The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem - Episode 10: Dr. Casey’s Files

 

The Adventures of the Misfits of Mayhem - Episode 10: Dr. Casey’s Files

When Negropolis breaks into a small-town clinic searching for answers about Mean Jack Mason, he uncovers far more than he bargained for — a secret war waged beneath the world’s surface.
From a tense confrontation with Lady Molly of Scotland Yard to the hidden halls of The Sanctuary, the truth behind Dr. Casey’s disappearance comes to light.
But as new alliances form and old secrets are unearthed, one word echoes through the shadows… Convergence.

Part 1: The Stakeout

Scene: A quiet street, Pleasant Pines, Alaska. 3:00 AM.
Snow drifts lazily under the dim orange glow of a lone streetlight. The only sound is the rhythmic hum of an idling engine and the faint crunch of tacos being demolished inside a small, dented sedan parked across from a two-story brick office marked CASEY THERAPEUTICS.

Inside the car, Negropolis sits in the passenger seat — perfectly still, skull mask glinting faintly. His gloved fingers drum against his knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He looks like a statue carved from frustration and purpose.
In the driver’s seat, Disciple 1, the infamous Superstar Billy Pearce, leans back, grease-stained fingers clutching a taco. He chews loudly, utterly unfazed by the tension in the air.
In the back seat, Disciple 2, a wiry luchadore known only as Alejandro, fidgets nervously, adjusting his black-and-white mask for the fifth time.

---

Disciple 1 (mouth full): “So, lemme get this straight. We are out in this snow storm in middle of the night, for some dead shrink’s paperwork?”
Negropolis: “Not just paperwork… the truth.”
Disciple 1: “Right. Truth. Cool. But maybe next time we ‘search for truth’ at a diner instead of a break-in.”
Disciple 2 (in accented English): “Señor Skullface, maybe I go instead, sí? You are too… noticeable. Big skull. Big coat. Not… how you say… subtle.”

Negropolis turns his head slowly, his skull mask reflecting the dashboard light.
Negropolis: “This isn’t a job for subtlety, Alejandro. This is a job for conviction. For redemption.”

Disciple 1 snorts.
Disciple 1: “Conviction? Buddy, you’ll get a conviction if the cops show up.”
He wipes his hands with a napkin and adds, “You sure this shrink’s kid even keeps mommy’s files around? Maybe he burned ’em.”

Negropolis: “No. He’s sentimental. The Caseys always were. Besides… Mason’s mind didn’t break by chance. Something was done to him. We find the files, we find who pulled the strings.”

Disciple 2: “Or… we go to jail and you find a roommate named Big Cindy.”

Negropolis turns toward him again, voice dropping low.
Negropolis: “If fear drives you, then wait in the car.”
Disciple 2: “Fear? No, no, amigo. Just… concern for the property values of my criminal record.”

Disciple 1 leans back, burps softly, and tosses the taco wrapper out the window.
Disciple 1: “I’ll keep an eye out. Alejandro’ll keep the engine warm. You go play skull ninja or whatever it is you do.”

Negropolis opens the door slowly, the creak of the hinges echoing through the still night. A gust of cold air swirls in as he steps out, coat billowing like a specter’s wings.

Disciple 2 (whispering): “You see? Even the wind thinks this is a bad idea.”

Negropolis ignores him and adjusts his gloves.
Negropolis: “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes—”
Disciple 1: “—we split your pay.”
Disciple 2: “—we call for help.”
Disciple 1: “Nah, we split his pay first, then call for help.”

Negropolis glares.
Negropolis: “Neither of you understand. What’s inside that office could save Mason’s soul.”
Disciple 1 (deadpan): “Or at least explain why he’s so grumpy all the time. I kinda like the mean SOB, man after my own heart.”

Negropolis steps into the snow and disappears into the shadows across the street. The camera lingers on the car as the disciples watch him go — one chewing, one praying — while faint Halloween lights twinkle from the houses nearby, oblivious to the strange trio conducting midnight espionage in suburbia.

