NPCW: Behind the Curtain – Episode 006: “The Rosters”
Power shifts quietly behind closed doors as NPCW’s future is shaped not by spectacle—but by decisions.
Titles gain new meaning, rosters are tested by depth, and leadership faces the cost of balance.
In a world built on tradition and ambition, every choice leaves a shadow.
North Pole – NPCW Headquarters
Office of the President
The Office of the President is quiet in the way only power offices ever are.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the North Pole skyline, snow drifting slowly past like a living painting. Far off, the aurora dances faintly—soft greens and blues washing the sky in motion. Inside, warmth reigns. A stone fireplace hums low, its glow reflecting off polished floors and brushed steel accents. The desk at the center of the room is solid oak, engraved with the NPCW crest—not ornamental, but deliberate. Framed posters from historic events line the walls beside digital displays cycling through ratings reports, roster depth charts, and upcoming tournament brackets.
Kristine Kringle stands behind the desk, tablet in hand, glasses perched low on her nose. She isn’t seated—Kristine rarely is when decisions matter. Across from her, Victoria Deschamps sits comfortably but alert, folders open, notes already marked. They’ve done this dance for years.
This isn’t ceremonial leadership.
This is maintenance of an empire.
1. Mean Jack Mason & the Universal Title
Victoria breaks the silence first, glancing at one of the files.
“I’ll admit it,” she says, tapping the page. “I didn’t expect Mean Jack Mason to choose the Universal Title over the North Pole Championship.”
Kristine allows a faint, knowing smile.
“That’s because you were thinking emotionally. Jack wasn’t.”
She sets the tablet down.
“The North Pole Title has history. Prestige. It carries itself. The Universal Championship doesn’t—not yet. And Jack knows that.”
Victoria leans forward.
“So he wants to be the man who defines it.”
“Exactly,” Kristine replies. “Not reminds people what it was… but decides what it will be. He’s betting on himself—and on the idea that if he makes that title unavoidable, everything else will follow.”
Victoria exhales softly.
“Bold choice.”
“Calculated,” Kristine corrects.
Victoria flips another page.
“Which brings us to the obvious problem. First challenger.”
Names come quickly—spoken aloud, weighed carefully.
Krampus.
Santa.
Negropolis.
King Arthur.
Robin Hood.
Abaddon.
The Big Bad Wolf.
Yeti.
Each name lands with gravity.
Kristine folds her arms.
“Any one of them could headline a cycle.”
“And any one of them could derail another story if we rush it,” Victoria adds.
Kristine nods.
“Exactly. We let the tournaments breathe. Let the other titles find their champions. Momentum will tell us who needs the Universal Title—and who’s just chasing it.”
Victoria smiles slightly.
“Patience. A lost art in this business.”
2. Finalized Rosters
Victoria turns to the next section, her tone sobering.
“The rosters are finalized.”
She pauses—not for effect, but weight.
“We’re deep. Deeper than we’ve ever been. But… not everyone made the active lists.”
Kristine closes her eyes briefly, then opens them.
“That was always going to hurt. Depth is a privilege—but it demands discipline. If everyone’s active, no one feels special.”
Victoria hesitates before continuing.
“Leiton Snake reached out. Asked if the Snake Pit could be rehired.”
Kristine considers it—not dismissive, not indulgent.
“We don’t have room. Not on the active side.”
She tilts her head.
“But enhancement talent? That’s different. Visibility without congestion.”
“I already offered it,” Victoria says. “They’re thinking it over.”
“Good,” Kristine replies. “We don’t burn bridges—we redirect traffic.”
3. Talent on Loan to HCW
Victoria slides another file forward.
“Our people on loan to HCW. We need to be clear—when they come back, they have a place.”
Kristine scans the list quickly.
“They will.”
Victoria pauses on one name.
“Grizelda is the wildcard. We still don’t know which roster she belongs to long-term.”
Kristine nods.
“I’ll speak with Donnie B and Max. I want to know how they see her exit—what version of Grizelda we’re getting back. That’ll tell us everything.”
A pause.
“No one falls through the cracks,” Kristine adds firmly. “Not on my watch.”
4. Mythic Division & Dark Fable
Victoria’s tone shifts—curious now.
“And then there’s the Mythic Division. Dark Fable.”
Kristine’s gaze sharpens.
“Alton Bell.”
Victoria smiles faintly.
“All eyes are on him.”
“As they should be,” Kristine says. “This is his sandbox. His voice. His responsibility.”
She steps toward the window, hands clasped behind her back.
“I want to see how Alton gives that division its identity—not just matches, but mythology. What it feels like to watch. What rules apply. What stories linger.”
“And if it doesn’t click?”
Kristine turns back, calm and resolute.
“Then we help him course-correct. But first—we let him create.”
5. Goldie Locks as Northern Belles GM
Victoria flips to the next tab.
“Goldie Locks. General Manager of the Northern Belles.”
She exhales.
“That’s a seismic shift. From anti-establishment champion to… management.”
Kristine smiles—warm, but resolute.
“Or it’s accountability.”
Victoria raises an eyebrow.
“She spent years calling out the system,” Kristine continues. “Now she gets to rebuild it. That’s not betrayal—that’s evolution.”
A beat.
“And if she succeeds,” Kristine adds, “she proves change doesn’t come from yelling outside the walls—but from rewriting what’s inside them.”
Victoria nods slowly.
“She’s earned that chance.”
6. Iron Ring Concerns
Kristine returns to the desk.
“Colt and Vee are at max capacity. Twenty recruits.”
She frowns.
“I’m worried about the veterans we sent down. They’re occupying development spots.”
Victoria responds calmly.
“They’re also teaching. Leading. Raising the floor.”
She leans forward.
