NPCW Convergence Booking Committee Meeting

NPCW Convergence Booking Committee Meeting

THE CAST OF CHARACTERS

Victoria Deschamps Vice Chair - KWO Board	Ardan Vantrell Leader - Circle of the False Light	Robert Cratchit NPCW Commissioner	Ebeneezer Scrooge Special Advisor to the Commissioner
Bernard NPCW Liaison - KWO Board	Ms. Sweetins Executive GM - NPCW’s Women’s Division	Alton Bell GM - Chill Factor	Grinch Heyman Manager - Demonic Legion
Dave Kent Reporter	Kris Kringle Legendary Wrestler	Lucien Vantrell Pale Inheritor	Santa Claus Hope’s Champion
Krampus Alpha Demon - Demonic Legion	Rudolph Guiding Light of Hope	Fenwick Grimbough Manager - Grim Tidings	Johnny Michaels Lead Commentator

Scene: The grand boardroom at NPCW headquarters, its walls lined with antique holiday relics—sled bells, frosted wreaths, championship belts encased in glass. A massive oak table dominates the room. Snow drifts lazily outside tall frosted windows. The room is filled with tension, as if the very season is holding its breath.

Opening Exchange

Scrooge (leaning back with his usual smugness, gold watch chain gleaming): “Well, let us not waste time, gentlemen, ladies, creatures—aye, whatever you may be. The matter is simple. NPCW requires two representatives, and who better than myself—its guiding light—and Commissioner Cratchit here, the humble steward of my… investments?”

Cratchit (adjusting glasses, uncomfortable, but nodding politely): “Yes, sir. It would be an honor to serve—”

Victoria Deschamps (cutting in, her voice sharp and fiery): “Not so fast, Scrooge. You’ve got your fingers in enough pies already. This is not about what suits you, but what’s best for NPCW. And you, sir, would not put NPCW first.”

The room murmurs in agreement, Santa even stroking his beard gravely.

The First Suggestions

Cratchit (hesitant, turning toward the table): “Then perhaps… Ms. Sweetins? She’s shown tremendous leadership in the women’s division.”

Ms. Sweetins (startled, cheeks flushing, fiddling with her pen): “Oh, Commissioner… I’m honored, truly. But… no. Someone with more experience should represent the whole of NPCW. I will, however, gladly provide my input on the women’s matches to whoever is chosen.”

Dave “The Brute” Kent (leaning forward, grinning like a wolf): “Well then, what about me? No one knows this business better than I do. I’ll call it like it is, and if HCW don’t like it, they can stuff it.”

The entire room bursts into laughter. Even Rudolph lets out a little snort. Dave shrugs, unfazed.

Ardan Vantrell Speaks

The laughter dies when Ardan Vantrell slowly rises, his crimson and gray robes whispering across the floor. The temperature feels as though it drops a few degrees. His piercing gaze sweeps the table, pausing on each figure as if measuring their very souls.

Ardan Vantrell (softly, every word deliberate): “We speak of experience, of loyalty, of fairness. But what of destiny? What of the shape of the future, carved not by old hands clinging to past glories… but by those unafraid to claim tomorrow?”

He rests a hand lightly on Lucien’s shoulder.

“My son, Lucien—the Pale Inheritor—has been bred in discipline, tutored in strategy, and prepared for the burdens of leadership since birth. He sees not only the surface of events but the currents beneath. I put forward Lucien as the first representative.”

He turns, gaze falling on Alton Bell, who tries not to smirk.

“And as for the second—Alton Bell. His history with the ring, the desk, and the booth makes him uniquely suited to bridge all facets of our industry. These two, together, ensure our investment—our investment—is protected.”

The room falls silent, some nodding, some shifting uneasily. Lucien sits like a statue, unreadable behind his pale aura.

