The Alpha Agenda - Episode 002: Santa's Secret Visit

 

THE ALPHA AGENDA — EPISODE 002: "SANTA’S SECRET VISIT"

Santa ventures deep into the Arctic tundra in search of an ancient ally, uncovering a buried history of betrayal, war, and monstrous transformation. As the truth about the Yeti's rise to power is revealed, a ghost from his past emerges from the shadows. But not all old friends bring peace—and not all monsters wear claws.

EXT. ARCTIC TUNDRA – NIGHT

The wind howls across the frozen wasteland, an endless sea of white stretching in every direction. The sky is a deep bruised purple, heavy with snow and silence.

Santa stands alone.

He is dressed for the elements—a thick polar coat, fur-lined boots, and goggles pushed up onto his forehead, exposing his iconic white beard, now dusted with frost. He holds a leather-bound map, its corners stiff from age and ice. He stares at a nearly invisible crack in a sheer rock face—a cave entrance hidden behind drifting snow.

SANTA (muttering to himself) This is the place...

He tucks the map away, pulls out a heavy-duty flashlight, and ducks into the narrow crevice.

INT. NARROW CAVE TUNNEL – CONTINUOUS

Santa moves carefully, his boots crunching softly on the frost-laced stone. The tunnel is tight, barely wide enough for him to pass. He walks ten feet in when—

WHOOMPH.

The cave is suddenly bathed in warm orange light as torches ignite on both sides of the stone corridor, one by one, as if responding to his presence. He lowers the flashlight, surprised.

Ahead, the passage widens into a grand antechamber.

INT. ANTECHAMBER – CONTINUOUS

The room is vast, carved by hand and by time. Ancient symbols and runic markings adorn the walls—some glowing faintly in the firelight. The air is warmer here. Sacred, almost.

Santa surveys the chamber. There are three passages leading deeper into the earth.

He frowns.

SANTA (gruffly, to himself) Left? Right? Or trouble...

Just then, from the center passage, a sound—heavy footsteps. A presence.

From the shadows emerges a towering figure, nearly eight feet tall, covered in grey-white fur that glimmers like moonlit snow. Muscles ripple beneath the coat. Fangs catch the torchlight, but the creature's face betrays none of the menace—only calm eyes and a hint of a smile on its cracked lips.

YOLGRIMM (voice deep, ancient) Hello, Santa. What brings you to my humble abode?

Santa exhales deeply, his tension releasing in an instant. He knows this voice.

SANTA (relieved) Yolgrimm... old friend. It’s good to see you again. It’s been... years.

YOLGRIMM (amused) Yes, it has. Almost a hundred, to be exact.

SANTA (nods somberly) Far too long. I wasn’t sure I’d find you. You’ve hidden yourself well.

YOLGRIMM (laughing heartily) That was the point. I did not want to be found.

He gestures toward the central passage.

YOLGRIMM Come. Let us speak properly. My hearth still welcomes old souls.

INT. MAIN CHAMBER – MOMENTS LATER

The narrow passage opens into a cavernous den—warm, ornate, and filled with the trappings of an old life well lived. There are woven tapestries, bones of great beasts, and a massive carved chair that serves as Yolgrimm’s throne. A small fire crackles between them, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Santa and Yolgrimm sit across from one another on thick pelts.

YOLGRIMM So. What brings The heir of Saint Nicholas trudging across the tundra? It’s not every day you come knocking on an ancient soul’s door.

SANTA I’m looking for answers, Yolgrimm. The kind only your kind—the ancient bloodlines—would know.

YOLGRIMM (scoffs, waving a paw-sized hand) Bah, spare me the ceremony. We are far past flattery. Ask what you came to ask, old friend. You’re safe here. No need to butter my ego like a solstice roast.

Santa leans forward, face serious now. The weight of what he carries is plain.

SANTA There's a facility. Deep in Alaska. Hidden. Abandoned. Inside—labs, cages... a wrestling ring. It was used for genetic modification. They were turning children... youngsters... into beasts. Soldiers.

(Yolgrimm’s brow furrows.)

SANTA We found evidence pointing to Dr. Moreau. And the experiments... they resemble your kind. And I have confirmed one such youngster, now an adult calling herself Feral, is aligned with the Yeti and his patron, Count Vlad.  I need to know: are your kind involved?

A long silence.

The fire crackles.

Yolgrimm leans back, his eyes narrowing. He takes a long breath, as if tasting the air before speaking.

YOLGRIMM (slowly) I can confirm what you fear. Our kind has worked with Moreau. But it began long before the one you call Yeti assumed the mantle of Alpha.

Santa's face darkens.

