A/N: Okay, so this is my first attempt at a wrestling fanfic, so I don't know how good it's gonna end up being, but it's been fun to write it so far. I've been hand writing it for a while now, so I have a lot more written than typed, but I'm still hoping to get chapters up fairly frequently. This is gonna be CM Punk/ OC, with mentions of other characters.

Disclaimer: As much as I'd like to own WWE, I don't. And obviously, I don't own any real people in this story. That would be weird.

I stood staring at the name plate on the door for a moment, not quite sure that this moment that I had been dreaming about for as long as I could remember was real. I pinched myself, then, once I was satisfied that I wasn't going to wake up, again, I raised my slightly trembling hand to knock on the door labeled simply with Vince McMahon.

He opened the door a few seconds later, and I found myself face to face with the man who held my dreams in his hand. "You must be Amber," he said, gesturing for me to enter the office.

I nodded, extending my hand, which he shook firmly. "It's an honor to meet you Mr. McMahon."

He laughed, an odd sound coming from the man I had loathed in my days of simply watching wrestling, then come to fear during my years of amateur training. "There's no need to flatter me Amber. I've met enough potential talent to know that you're probably terrified of me, or completely hate me, or both. That's fine. I won't hold it against you. Have a seat."

I sat across from his desk, trying to figure out if Mr. McMahon was trying to put me at ease, or intimidate me further. As he began looking through my file, I decided to reserve my judgment, at least temporarily. Instead, I occupied my racing thoughts by examining the office, so hopefully to disguise my nerves.

The room was nearly the same size as my entire apartment. We were situated in a back corner of the massive office. Behind Mr. McMahon's chair was a floor to ceiling window that encompassed the entire wall. The window had an amazing view of Hartford, that led me to wonder how he got any work done whatsoever with a view like that to distract him. That question only grew in potency as I discreetly examined the rest of the office and realized we were in the only corner of the room that seemed to be dedicated to work-related pursuits. The rest of the "office" was taken up by a kitchenette, what appeared to be a private bathroom, and a large area with couches, a coffee table, and the biggest TV I'd ever seen. The walls were plastered with wrestling photos and memorabilia that seemed to date back to the very beginning of professional wrestling.

I had just enough time to realize that I would be perfectly content to live out the rest of my days in this office when Mr. McMahon interrupted my thinking by saying "Amber Burnside…" almost contemplatively. I looked up to find him staring at me, as if sizing me up. "Well," he said, when it appeared he had found the answer to whatever question had been in his mind, "there is no arguing that you have a very impressive amateur record. The trainers at FCW had nothing but good things to say about you. I have to say, though, you don't quite fit the mold of what a WWE diva normally is; you do realize that?"

I thought almost guiltily of my 5'9" form. My body type was more muscular than stick-thin, and I simply didn't look like the other divas, even without the aforementioned characteristics. Nor did I wrestle like them. I insisted on training with the men at Developmental, and it showed in my technique style. I didn't bother learning to cartwheel, or do any other move based more on sex than skill. Instead, I worked with my strengths: I learned moves based on speed and power, not on kink. And it worked for me. At FCW I beat the majority of my opponents, men and women alike. "Yes sir," I replied cautiously, "but I haven't let it stand in my way thus far. I created my own mold."

He laughed again, appearing satisfied. "You color outside the lines. I respect that. And I have been looking for someone to change up the Diva's division a bit, make it respectable again. I think you could do very well in that role. I'm willing to put my faith in you. There's just one thing. The trainers at FCW wrote that you have obvious scarring on both your wrists. I'm not interested in judging you, and I believe in leaving the past where it is, but we can't have that on camera. What do you want to do about that?"

The people at Developmental had warned me about this. I had come prepared on the off chance that the interview actually progressed to the point of nit-picking. I reached into my bag and pulled out a pair of black fingerless leather gloves that extended far enough down my wrists to cover the scars and velcroed into place so they wouldn't slip off in the ring. "I can wear these." I slipped them on, fastened them in place, then showed Mr. McMahon.

He grabbed my hands, tugging on the gloves a couple times, then nodded in approval. "Alright, now that that's settled, let's talk details. I want to put you on the Raw roster. Any objections to that?"

"That's perfect." I said without hesitation. I'd started out watching Raw, and it had always been the superior brand in my opinion. Not to mention nearly all of my favorite Superstars were on Raw.