Victoria Counters

Victoria (diplomatic but firm, hands clasped on the table): “Lucien may have potential, Ardan, but he lacks the experience this position demands. The Convergence Summit is not an apprenticeship—it’s a proving ground. And as for Alton—yes, he has a fine résumé, but he’s only just arrived in NPCW. We need proven loyalty.”

She takes a breath, then speaks with conviction.

“On behalf of the KWO Board, I propose two names. First: Bernard. He has walked every path in NPCW—as wrestler, manager, commissioner, and now liaison. His loyalty is unquestioned. Second: Grinch Heyman.”

Gasps ripple across the table. Krampus leans back, a crooked grin splitting his face.

Krampus (chuckling darkly): “You sneaky dig, Grinch. What are you up to now?”

Victoria (pressing on, undeterred): “Grinch is shrewd, fearless, and—most importantly—not cowed by Vlad or his Dark Dominion. He’s proven that, when he set the Demonic Legion on Wilbur Townsend himself.”

Grinch Heyman bows his head slightly, his grin toothy, sly, and unreadable. His allegiance is murky—but his cunning undeniable.

The Deadlock

Ardan (a faint smile curving his lips): “Ah. And so the impasse reveals itself. My 48% calls for Lucien and Alton. Your 48% cries for Bernard and Heyman. Balance, fragile as glass. Tell me, Victoria… do you hold Chairman Alexander’s proxy this night? The deciding blade of the scale?”

Victoria (smiling just as faintly): “Actually, no. The proxy is only used if the true holder cannot attend. And tonight… the owner of the remaining four percent is with us.”

All eyes turn as she gestures toward a figure at the far end of the table—quiet until now. Kris Kringle rises, his presence both warm and commanding, eyes twinkling with a wisdom that spans eras.

Kris Kringle (clearing his throat, his voice steady): “Surprise, Ardan. The secret’s out. Those four percent are mine. And tonight, I will cast them where they belong.”

Gasps ripple. Santa nods proudly, while Ardan’s smile deepens, intrigued rather than angry.

The Deciding Vote

Kris Kringle (to Ardan, gently but firmly): “I respect your desire to shape the future, Ardan. But right now, we need hands we can trust, eyes that know the terrain. Grinch Heyman may seem an odd ally, but he has proven he will not bow to Vlad’s machinations. Therefore—my vote is with Bernard and Heyman.”

The room erupts—some in relief, some in disbelief. Lucien’s jaw clenches imperceptibly, his pale gaze lingering on Kringle. Ardan remains utterly still, then inclines his head slowly.

Ardan (softly, almost a whisper): “So… it is written.”

Adjournment

Cratchit (scribbling down the official notes, voice shaking slightly): “Then it is settled. NPCW’s representatives for the Convergence Supercard Booking Committee… Bernard and Grinch Heyman.”

Scrooge (grumbling, tugging his coat): “Bah! Stolen out from under me by sentiment and schemers!”

Victoria (firm, resolute): “No, Scrooge. Chosen by NPCW.”

The gavel falls. The meeting is adjourned. Tension lingers like smoke in the air, alliances unspoken, rivalries sharpened.

Epilogue I: The Circle’s Shadows

Scene One – The Boardroom’s Embers

The boardroom empties, chatter echoing down the halls as chairs scrape and doors shut. Snowlight filters in through frosted windows, but two figures linger. Grinch Heyman, scarf loose and grin wider than ever, strolls casually past the great oak table. From the shadows of the far wall, Ardan Vantrell steps forward, robes whispering against stone.

Grinch Heyman (grinning, voice sly): “Well, well. Congratulations are in order, hmm? Seems the Circle has been outmaneuvered tonight. No hard feelings, I hope?”

Ardan’s eyes gleam with an unblinking, dissecting stare—like a predator deciding whether to pounce or to wait. Then, slowly, deliberately, his lips curve into the faintest smile. It holds no warmth—only menace wrapped in courtesy.

