A/N- Wassap, WWE Universe? So, I'd originally planned not to upload this till I finished my Neighbours fic, but honestly, I didn't want to wait any longer !The entire point of this fic is that it's kayfabe-compliant. That is, I'm treating storylines as actual events, ring names will be used as real names etc. It's probably been done before, but this is my take. The rating could change up to M, I haven't really decided yet. So yeah, I hope you enjoy. I just want to give a big shout-out and thanks to Starfire Tamaran, who really inspired me to write this and helped me out with some great ideas! Girl, you rock!

Chapter One- Pretty Little Psycho

~Now~
~Monday Night Raw, April 20th 2015~

My hands shook as the man standing in front of me took them in his own. As I looked into his cold brown eyes, my legs also began to shake under my wedding dress skirts. Makes me sound like the typical blushing bride, right? You could not be more wrong. I wasn't excited. I wasn't nervous. I didn't have butterflies. I was absolutely fucking terrified.

I broke our eye contact almost immediately, instead choosing to look at the minister who was standing with us in the ring, under this stupid white filigree-covered arch. He looked uncomfortable. So he should, I couldn't have been making it more obvious that I wanted to be anywhere but here. I looked at him with wide, pleading eyes – eyes that cried 'help me' – but what could he do? Nothing. Not with Stephanie and Triple H ringside, watching our every move.

So all he could do was clear his throat and move on to the final part of the ceremony, addressing my husband-to-be first. "Do you, Seth Daniel Rollins, take Savannah Rose Jordan to be your wife? To protect her in friendship, love and possession, in all your strength and success, to love her faithfully, today, tomorrow, and for as long as the two of you shall live?" Great to know The Authority had been kind enough to write the vows for us.

Seth grinned down at me, but it wasn't an 'I can't believe this is happening,' happy, loving grin, because Seth didn't love me. He never had. No, this was a grin that was, quite plainly, devilishly victorious. He'd won, and he knew it. He dropped one of my hands and brushed a tendril of ginger hair that had escaped from my up-do behind my ear, letting his finger trail down my jawline as he said, "I do."

I had to steel myself from physically cringing away from his touch, fighting the urge to burst into tears as he took my hand back. The only person I had to blame for this was myself. I'd agreed to it all, just to keep the two people I had held closest to me safe. For months, I'd stood in this ring and uttered the words, "I love you," to Seth more times than I could count, and he'd said them back. I'd portrayed the typical girl completely head over heels in love perfectly, and it had backfired miserably on me.

The minister turned his attention to me and repeated the vows, though mine had been suitably reworded. "And do you, Savannah Rose Jordan, take Seth Daniel Rollins to be your husband? To worship him in friendship and love, in strength and your weaknesses, to love him faithfully and unconditionally, and to obey him today, tomorrow, and for as long as the two of you shall live?"

Spot the difference in equality there.

I swallowed, my mouth going dry. "I…I…um…" I stuttered, desperately trying to force the words out of my mouth. Seth increased the grip he had on my hands, and stared at me with a coercing expression. "I- I d-"

A sudden crashing noise echoed from behind the LED board, and a deep voice shouted out, "Stop! Stop everything! Red, baby girl, don't do this!"

My mouth dropped open as both Seth and I sharply turned our heads to the source of the shouting. My knees almost buckled with relief when I saw him there. My Samoan Superman in SWAT gear was running towards us. I let go of Seth almost immediately, gathering my skirts up in one of my hands and getting ready to run.

"Roman!" I screamed, taking two steps forward, about to flat-out suicide dive out of the ring into his arms, but I was too slow. Seth grabbed my wrist and jerked me back to his side, causing me to stumble down to my knees. He knelt down to my level and got right in my face, twisting my wrist so painfully that I cried out in shock.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "You're going through with this, Sav! You're mine now, okay!? You belong to me! Not Reigns!"

Tears began to pour down my face as I whimpered, "Let go of me! Please, Seth, you're hurting me! I'm sorry!" I was disgusted with myself. A year ago, I wouldn't have taken all of Seth's shit that left me a sobbing, quivering wreck. The me from a year ago would have scissor-kicked him in the face, screamed a few choice expletives at him and ran.

But of course, a lot of fucked up stuff had happened over the last year…actually, over the last two years that had led me to be in this position in the first place. Fucked up stuff that had brought me to a point in my life where my fiancé stood over me, practically trying to break my arm as my ex-boyfriend remained outside the ring, fighting off Seth's little Hobbit security guards stopping him from getting in here and snapping Seth's spine.