"Good. I think you'll fit in better with the Raw roster. They tend to be more…progressive." With that settled, we discussed money briefly. There really wasn't much to discuss. As long as I made as much as my waitressing job, I could sustain my current standard of living. Anything more than that, and Mr. McMahon was offering me a LOT more, was an added bonus. Then he looked at me, as if measuring me once again. "This business can be wonderful, there's no denying that. But you'll also be spending nearly the entire year on tour, putting your body on the line every day, and there's absolutely no way to be sure you'll make it to the top. Very few people do. Are you ready for that?"

I looked him squarely in the eyes, and for the first time in our meeting he was the one who looked away first. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't, Sir." I said resolutely.

"Well, you've got fire," he said, "a kind I haven't seen in a long time, even longer in our female talent. That bodes well. " He quickly filled a few things into a document, then seven or eight pages came flying out of his printer. "This is a standard WWE contract. The alterations I made were for your gender, age, brand, salary, and name." He stapled the pages and handed them to me.

"I still have to read it over," I stated.

He actually smiled. "I wouldn't respect you if you didn't."

I read through all eight pages of the contract, and once I was entirely satisfied that I wasn't signing away my firstborn or something ridiculous like that, I picked up the pen that had been left for me on the desk. My gloved hand was shaking slightly. This is one of those moments, I thought to myself, where everything changes. I forced my hand to steady enough to create a legible signature, then pressed pen to paper in what had to be the most surreal moment of my life.

I handed the contract back to Mr. McMahon, who signed it as well. "Congratulations Amber, you're officially a WWE Superstar. Now, normally we'd have you start out on Superstars until you'd proven yourself, but I don't honestly feel like you have anything to prove. And I really don't want to wait on getting you seen. I want you to start touring with Raw immediately. That doesn't mean you're going to get airtime right away, but it'll speed up the process, assuming you do well. It's gonna complicate things a bit though, because you're going to have to figure out your ring name, and entrance and such in a very short amount of time. Are you ready for that?"

"Yes." I said simply, attempting to control my mounting shock and excitement.

"Good, then you'll fly out to Seattle tomorrow, where you'll meet with the Raw Roster for the first time, and with the COO Triple H, who will decide how best to proceed."

I quickly took a mental inventory of the few things I would need to take care of before going on tour. I could handle flying out tomorrow, easily. "Alright," I agreed, "What time is the flight?"

He checked a schedule sitting on the top of his desk. "I can fly you out at 3pm. You'll make it to Seattle just in time to meet with Triple H tomorrow night, the roster the next day, then see your first Raw production the day after that. I'll set everything up. Go home, get some sleep, and take care of whatever you need to. I'll have someone pick you up at one o'clock tomorrow."

I stood up, shaking his hand once again. "Thank you very much Mr. McMahon."

He nodded, and I recognized the dismissal, withdrawing from the room as quickly as possible. I exited the building and drove home in a daze. It wasn't until I was in my tiny studio apartment that everything sunk in. I had left my home earlier that day a nervous wreck with a dream, and returned a WWE Superstar.

I gave myself a few moments of pure, unrestrained excitement which I spent jumping up and down and emitting the occasional squeal. My neighbors were the loud, partying type. They could tolerate some noise from me for once. Once I'd expended the necessary amount of energy that I would be able to stay somewhat still, I made a few phone calls. The first was to my boss, who I guess I could call my best friend, seeing as how I didn't really have any other friends. I shared the good news, and quit my job. She was happy for me, as much as she could be considering we didn't really know each other outside of work. Then I called my parents who, unsurprisingly, didn't even bother answering their phones. Whatever. It was a courtesy call anyway.

I spent the rest of the evening packing (mostly just clothes and wrestling gear) and making other preparations. The whole process was made easier by the fact that I'd only been back in Hartford for a few weeks after living in Florida to train with FCW for the past few years. I'd grown up in Hartford, and knew the restaurant where I'd worked recently from many childhood experiences, but I hadn't really formed any ties this time, knowing that as soon as my interview with Mr. McMahon was over, I would either be headed back to FWC, or off on tour. The preparations were time consuming, but not nearly as much so as coming up here from Florida had been. Nonetheless, when I finally fell into bed at midnight, I was emotionally exhausted, but wide awake. I knew I was too excited to sleep, but I was determined to try anyway.