Ardan Vantrell (softly, almost too quiet to hear): “Hard feelings are for lesser men, Mr. Heyman. I harbor none. What was denied today… may be delivered tomorrow. But perhaps… you and I can ensure tomorrow arrives sooner.”

From the folds of his crimson robes, Ardan produces a folded parchment. Its wax seal glints red in the dim light—the sigil of the Circle: an ancient eye encircled in fire. He places it on the polished oak and slides it toward Heyman. The gesture is deliberate, ritualistic.

Ardan Vantrell: “I have a request. See to it that this match finds its place on the HCW night of Convergence. Do this… and I will be indebted to you.”

Grinch cracks the seal, eyes scanning the page. A slow grin spreads across his face until it nearly splits ear to ear. Whatever is written there, it is wicked enough to make even him lick his lips with anticipation.

Grinch Heyman (chuckling, bowing with exaggerated flair): “It would be my pleasure, Mr. Vantrell. My absolute pleasure.”

The two men lock eyes—one ancient, unreadable, the other sly and opportunistic. Twin smiles mask mutual mistrust. Each leaves believing he has planted the sharper dagger.

Scene Two – The Snowy Alley

Night deepens. Snow falls heavy across the North Pole streets, swallowing sound beneath its blanket. In a deserted alley, Grinch Heyman strides, scarf tugged tight, boots crunching in the frost. At his side looms Krampus, hulking and horned, breath steaming like a furnace in the cold.

Krampus (snorting, voice dripping with amusement): “You’ve played them all, Grinch. Even me. What’s your endgame?”

Grinch Heyman (smiling wickedly, voice rasping with malice): “Endgame? Oh, my spiny friend… this is no endgame. This is Act One. Convergence is the stage, and I—” he spreads his arms theatrically, embracing the storm of snow “—I am writing myself the starring role.”

His laughter erupts—rich, venomous, almost musical. It echoes down the alley, rolls up the walls of ice-crusted brick, and coils into the night sky. For a moment, it seems to mingle with the storm itself, carried on the wind like a curse.

Krampus watches, eyes narrowed, a twisted grin tugging at his lips. Admiration? Suspicion? Perhaps both. The snow thickens, swallowing the pair as shadows writhe in the blizzard’s breath.

Scene Three – The Vantrell Estate

Far away, in the heart of the Vantrell estate, a gothic hall sits cloaked in flickering candlelight. The air is cold, damp with stone and incense. Walls carved with forgotten runes seem to shift in the shadows. At the center, a long blackwood table bears a single object: Lucien’s carved bone mask, its hollow sockets staring accusingly into the dim glow.

Lucien stands rigid, hands clasped behind his back. His face is pale, but his eyes burn with restrained fury.

Lucien (coldly, voice taut like a drawn blade): “You let them dismiss me. You let him—Kringle—decide.”

Ardan approaches with unhurried grace, robes trailing like smoke. He lays a hand on his son’s shoulder—both comforting and suffocating at once. His voice is soft, hypnotic.

Ardan Vantrell: “I let the river flow as it must, my son. Tonight was not your coronation. But every throne is built on patience. The stone must be laid before the crown may rest upon it. Those who laugh at you now… will kneel later. And when they kneel, they will believe it was their choice.”

Lucien’s lips tighten. His eyes flicker with a storm of emotions—resentment, reverence, ambition, doubt. At last, he says nothing. The silence itself becomes his vow.

The mask watches, hollow and eternal. The firelight dances in its sockets, as though it sees more than either father or son.

Epilogue II: Whispers of Resistance

The boardroom is long empty now, save for the faint smell of pine from Santa’s pipe and the echo of boots that once stamped across the marble. In a smaller chamber down the hall—a library lined with towering shelves of ledgers and history tomes—four figures gather in hushed secrecy. A fire flickers in the hearth, painting their faces in alternating shadow and glow.