You know what? It's probably going to be a lot easier if I just go back to the beginning and tell you everything. Reader discretion, though. This ain't no fairytale; it's fucking nightmare.

~ Two Years Earlier ~
~ March 2013 ~

SavvyAsHellWWE: I came here to kick ass and look like bubblegum. Wait, that's not right… #RingGearProblems
Tweeted 03/19/13 13.43PM

"Paige is completely dominating Savannah right now; it doesn't even look like Savannah can stand. Paige now pulling her into a standing position, she's going for the Paige-Turner- wait! Wait, Savannah's overpowering! Delivering a series of sharp kicks to the backs of Paige's knees! No, no, she has Paige on the floor, she's going for the Texas Chainsaw! She's got Paige by the arms, can she get it locked in? …Yes, yes, Savannah has it! Will she get Paige to tap out? Paige is struggling but Savannah's got the Chainsaw locked tight! And- and- and Paige has gotta tap out!"

I unwrapped my legs from around Paige's neck and released her from my Texas Chainsaw - my name for my signature submission move, the lotus lock – as the referee pulled me into a standing position and raised my arm as it was announced, "Here she is, your winner by submission: Savannah!"

As my music played out, I pulled a military salute at the crowd - who booed me back. I smirked. It was no secret that I loved being the biggest bitch in NXT, the developmental wing of WWE. It came naturally to me. I flicked my long red hair behind me and blew a kiss down at Paige, who just let out a frustrated scream and punched the mat.

I adjusted my shorts so they were sitting on my hips and climbed to the top rope, jumping down on to my hands and crouching into a tuck and roll towards the ramp. I turned around and mockingly waved back towards the ring, trying not to trip over my own feet as I walked backwards. Paige was standing in the ring, yelling at me. She wasn't happy; for nearly the entire match she'd been throwing me around the ring like a rag doll, but I'd just been able to summon up enough strength to overpower her at the last minute. I pouted back at her and trailed a finger down my cheek to signify a tear, before letting out a bark of laughter.

"LET ME HEAR YOUR WAR CRY!" I screamed along with my music. It was my tag line. You know, the thing I'd have printed on t-shirts and sweatpants if I had merchandise under my name. If. It was what I was all about; I brought the war to the ring, and I won the battle. I was a one woman army, hellbent on being the top Diva.

I took a sarcastic bow, ducking so low that my hair swept the floor, before blowing another kiss, now to the still-booing audience and disappearing backstage. The second I was back there, I collapsed against the wall, breathing heavily.

Jesus H. Christ, that match had taken it out of me. I'd been in developmental for just over two years, since January 2011, when it was still known as FCW. I'd made my TV debut on FCW TV in August 2011, performing as Savannah Rose, my Indy ring-name. I'd never bothered adding in my last name. It just seemed like too much of a mouthful. FCW was making the transition to just being NXT full-time when I switched from Savannah Rose to deciding I did want to perform as Savannah Jordan. It was also when I really took off as a performer to watch.

But now I was starting to wonder if I was going anywhere else. I'd done my two years; why wasn't I getting called up to the main roster? I was good enough. I proved that week after week. I'd just gotten Paige to tap out, for God's sake. She was probably one of the most powerful female wrestlers currently in NXT. I'd lost to her a couple of times, I'll admit that. But it was now mid-March. I needed to move up. Move up or move out. I mean, I was twenty-five years old and competing against some girls that were four, five, six years younger than me, for crying out loud.

I brushed my hair out of my eyes, took a gulp of water out of the bottle that was lying on top of an electrical equipment trunk and headed off to the locker room to get changed and go home. I needed a bubble bath and a power-nap, followed by curling up in bed with an episode of American Horror Story on Netflix. I had bruises forming in the worst places.

The locker room was basically empty when I arrived, which was just how I liked it. I couldn't be bothered to sit around listening to all those bitches…well, bitching. None of them really liked me, and honestly, I didn't like any of them. The idea of attempting to be friends with any of them was about as pleasant a thought as root canal surgery. They weren't going to help me become Divas Champion when I – eventually – moved up to the main roster, were they? No. Only one girl could hold that belt.

I tied my hair back in a messy ponytail, not bothering to brush it, washed off the white face-painted stripe across my cheeks that served as my 'war paint' and stripped out of the elasticated pink crop top, purple shorts, black knee-high socks and white boots I wore as my signature look, finally freeing the use of my lungs. Well, I looked adorable, there was no denying. It was my way of lulling my opponents into a false sense of security: I danced my way down to the ring dressed like a wad of bubblegum, and then I kicked their ass into the ground.

