Episode 1.05 – “Preparations”
PREVIOUSLY ON THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE MISFITS OF MAYHEM
The war against Dr. Moreau’s legacy has begun to close around the Misfits.
Polly Mason, with the help of Leiton Snake and the Snake Pit, uncovered the details of what Moreau and Goodefellow did to Susie Brenner, now known to the world as Feral. The Caseys discovered that Moreau’s files were incomplete and deliberately altered, but hidden within them was enough truth to reveal a possible way back. A song. A precise harmonic trigger. Something that could break the conditioning if delivered perfectly.
But saving Susie would not be simple.
Yeti had already been warned. Marcus the Beastmaster had already strengthened the Primal Horde with Moreau’s Ultimate Beasts. And Feral herself remained trapped between instinct, violence, and a name she could no longer bear to hear.
Meanwhile, Jack Mason chose to step away from wrestling for June, determined to be better for Edie before their wedding on June 27th. He spoke softer. He corrected his temper. He even wore a cardigan because Edie said it looked nice.
To most, it looked like growth.
To Negropolis, it looked like something else.
Because the rage had not vanished.
It had only been folded away.
And things folded away neatly have a way of being found later.
SCENE 1 - Come Home Susie
POLLY MASON’S APARTMENT – NORTH POLE – NIGHT
Polly Mason’s apartment is quiet.
Not peaceful.
Quiet.
There is a difference.
The room is modest but carefully arranged. A few books are stacked beside the couch. A kettle sits on the stove, cooling after being forgotten. On the table are scattered notes from Sanctuary, folded maps, a small encrypted communicator, and a slim folder marked with medical seals from the Casey Laboratory.
Polly stands by the window, arms crossed, looking out over the snowy street below.
Leiton Snake sits at the small kitchen table, one chair turned backward beneath him. He does not crowd her. He does not interrupt her thoughts. But he watches the door, the window, the hallway, and Polly’s reflection in the glass.
The Snake Pit has a way of making silence feel guarded.
Polly Mason: “You can stop pretending you’re not watching every exit.”
Leiton Snake: “I’m not pretending.”
Polly turns slightly.
Polly Mason: “At least lie for my benefit.”
Leiton Snake: “You’d notice.”
A faint smile touches Polly’s face, but it fades quickly.
On the table, the Casey folder sits like a live wire.
Leiton notices her glance.
Leiton Snake: “You’ve read it six times.”
Polly Mason: “Seven.”
Leiton Snake: “That make it better?”
Polly Mason: “No.”
A pause.
Polly Mason: “But if I miss one detail, Susie pays for it.”
Leiton’s expression tightens slightly.
Leiton Snake: “You’re not doing it alone.”
Polly looks back to the window.
Polly Mason: “I know.”
The words are soft.
That makes them mean more.
Then—
A knock.
Not loud.
Not confident.
Three uneven taps against the door.
Polly and Leiton both freeze.
Leiton stands immediately. No wasted movement. His hand goes to his side, not drawing a weapon yet, but close enough.
Polly reaches for the folder and slides it beneath a stack of papers.
Another knock.
This one weaker.
Leiton moves to the door and positions himself beside it.
Leiton Snake: “Expecting anyone?”
Polly Mason: “No.”
Leiton Snake: “Then stay back.”
Polly gives him a look.
Leiton Snake: “Please.”
That makes her pause.
Then she steps aside.
Leiton opens the door.
Feral stands in the hallway.
Her hair is wild. Her breathing is uneven. Her ring jacket hangs off one shoulder, torn at the sleeve. She looks like she has walked through half the North Pole without knowing where she was going.
For one split second, she is not attacking.
Then Leiton sees her eyes.
Lost.
Terrified.
Dangerous.
Leiton Snake: “Polly.”
Polly moves forward and stops dead when she sees her.
Feral’s gaze snaps between them. Her body coils like it wants to lunge, but her legs barely hold her.
Feral: “Don’t.”
Leiton shifts his stance.
Leiton Snake: “Don’t what?”
Feral’s hands tremble. She clenches them into fists so hard her nails bite into her palms.
Feral: “Don’t say it.”
Polly’s voice becomes careful.
Polly Mason: “All right.”
Feral’s eyes lock onto her.
Feral: “You said it before.”
Polly Mason: “I did.”
Feral: “You don’t get to.”
Polly Mason: “Then I won’t.”
Leiton watches Feral closely. Every instinct in him screams that she is too close, too unstable, too strong.
Leiton Snake: “Why are you here?”
Feral bares her teeth slightly.
Feral: “I don’t know.”
That answer lands wrong.
Because it sounds honest.
Polly takes one slow step forward.
Polly Mason: “Did someone send you?”
Feral shakes her head violently.
Feral: “No.”
Polly Mason: “Did Marcus?”
Feral’s expression twists.
Feral: “No.”
Polly Mason: “Yeti?”
A low growl starts in Feral’s throat, but it dies before it becomes anything.
Feral: “I left.”
Leiton’s eyes narrow.
Leiton Snake: “You left the Primal Horde?”
Feral looks at him, and for a moment the old defensive violence flares.
Feral: “I said I left.”
Leiton does not flinch.
Leiton Snake: “That’s different from escaped.”
Feral’s breathing stutters.
That is the answer.
Polly softens.
Polly Mason: “Come inside.”
Leiton looks at her sharply.
Leiton Snake: “Polly—”
Polly Mason: “She came to the door.”
Leiton Snake: “That doesn’t make her safe.”
Polly Mason: “No.”
Polly keeps her eyes on Feral.
Polly Mason: “But it means part of her knew where to come.”
Feral’s face tightens. She looks like she wants to reject it. To snarl. To walk away. To prove that nothing human is left.
Instead, she steps inside.
Leiton closes the door slowly.
Feral stands in the center of the apartment like she does not understand how rooms work anymore. She looks at the couch. The table. The kettle. The books.
Domestic things.
Gentle things.
They seem to frighten her more than weapons.
Polly Mason: “You can sit down.”
Feral: “No.”
Polly Mason: “All right.”
Feral sways.
Leiton moves, but Polly raises one hand.
Not yet.
Feral grabs the back of a chair, steadying herself.
Feral: “It won’t stop.”
Polly Mason: “What won’t?”
Feral’s jaw trembles.
Feral: “The name.”