I guess I did eventually fall asleep, because my alarm startled me awake at nine AM. I was groggy and exhausted, but adrenaline quickly took over. I choked down some breakfast and coffee, then practically sprinted to the basement of the apartment building, which housed a fully equipped gym. I pounded my way through an intense two hour workout, glad that the gym was nearly always abandoned, especially in the mornings. It allowed me to be alone with my thoughts, and even better, I didn't have to worry about sharing equipment.

By the time I staggered back into my apartment, it was 11:30, and I was absolutely dripping with sweat, but I was relatively calm. I showered, and was ready to leave my dingy little apartment a full half hour early.

Twenty-five minutes later there was a sharp knock on my door. I opened it to find a man who I can only accurately describe as a Suit standing there. "Ready to go Ms. Burnside?"

I nodded, hoisting my duffle bag onto my shoulder and dragging my other suitcase behind me. "Call me Amber," I requested, and shrugged off the Suit's nonverbal attempt to take my luggage off my hands.

The ride to the airport was a silent one, as was the wait for the plane, aside from a few required, and entirely minimalistic exchanges. It wasn't until the Suit and I were settled on what was very obviously a company plane that he initiated unnecessary conversation. "Don't get used to this," he said in a rather flat voice, "after this you'll be on tour busses, or sharing a plane with other Superstars."

I couldn't help but wonder if most people were shocked at that concept, if it needed to be stated badly enough that Mr. Suit here was willing to break the Code of Silence in order to mention it. I figured it had to be in his contract, that way the higher-ups didn't have to deal with a tantrum if it occurred. I laughed. "I've never flown anything but coach. I'm no stranger to busses, or to sharing a plane."

Mr. Suit, (he refused to give me his name for some unknown reason) grimaced, which I judged to be his best attempt at a smile.

The rest of the ride was silent. Thank god I'd had the good sense to bring a book, otherwise the four hours in the air would have been intolerable. I found myself genuinely wishing I was sharing the plane—with someone who had a personality, that is—in spite of my generally introverted nature.

After a while the book wasn't enough to hold my attention, and I found myself staring out the window in awe. I was 24, six years of grueling work and refusing to listen to anyone who ever told me I couldn't make it was about to pay off. My life, the same life I had been ready to end two years ago, was ready to begin, finally. And I was thrilled.

I must have zoned out or dozed off, because the next thing I was aware of was the plane touching down. As I got up, the Suit approached me wearing the grimace/smile. "Good luck," he said, managing to push some inflection into his tone at last. "I like you. I hope you make it."

I looked at him quizzically. "Aren't you coming with me?" Obviously he wasn't going to stick around, but I figured he would at least come to the hotel where I would meet Triple H, and everyone else, and stay until the Tour moved on again.

He shook his head. "Someone else will take you to the hotel. Mr. McMahon expects me back in Connecticut."

I shook his hand, almost sad to part with the man. At least I sort of knew what to expect from him, although his random growth of a personality had thrown me a bit. Standing in a completely unfamiliar state, about to meet a bunch of, well, I can't really call them strangers because I see them on TV every week, but people I've never met, well… the Suit, in our few hours we had spent together, had become more familiar than anything I was about to face.

Departing the plane, luggage in hand, I came face to face with… another Suit. I guess I didn't really have to worry about parting with familiarity after all. At least the scene was familiar. This Suit, however, was more talkative. He gave me his name—Adam—almost immediately, and spent most of the car ride pointing out various attractions that Seattle had to offer, and throwing in random pieces of advice. Granted, they were mostly clichés ("just be yourself", etc), but I appreciated the effort. He even attempted to crack a few jokes. Apparently the Suit who was with me on the plan was named Eli, and he was something of a running joke. "Did he say ANYTHING?" Adam eventually asked.

"Yeah, actually, he was very nice towards the end." I responded. I wanted to give Eli his dues. Besides, then maybe the other suits would lay off him.

"Seriously?" the awe was apparent in his voice. "You must really be something special then."

I shook my head. "Unlikely. It was probably just coincidence."

Adam took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot me a look of total disbelief. "Are you kidding me? You're the next Chosen One. The last person he said more than three words to was John Cena. And he's never spoken to a woman before. This is huge!"

Luckily we pulled up to the hotel before the absurd conversation could continue. I was more inclined to believe that Eli had just gotten stuck transporting a bunch of stuck up pricks recently. Whatever. I gathered my luggage again, and got out of the car as quickly as possible, sticking around just long enough for Adam to shout "Conference Room 2. Good luck, Chosen One!"