I loved my gear, don't get me wrong, but the tops did start to get a little uncomfortable after rolling around in the ring for a while. I was really more of a camisole-skinny-jeans-cardigan kind of girl, which was exactly what I changed into now: an ombre-effect pink and purple cami, pink jeans, black cardigan and grey ankle boots. Lost in a kind of trance, I trailed my finger over the tattoo of a vine of roses that covered the entire right side of my torso. It started from the top of my shoulder, then snaked down my ribs and curled round to my stomach, where it met up with the long-healed scar that marred my lower abdomen. I then took my time carefully re-applying a thick layer of foundation to that scar. No one wanted to see that, least of all me. It revolted me. Keeping it hidden was the best thing I could do.

I threw the rest of my stuff into my cute Lilo and Stitch tote bag, slicked on some berry-coloured lipstick and I was good to go. I strode purposefully out of the building, acknowledging the various stagehands, Superstars and Divas I passed with a nod, occasionally saying, "Bye," if I found them someway likable.

Emerging into the Florida sunshine immediately had me pulling off my cardigan. I'd been living in Florida for three years, since I was twenty-two. I'd been in Tampa whilst I was part of FCW, and now I resided comfortably in Winter Park. After growing up in the borderline-tropical climate of Dallas, Texas - my hometown - I'd expected Florida to be as freezing cold as the North Pole. I'd been pleasantly surprised to step off the plane and find myself in ninety degree heat. Then cursed at the sky as I struggled to remove my trench coat, cardigan and sweater before I died of heatstroke.

I never got homesick, though. As far as I was concerned, I could stay out of Dallas for the rest of my life. Hell, I could stay out of the entire state of fucking Texas for all I cared. I knew that wasn't going to happen, since when the time came for me to move up, I'd be travelling around the whole of the USA. There was no doubt I'd end up back in Texas at some point. I just hoped this was going to be in the very far future. It was still too soon...

It was always going to be too soon.

The parking lot was fenced off so no crazy fans could jump in and attempt to steal our cars or underwear to sell on eBay. A lot of the fans still hung around after the tapings, standing by the fences to get a glimpse of someone. Quite a few were still here now, and as I moved within their eye-range they began to cheer. Well, kind of.

"Sa-va-nnah! Sa-va-nnah!"

"Let's go, Jordan, let's go!"

"Let me hear your war cry! Yeah!"

But of course, not all the calls were going to be positive.

"Savannah sucks! Savannah sucks!"

"You're a bitch!"

And the obligatory, "You can't wrestle!" *five claps* "You can't wrestle!"

Still, sticks and stones and all that. I just waved and smiled at everyone that was there, enjoying the cheers and whoops I got back and tuning out the boos. Some fans didn't like me, I got that. I wasn't exactly a nice person, and that was going to come across on TV. Not that I cared, mind. Any reception at all was positive reception, as far as I was concerned. The fans still came to watch me wrestle and they still stood chanting my name. I always said there was a fine line between love and hate, and this was definitely the case with the kind of person I was. Everyone loved to hate me.

I located my classic black 1965 convertible Mustang (all-American girl over here) pretty quickly, having deliberately parked between a bright blue Mini Cooper and a yellow Jeep. I dumped my bag in the passenger side and stuck my key in the ignition, turning on the engine and backing out of the space. Once I was merrily on my way back to my little apartment, I hit the power button for the CD player I'd had fitted in a few months ago. Marina and the Diamonds' Primadonna started blaring out.

Beauty queen on a silver screen,
Living life like I'm in a dream.
I know I've got a big ego.
I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though.
And I'm sad to the core, core, core,
Every day is a chore, chore, chore.
When you feel a whole more, more, more,
I wanna be adored.

I knew of certain people who thought it was a song that was perfectly written for me. I agreed with them, actually. I'd always been a bit pretentious. I can admit that. When I was a little girl, my mom would call me her little prima-ballerina, which was stupid, because I never took a class of ballet in my life. But that was Mom- she never made a whole lot of sense, but she still found a way to look ridiculously intelligent when she said it. Her quirky sense of humor and our inside jokes always had me in fits of giggles.

But when I was fourteen, the giggling stopped. She died, to put it bluntly. She'd had breast cancer near enough constantly since I was ten, but at the start, it had been controllable. She'd had the chemo, the radiotherapy, the other drugs, the hospital stays. She'd even been classed as in remission a couple of times. But suddenly, it came back worse than ever, and there was nothing more the doctors could do for her. She was re-diagnosed on New Year's Day. They gave her three months. It was only four weeks later, just five days after my fourteenth birthday, that she was gone.