The room stills.
Feral looks at Polly with fury and desperation fighting across her face.
Feral: “It keeps coming back. In my head. In their voices. Velora said it. Vlad looked at me like he knew it. You said it.”
Her breath catches.
Feral: “I hear it when I sleep.”
Polly says nothing.
Feral’s voice drops.
Feral: “I see things.”
Leiton’s tone is cautious.
Leiton Snake: “Memories?”
Feral turns on him.
Feral: “Not mine.”
Polly Mason: “Maybe they are.”
Feral shakes her head.
Feral: “No. No. No.”
She backs away from the table, panic rising.
Feral: “Feral is strong. Feral belongs. Feral fights. Feral does not cry. Feral does not remember.”
Her voice cracks on the last word.
Polly steps closer.
Polly Mason: “And Susie?”
Feral flinches as if struck.
Leiton’s body tenses.
But Feral does not attack.
She just stares at Polly.
Her eyes fill.
Feral: “Help me.”
The words are almost too small for someone like her.
Polly’s face changes.
Not triumph.
Not surprise.
Responsibility.
Feral’s legs give out.
She collapses.
Leiton moves instantly and catches her before she hits the floor. Feral tries to shove him away on instinct, but there is no strength behind it. Only panic.
Feral: “Don’t cage me.”
Leiton’s voice lowers.
Leiton Snake: “Not going to.”
Feral grips his sleeve, not attacking now.
Holding on.
Feral: “Don’t let them take me back.”
Polly kneels in front of her.
Polly Mason: “No one is taking you back tonight.”
Feral looks at her, wild-eyed.
Feral: “I don’t know how to be her.”
Polly’s voice softens into that same calm rhythm she used before. Not the song. Not yet. Just steadiness.
Polly Mason: “Then we start smaller.”
Feral trembles.
Polly Mason: “You don’t have to be all of her tonight.”
A pause.
Polly Mason: “You only have to want to find her.”
Feral’s face crumples, but she fights it, swallowing the emotion like it is poison.
Feral: “I want…”
She cannot finish.
Polly reaches out, slowly, palm open.
Feral stares at the hand.
A long moment passes.
Then Feral takes it.
Polly Mason: “I’m taking you to Sanctuary.”
Leiton looks toward the window.
Leiton Snake: “Caseys?”
Polly nods.
Polly Mason: “The Caseys. Lady Molly. Somewhere protected.”
Feral’s grip tightens.
Feral: “No Yeti.”
Polly Mason: “No Yeti.”
Feral: “No Marcus.”
Polly Mason: “No Marcus.”
Feral: “No Moreau.”
That one hits harder.
Polly leans closer.
Polly Mason: “Especially no Moreau.”
Leiton helps Feral stand. Polly grabs the folder from beneath the papers and shoves it into a satchel. She moves quickly now, controlled and decisive.
Leiton Snake: “Back exit?”
Polly Mason: “No. Front.”
Leiton looks at her.
Polly Mason: “If someone is watching, I want to know.”
Leiton almost smiles.
Leiton Snake: “There she is.”
Polly gives him a quick look.
Polly Mason: “Focus.”
Leiton Snake: “Always.”
They guide Feral toward the door.
For a moment, Feral stops and looks back into the apartment.
Feral: “This place…”
Polly Mason: “What?”
Feral struggles for words.
Feral: “It smells like… quiet.”
Polly’s expression softens.
Polly Mason: “You can come back to it someday.”
Feral looks at her.
Polly Mason: “As Susie.”
Feral closes her eyes.
This time, she does not flinch.
They leave.
Outside, the snow falls steadily.
Polly, Leiton, and Feral move quickly down the street toward the waiting vehicle at the curb.
Across the road, tucked beneath the shadow of a closed shop awning, a figure watches.
Still.
Silent.
The figure wears a dark winter coat, collar raised high. Their face is hidden by the angle of the streetlight. In one gloved hand, they hold a small phone.
As Polly helps Feral into the vehicle, the figure lifts the phone.
No words are spoken at first.
Only breath.
Then—
Mysterious Figure: “She went to Mason.”
A pause.
Mysterious Figure: “No. Not Jack.”
The figure watches the vehicle pull away.
Mysterious Figure: “Polly.”
Another pause.
Mysterious Figure: “Yes. Feral is with her.”
The vehicle disappears into the snow.
The figure lowers their head slightly.
Mysterious Figure: “Tell him the preparation phase has begun.”
Cut to black.
Scene 2 - It Looks Nice on You
EDIE’S APARTMENT – NORTH POLE – LATER THAT NIGHT
Edie’s apartment glows with warmth.
Wedding warmth.
The coffee table is covered in invitation samples, folded napkins, floral sketches, menu cards, and a very serious seating chart that has already been revised so many times the paper looks tired.
Edie sits cross-legged on the couch, wearing comfortable clothes and holding two ribbon samples up to the light.
Flippers stands on the table in a tiny bowtie, inspecting a pile of place cards like a very short wedding planner.
Jack Mason stands near the kitchenette.
He is dressed neatly. Too neatly.
Dark slacks. White shirt. Sleeves rolled with precise care. The burgundy cardigan hangs on the back of a chair nearby, as if it is waiting for him.
He is smiling.
Softly.
Patiently.
That should be comforting.
It is not.
Edie: “What do you think?”
Jack turns.
Jack Mason: “About the cake?”
Edie smiles and holds up the ribbon samples.
Edie: “About the ribbon.”
Jack walks over and looks at the two samples.
One ivory.
One pale blue.
He studies them with unusual seriousness.
Jack Mason: “Blue.”
Edie smiles.
Edie: “Really?”
Jack Mason: “It brings out your eyes.”
Edie’s smile warms.
Edie: “That was a good answer.”
Jack looks down.
For a moment, his hand rests on the edge of the table.
His fingers press into the paper beside the seating chart.
Not enough to tear it.
Enough to show the thought came close.
Edie notices.
Her smile softens, but there is a trace of concern underneath it.
Edie: “Jack?”
He looks at her.
The pressure in his fingers stops immediately.
He smooths the paper carefully.
Too carefully.
Jack Mason: “Sorry.”
Edie: “You don’t have to apologize.”
Jack Mason: “Yes, I do.”
Flippers chirps from the table.
Jack looks at the penguin and gives a small, controlled smile.