Disciple 1 (sighing): “Man, I shoulda stayed retired.”
Disciple 2: “At least in prison, they serve tacos on time.”

Fade out — the hum of the car engine fades into the soft whistle of the wind, carrying us toward the darkness of the Casey Therapeutics building…

Part 2: The Break-In

Scene: Casey Therapeutics – Pleasant Pines, Alaska – 3:17 AM
The night has gone deathly quiet. Even the wind seems to hesitate as Negropolis slips across the snow-blanketed parking lot toward the dimly lit office building. His boots crunch softly in the frost, the sound swallowed by the stillness of small-town trust.

He pauses beside a side door, running a gloved hand over the frosted glass that reads STAFF ENTRANCE. He smirks beneath the skull mask.
Negropolis (muttering): “Small town… small locks.”

He pulls a set of old lock picks from inside his coat. The first attempt fails — a soft clink. The second? Snap.
He mutters something unholy under his breath and glances toward the car across the street, half-expecting Disciple 1 to be watching.
No movement.
He exhales, adjusts his grip, and with a faint click, the lock gives way.

Negropolis (smirking): “Trusting fools.”

He slips inside.

---

Interior – Casey Therapeutics – Hallway
The faint scent of disinfectant and paper fills the air. The lights are off, save for the glow of an EXIT sign bleeding faint red down the hallway. Negropolis moves like a shadow, every motion measured. The sound of a dripping faucet somewhere echoes through the building, creating an eerie rhythm.

He passes doorways marked RESEARCH, RECORDS, ARCHIVE. But one door catches his eye — half-hidden behind a coat rack. A faded brass tag reads: “FILES.”

Negropolis (grinning beneath the mask): “Of course. Always behind something obvious.”

He kneels and jimmies the lock — this one is even easier than the last. The door creaks open, revealing rows upon rows of filing cabinets stretching into the darkness like metallic tombstones.

Pulling a small flashlight from his coat, he bites down on it, the beam trembling as he searches the cabinets. His gloved fingers trail over name tags — Larsen, Marx, McKenna, Mason.

He stops.
Negropolis (softly): “Jack… Polly…”

He slides the drawer open and starts rifling through the folders. His fingers move faster as he finds—
Blank folders.
Empty. Not a scrap of paper.

Negropolis: “No… no, no, no. This can’t be right.”

He flips through again, each one the same — empty shells labeled Mason, Jack and Mason, Polly. Panic flickers in his eyes.
He slams the drawer shut, then yanks open another. Same thing. Another. Same thing.

Negropolis (frustrated whisper): “Where are they…?”

Then — click.

The lights flood the room, blinding him momentarily.

Voice (sharp, refined, unmistakably British):
“Anthony… what do you think you’re doing?”

Negropolis freezes. Slowly, he turns toward the voice.

Standing in the doorway — illuminated by the harsh fluorescent light — is Lady Molly of Scotland Yard. Elegant even at 3 A.M., her dark coat tailored perfectly, gloves pristine, posture impeccable. A notebook rests casually in her hand, like she’s been expecting him.

Negropolis exhales softly.
Negropolis: “Damn.”

Lady Molly steps forward, her heels clicking softly on the tile, eyes calm but cutting.
Lady Molly: “Breaking and entering? Really, Anthony? I’d hoped your new persona had risen above amateur theatrics.”

Negropolis tilts his head, his voice low and gravelly.
Negropolis: “I’m not here for theatrics, Lady Molly. I’m here for the truth.”

Lady Molly (smiling faintly): “Ah yes, the truth. The ever-elusive prize of men in masks. You do realize you’re tampering with confidential records belonging to a licensed psychological institution?”

Negropolis: “Institution’s been dead for years. And so has the good doctor. Whatever’s left here… it’s not medicine. It’s manipulation.”

She studies him for a moment — eyes narrowing slightly, as if trying to read through the mask.
Lady Molly: “You think you’re saving your friend, don’t you? Mason.”