My mom had been my everything. Like every girl, she had been my best friend, my mentor, my rock. It wasn't that my dad and I hadn't got along, because we'd been close too. But Mom had always been the one I'd gone to with my problems, if I needed to talk to her about girly stuff or anything that was troubling me, and she'd understand me just like that. Now I had no one. Something inside me broke then.

I began acting out at school. I was getting into fights with anyone who looked at me the wrong way – which I took as 'if anyone even looks in my direction' – I didn't do any of my homework, barely turned up to my lessons. The school staged a literal intervention and had me placed in counselling for bereavement and anger issues.

Dr Ronson, my therapist, tried everything. He tried getting me to talk about my problems, had me write things down, got my dad into a few sessions to see if that worked (it didn't. My relationship with Dad had declined rapidly since Mom died). So Dr Ronson had to try a new approach, the only approach he had left. A physical outlet.

Did I want to try out for girls' soccer? No.

How about football? No.

Lacrosse? No.

Basketball again? No way, I'd already been thrown of the team for biting Cindy Harleston after she tried to intercept me.

The cheerleading squad? Oh hell to the no!

I was being so difficult that eventually, he had to look outside of school to get me to even consider listening to him. After I turned down a local swim team, running and kickboxing, he found me something that sounded actually sounded like it could be worth my time. He found me a wrestling school that took place in a gym which was just a twenty minute walk away from my current house.

I'd been dubious at first. Wasn't wrestling for 'roided-up dudes covered in oil? It had never been an interest of mine. I mean, it was 2002. I knew of wrestling. The Attitude Era of the then-WWF was hot on everyone's minds, and the kids at school never shut up about The Undertaker, Triple H, Kane, Lita, Trish Stratus, the Hardy Boyz, Chris Jericho and all those other legends of TV-14. But it really never appealed to me. No matter how ironic that may be, I hold my hands up and admit it.

Still, there was nothing else giving my life meaning at that point so I figured I'd give it a try. So on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Saturdays and some Sundays I spent three hours at that gym - six hours at the weekends - training and learning and perfecting every single move my trainer decided to teach me.

And you know what? I was good. I was honestly, actually good. Having played basketball from the age of seven, I had the athleticism, the durability and the speed to keep me going in a match for well over ten or fifteen minutes. I liked to pack a punch, so I wasn't bothered about hurting anyone. And most importantly, my current 'I don't give a fuck' attitude to life meant I wasn't afraid of anyone I got in the ring with, even as a mere fetus wrestler.

After being there just two months, I was being put in matches against seventeen-year-old high school senior boys. Sure, in those cases I did usually get my ass handed to me, but the point was that I wasn't afraid; I enjoyed it. It really felt like I'd found my calling in life.

But then my dearest father threw the world's biggest wrench into the works.

Just nine months later, a few weeks after I turned fifteen, Dad announced that he just couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't stay in Dallas, where everything just reminded him of Mom and that she was gone. He couldn't stay with me because I reminded him too much of her. He said that he'd stuck it out for the year, but looking at me, and seeing her eyes in my face and her hair on my head, was just a constant cruel reminder that his true love had been ripped from him. He needed to 'get away and start fresh.' So he did.

It took a bit of time, but Dad just upped and left me, moving across three states to Alabama and leaving me alone in the Dallas care system. Devastated didn't even begin to cover how I felt. I was furious, I was broken, and I was betrayed. If I'd reacted badly to Mom dying, it was nothing compared to how I reacted to being totally abandoned.

It was a steady decline. First came the people I hung out with. Not matter what foster family I stayed with - whether kind, loving or just in it for the cash - no matter what school I was sent to while I stayed with them, I automatically gravitated towards the 'wrong crowd.' I was the girl who swore at teachers, who was constantly in detention the days I actually decided to even turn up for class, the girl who attacked people in the corridors for no reason, who slept with half the football team just because I could.

I was the girl who, despite constantly having a crowd of people around me, had no friends.

I didn't want friends. I didn't need friends. As far as I could see, everyone in my life that I grew to care about would leave me. Mom, Dad, my aunts, uncles and grandparents who had apparently completely forgotten my entire existence. I lashed out at anyone and everyone. The only thing that was keeping me going was my wrestling.

Whatever family I stayed with, however far from the gym they were, I begged and pleaded and screamed and cried until my foster parents agreed to drive me there. Luckily, I learned drive pretty quickly (my first foster dad had been a cab driver and started teaching me to drive almost as soon as I moved in with them) so I was only relying on people for about a year and a half.