Jack Mason: “Best man cannot alter the official record.”
Flippers chirps indignantly and places one tiny foot directly on a place card.
Edie laughs.
Edie: “He has opinions.”
Jack Mason: “He always has.”
Jack gently lifts Flippers off the seating chart and sets him on the couch beside Edie. Flippers immediately waddles toward a stack of napkin samples and begins inspecting those instead.
Edie watches Jack.
Edie: “You’ve been really patient with all this.”
Jack turns back toward her.
Jack Mason: “I want it right.”
Edie: “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Jack’s expression remains soft.
But something behind it tightens.
Jack Mason: “It does.”
The room shifts slightly.
Edie lowers the ribbon samples.
Edie: “Jack.”
He catches himself.
A breath.
Slow in.
Slow out.
His voice lowers.
Jack Mason: “No. You’re right.”
Another breath.
Jack Mason: “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
Edie studies him.
Edie: “You sound like you’re repeating something someone told you.”
Jack smiles faintly.
Jack Mason: “Maybe I’m trying to learn.”
That lands softly.
Edie reaches for his hand.
Edie: “I know you are.”
Jack lets her take it.
His hand is warm, but his grip is controlled, as though even tenderness has become something he must measure.
Edie: “It’s just wedding stress. That’s all.”
Jack looks at her.
For a moment, he seems like he might disagree.
Then the soft smile returns.
Jack Mason: “That’s all.”
Edie accepts it because she wants to.
Because the wedding is close.
Because Jack is trying.
Because love can make warning signs look like nerves.
She picks up the checklist again.
Edie: “Invitations are done. Flowers are almost done. Dinner is settled. Ceremony site is confirmed. Polly is on my side. Ace and Flippers are on yours.”
Flippers chirps proudly.
Jack looks down at him.
Jack Mason: “Best man and chaos coordinator.”
Flippers chirps again.
Edie: “I still can’t believe we’re really this close.”
Jack’s eyes soften.
Jack Mason: “June 27th.”
Edie beams.
Edie: “June 27th.”
Jack sits beside her.
Carefully.
Controlled.
Jack Mason: “You’re happy.”
Edie: “I am.”
Jack watches her.
Not possessively.
Not cruelly.
But intensely.
Like her happiness is a thing he has been assigned to protect from the entire universe.
Jack Mason: “Then it’s worth it.”
Edie rests a hand on his cheek.
Edie: “You don’t have to earn this every second.”
Jack’s eyes soften.
Jack Mason: “Maybe I do.”
Edie’s smile fades slightly.
Edie: “Jack…”
He catches himself again.
Another breath.
Jack Mason: “No. Sorry. That came out wrong.”
He looks down at Flippers.
Jack Mason: “I mean I don’t want to waste it.”
Edie chooses to accept that.
Edie: “You won’t.”
Jack stands and crosses to the chair where the burgundy cardigan rests.
He picks it up.
Edie watches, surprised.
Edie: “You’re wearing it again?”
Jack looks at the fabric.
Jack Mason: “You liked it.”
Edie smiles.
Edie: “I did.”
Jack puts it on.
The cardigan softens him at first glance.
It makes him look almost domestic.
Almost safe.
But on his frame, with his controlled posture and carefully quiet voice, it also looks like something placed over a locked door.
A warning sign covered in warm fabric.
Edie stands and steps close to him.
Edie: “It looks nice on you.”
Jack looks down at the cardigan.
Jack Mason: “Soft things help.”
Edie: “They can.”
Jack places a hand over hers.
Jack Mason: “Then I’ll keep it close.”
Flippers waddles between them and chirps loudly, as if objecting to being left out of the moment.
Edie laughs and scoops him up.
Edie: “Yes, yes. You look nice too.”
Jack watches them together.
For a moment, everything is warm.
The invitations.
The ribbons.
The tiny penguin.
The cardigan.
The woman he loves.
The life he is trying to deserve.
Then Jack looks past Edie, toward the window.
His reflection stares back at him in the dark glass.
For half a second, the smile on his face does not match his eyes.
Edie does not see it.
Flippers does.
The penguin tilts his head.
Jack turns away from the reflection.
Softly, almost to himself—
Jack Mason: “Everything is going to be perfect.”
Edie smiles, mistaking the words for romance.
Edie: “It already is.”
Jack looks at her again.
The smile returns.
Gentle.
Careful.
Practiced.
Jack Mason: “Good.”
Cut to black.
Scene 3 – Darkness in the Expanse
Location: The Primal Expanse
The portal releases Bigfoot into silence.
Not quiet.
Silence.
There is a difference.
Quiet still has breath in it. Quiet still carries the scrape of bark, the shift of snow, the distant call of something hunting or something being hunted. Quiet belongs to places that are alive and waiting.
This is not that.
Bigfoot steps out of the pale silver light and onto frozen earth beneath a sky filled with green stormlight. The portal snaps shut behind him with a low pulse that sinks into the ground and vanishes beneath the roots.
For a moment, he does not move.
He only listens.
The Primal Expanse stretches before him, vast and ancient, exactly as he remembers from stories, dreams, and the parts of his blood he never talks about.
Black pines rise like spears into the storm-lit sky. Their branches twist together overhead, thick enough to make the forest feel like a living roof. Snow clings to the needles in heavy clumps. Steam curls from cracks in the ground where buried heat breathes upward through the frost. Far beyond the trees, mountains loom beneath clouds that roll and coil as if something enormous is turning in its sleep behind them.
This is home.
Not his home.
Not truly.
But the home beneath home.
The place where his kind began.
The place every beast of old blood carries somewhere behind the ribs.
Bigfoot breathes in.
Pine.
Snow.
Stone.
Old blood.
Wet moss.
Cold iron.
The smell should steady him.
It does not.
There is something missing.
Bigfoot turns slowly.
His eyes narrow.
No birds.
No insects.
No distant wolves.
No mammoth calls rolling from the valley.
No wingbeats above the trees.
No scrape of claws on bark.
No answering growl from the dark.
Nothing.
Bigfoot lowers one hand toward the ground, fingers brushing the snow.
The snow is real. The soil beneath it is real. The roots are real.
But the forest is holding its breath.
Bigfoot:
This place feels wrong.
His voice sounds too loud.
The trees do not answer.
He starts forward.