Negropolis: “I know I am.”

She folds her arms, leaning lightly against a filing cabinet.
Lady Molly: “And if what you find tells you the truth is worse than you imagined? If the man you’re chasing can’t be saved?”

A beat of silence. The hum of the fluorescent lights seems to grow louder.
Negropolis (quietly): “Then I’ll still drag him back from the abyss. Even if I have to go there myself.”

Lady Molly regards him — neither mocking nor pitying. Then, softly:
Lady Molly: “Anthony, you always did have a flair for the dramatic. Come. Let’s talk somewhere less… incriminating.”

Negropolis’s flashlight flickers out, leaving them bathed in pale, cold light. He hesitates for a long moment — then nods slowly.

Negropolis: “You always did show up right before the storm, didn’t you, Molly?”
Lady Molly (smirking): “Someone has to keep you from drowning in it.”

She gestures toward the hallway. Negropolis takes one last look at the empty file drawers, then follows her into the light — unaware that a small red recording light has just blinked on beneath the desk.

FADE OUT.

Part 3: The Drive

Scene: Pleasant Pines – 3:32 AM – A quiet suburban street under a veil of drifting snow.

The black sedan hums softly in the dark, parked beneath a flickering streetlamp. Inside, the Disciples wait. The heater rattles, the radio hums static, and the only real sound is Disciple 1 loudly chewing through the final bites of his taco. Grease stains his gloves, and crumbs decorate his tactical vest like victory confetti.

Disciple 1: “You know, kid… trust me on this. They may think you’re loco now, but you take one of those plastic knives from catering, wrap it up with duct tape, and jab it into your opponent’s forehead until there’s blood running like a faucet. Then you just stand there and laugh.”

Disciple 2 (Alejandro, exasperated): “Laugh?”

Disciple 1: “Laugh like you just won the lottery and lost your mind all in the same second. The crowd’ll eat it up, the promoters’ll push you, and the boys in the back’ll finally respect you.”

Disciple 2: “Or they’ll call security.”

Disciple 1: “Exactly. That’s fear, hermano. Fear’s the foundation of fame.”

Disciple 2 (muttering): “I miss the days when lucha libre was about honor.”

Disciple 1: “Honor don’t sell T-shirts.”

Alejandro sighs, tapping nervously on the dashboard. The rhythmic tap-tap-tap is the only sound for a few seconds—until a sudden tap on the driver’s side window nearly sends him into orbit.

He lets out a strangled yelp, clutching his mask, while Disciple 1 just smirks.

Disciple 1: “Easy there, Speedy Gonzales. We ain’t ghosts.”

Disciple 1 rolls the window down—and standing outside is a North Pole Elf in casual clothes, his badge glinting faintly under his jacket.

Elf (pleasantly): “Good evening, gentlemen. You can head back to the hotel. Mr. Negropolis will be going with us.”

He gestures toward another car down the street, where Negropolis is seen getting into the back seat. Lady Molly of Scotland Yard slides gracefully into the passenger side beside him.

Elf: “We’ll make sure he gets home safely.”

Disciple 1 (shrugging): “Sounds good to me.”

Disciple 2 (still tense): “Are we sure that’s… normal?”

Disciple 1: “Kid, you work for a man in a skull mask who yells about destiny and darkness. That’s as normal as it gets.”

The elf nods politely and walks off toward his car.

Disciple 1 (stretching): “Alright, I passed an all-night diner on the way here. Let’s grab some grub—I’m starving.”

Disciple 2: “You just ate.”

Disciple 1: “That was an appetizer. Don’t judge my process.”

Alejandro groans, slumping into the seat as the car sputters to life and rolls off down the snow-lined road.

Disciple 2 (muttering): “Dios mío… next time, I’m driving.”

---

Cut to: The Elf’s car – A few blocks away, gliding smoothly through the empty streets.

Constable Noel Jinglemark adjusts the rearview mirror, his pointed ears catching the faint glow of the dashboard lights. His tone is polite but familiar.