Every day I trained, I was getting better. I was entering state competitions for teens every other weekend and winning. I was actually winning them! I should have been on top of the world, right? I was becoming an amazing wrestler, the families I stayed with were usually really nice people who tried to understand my fucked-up mentality as best they could, and physically, I was able to work out a lot of issues.

Physically. But mentally, I was still dying. The way I was acting at school meant my grades were at an all-time low, there were always talks of me getting thrown out, no matter where I enrolled, and the loneliness was finally starting to catch up with me. So I did whatever I could to block it out.

By mid-2004, at the tender age of just sixteen, I was stealing booze from my foster parents on a daily basis and drinking until I blacked out. It carried on like that until a little while before I turned eighteen and was due to be released from the care system. I was having a particularly low day- all I was thinking about was what I was going to do when I did hit the big one-eight.

Where would I go? Where would I live? What would I do? I just wanted it to end, so I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the drinks cabinet and a load of prescription pills from the medicine box. I emptied both bottles, passed out and I didn't wake up. My foster family freaked out big time; this was the second suicide attempt they'd gone through with me, though the last one had been a half-bottle of whiskey and a few extra-strong painkillers. Not enough to do any lasting damage.

But this time was different. I was in a coma for two weeks. I'd had my stomach pumped and God knows what else to stop my insides rotting out, and had an operation on my liver because I'd slowly been destroying it over the previous year and a half. My body was a complete wreck. The surgery had left me with a five inch-long scar that stretched itself right the way across the part of my torso where my liver was. I despised it. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of what a weak, pathetic human being I was; too weak to fight her own demons, so instead I'd tried - and still failed - to silence them.

But that was when I realised something. Two times, I'd tried to do this, and both times I had pulled through. What if this was the world telling me that I didn't need to be this way, that there was something out there that meant I really had a meaning on this Earth? Or at least, could grow to mean something? I was here to stay, and if I was here, I was gonna spend my time doing what the fuck I loved whenever the fuck I wanted, and that was putting the smackdown on some bitches in the ring. However, there was a minor tactical setback to my epiphany.

I was completely out of action for three months. No school, no driving, and definitely no wrestling. It looked like my career was going to be ended before I could even call it my career. Everything was a total mess. A plus side was that I took on a new hobby in the form of painting, but it just wasn't the same as drop-kicking another chick across the ring.

So physiotherapy was a must. As soon as I was given a relative all-clear, I met with a hospital-appointed physiotherapist every other day for a month, who helped me to walk and move without straining the healing wound across my abdomen where they had sliced me open. At first, it had been...excruciating. Every tiny little step had tugged at the heeling gash, threatening to tear it open all over again. Recovery was slow and agonizing, but I fought through it, just like I fought through all the other shit I'd been through. I was determined that this wouldn't be the end of me wrestling. I would have nothing left.

So I fought. And I fought. And I fought. And eventually, a couple of months down the line, I pushed the doors of my gym open and walked in with two middle fingers held high, ready to show the bitches who had no doubt started up in my absence exactly why I would never be replaced.

As soon as I turned eighteen, though, my time in care was up, and I decided this meant that my time in Texas was also over. Too much had happened to me in Dallas to even have me considering remaining here, so I dropped out of school, packed my bags and said goodbye to my final foster family. I drove off into the sunset funded with nothing but my government-issued grant, five thousand dollars my foster parents had given me despite my protests that it was too much (they'd been legitimately loaded, so God knows why I'd tried to turn in down) and some money I'd made from little weekend jobs.

I travelled around the States seeking out any wrestling competitions I could find. I wormed my way into the independent circuit easily, eventually getting signed to Combat Zone Wrestling, or CZW, in 2008, and for three years I totally crushed it. I hadn't wanted to go for Ring of Honor or any of the other Indy companies that were more, well, family-friendly. The way I saw it, it was a case of go hard or go home, even if that meant going so hard that I often went home covered in blood- not always mine, either.

I was at the top of my game, and I did it all by myself. I had no tag team, no travelling partner, no training buddy. It was just me and the ring, which was just how I liked it.

The day I discovered there was going to be a WWE talent scout at a show I was competing in was a dream come true. Finally, all the hard work was going to pay off. If I could get signed to WWE, it would prove that I was something, I was capable of being someone that mattered. I trained gruellingly for four weeks, seven hours a day, every day. I had to be in the best shape possible to stand out from the other competitors. I had nothing to offer the scout but sheer talent and determination; I'd never won any titles to speak of, unlike the other girls who had won various belts from various companies over the years.

