stop when I see fear.”

“I stop when it isn’t sport anymore.”

Their eyes sharpen just slightly.

“And if I don’t stop…”

They don’t finish the sentence.

They don’t need to.

“But I haven’t lost that choice yet.”

That’s the important part.

They soften just a little.

“Behaviourally unstable doesn’t mean broken.”

“It means regulated on purpose.”

A small breath escapes them.

“I don’t want to be the safest person in the room.”

They glance toward the ramp.

“But I don’t want to be the reason it burns down either.”

Another quiet beat.

“So if you’re watching me…”

“If you’re facing me…”

“If you’re studying me…”

They lean forward slightly.

“Know this.”

“I am not chaos.”

“I am pressure.”

“And pressure only explodes when it isn’t respected.”

They sit back again.

Still.

Calm.

Deliberate.

“And I respect the line.”

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then—

Boomie smiles.

Small.

Sincere.

Not manic.

Not sharp.

Just… chosen.

“Goodnight.”

The overhead lights cut.

No music.

Just darkness.

And the faintest sound—

Like carbonation settling.

 

The Lucha Queen Has Arrived