Jinglemark: “Mr. Negropolis… it’s good to see you again.”

From the back seat, Negropolis folds his arms, the mask gleaming in the dim light.
Negropolis: “Good evening, Constable Jinglemark.”

Lady Molly sits poised in the passenger seat, the faintest smirk on her lips.
Lady Molly: “Let’s head back to the manor, Constable.”

Jinglemark nods and turns onto the main road, the tires crunching softly over the snow.

For a while, the only sounds are the gentle hum of the engine and the whisper of wind outside. Finally, Negropolis speaks.

Negropolis: “How did you know I’d be there tonight?”

Lady Molly: “Please, Anthony. You think you’re subtle? When I heard the NPCW was holding a show in Pleasant Pines, I rather suspected you’d find a way to do something heroically foolish.”

Negropolis (gruffly): “I’m not being foolish. I’m looking for answers. Jack’s not himself, Molly. He’s… broken. I thought maybe his old therapist had something in those files. Something that could help.”

Lady Molly: “You have to trust that we’re doing everything we can. But breaking into offices in the dead of night—well, it’s hardly the path to enlightenment.”

Negropolis: “I just need to know what Dr. Casey did to him. What turned Jack Mason into Mean Jack Mason.”

Lady Molly’s gaze softens, though her tone remains composed.
Lady Molly: “It wasn’t Dr. Casey, Anthony. Quite the opposite—she was trying to help him. The real culprit was someone else entirely. A Dr. Goodfellow. A collaborator of… Dr. Moreau.”

Negropolis leans forward slightly, his voice darkening.
Negropolis: “Why? Why would they want to twist him like that?”

Lady Molly: “It’s… complicated. But I promise, once we’re back at the Manor, we’ll explain everything. What I can tell you is that over the summer, someone hacked Dr. Casey’s files—tried to collect data on both Jack and Polly. But the digital records were incomplete.”

Negropolis: “Incomplete?”

Lady Molly: “Dr. Meredith Casey—Miriam’s son—kept the full records offline. Paper files. Journals. Once we discovered the breach, we removed them to keep them safe. So, if you were looking for answers tonight…”

Negropolis (bitterly): “…they were already gone.”

Lady Molly: “Precisely.”

Silence fills the car for a few moments. The snowfall outside grows heavier, flakes spinning in the headlights like ghosts.

Negropolis: “So what’s in those journals that’s so important?”

Lady Molly glances back over her shoulder, her eyes unreadable.
Lady Molly: “All in good time, Negropolis. All in good time.”

Jinglemark (quietly): “We’ve arrived, my lady.”

The car rolls to a stop before a massive iron gate flanked by snowy pines. Beyond it looms a grand Edwardian estate, lights glowing faintly through the frost.

Negropolis peers out the window, his breath fogging the glass.
Negropolis: “What is this place?”

Lady Molly (smiling faintly): “This, Mr. Negropolis, is the Sanctuary.”

The gate creaks open, and the car glides forward into the dark woods beyond, the Manor’s silhouette rising like a secret kept by the snow itself.

FADE OUT.

Part 4: The Sanctuary

Scene: The Sanctuary – An undisclosed estate in the Alaskan wilderness, disguised as a snowbound Edwardian manor.

The heavy double doors creak open, spilling pale lamplight into the swirling snow. Lady Molly, Constable Noel Jinglemark, and Negropolis step inside—and immediately, the skull-masked wrestler stops short.

The manor’s interior is not what he expected.

The grand foyer gleams with polished marble and golden light, but beneath the surface elegance lies something different—efficient. Three wide reception desks stretch across the floor, each manned by two uniformed members of the Royal North Pole Constabulary, their eyes sharp, their movements measured. Subtle runes shimmer faintly along the baseboards, humming with protective magic.

High above, a crystal chandelier glows like a frozen sun. The grand staircase sweeps down from the second floor, and behind each reception station stand three massive steel-reinforced doors, each embossed with a sigil—a snowflake, a sword, and a flame.