I was shitting myself the night of my match. I was taking part in a triple threat, and word had it that the winner was going to be the one scouted. Well, unless the scout thought that we all just sucked ass. With a potential WWE contract on the line, us three girls in the match were spitting venom at each other before the bell had even rung. It was brutal.

One girl sent me flying into a turnbuckle and split the flesh above my right eyebrow completely open, sending blood flowing into my eye. I in turn hit her in the face with a bicycle kick so violent that I broke her nose and cracked her cheekbone. That left her completely out of the action, so I turned my attention to the other girl.

The pain radiating through my head had made me furious; beyond furious. Here I was, standing in the middle of the ring with blood dripping down my face, matting in my hair, in front of a WWE talent scout. I was not going to lose this match, especially not to the big-boobed, blonde-haired bitch in front of me, and definitely not to the brunette now crying over her nose in the corner. I flew at the blonde, connecting my arm against her throat in a devastating clothesline that had her hitting the canvas mat so hard she rebounded on to her front. I delivered a series of kicks to her back that had the ref pulling me off her, and as soon as she attempted to stand up I delivered a blow to the backs of her knees so she fell back down. I then pulled her into a such a powerful then-unnamed-Chainsaw that I could physically feel her stomach muscles straining. It didn't look like she was going to admit defeat, but soon her hands were flailing and tapping for all she was worth.

I'd been completely and utterly excited about the fact I'd won. So excited that to release the girl from the submission move I just unwrapped my legs from around her neck and kicked her sharply between the shoulder blades so she sprawled forward into a heap in front of me. The ref lifted my arm into the air while I clamped my other hand to my eye to stem the bleeding. That injury also scarred me, and that was a scar I could wear with pride.

The rest, as they say, is history.

It's no secret that I was pretty damn psycho as Savannah Rose - I mean, my entrance music in CZW had been Slipknot's Black Heart, so what does that tell you? - but due to WWE being strictly PG, Savannah Jordan had toned her ways down. A lot. I didn't swear in the ring, I didn't make inappropriate innuendos...often, I didn't deliberately go out of my way to make someone bleed, I didn't cause anyone too much pain. I was beyond a bitch, sure, and I screamed a lot, but that was nothing compared to how I had been. But I tried not to think about the past too much; I was all about the future. My future.

I was still humming along to my CD as I pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex. I headed up to my apartment via the stairs, because I figured it added that extra bit of cardio to my day since I lived up on the fifteenth floor. I pushed the door open and threw my tote down, channelling my inner Selina Kyle. "Honey, I'm home!" I called into the empty apartment. "Oh wait, I forgot I'm not married."

The second I swung the door shut, though, my iPhone started ringing from the depths of the bag, vibrating and playing out Rihanna's S&M .

I quickly dug it out and had a look at the caller ID. All it said was 'WWE.' Shit. That was talent relations. Oh shit. What had I done?! I was hardly ever called by work, unless it was really serious. Oh God oh God oh God. Was I getting fired?!

Woah, Sav, calm the fuck down, I thought. Of course you're not getting fired, just answer the goddamn phone so you know what's going on! I hated it when I had a point. I slid the Accept Call across and pressed the phone against my ear. "Hello?"

"Savannah, hi. It's Canyon here," came the voice of Canyon Ceman, head of NXT talent relations. "How are you?"

"Oh, C-Canyon, hi," I stuttered. "I er, I'm- I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. How are you?"

"I'm great, Savannah, thanks. Listen, what are you doing tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" I frowned. "I'm not due for any tapings or anything, I was just going to go to the gym."

"Actually, we're going to need you to come in tomorrow, at some point. There's a matter we'd really like to discuss with you in person."

"Am I getting fired?!" I blurted out.

Ceman laughed. "No, Savannah, you're not getting fired, I promise."

"Not getting fired. Okay." I took a deep breath. "What time do you want me to come by?" So you can not fire me, apparently.

"Shall we say...three o'clock? That way you can still have your gym session."

"I'm down for that," I said without thinking. Then I remembered who I was talking to. "I mean, yes, three o'clock's perfectly fine, thanks," I retracted quickly, slapping my hand to my forehead in a particularly painful facepalm.

"Excellent. Well, I shall see you tomorrow, Savannah."

"Yeah, I guess you will. Thanks for the call, Canyon. See you tomorrow." I hung up my phone but kept a hold on it, staring at its black 'More Issues Than Vogue' case. What in the fuck was that all about? I wasn't getting fired. Okay. I got that much. But why else would the head of talent want to see me? Oh Jesus, what if they wanted me to be in a tag team? Urgh, if I ended up with someone like Summer Rae, I swore to God...