SANTA So it's true. He is the Alpha now. What happened to Durthok Coldfang? He was noble. He would never have allowed this.

YOLGRIMM (raising a hand) Calm yourself, young one. So many questions, but all in due time.

(pauses, his voice turning grave)

Let me begin at the beginning... because that’s where all tragedies find their roots.

Yolgrimm shifts, eyes distant, gazing into the flames as though they hold the memories of centuries.

FADE TO BLACK.

INT. YOLGRIMM’S DEN – NIGHT

The fire crackles low, casting golden shadows against the rune-etched stone. Santa sits across from Yolgrimm, his gloved hands clasped before him, brow furrowed with heavy thought.

Yolgrimm leans forward, massive hands resting on his knees. He gazes into the flames, not with nostalgia, but regret—carrying centuries of memory.

YOLGRIMM (voice calm, echoing slightly in the stone chamber) As you know… we, the Yeti—Sasquatch, Abominable Snowmen—we were once plentiful.

We roamed this continent freely, our tribes stretching from the Rockies to the Arctic Circle. Though beastly in form, we were a peaceful people. We craved nothing more than solitude... the serenity of the old forests and the frozen tundra.

But then man expanded.

He hunted further. Built deeper. Cut into the land like a careless blade.

Our hunting grounds were overrun, our sacred lands paved and poisoned. Bit by bit, we were driven north—pushed into the coldest corners of the world.

Our numbers fell from hundreds of thousands to a few thousand. Scattered. Fractured.

We split into smaller clans—but always united by the Council of Elders, and above them, the Alpha.

SANTA (nods softly) Durthok Coldfang.

YOLGRIMM Indeed. A noble Alpha. The last of his kind, in many ways.

Durthok’s goal was simple: to preserve our kind, and be left alone. He gathered what remained of the clans and brought them north—to Alaska, to the Canadian wilds. We lived in peace. Hidden. Our numbers began to stabilize… even grow.

There were incidents with humans, yes—but rare. We only defended when they came too far. Until the trappers came.

Yolgrimm’s tone darkens. The fire flares subtly.

YOLGRIMM (CONT'D) They didn’t come for land. They came for our pelts. Thick winter fur—prized for coats and luxury goods. They hunted us. Tracked us like beasts. We lived in fear once again. But we did not retaliate.

Until the day they killed Durthok’s mate—Maelra. She was ambushed near a glacial spring. Skinned. Left exposed to the wind. Durthok… changed that day. He became bitter. Consumed by anger. The younglings rallied to him, eager to strike back.

The elders who opposed him were cast out… silenced. Some vanished entirely. Then came the orders to attack.

Santa listens, his face hardening with each word.

YOLGRIMM (CONT'D) Small villages. Homesteads. No longer warning humans… now hunting them. At first, the children were spared—left behind, terrified, to be found by rescue teams.

Then… Dr. Moreau came. He saw an opportunity. He told Durthok that the key to humanity’s future lay in its past—in unlocking the beast within. He believed he could awaken the primal instincts buried in the human genome… to forge hybrid warriors for the coming war. Durthok agreed. The children began to disappear.

Yolgrimm stares into the fire now, eyes heavy with guilt.

YOLGRIMM (CONT'D) Many of us on the Elder Council were horrified. We spoke against it—fought against it. Those who shouted the loudest were the first to vanish. The rest of us… we kept our voices soft, hoping to survive long enough to make change from within. But the experiments continued. At first, they were crude. The children… they broke. Their minds couldn't withstand the transformation. Of the first twelve, only four survived.

Then Moreau developed his serum. Of the eighteen injected, ten were successfully converted.

Beasts… wearing the skin of children.

Santa closes his eyes, fists clenched.

YOLGRIMM (CONT'D) While this horror unfolded, other events stirred the bloodlines. One clan—direct kin to Durthok—attacked a family in Alaska. They killed the parents… and took the daughter. But they made a mistake. The son survived. He slaughtered the Alpha Sasquatch. That massacre left only three with a direct connection to the Alpha Bloodline. One of them… is the creature the Yukon Trappers captured. The one now calling himself… Yeti.

SANTA (low, shaken) So it’s true. Yeti carries the Alpha blood…

YOLGRIMM When Durthok grew ill, a successor was needed. Yeti had the bloodline… and a powerful patron behind him—Count Vlad. With the Count’s influence and power, the Council bent. Yeti was declared the new Alpha Beast. Durthok passed not long after. And while Yeti put a stop to the open attacks on humans… the experiments? They only intensified. Moreau gained access to other patrons. Other factions. Not just Yetikind.