Lady Molly glances sidelong at Negropolis, who’s trying (and failing) not to look impressed.
Lady Molly: “Welcome, Mr. Negropolis… to The Sanctuary.”

Negropolis: “The Sanctuary? What is this place, some kind of rich-people panic room?”

Lady Molly (smiling): “Not quite. This is the base of operations for the Resistance—those who stand against the growing darkness threatening not only the NPCW, but every federation across the globe. We’ve banded together to make sure that hope—however faint—still has a fighting chance.”

Negropolis (snorting): “A Resistance? You’re joking, right? You sound like Ace trying to cut a promo on Sunday morning cartoons.”

Lady Molly (dead serious): “No joke, Mr. Negropolis. The threat is very real. And tonight, you’re going to see exactly how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

As they speak, two well-dressed Englishmen descend the grand staircase. One, tall and hawk-eyed, adjusts his deerstalker hat. The other, portly and affable, follows closely behind.

Gentleman #1: “It’s elementary, my dear Watson. Elementary.”

Lady Molly (dryly, to Negropolis): “You’ll get used to him.”

She leads Negropolis toward the central door—the one marked with the sigil of the sword. Placing her gloved hand on a biometric scanner, she waits as it scans and flashes green. The massive door unlatches with a heavy click and swings open to reveal a narrow corridor lined with glowing blue light strips.

They step through, the door sealing behind them with a whispering hiss. At the end of the hallway stands an elevator—sleek, metallic, utterly modern against the manor’s classical exterior.

Lady Molly: “After you.”

Inside, there are only three buttons. She presses #3.

The elevator hums softly as it descends. The sound of gears fades into a low mechanical thrum that seems to vibrate through the soles of their shoes. Negropolis stands stiffly, glancing around the polished chrome interior.

Negropolis: “I’ve been in wrestling promotions with less budget than this.”

Lady Molly (amused): “Consider it an investment in the world’s survival.”

The elevator slows, then stops with a soft ding. The doors slide open—
—and Negropolis’s eyes widen.

Before him sprawls a vast underground hub, alive with motion and light. Rows of glass-walled laboratories and offices ring a circular command center below, where elves, gnomes, humans, and even a few dwarves work at consoles glowing with holographic displays.

Along one wall, a shimmering portal hums with cold, aurora-colored energy.

Negropolis (in awe): “Is that—?”

Lady Molly: “A direct gate to the North Pole. It’s how we move personnel instantly. Think of it as… an express sleigh for those in the know.”

Around them, screens flash footage—NPCW broadcasts, world news, mysterious incidents. Analysts trade notes; voices echo through headsets. The air smells faintly of ozone and coffee.

Behind one glass wall, a punk-styled elf with neon pink hair argues animatedly with a gnome typing at lightning speed. Code streams across their screens like a digital storm.

In another lab, white-coated scientists examine glowing vials, blue-green fluid swirling inside them. On one table rests a familiar black case—the same design as the one Dr. Moreau had given to Mean Jack Mason. Negropolis stiffens at the sight.

As he watches, a figure approaches—a tall man in a lab coat pushing a wheelchair. In it sits an elderly woman with sharp, intelligent eyes and silver-streaked hair tied in a neat bun.

Lady Molly: “Negropolis, may I introduce you to Dr. Meredith Casey and his mother—Dr. Miriam Casey.”

Negropolis blinks.
Negropolis: “But… I thought Dr. Miriam Casey was dead.”

Lady Molly: “That was the point. We faked her death to protect her from Dr. Moreau and Dr. Goodfellow. Her research into neural conditioning was too valuable to fall into their hands.”

The elderly woman smiles kindly.
Dr. Miriam Casey: “It’s good to finally meet you, Negropolis. Jack spoke of you often. Said you were… his conscience in darker times.”

Negropolis (uneasy): “He did, huh? Guess I didn’t do a great job keeping him sane.”