Still, I guessed there was no point dwelling on this for now. If I dwelled, I would panic. If I panicked, I would scream, and throw things, and smash things up. In short, it wouldn't be pretty. So I ignored it. Or at least, I compressed it by focusing on other things. Namely, chilling out for the evening.

I shut my phone off - ha, like I'd actually get any texts from anyone other than my service provider - pulled my hair out of its ponytail so it fluffed out around my head in a ginger cloud and headed into the bathroom to take a shower. The hot water worked out all the knots in my back, and I tried to stay with that 'positive thinking' crap I'd been talking myself into.

Not getting fired...it's gonna be some amazing career opportunity that's too big to discuss over the phone...not getting fired...it's gonna be some amazing career opportunity that's too big to discuss over the phone...not getting fired...it's gonna be some amazing career opportunity that's too big to discuss over the phone...not getting fired...not getting fired...NOT GETTING FIRED. Oh my God, what if some pathetic ex-boyfriend- okay, ex-one night stand had seen me on TV and decided now was a great time to sell a story on me?! I'd be completely fucked.

I slammed my hand against the shower dial and twisted it quickly to shut it off. I leaned against the glass door, breathing heavily. Now was not the time to be having a panic attack. I had literally been assured that I had nothing to worry about. See what having a shit adolescence does to your self-esteem? The second it seemed like something could go wrong, I had a major freak out.

I wrapped myself in a warm towel I'd left outside the shower and clambered out of the door, shivering slightly. I wiped the condensation off the mirror and gave myself a once over before padding through to my bedroom. Feeling drained, I didn't even bother getting changed; I collapsed face-first on to my bed and closed my eyes. I was out cold in a matter of seconds.

I woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at 6.30AM the next morning. Apparently sleeping for eleven hours can be good for you. Who'da thunk it. I threw on some workout gear, fixed myself a quick bowl of Lucky Charms, chugged down half a glass of orange juice and headed out the door at 7.15, ready to train the day away.

The great thing about arriving at the gym before eight was that it was borderline empty. I had my pick of the equipment. I scraped my hair into two pigtails and put my headphones in my phone, placed my phone in my arm-strap and selected Lady GaGa's The Fame album as my soundtrack. I then spent five minutes stretching myself out so I wouldn't cramp up and got down to it. I stayed in the gym until one o'clock, doing a complete circuit of the place: the rower, weights, running machine, cross-trainer, push-ups, sit-ups, planks…the works. I'd always loved exercise, it gave me a sense of control over myself. I'd never been, like, overweight, but I'd been a pudgy little kid with round cheeks and a less-than-flat stomach.

After all these years of daily workouts and a good diet, I'd given myself much more angular cheekbones and one badass six-pack. I knew I looked good, which did really help with the confidence issues. It was just a shame I had so many that it hardly made a difference to the overall way I felt about myself.

Once I'd stretched off, I skipped my usual 'have a shower, get changed, go to Starbucks' routine. Instead, it was straight home and back into the shower there to wash off the smell of hard work. There was no time for me to fuck around, I had to get to Full Sail University, where NXT was based, and go to this damn meeting. This damn meeting that now I had nothing else to focus on I was beginning to panic about. Again. Oh my God, Sav, get a grip on yourself.

It was time to get professional. White jeans and a black shirt seemed as good an idea as any, so I ransacked my closet and found the appropriate clothes, pulled them on over my still-damp body and did a 360 in the mirror to deem myself acceptable. Hair now up in a bun, I grabbed my regular apple-shaped handbag, checked I had my wallet, keys and phone, and headed straight back out the door and into my car.

Did I break the speed limit to get to the university? Yes. Did I almost run over a small family of ducks on my way? Yes. Were any shits given? No. I didn't have time to give a shit. I just wanted to know what was so important that Canyon Ceman couldn't talk to me about it over the phone. No matter what he's said last night, I was still half-convinced I was getting fired.

I skidded through the doors at two forty-five, only to be told that he was in the middle of an important phone call and I would have to wait. So I did. I sat myself down on a couch outside his office and tapped my purple-painted nails against my knee anxiously. This is what I got for trying to be punctual; anxiety and more stress. They were probably preparing the contract for me to sign to say I'd never come near the premises again.

The office door suddenly opened, and I practically jumped to my feet, I was so nervous. I also knocked over the potted plant next to the couch, but that was neither here nor there.

"Savannah, great to see you," Canyon said warmly, shaking my hand and gesturing me into the office. "Please, come in, make yourself comfortable."