Victoria Deschamps paces with restless energy, her fiery hair catching the firelight. Bernard sits back in an armchair, hands folded over his cane, sharp eyes watchful. Ms. Sweetins stands at the mantel, fingers nervously tapping against the carved stone, while Kris Kringle—cloaked in red trimmed with frost—leans on the table, the weight of his years etched in every line of his face.

They do not know they are not alone.
High above, in the mezzanine balcony where the shadows thicken, Dave “The Brute” Kent crouches behind a stack of dusty ledgers, notebook in hand. His ears sharpen, his pen scratching furiously as he listens.

The Conversation

Victoria (stopping mid-pace, voice sharp with conviction): “I don’t trust him. Not for a second. Ardan isn’t playing for NPCW’s future—he’s playing for his dominion. Every word out of his mouth is a lesson wrapped in a trap.”

Bernard (nodding slowly, his voice gravelly with wisdom): “You’re right to doubt him. I’ve watched men like Ardan my whole life. He doesn’t plant seeds—he plants snares. And those who step in them don’t even know they’re caught until it’s too late.”

Ms. Sweetins (quietly, but finding strength as she speaks): “And what about Alton? His suggestions… his timing… he was always too eager to back Ardan. How deep does that tie run?”

The others exchange glances. Victoria’s frown deepens.

Victoria: “Deeper than I’m willing to risk without proof. I’ll reach out to someone who specializes in these matters. Sherlock Holmes. If anyone can unravel Bell’s true history and loyalties, it’s him.”

Kris Kringle straightens, his presence filling the room. His voice is calm, but carries the certainty of snowfall.

Kris Kringle: “Then it is agreed. Until we know more, we keep our ears open. Every whisper, every slip. If Bell is a pawn of the Circle, we will uncover it.”

Bernard (with a rare, grim smile): “And when we do… we’ll make sure the boardroom isn’t the only battlefield he has to worry about.”

Victoria places her hand on the table, firm and resolute. Ms. Sweetins, hesitant at first, places hers atop Victoria’s. Bernard follows, then Kringle. Their pact is silent, but unbreakable.

The Observer

Up in the shadows of the balcony, Dave Kent’s pen scratches to a halt. He exhales, long and low, his breath fogging in the cold air. For once, the “Brute” isn’t sneering or mocking—his expression is sober, thoughtful. He has always prided himself on brutal honesty, and the truth he sees now is that Ardan’s influence runs too deep for any one person to challenge alone.

Dave Kent (muttering to himself as he scribbles the final line in his notes): “Maybe… just maybe… I’ve found some allies in this mess.”

He tucks the notebook inside his coat and slips back into the night. Below, the four conspirators remain unaware of their silent witness, their pact echoing in the fire’s crackle. Outside, the wind howls across the icy rooftops, carrying with it the weight of secrets—and the promise of battles yet to come.

Another Piece for Holmes

As the pact breaks, Bernard and Kringle leave together, their low voices echoing down the hall. Ms. Sweetins lingers a moment longer, her worried eyes meeting Victoria’s before she slips quietly into the corridor. Now alone in the firelit chamber, Victoria moves with practiced precision.

She retrieves a slim leather folio from her satchel, already filled with correspondence marked in Holmes’s neat, exacting hand. On fresh parchment, she begins to write—her strokes swift, confident, the script sharp and unmistakably hers.

Victoria (quietly, to herself as she writes): “Another piece, Mr. Holmes. Bell’s ties may run deeper than we feared. Fit this where it belongs, and the picture grows clearer.”

She finishes with a decisive stroke, then reaches for a thin strip of twine. She binds the letter and slides it into the folio with the others, all destined for London by secure courier. Her hand lingers on the folio a moment, eyes narrowing with focus.

Victoria (murmuring): “Step by step, the game is tilting in our favor.”

The firelight flickers across her face, fierce and resolute. As she closes the folio, the camera lingers on the spine, where a single embossed letter—H—marks the partnership already in motion. Somewhere, across continents, Holmes will soon add this clue to the growing mosaic.