Carolina didn't ask for this, really. No, for real, she didn't. All she wanted was to pursue a career in NXT, move up to the main roster, be congratulated on her debut, win the Divas Championship and attract a certain Lunatic Fringe's attention. May...
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An old proverb once said, because obviously the proverb posseses the ability to speak and a mouth and vocal chords like all the soul (yeah, pretty sure, this is the word one hundred percent) sucking school virgins you encounter both in real life and fanfiction, that it all begins - with a story.
The story of life, the story of your mom's - uhh, the story about how this one time her best friend got her fingers stuck in the toaster-
Or ...at least, that's what Carolina Herrera Julia Omelette Du Fromage Jambala was taught to think.
And not to be a snitch or anything, but by taught there are high chances it could mean smacked around with pots in first grade whilst reciting the alphabet, but you know, there's nothing stronger than the benefit of the doubt.
Except for a fiery warrior's p-
power to go to church game. Yup. Pow.
Let's not go there though.
Anyway. It is said by the same proverb of ours that every adventure begins with a story, seventy eight percent sure about that, and it usually starts with a boring girl, all scrunched up in her blankets, drooling at some pics of John Cena's ass and wondering why she can't become a WWE star.
So you know, she does the only thing that could make her dreams, hopes and ambitions come true -
she writes.
Writes fanfiction.
Or reads fanfiction.
Or cries over fanfiction.
Or maybe both. Both never sounded bad when you were Satan's favourite porn writer and reader, with hopes and dreams and a trustworthy Pumpkin Spice Latte and desire to die by your side.
Let me introduce myself, my name is Carolina Herrera and today I will make my debut as a WWE diva. It's like a dream come true! I've always wanted to be a WWE diva and now that is happening I can't stop squealing and jumping around! Yeeh-
Someone clicking their tongue in the background could be heard in the dim-lit room, and the narration stopped. In that moment, no one could've been sure what felt scarier- the fact that the flow came to an abrupt end (and not even forces like homeboy Willy Shake were able to reconnect sometimes with the mystery that is inspiration), or the fact that a mere existing thing was about to critique the work of the century.
It was certain that anyone could feel it in the atmosphere, from the beads of sweat that shook it to the left, then to the right, then back at it to the top of Carolina's forehead, the lamp that was struggling to keep the 20 year old on the path of light and sanity and the rest of the things she couldn't quite pinpoint on her list, squeezed between references, fangirlings and comebacks she thought about three days after a fight. It was a fight between dominance, ambition, and a bucket full of hormones, one would say.