Each step crunches through the snow, and every sound seems to travel too far. He feels exposed, which makes no sense. Bigfoot has walked through arenas full of screaming people, through frozen tundra storms, through Moreau’s nightmares, through the strange chaos of the Misfits’ life.
But here, with no one watching, he feels watched.
He moves between the black pines, following an old path he should not know and somehow does. Beast runes mark some of the stones half-buried beside the trail. Claw marks score the trunks at shoulder height. Some are fresh. Some are ancient. Some look as if they were carved by claws bigger than anything that should still walk.
Then he sees the first warning stone.
A slab of dark rock stands beside the path, driven into the earth at an angle. Three white bones hang from it by strips of frozen hide. Across its surface, a symbol has been carved deep.
A spiral.
A claw.
A broken line through both.
Bigfoot stares at it.
He does not know the exact meaning.
His body does.
Do not pass careless.
He keeps walking.
More warning stones appear.
Then more.
Too many.
The path opens into a wide clearing beneath a wall of stone. The cliff face rises high above the forest, its black surface veined with ice. At its base stand figures.
Sasquatch.
Yeti.
Old-blood beasts of several clans.
Some are covered in pale fur, some dark, some silver-grey with age. All of them are large. All of them are armed. Bone spears. Stone axes. Clubs wrapped in hide and metal. Their eyes track Bigfoot the moment he enters the clearing.
No one roars.
No one challenges.
That worries him more.
One young sasquatch steps forward, tense, gripping a spear with both hands. He is broad and powerful, but fear hangs on him like wet fur.
Young Sentry:
Name yourself.
Bigfoot stops.
The question lands harder than it should.
Name yourself.
In the Core Realm, that would be simple.
In the Primal Expanse, it carries weight.
Bigfoot:
Bigfoot.
The sentry’s brow tightens.
Young Sentry:
That is what the small-worlders call you.
A few of the others shift.
Bigfoot looks past them toward the cliff.
Bigfoot:
It is the name I answer to.
The sentry studies him.
Then an older voice speaks from the shadow of the stone wall.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Then let him pass. A beast who knows which name he answers to is not yet lost.
The sentries part.
Slowly.
Bigfoot turns toward the voice.
Grey Mistress Grimva steps into view.
She is old, but nothing about her seems diminished. Her fur is ash-grey and white, braided in places with bone beads, black feathers, and strips of hide marked with red clay. Her shoulders are broad beneath a cloak made from the pelt of something Bigfoot cannot identify. One side of her face is scarred from brow to jaw, the old wound pale against the grey. Her eyes are sharp, dark, and terribly awake.
She carries no weapon.
She does not need to.
The clearing seems to understand that she is the center of it.
Bigfoot lowers his head slightly without meaning to.
Bigfoot:
Grey Mistress Grimva.
Grimva looks him over in silence.
Not rudely.
Thoroughly.
As if she is reading scars that have not yet appeared.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
You came through Yolgrimm’s gate.
Bigfoot:
Yes.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Then the old cave has not forgotten its mouth.
Bigfoot glances back toward the forest.
Bigfoot:
Yolgrimm sent me.
A murmur moves through the gathered beasts.
Grimva’s eyes do not move from Bigfoot.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yolgrimm sends no one lightly.
Bigfoot swallows.
The weight of the message returns all at once.
Bigfoot:
He told me to find you.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Why?
Bigfoot hesitates.
Around the clearing, the sentries wait.
The wind moves through the black pines without making a sound.
Bigfoot:
Yeti wears the Alpha mantle in corruption.
Several of the beasts react.
A low growl from one.
A sharp breath from another.
One of the younger yeti bares his teeth and looks away.
Grimva remains still.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
We have heard pieces.
Bigfoot:
Moreau’s science has touched the beast blood.
That lands worse.
The clearing changes.
No one moves, but the air tightens.
The young sentry who challenged Bigfoot grips his spear until his knuckles pale beneath the fur.
Grimva’s expression hardens.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
That name is a wound outside its own body.
Bigfoot:
Yolgrimm said if Yeti remains Alpha, all of our kind may be lost.
Grimva takes one step closer.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
And what do you say?
Bigfoot looks down.
His hands flex once at his sides.
Bigfoot:
I say I don’t know if I can stop him.
The words are honest.
They cost him.
Some of the gathered beasts exchange looks. A few seem disappointed. A few seem angry.
Grimva watches him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Good.
Bigfoot looks up.
Bigfoot:
Good?
Grey Mistress Grimva:
The ones certain they are ready usually arrive already ruined.
She turns and begins walking toward a narrow passage between two standing stones.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Come.
Bigfoot follows.
The sentries remain behind, but their eyes stay on him until the stone passage swallows him and Grimva from view.
They walk through a corridor cut naturally through the rock. The walls are marked with claw-glyphs, bone charms, and old symbols rubbed dark by generations of passing hands. Some markings Bigfoot recognizes from stories. Some he does not. A few make the back of his neck prickle when he looks too long.
The passage opens onto a ledge overlooking a valley.
Bigfoot stops.
The Primal Expanse spreads below them in impossible vastness.
Forest.
Rivers.
Ice fields.
Steaming ravines.
Mountains with clouds wrapped around their throats.
Everything wild.
Everything old.
Everything that should have been roaring with life.
Instead, the valley is silent.
Grimva stands beside him.
For a long time, neither speaks.
Then Bigfoot says it again, quieter.
Bigfoot:
This place feels wrong.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
It is still the Expanse.
Bigfoot:
No. I know the Expanse. Even when it wants to kill you, it breathes.
Grimva looks toward the valley.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Then you hear what we hear.
Bigfoot listens.
Nothing.
His jaw tightens.
Bigfoot:
I don’t hear anything.
Grimva nods slowly.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
That is what we hear.
A green pulse of stormlight rolls through the clouds. For one instant, the valley below is lit in hard color. Bigfoot sees movement far below.
Not one thing.
Many.
Beasts moving through the trees.
But not hunting.
Fleeing.
Huge shapes. White. Brown. Black. Grey. A pack of ridge-wolves. A shaggy horned thing with antlers like twisted branches. Two massive bears moving side by side, ignoring each other when they should have fought over territory. Birds rise from a distant cliff in a dark cloud, circle once, then scatter in all directions.
Bigfoot’s breath catches.