Santa sits in silence, the weight of the truth settling over him like the cold outside.

SANTA (quietly) So my failure to guide Yeti… to show him the path of light… it led to this.

YOLGRIMM (gently, firm) No. The path Yeti chose was his own. He was shown light—he chose shadow. That is no failure of yours.

A beat of silence.

Then Santa looks up, something stirring in his gaze.

SANTA You said only three remain with the Alpha bloodline. Yeti, Durthok… and one other?

YOLGRIMM (leans back, nods) Technically, yes. They could claim the title of Alpha. But… they want nothing to do with it. A solitary creature. Lives alone, far from the northern clans. Deep in the forests of Washington State.

Santa slowly raises his eyes, realization dawning.

SANTA You don’t mean…

YOLGRIMM (smiling faintly) Yes. The third heir… is Bigfoot.

Santa exhales sharply, half in disbelief, half in awe.

SANTA Thank you, old friend. The knowledge you’ve given me tonight… it’s dangerous. If your people discover you’re helping me—

YOLGRIMM (interrupting, gentle) I have lived a long life, old friend. I can feel the frost of my final winters approaching. To remain silent would doom my people to oblivion. I choose truth… over survival. Good luck, Heir of Nicholas. The road ahead will be long… and colder than any tundra.

Santa stands. He crosses the fire and places a hand on Yolgrimm’s massive shoulder.

They embrace—one ancient soul to another.

Then, without a word, Santa turns and leaves.

EXT. ARCTIC CAVE – NIGHT

Santa emerges into the night, the wind biting at his coat. He pulls his hood up and walks into the snow-covered horizon, the firelight of Yolgrimm’s den glowing faintly behind him.

The cold bites deeper now.

Snow falls gently from the sky like drifting ash. The only sound is the crunch of boots on snow, as Santa Claus walks along a narrow trail that winds through the frozen wilderness.

He doesn’t rush. His breath hangs thick in the air before him. His shoulders are heavy—not from the cold, but from the weight of what he’s learned.

YOLGRIMM’S words echo in his mind.
“The road ahead will be long… and colder than any tundra.”

Santa's hand is resting casually near the satchel at his side, his senses sharpened by decades of war and survival.

But then—

He stops.

The hairs on the back of his neck rise. The air suddenly feels too quiet.

He turns his head slightly. A faint crunch. A flicker of movement behind a snowdrift.

SANTA (low, commanding) Show yourself... I know you’re there.

Silence.

Then slowly, deliberately, a figure emerges from the swirling frost.

REVEAL: DR. ADRIAN IGOR MOREAU.

Slim, wiry, and sharply dressed in a heavy black coat with fur trim. His silver hair is neatly combed, glasses fogging slightly in the cold. He smiles—not warmly, but like a serpent basking under moonlight.

DR. MOREAU Well now... Heir of Nicholas. Shouldn’t you be tucked away at the North Pole? Sipping cocoa? Writing naughty lists?

SANTA (voice low, fists tightening) Adrian Moreau... What are you doing here?

DR. MOREAU (grinning wider) Oh, the same thing you are, I imagine—taking an interest in history... and the future. Only difference is... I’m shaping it.

Santa takes a step forward, coiled like a spring, ready to strike.

But then—

THREE SHAPES emerge from the shadows. Young. Humanoid. But twisted.

Beast-men.

Each one bears the warped hallmarks of Moreau’s experiments: thickened bone structure, animalistic eyes, patches of fur, claws. Their faces are still human enough to show pain… or was it what’s left of a smile?

Santa freezes—not in fear, but calculation.

SANTA (snarling) You’re using the children... twisting them.

DR. MOREAU (correcting him, mockingly) Saving them. Unleashing what was always inside. You see, my old friend… I’ve realized something very important. Something vital.

(pauses, then softly) There is darkness in everyone. Even in you.

Santa’s jaw clenches.

DR. MOREAU (cont’d) You hide it behind laughter, jolly cheer, and sugar cookies... but I know the truth. You’ve seen war. You’ve fought it. Felt rage. Loss. I can help you understand what lies within. Unlock the Alpha hiding behind that red suit...

SANTA (sharply) You’ve poisoned minds and turned children into monsters. Don’t you dare pretend this is some kind of mercy.

DR. MOREAU (steps closer) Still clinging to your myths. Your morality. That’s adorable.

Santa’s eyes narrow. He readies himself to strike, despite the odds—three beastmen and the devil in a doctor’s skin.

But then—

A faint hiss.

THUNK.

A sudden sting in the side of his neck.

Santa’s hand snaps to it—he pulls out a small metal dart, glinting in the pale light.