“The kids get better faster. The vets rediscover purpose. Everyone wins.”
Kristine considers it… then nods.
“All right. But we monitor it closely.”
7. Scrooge’s Grand Entrance
The door bursts open.
Ebeneezer Scrooge storms in, cane striking the floor like a gavel.
“This is outrageous!”
Kristine doesn’t look up.
“Good morning to you too, Ebeneezer.”
Scrooge fumes.
“Why is Polar Power no longer ‘brought to you by Scrooge & Marley Counting House’?!”
Kristine sighs—deep, measured.
“The VP of Finance and the VP of Marketing are reviewing all sponsorship contracts.”
“If they aren’t beneficial to NPCW,” Victoria adds sweetly, “we void them.”
Scrooge sputters.
“This will be addressed at the next board meeting!”
He storms out.
The door slams.
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Kristine leans against the desk, shaking her head.
“He never disappoints.”
8. Lucien Vantrell
The door opens again—this time politely.
Lucien Vantrell steps in.
“What’s so funny?”
Victoria wipes a tear from her eye.
“Scrooge.”
Lucien smirks.
“Ah. Of course.”
His tone shifts.
“I’ve been reviewing NPCW documentation. There are some… gaps. Structural ones.”
Kristine gestures to the table.
“Then sit. Let’s close them.”
Lucien joins them. Papers spread. Voices lower.
The camera slowly pulls back as strategy replaces laughter—
and the future of NPCW tightens, quietly, deliberately, into place.
Fade to black.
Epilogue – The Weight of Winter
Office of the NPCW Polar Division General Manager
North Pole
Elias Coldmere stands alone, framed by the tall window of his office.
Beyond the glass, the North Pole stretches out in quiet majesty—snow-dusted rooftops, slow-moving lights, the aurora faintly brushing the sky like a secret too old to announce itself loudly. Inside, the office is austere but intentional. Dark wood shelves hold carefully chosen volumes: histories of Polar wrestling, annotated manuscripts on cold-climate combat traditions, first-edition programs from NPCW’s earliest years. A single Polar Power banner hangs neatly, its presence symbolic rather than boastful.
Coldmere’s reflection stares back at him—early fifties, tall and slender, wrapped in a muted blue winter coat despite the warmth of the room. A scarf rests neatly at his collar. His eyes are calm. Always calm.
Too much has happened too quickly.
One moment, he was a caretaker of legacy—an advisor, a scholar.
The next, he is General Manager of the Polar Division… and steward of NPCW’s flagship show.
Balance, he thinks. Everything depends on balance.
A knock interrupts his thoughts.
Not hurried.
Measured.
“Enter,” Coldmere says without turning.
The door opens, and Magnus Blackwell steps inside.
Blackwell is immaculate—tailored black suit, polished shoes, silver-tipped cane resting easily in his hand. He moves like a man who has never been denied access to any room he wished to enter. His smile is thin, confident, predatory.
“Mr. Coldmere,” Blackwell says smoothly. “Congratulations on your ascension.”
Coldmere finally turns, his expression neutral.
“What do you want, Mr. Blackwell?”
Blackwell chuckles softly, as though amused by the lack of ceremony.
“I hear there will be a tournament. For the North Pole Title.”
“There will be,” Coldmere replies.
“And I would like my asset,” Blackwell continues, tapping the cane lightly against the floor, “to be included.”
Coldmere raises an eyebrow.
“Grondar hasn’t competed in an NPCW ring. Not once. Why would he deserve a spot?”
Blackwell’s smile widens—just enough.
“Deserve?” he repeats. “An outdated word. Grondar isn’t a competitor. He’s a force. Gold and glory mean nothing to him… but destruction?”
He leans in slightly.
“That is his currency. And I am the banker.”
Coldmere snorts quietly.
“This isn’t a marketplace. It’s a tournament built on tradition.”
“Traditions evolve,” Blackwell replies calmly.
He reaches into his coat and produces a sealed document—heavy paper, crimson wax pressed with a symbol Coldmere hasn’t seen in decades.
Blackwell places it on the desk.
“Consider this… proof of eligibility.”
Coldmere hesitates—only for a moment—then breaks the seal.
His eyes move across the page.
They narrow.
Something old stirs behind them. Recognition. Understanding.
Coldmere looks up slowly.
“…Very well.”
Blackwell inclines his head, satisfied.
“You won’t regret this.”
Coldmere meets his gaze.
“I rarely do.”
Blackwell turns and exits, the soft click of the door echoing longer than it should.
Coldmere exhales.
He moves to his desk where a clean sheet is laid out, neatly typed:
NORTH POLE TITLE TOURNAMENT – PARTICIPANTS
Rudolph
Santa Claus
Krampus
Big Bad Wolf
Negropolis
Yeti
Abaddon
Jack Frost
Coldmere studies the list carefully.
His pen pauses over Negropolis.
A long pause.
Then it moves on.
At the bottom, he draws a clean line through Jack Frost and writes in careful script:
Grondar the Revenant
“Sorry, Jack,” Coldmere murmurs to himself.
“Looks like you’re headed for the Northern Lights.”
He returns to the sealed document, folds it once, and carries it to the fireplace. The paper catches quickly, the wax melting, the symbol disappearing into ash.
Coldmere watches until nothing remains.
Finally, he returns to his desk and lifts the Official Polar Power Booking Sheet. His pen moves smoothly now—confident, deliberate—mapping matches, timing rivalries, setting pieces into motion that no one will question.
Because Elias Coldmere never appears to rush.
Never raises his voice.
Never seems dangerous.
As the fire crackles softly behind him, the camera lingers on his calm expression—
and the quiet certainty that winter, once set in motion, does not ask permission.
Fade to black.
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