Lady Molly: “Oh, don’t be so sure. You may yet have a chance to save him. But for now…”

She gestures to Dr. Casey, who produces two hardbound black journals—one engraved “Jack Mason”, the other “Polly Mason.”

Lady Molly: “These belonged to Dr. Casey. They contain everything—notes, transcripts, even early behavioral analyses. Read them carefully. They’ll answer questions you didn’t know you had.”

Negropolis accepts the journals, their weight heavy in his gloved hands.
Negropolis: “And after that?”

Lady Molly: “After that, we talk about what comes next.”

She leads him to a small adjoining study lined with old books and a single reading lamp.
Lady Molly: “Take your time, Mr. Negropolis. I’ll return in an hour.”

She closes the door gently behind him.

Negropolis sits, the journals before him, the faint hum of the portal echoing in the distance. For a long moment, he just stares at the covers—Jack Mason. Polly Mason. Then he exhales, opens the first journal, and begins to read.

---

Cut to: The command floor above.

Sherlock Holmes approaches Lady Molly, his sharp eyes following the closed study door.
Holmes: “Are you certain we can trust that man, my lady?”

Lady Molly (without hesitation): “I believe so, Sherlock. But even if we couldn’t…”
She glances back toward the elevator, where the portal’s light ripples faintly across her face.
Lady Molly: “…we may have no choice. He’s going to play a key part in the game that’s afoot.”

FADE OUT.

Epilogue - “The Calm Before the Convergence”

The quiet hum of machines filled the Sanctuary’s air—screens flickering with streams of data, distant voices echoing from unseen rooms. The once-overwhelming brilliance of the underground hub now seemed subdued and intimate. A lone desk lamp glowed in the private study where Negropolis sat, the two journals—Jack Mason and Polly Mason—now closed before him. His gloved fingers rested atop their worn covers as if holding them in place might make their revelations less real.

When the door creaked open, Lady Molly stepped in, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. She regarded him with that calm detective’s poise—neither pitying nor probing, simply knowing.
“Finished?” she asked gently.

Negropolis leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. “Finished? Maybe. Processed? Not even close.” He gestured toward the journals. “If half of what’s in those pages is true… then the game we’ve been playing isn’t even the real one, is it?”

Lady Molly offered a faint smile. “You’re starting to see the edges of it, Mr. Negropolis. There are more players, more pieces, and far more at stake than the public—or even the NPCW roster—can imagine.” She crossed the room and perched on the edge of a table, her tone soft but assured. “For now, your task remains unchanged. Continue with the Obsidian Covenant. Keep the Primal Horde distracted, fractured if possible. Stir the pot, but don’t boil it over. Not yet.”

Negropolis frowned. “So, hold tight while the rest of you play the long game? You know patience isn’t my strong suit, Lady Molly.”

Her smirk was subtle, amused. “Oh, I know. But we must all bide our time until Convergence. That’s when the lines will cross and the veil will finally lift. After that…” She leaned in, her voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “After Convergence, you’ll face Mean Jack Mason—one on one. That will be your crucible, your turning point. Everything pivots there.”

Negropolis tilted his head, intrigue creeping past his skepticism. “And what happens after that?”

Lady Molly stood, smoothing her coat and moving toward the door. “After that,” she said, pausing to glance over her shoulder with a knowing glint in her eye, “the real game begins. And you’ll understand why we brought you here.”

The door shut softly behind her, leaving Negropolis alone once more—his mind racing, his reflection faint in the glass of the portal that pulsed at the far end of the room. Somewhere beyond that light, the North Pole glimmered with mystery and menace.

He muttered under his breath, “Convergence, huh? Guess I better make sure I survive until then.”

The camera panned back through the Sanctuary’s bustling corridors—past agents, analysts, and scientists all working in quiet synchronization—until it settled briefly on Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Meredith Casey watching from a balcony above.

Holmes turned to Lady Molly beside him. “And if he fails?”

Molly didn’t look away from the glowing portal. “Then the darkness wins, Mr. Holmes. And none of us will have the luxury of failure again.”

FADE OUT.
End Episode.