"Um, thanks," I mumbled, awkwardly patting at my bun to check it was still in place and sitting down in the leather chair across from his desk. "It's good to see you too."

"Can I get you a drink? Coffee? Tea? Water?"

"A glass of water would be nice, thank you." My mouth had gone dry as a desert.

He handed me a bottle of water from a small fridge in the corner of the room, which I gratefully cracked open.

"So, I'd like to get straight down to business, if that's okay with you," he said, sitting across from me and placing his hands on the desk. I nodded, lowering my eyes. Here it came...

"We have got an absolutely incredible opportunity for you."

What? I blinked. "Um, so just to clarify...I'm really not getting fired?"

"What?" Now it was Canyon's turn to look confused. "No, of course you're not getting fired, I told you that yesterday. No, this is something that really couldn't benefit you more, and I think it's something you've been waiting for for a while."

I settled back in my seat, crossing one leg over the other. "I'm listening." All the anxiety just seemed to melt out of me.

"Savannah, you've been part of developmental for well over two years now." Yeah, tell me about it. "And we feel that you've reached your full potential here at NXT."

"Okay?" I said, drawing out the 'ay' sound for a second. "I'm not really following?"

"For the last couple of weeks, I've been having a few meetings with Hunter Hearst Helmsley," he informed me. "Meetings about you."

I promptly choked on the water I'd just taken a sip of. The head of talent relations had been having meetings with Triple H - the boss man, the big cheese, the King of Kings - about me?! Wait. Wait wait wait. Did...did this mean...

"Really?" was all I said out loud. "Wow, that's, um, really unexpected. Why?"

"Hunter and I are both very impressed with your talent, Savannah. Extremely impressed, actually. You go out there, and even though you don't always get the, er, warmest reception, you power through and you deliver, every single match. You've had an undefeated streak for almost two months. Hunter and I both feel that you're ready to move up and join the main roster."

The words had barely left his lips before I let out a loud shriek of excitement. "Oh my God! Canyon- Mr Ceman, I- I can't thank you enough! Really, this is a dream come true, I promise you that you won't regret this at all! Thank you, I- I-" I'm running out of ways to say thank you! "When do I get to start?!"

"Well, we're trying something a little different with you," Canyon said. "We were going to wait until the post-WrestleMania Raw for you to make your first showing. However, we've had a change of plan. There is a faction on the main roster who have been having an incredible undefeated streak much like yours, just longer. The reception they've been receiving has been phenomenal. However, they feel that they need to do something to really shake things up, to get people talking about them even more. They want to add a woman to their ranks. We feel that you are that woman, Savannah. You say you stand for bringing the battle to the ring? So do they. You'll be the perfect compliment to their reign."

I frowned. "You're adding me to an all-male faction?" Yeah, because that made complete sense.

"We are. You'll stand out as the new girl, the girl everyone will have their eye on! We're flying you out to New Jersey in two weeks to give you time to settle in to the mayhem of the city before your first televised appearance on April seventh."

"April seventh?!" I repeated. "But isn't that...?"

"WrestleMania Twenty-Nine, yes."

I couldn't believe this. "You want me to make my main roster wrestling debut at WrestleMania Twenty-Nine?"

At that, Ceman actually laughed. "Dear God, no! Can you imagine the backlash from the fans if we let an NXT rookie make her performing debut at a WrestleMania? They'd be furious we chose a newbie over a far more worthy Diva. No, no, we're going to have you valeting. People will talk, they'll want to know who you are. That's when we get you to wrestle on the post-Mania Raw. Sound good to you?"

I couldn't speak at first, I was so amazed. "I- Yeah, that sounds just...great. This is incredible, but...if you don't mind me asking...um, who is it exactly that I'm being teamed up with?"

"Ah, yes. Of course, I haven't actually told you that critical part. Savannah, I assume you've heard about The Shield?"

A/N- And that is chapter one DONE! I really hope you enjoyed it! So let me know. Review, follow, favourite, anything to let me know you want me to keep going! Oh, I probably should have mentioned this earlier...I'm English, not American, so if I've said anything typically British, let me know! So, hopefully I'll be returning soon, and until then...au revior, my little crumpets! Xx Gee xX

PS- If anyone's curious, Sav's entrance music is Comanche by In This Moment. Because I have no life, I actually took the time to make her titantron, which is posted on my profile along with a trailery-type video for the fic as a whole, and to who I picture Sav looking like. There's also a link to an in-progress Polyvore collection that I will be updating as the fic goes on, so check 'em all out! XD