Bigfoot:
They’re running.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yes.
Bigfoot:
From what?
Grimva does not answer immediately.
She turns away from the valley and gestures for him to follow again.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Not from a hunter.
They descend along a narrow path carved into the cliffside. The stone is slick with frost. Bigfoot moves carefully, though every instinct in him wants to hurry.
At the bottom of the path, Grimva leads him into a grove of ancient trees. Their trunks are wider than houses. Their roots twist above the ground like the backs of sleeping beasts.
At the center of the grove stands a wall of stone.
No.
Not a wall.
A memory.
The stone slab rises from the earth, curved slightly inward, its surface covered in markings. Thousands of them. Claw signs. Names. Clan marks. Bloodlines. Victories. Losses. Migrations. Oaths. The history of old-blood beasts carved into rock by hands that refused to let their people vanish.
Bigfoot steps closer.
His voice lowers.
Bigfoot:
The Ancestral Stone.
Grimva watches him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
You know it?
Bigfoot:
Stories.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Most useful truths survive as stories.
Bigfoot almost smiles at the echo of Yolgrimm.
Almost.
Then he sees it.
A section of the stone has been scraped smooth.
Not broken.
Not shattered.
Smoothed.
As if something pressed its palm against the carvings and erased them from the world.
The marks around the empty place are old and deep. The missing section is raw, pale, and wrong.
Bigfoot steps toward it.
His stomach turns.
Bigfoot:
Who was there?
No one answers.
He turns to Grimva.
Bigfoot:
Whose names?
Grimva’s face remains hard, but something in her eyes changes.
Grief.
Not fresh grief.
Worse.
Grief without a shape.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
We do not know.
Bigfoot stares at her.
Bigfoot:
What do you mean you don’t know?
Grimva touches the edge of the erased stone.
Her hand is steady.
Her voice is not.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
This wall remembers what even blood forgets. Every clan that crossed the First Snow. Every beast that took oath beneath the Bone Moon. Every line that stood against the red winter. Every name that mattered enough to carve.
She lowers her hand.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Something was here.
Bigfoot looks back to the empty section.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Someone was here.
A cold feeling moves through Bigfoot that has nothing to do with snow.
Bigfoot:
And nobody remembers?
Grimva shakes her head once.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
The old singers cannot sing them. The blood-listeners cannot hear them. The cubs who should carry their tales wake crying and cannot say why.
Bigfoot reaches toward the stone, then stops before touching it.
His fingers curl back.
Bigfoot:
Yeti didn’t do this.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
No.
Bigfoot:
Moreau?
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Moreau cuts flesh. Chains blood. Twists what lives into shapes that serve him.
She looks at the erased section.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
This does not twist what lives.
A beat.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
It teaches the world to forget that something ever lived at all.
The words settle over Bigfoot like snow over a grave.
In the distance, something cracks.
Both of them turn.
Across the grove, between the trees, a line of black marks crosses the snow.
Tracks.
Bigfoot moves toward them.
The tracks begin in the middle of untouched white.
No approach.
No disturbed brush.
No broken branch.
No scent.
Bigfoot crouches low, bringing his face close to the marks.
His eyes narrow.
The tracks are long and narrow, almost like feet, almost like claws, almost like the idea of something trying to remember how walking works.
He inhales.
Nothing.
Not predator.
Not prey.
Not rot.
Not blood.
Not spirit.
Nothing.
Bigfoot stands slowly.
Bigfoot:
There’s no scent.
Grimva’s voice is low.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yes.
Bigfoot:
Everything has a scent.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yes.
Bigfoot looks along the trail.
The tracks lead toward the edge of the grove, then vanish beside a tree whose bark has been stripped in a spiral pattern. Beneath the stripped bark, the wood is black.
Not burned.
Emptied.
Bigfoot steps back.
Bigfoot:
How many times?
Grimva looks toward the valley.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Three small breaches. Perhaps four. The first near the River of Teeth. The second beneath the northern cliffs. The third here.
Bigfoot:
And the fourth?
Grimva says nothing.
Bigfoot understands.
Bigfoot:
You’re not sure it closed.
The stormlight above them flickers.
The green glow dims for a heartbeat.
For that heartbeat, the world looks red-black.
Then the green returns.
Bigfoot’s shoulders rise.
Every instinct in him screams to move, fight, run, roar, do something.
Grimva studies him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
There. That is the hunger Yolgrimm fears in you.
Bigfoot turns sharply.
Bigfoot:
What?
Grey Mistress Grimva:
The urge to answer fear with force before wisdom has spoken.
Bigfoot looks away, ashamed and angry at once.
Bigfoot:
If something is coming through, force may be all we have.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Force is a claw. Useful. Honest. Necessary.
She steps closer.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
But a claw does not know where to stop unless the heart commands it.
Bigfoot says nothing.
Grimva circles him slowly, not like a predator stalking prey, but like an elder examining whether a young warrior’s stance is built on strength or panic.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yeti does not trouble me because he is violent.
Bigfoot looks at her.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Violence has its place. Ask the winter. Ask the wolf. Ask the mountain when it falls.
She points toward his chest.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yeti troubles me because his violence has forgotten service.
A beat.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Now the Expanse is being touched by something that forgets even more deeply.
Bigfoot glances back to the erased names.
Bigfoot:
Yolgrimm said you teach beasts the line between fury and ruin.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
I do.
Bigfoot:
Can you teach me?
Grimva looks at him for a long time.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Perhaps.
Bigfoot waits.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
But not because you asked.
Bigfoot frowns.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Because you listened to the silence before you spoke over it.
Another crack echoes from the ridge above the grove.
This time, Bigfoot sees something move.
Far across the ravine, beyond the black pines, on a shelf of dark stone dusted with snow, stands a figure.
Too still to be a beast.
Too tall to be a man.
Armored in black and gold.
A jackal-headed silhouette beneath the green stormlight.
Bigfoot freezes.
The figure does not move.
The storm bends around it.
The forest seems to lower its voice even further.
Bigfoot narrows his eyes, trying to make sense of what he is seeing.
The figure turns its head slightly.
Not toward Bigfoot.
Toward the Ancestral Stone.
Then toward the erased names.
Bigfoot feels a pressure behind his eyes, like the moment before remembering a dream that does not belong to him.
He blinks.
The figure is gone.