The hotel was grand in size, and apparently in cost as well. Finding my way to the reception desk practically required a map and compass, or at least a lot of sniffing around. When I finally found it, they gave me even more complicated directions to the Conference Room. This time I actually did ask for a map. The receptionist rolled her eyes, but drew me a crude map that did eventually get me to the room. Unfortunately it didn't get me there before I was slightly winded from running around a hotel the size of a small city with all of my baggage for a solid twenty minutes. "Oh I'm gonna make a fantastic impression" I muttered, before knocking on the door.

Triple H answered. I couldn't help but take a small step back when he did. Talk about a powerful presence. He was actually more intimidating than his father in law, despite his lower position in the company. I was, however, thrilled to find him wearing a simple T-shirt. I'd had enough Suits for one day. "You must be Amber," he said, chuckling at what must have been a very nervous look on my face. "Come on in, I don't bite, at least not outside of the ring." He chuckled again, and I felt the ice beginning to break.

"Well, now that I've made myself look sufficiently pathetic, let's get the ball rolling." At the very least I'd managed to get my breath back, and my comment made Hunter smile slightly.

He shook his head. "Not pathetic, trust me, I've seen a lot worse. You're just…" I was left to guess at what he would've said next, as he looked inquisitively at the piece of paper in my hand. "Is that a map?"

So much for dignity I groaned internally. "Bad sense of direction. I'd need a map to find my way out of a paper bag" I joked.

"Well, apparently you don't need a map to fight your way out of one, and that's what matters here." He smiled, and we sat down.

"So," he began, "my father-in-law thought you were good enough in Developmental to come straight up to the big leagues. Impressive. He also thinks you have what it takes to change the women's division for the better. Thank god." His apparent disdain for the Diva's division shined through for a moment. "So, you're an agent of change, not great at following rules, quick riser, dark background, you're a fan favorite but you also say what's on your mind instead of playing into what they want. I know just who to place you with."

I looked at him in confusion. "What do you mean, 'who to place me with'?"

He backtracked. "Sorry, I got ahead of myself there. Every rookie is placed with a mentor whose skills are similar to theirs. Most times the partnership is limited to off-screen and only lasts until the newcomer learns the ropes, which is why fans haven't really heard about it. Very rarely does the pairing make it onscreen. Vickie Geurrero and Dolph Ziggler is a good example. John Cena and Zack Ryder is another. Assuming you both agree, I want to place you with CM Punk, although you both seem to have a certain disregard for authority, so I might live to regret it."

My breath was gone. Instantly, completely, gone. CM Punk, my mentor. Triple H was saying something, but I couldn't focus on what ti was. The man who unknowingly saved my life, working with me, showing me the ups and downs of being a WWE superstar… holy shit. Eventually the COO stopped talking, asking if "that" sounded good to me. "Yep." I choked out, hoping I hadn't just agreed to sell my soul to the devil or something.

"Good," Hunter stated. "Then you'll meet the other Superstars tomorrow quickly, then I'll introduce you to Punk and let him handle prepping you for your match on Monday."

Words began to register again, and almost immediately afterwards began to make sense. Match Monday. Match. Monday. Wait, match? "Erm," I cringed internally, anticipating looking like a total idiot once again, "Who am I gonna fight again?"

Apparently he hadn't told me that, because he didn't look at me like I was some sort of moron. "Oh yeah, you probably want to know that, don't you? You'll be fighting AJ before the cameras come on."

I nodded, smiling with a confidence that I didn't quite feel. "Perfect, Thank you."

"No problem. Now, you've had a long day, and you've got an even longer one ahead tomorrow. You should get some sleep." As he said that I realized how tired I actually was, not that I ever really slept that well anyway.

"Sounds good." I said, "Now…where exactly do I sleept?"

He laughed, then handed me a keycard and gave me directions to my room. I stood up, smiled, and shook his hand. "Thanks."

He smiled back. "No problem. It was nice meeting you Amber. I'll see you down here at ten tomorrow."

I nodded my agreement and left. Triple H's directions were good. I found my way to my room with relative ease, and ordered room service, settling in to watch a movie for a while. Sooner or later I changed into my pajamas, and set an alarm, settling in for another night of staring at a ceiling. I did, eventually, fall asleep though. My body had just hit its limit.

A/N: Alright, I know this was a slow chapter guys. It's gonna get better, I promise. This was just a sort of intro chapter. Nonetheless, please review!