His vision tilts. The world spins.

Snowflakes fall faster. The torches of Yolgrimm’s cave blur behind him.

The beast-men close in.

Santa sways—tries to reach for his satchel—but his arms feel like they’re moving through molasses.

DR. MOREAU (softly, almost kindly) Sleep now, Father Winter. We’ve so much to talk about when you wake.

Santa collapses into the snow, his red coat a splash of color against the white. His eyes flutter once, twice...

Darkness closes in.

The last thing he hears is laughter—cold, clinical, and victorious.

DR. MOREAU (O.S.) (to the beasts) Bring him.

EPILOGUE: "Dark Dealings in the Commissioner’s Office"

IINT. OFFICE OF THE COMMISSIONER – NIGHT

The flickering light of an old desk lamp casts long shadows across the cluttered, paper-strewn office of the NPCW Commissioner.

But it is not Commissioner Cratchit seated at the desk.

Instead, Ebenezer Scrooge—dressed in a black tailored suit with a deep red scarf—sits with a scowl of deep irritation etched on his face. Cratchit stands dutifully beside him, nervously clutching a clipboard, beads of sweat forming at his temple.

Across the room, Tilda Thimblewhistle, the Commissioner’s sharp-eyed assistant, watches silently from her desk, pretending to type, though her ears are very much attuned to the conversation.

Near the far wall, a shadowed figure lounges just out of the lamplight, a faint glint of yellow-green fur occasionally catching the low glow.

SCROOGE (grumbling) Blasted cold air in this office… Cratchit, when are you going to fix the heating?

CRATCHIT (chuckling awkwardly) Yes, Mister Scrooge, of course. Right away. It's just… budgets are tight this month and—

RING. RING.

The old rotary phone buzzes to life on the desk. Without missing a beat, Scrooge slams a gnarled finger on the speaker button.

SCROOGE (snappishly) Yes? What’s your report, Moreau?

A crackle of static, then the smooth, composed voice of Dr. Adrian Igor Moreau answers from the other end of the line.

DR. MOREAU (ON PHONE) Your informant’s intel was accurate. Santa was at the Elder Yeti’s den. Met with the one called Yolgrimm.

Scrooge sits forward slightly, eyes narrowing with interest.

SCROOGE Did he learn anything?

DR. MOREAU (ON PHONE) Unclear. Yolgrimm was cooperative… but we apprehended Santa before he could leave with much more. We haven't started the interrogation yet, but—rest assured—he’s in secure custody.

Scrooge leans back, steepling his fingers in satisfaction.

SCROOGE (smiling coldly) So… we have the jolly old fool in chains. Excellent. Begin your... questioning as soon as you're back in your lab. I want results. Fast.

DR. MOREAU (ON PHONE) Understood, sir. I’ll update you once he breaks.

CLICK.

The line disconnects.

For a moment, the office is quiet—except for the scratching of Cratchit's pen on a form.

Then Scrooge turns his head toward the shadowed figure.

SCROOGE Your information was accurate… Grinch. I must say, that surprises me. Why help us? Why betray him?

From the darkness, Grinch Heyman leans forward, a sly, devious smile creeping across his twisted green face. He adjusts his red and black checkered scarf and places his clawed hands together with mock sincerity.

GRINCH HEYMAN Oh, Ebenezer… don’t misunderstand me. I’m not loyal to you. I’m loyal to Krampus—and Krampus is an Alpha.

With Santa in chains, there’s one less red-clad thorn in our side to help Rudolph and his merry band of face-tagging freaks. This? This is just good business.

Scrooge studies him carefully, the look in his eyes betraying a hint of skepticism.

SCROOGE (curtly) Of course. Again... thank you for your cooperation.

GRINCH HEYMAN (smiling with teeth) Always a pleasure to undermine hope.

With that, the Grinch rises slowly from the chair, casts a final glance toward Cratchit, and strolls out of the office—his footsteps almost soundless despite his oversized feet.

As the door clicks shut behind him, Scrooge and Cratchit return to their work, muttering over reports, rosters, and upcoming match cards.

But at her desk...

TILDA THIMBLEWHISTLE, still pretending to organize receipts, pauses.

Her brow furrows deeply.

Her hands tremble ever so slightly as she closes the ledger.

She reaches under her desk and pulls out a small, enchanted communication crystal—hidden in a drawer behind a stack of payroll forms. Whispering just above a breath:

TILDA (whispers) I need to speak to Ms. Sweetins. Immediately.

She glances toward the Commissioner’s door, then toward the corridor where the Grinch just exited.

TILDA (CONT’D) Something wicked is happening... and Santa needs us.