Across the ravine, where it had stood, the snow darkens.
A small circle of black sand spreads over the white stone.
Bigfoot’s voice comes out low.
Bigfoot:
Grimva.
She is already looking.
Her expression is unreadable, but her hand has closed around one of the bone charms at her throat.
Bigfoot:
What was that?
Grimva does not answer quickly.
Bigfoot turns to her.
Bigfoot:
Friend?
Grimva’s eyes remain on the far ridge.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Watcher.
The word does not comfort him.
Bigfoot:
Watcher of what?
Grimva looks back to the erased stone.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Boundaries.
The wind rises.
For the first time since Bigfoot arrived, the forest makes sound.
Not a roar.
Not a howl.
A low, uneasy groan moving through the roots.
The sentries from the clearing appear at the edge of the grove, drawn by the shift in the air. Several of them look toward the ridge. One makes a sign over his chest. Another lowers his spear, not in attack, but in fear.
Bigfoot looks from the sentries to Grimva.
Bigfoot:
You’ve seen him before.
Grimva does not deny it.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Once.
Bigfoot:
When?
Grey Mistress Grimva:
After the second breach.
Bigfoot:
Did he help?
Grimva turns toward him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
No.
Bigfoot’s jaw tightens.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
He observed.
Bigfoot:
That’s all?
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Some watchers do not come to save what stands before them.
A beat.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
They come to judge whether the boundary has already failed.
The words leave a colder mark than the wind.
Bigfoot looks back across the ravine.
The black sand is still there.
Small.
Distant.
Impossible to ignore.
Bigfoot:
Is this connected to the shadows Richard was chasing?
Grimva’s eyes sharpen at the name.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Richard has been here?
Bigfoot:
I don’t know. Yolgrimm didn’t say. But there are rumors. Roads darkening. Realms changing. Things crossing where they shouldn’t.
Grimva turns toward the valley again.
Far below, another herd moves through the trees too quickly, abandoning territory that should have been defended.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
The Lionheart follows the wounds of worlds. If he comes here, he will find more than tracks.
Bigfoot:
What will he find?
Grimva’s voice lowers.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
That the Expanse has begun hiding from itself.
A long silence follows.
Bigfoot stares at the Ancestral Stone.
At the missing names.
At the place where history has been made smooth.
Bigfoot:
I came here because I’m afraid of becoming like Yeti.
Grimva looks at him.
Bigfoot:
I thought that was the danger. That if I let the beast out too far, I wouldn’t come back.
His voice tightens.
Bigfoot:
But this…
He gestures toward the stone.
Bigfoot:
This is worse.
Grimva steps beside him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Yes.
Bigfoot:
How do you fight something that makes the world forget what it’s fighting for?
Grimva places one hand against the Ancestral Stone, just below the erased section.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
You remember harder.
Bigfoot looks at her.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
You speak names. You keep oaths. You hold the line between hunger and emptiness. You do not surrender your heart to fury simply because fury feels larger than fear.
She turns to him.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
That is where your training begins.
Bigfoot absorbs that.
The fear is still there.
But now there is something else beside it.
Purpose.
Not clean.
Not easy.
But real.
Bigfoot:
Then teach me.
Grimva studies him.
The sentries wait.
The valley holds its breath.
At last, Grimva nods once.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
At dawn, you run the Blood Ridge.
Bigfoot looks toward the mountains.
Bigfoot:
And before dawn?
Grimva turns back toward the erased names.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
Before dawn, you stand watch.
Bigfoot follows her gaze.
The smooth section of stone seems larger than before.
Or maybe now he understands it better.
A low sound moves through the forest again.
This time, Bigfoot realizes it is not the Expanse waking.
It is the Expanse worrying.
Grimva’s voice is quiet, but every beast in the grove hears it.
Grey Mistress Grimva:
The Expanse is not being hunted. It is being measured.
Scene 4 - An Old Life Remembered
THE FROSTED HAGGIS PUB – NORTH POLE – NIGHT
The pub is warm, crowded, and loud enough to drown out worry.
Mostly.
A soccer match plays on a large television mounted above the bar. The room is packed with off-duty arena workers, elves, a few visiting fans, and several men who look like they have argued about the same team since 1987.
Ace MacDougal sits at the bar with a pint in front of him.
For once, he is alone.
No Jack.
No Negropolis.
No Flippers.
No one asking where he put the papers, why the plane is smoking, or whether a penguin can be listed as emergency personnel.
Ace leans forward, eyes fixed on the match.
Ace MacDougal: “Come on, lad. Cross it. Cross it now. No, not there. Ach, my grandmother could defend that, and she’s been gone twenty years.”
The bartender glances over.
Bartender: “Same team?”
Ace MacDougal: “Same heartbreak.”
On the screen, a shot goes wide.
Ace groans and drops his forehead into one hand.
Ace MacDougal: “That ball had dreams, and ye sent it into exile.”
A man sits two stools down.
Ace does not notice him at first.
The man is polished in a way that does not quite belong in the pub. Dark overcoat. Silver cufflinks. Hair slicked neatly back. A trimmed mustache. Expensive shoes that have never made peace with snow.
He watches Ace for a moment before speaking.
Mystery Man: “You always this passionate about lost causes?”
Ace does not look away from the screen.
Ace MacDougal: “I managed the Misfits of Mayhem. Lost causes are practically my area of expertise.”
The man smiles.
Mystery Man: “And yet they became champions.”
Ace glances over now.
Ace MacDougal: “Aye. They did.”
Mystery Man: “That must have been satisfying.”
Ace studies him.
Ace MacDougal: “Depends who’s asking.”
The man extends a hand.
Mystery Man: “Fabian Falcone.”
Ace looks at the hand, then shakes it cautiously.
Ace MacDougal: “Ace MacDougal.”
Fabian Falcone: “I know.”
Ace releases the handshake.
Ace MacDougal: “That’s usually where conversations become less friendly.”
Fabian smiles as though this amuses him.
Fabian Falcone: “No threat intended. Your name carries weight in certain circles.”
Ace snorts.
Ace MacDougal: “If those circles involve unreliable aircraft, bad maps, and pub tabs, I plead guilty.”
Fabian Falcone: “Adventure aviation. Cargo runs. Private charters. Difficult terrain. Dangerous skies.”
Ace’s face changes.
Just slightly.
The smile remains, but something older moves behind it.
Ace MacDougal: “That was another life.”
Fabian Falcone: “Was it?”
Ace takes a drink.
Ace MacDougal: “These days I manage wrestlers, babysit chaos, and occasionally negotiate with a penguin.”
Fabian Falcone: “How do you like it?”
Ace looks back at the television.
The match continues, but his attention has shifted.
Ace MacDougal: “Being a manager?”
Fabian Falcone: “Yes.”
Ace taps the side of his glass.
Ace MacDougal: “It’s loud. Ridiculous. Emotionally hazardous. There’s more paperwork than I was promised.”
A pause.
Ace MacDougal: “But I like it.”
Fabian Falcone: “Do you?”
Ace looks at him again.
Ace MacDougal: “I’ve got a good life.”
Fabian says nothing.
Ace looks down at his beer.
Ace MacDougal: “Good friends.”
He pauses.
The correction comes slower.
More honest.
Ace MacDougal: “No. Family.”
For the first time, Fabian’s smile changes. It becomes almost respectful.
Almost.
Fabian Falcone: “Family can be expensive.”
Ace’s brow furrows.
Ace MacDougal: “Meaning?”
Fabian reaches into his coat and removes a slim business card. Black card. Gold lettering.
He places it on the bar between them.
FABIAN FALCONE
PRIVATE LOGISTICS AND SPECIAL ACQUISITIONS
Ace does not touch it.
Ace MacDougal: “Special acquisitions. That’s a phrase that makes customs agents sweat.”
Fabian Falcone: “I need a pilot.”
Ace laughs once.
Ace MacDougal: “There are safer ways to ask someone to commit crimes.”
Fabian Falcone: “Who said anything about crimes?”
Ace MacDougal: “Your shoes did.”
Fabian glances down, amused.
Fabian Falcone: “I need someone experienced. Someone comfortable with remote routes, unusual cargo, and discretion.”
Ace turns fully now.
Ace MacDougal: “There it is.”
Fabian Falcone: “Discretion is not illegal.”
Ace MacDougal: “Neither is a shovel. Still depends where ye use it.”
Fabian leans slightly closer.
Fabian Falcone: “You were good, Mr. MacDougal.”
Ace’s humor fades a little.
Fabian Falcone: “Better than good. You could fly through weather that grounded military crews. You knew old routes others forgot. You made impossible deliveries because impossible paid well.”
Ace’s jaw tightens.
Ace MacDougal: “You’ve done homework.”
Fabian Falcone: “Naturally.”
Ace MacDougal: “Then your homework should tell you I’m retired.”
Fabian Falcone: “From flying?”
Ace MacDougal: “From that kind of flying.”
Fabian nods thoughtfully.
Fabian Falcone: “A shame.”
Ace MacDougal: “For who?”
Fabian reaches into his inner pocket and removes a folded slip of paper.
He sets it beside the card.
Ace does not look at it.
Fabian Falcone: “One run to start. No commitment beyond that.”
Ace MacDougal: “No.”
Fabian Falcone: “You haven’t heard the destination.”
Ace MacDougal: “No.”
Fabian Falcone: “Or the cargo.”
Ace MacDougal: “Especially no.”
Fabian Falcone: “Or the amount.”
Ace finally glances down as Fabian unfolds the paper just enough for the number to show.
Ace goes still.
Not greedy.
Stunned.
The number is obscene.
Ace MacDougal: “That’s not a job offer.”
Fabian Falcone: “It is.”
Ace MacDougal: “That’s bait.”
Fabian smiles again.
Fabian Falcone: “Bait only matters if the fish is hungry.”
Ace looks back at the television. The crowd in the pub erupts as someone scores. Ace barely notices.
Ace MacDougal: “I told ye. I’ve got a life here.”
Fabian Falcone: “Lives change.”
Ace MacDougal: “Not this one.”
Fabian stands, buttoning his coat.
Fabian Falcone: “Keep the card.”
Ace MacDougal: “I won’t use it.”
Fabian Falcone: “Then keep it as a souvenir.”
He steps away, then pauses.
Fabian Falcone: “One more thing.”
Ace looks at him.
Fabian Falcone: “Men like us don’t miss the sky a little.”
A beat.
Fabian Falcone: “We miss it every time we look up.”
Fabian turns and walks toward the door.
Ace watches him leave.
The pub noise returns slowly around him.
The match continues.
The bartender wanders over.
Bartender: “Another?”
Ace does not answer at first.
He looks down.
The card remains on the bar.
So does the folded slip.
Ace reaches for the slip.
He opens it fully.
His eyes settle on the amount.
The bartender waits.
Ace MacDougal: “Aye.”
His voice is quieter now.
Ace MacDougal: “Another.”
The bartender fills the glass.
Ace keeps staring at the number.
The television crowd roars again.
Ace does not look up.
Cut to black.
Scene 5 - A Worried Friend
UNDISCLOSED SMALL CAFÉ – NORTH POLE OUTSKIRTS – LATE NIGHT
The café is small enough to be forgotten.
A narrow building tucked between an old repair shop and a closed florist. The sign outside flickers weakly. Inside, only three tables are occupied. An old radio plays soft jazz from somewhere behind the counter.
At a booth near the back sits Negropolis.
But not as the world knows him.
No skull mask.
No heavy entrance cloak.
No theatrical menace.
Just a large African American man with a shaved head, dark sunglasses, and a heavy black coat. Without the mask, his face is stern, tired, and deeply human.
His hands rest on the table.
Still.
Waiting.
A waitress approaches with a coffee pot.
Waitress: “Warm-up?”
Negropolis nods once.
Negropolis: “Thank you.”
She pours and leaves.
He does not drink.
The bell above the café door rings.
Negropolis does not turn.
A man enters.
His face is never clearly seen. The camera stays low, catching only the weathered hem of a long coat, old boots, and rough hands scarred by years of work, fighting, or both.
He walks with a slight limp.
Not weakness.
History.
He sits across from Negropolis.
For a moment, neither man speaks.
The old man’s hands fold around a chipped mug the waitress brings without being asked.
His voice, when it comes, is gruff and raspy, like gravel dragged over old wood.
Old Man: “You picked a cheerful place.”
Negropolis: “It’s quiet.”
Old Man: “That’s not the same thing.”
Negropolis almost smiles.
Almost.
Old Man: “Been a long time, Anthony.”
The name lands heavily.
Anthony.
Not Negropolis.
The man behind the mask shifts slightly.
Negropolis: “Don’t use that name in public.”
Old Man: “No one’s listening.”
Negropolis: “Someone is always listening.”
The old man grunts.
Old Man: “Still dramatic.”
Negropolis: “Still alive.”
Old Man: “Fair.”
A pause.
The waitress passes by. Neither speaks until she is gone.
Old Man: “Your message said Jack Mason.”
Negropolis finally lifts the coffee.
He does not drink.
Negropolis: “Something is wrong with him.”
Old Man: “That sentence has done a lot of work over the years.”
Negropolis: “Not like this.”
Old Man: “Last time you told me Jack lost his mind, he was working an angle.”
Negropolis: “That was different.”
Old Man: “Was it?”
Negropolis’s jaw tightens.
Old Man: “He fooled half the locker room. Fooled management. Fooled the crowd. Fooled three men who should have known better.”
Negropolis: “He didn’t fool me.”
Old Man: “You sure?”
Negropolis says nothing.
The old man’s rough fingers tap once against the mug.
Old Man: “Jack Mason has always known how to turn broken glass into a mirror. He shows people what he wants them to see.”
Negropolis: “This isn’t performance.”
Old Man: “How do you know?”
Negropolis leans back.
The sunglasses hide his eyes, but not the tension in his face.
Negropolis: “Because he’s not making noise.”
The old man considers that.
Negropolis: “When Jack is angry, everyone knows. When he’s hurt, everyone hears about it whether they want to or not. When he’s planning to do something stupid, he moves like a storm trying to pass as a man.”
A pause.
Negropolis: “Now he’s quiet.”
Old Man: “People grow up.”
Negropolis: “Not overnight.”
Old Man: “He’s getting married. That changes a man.”
Negropolis: “This is not nerves.”
Old Man: “You sound certain.”
Negropolis: “I’m not.”
That admission costs him.
The old man hears it.
Old Man: “There it is.”
Negropolis looks toward the window.
Snow slides down the glass.
Negropolis: “I want to be wrong.”
Old Man: “Since when?”
Negropolis: “Since it became Jack.”
The old man’s expression remains hidden, but his hands still.
Negropolis: “He is correcting his temper. Speaking softer. Wearing a cardigan because Edie likes it.”
Old Man: “That sounds healthy.”
Negropolis: “It should.”
Old Man: “But?”
Negropolis: “But the anger is still there.”
A pause.
Negropolis: “It is not gone. It is being arranged.”
Old Man: “Arranged?”
Negropolis: “Folded. Pressed down. Put where no one can see it.”
The old man exhales slowly.
Old Man: “And you think someone taught him how?”
Negropolis looks back at him.
Negropolis: “I think someone may have reminded him.”
That hangs between them.
The old man’s fingers tighten around the mug.
Old Man: “Mean Jack.”
Negropolis says nothing.
He does not need to.
Old Man: “You think he’s coming back?”
Negropolis: “I think something is wearing Jack’s improvement like a suit.”
The old man leans back.
Old Man: “That’s a dangerous thought.”
Negropolis: “Yes.”
Old Man: “Dangerous because it might be true, or dangerous because you’re scared of losing your friend?”
Negropolis looks toward him sharply.
The old man does not flinch.
Old Man: “Answer matters.”
Negropolis’s voice lowers.
Negropolis: “Both.”
The old man sits with that.
For all his roughness, there is patience in him.
Old patience.
The kind built from surviving men like Jack Mason and still caring what happens to them.
Old Man: “What does Edie think?”
Negropolis: “Wedding stress.”
Old Man: “Ace?”
Negropolis: “Distracted.”
Old Man: “Polly?”
Negropolis: “Busy saving someone else.”
Old Man: “And you?”
Negropolis: “Watching.”
Old Man: “That all?”
Negropolis: “For now.”
The old man lets out a dry laugh.
Old Man: “You always did like standing in doorways with bad news.”
Negropolis: “Someone has to.”
The old man lifts his mug and takes a slow drink.
Old Man: “The wedding is when?”
Negropolis: “June 27th.”
Old Man: “Soon.”
Negropolis: “Too soon.”
Old Man: “No.”
The old man sets the mug down.
Old Man: “Let him have it.”
Negropolis goes still.
Old Man: “If there is still Jack in him, let him have his wedding. Let him stand beside the woman he loves without you dragging a ghost between them.”
Negropolis: “And if the ghost is already there?”
Old Man: “Then it’ll still be there after the honeymoon.”
Negropolis’s mouth tightens.
Old Man: “Give it until after the wedding. Watch him. Protect Edie. Keep Ace awake if the fool can manage it. But don’t confront Jack unless you have proof.”
Negropolis: “Proof may come too late.”
Old Man: “It usually does.”
The words are not comforting.
They are honest.
Old Man: “But if he’s still acting strange after the wedding…”
The old man’s rough hand slides across the table and rests near Negropolis’s coffee cup.
Old Man: “I’ll come to the North Pole.”
Negropolis looks at the hand.
Old Man: “And I’ll see what I can do.”
Negropolis finally removes his sunglasses.
His eyes are tired.
Negropolis: “You may not like what you find.”
Old Man: “Anthony…”
The old man’s voice softens just enough to show the history beneath it.
Old Man: “I never have.”
Negropolis puts the sunglasses back on.
The old man rises.
His face remains hidden as he pulls his coat tighter.
Old Man: “After the wedding.”
Negropolis: “After the wedding.”
The old man turns to leave, then stops.
Old Man: “And Anthony?”
Negropolis does not answer, but he listens.
Old Man: “If Mean Jack really is coming back…”
A pause.
Old Man: “Don’t stand in front of him alone.”
The bell above the door rings as the old man leaves.
Negropolis sits in the booth, untouched coffee cooling in front of him.
Outside, the old man disappears into the snow.
Negropolis reaches into his coat and pulls out his phone.
One message sits unsent.
To Ace MacDougal.
Keep your eyes open.
Negropolis stares at it.
Then deletes it.
He opens a new message.
To Polly Mason.
When you are done saving Susie, call me.
He hesitates.
Then sends it.
The screen fades to black.
END EPISODE
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