Episode 1.08 – “The Roads We Choose”
Aired October 17, 2026
Old battles leave scars, but new paths demand choices.
As the Misfits and those closest to them look toward what comes next, buried questions, personal ambitions, and unfinished business begin pulling them in very different directions.
Some roads lead toward opportunity. Others lead somewhere much darker.
SCENE 1 - “The Next Step”
The door to the room is open.
Susan Brenner stands beside the bed, folding the last few pieces of clothing into a black duffel bag.
There is no frantic movement.
No checking the corners every three seconds.
But every so often, her eyes still move toward the doorway without conscious thought.
Some instincts do not disappear simply because you understand where they came from.
A soft knock comes against the open door.
Dr. Meredith Casey stands there.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: You know, traditionally people wait until they've actually been discharged before they start packing.
Susan looks toward him.
There is the faintest hint of a smile.
SUSAN BRENNER: You signed the papers twenty minutes ago.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Seventeen.
SUSAN BRENNER: Felt like twenty.
Meredith enters.
He looks around the room.
The bed is made.
The shelves are nearly empty.
On the bedside table sits a photograph from Jack and Edie's wedding.
Jax.
Molly.
Susan between them.
Susan notices Meredith looking at it.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm taking that one.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: I assumed you would.
A quiet beat.
Meredith sits in the chair near the window.
Susan continues packing.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: How are you feeling?
Susan stops.
She thinks before answering.
That, in itself, is progress.
SUSAN BRENNER: Nervous.
Meredith nods.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Good.
Susan gives him a look.
SUSAN BRENNER: That's a strange thing for a doctor to say.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: I'd be considerably more worried if you weren't nervous.
Susan considers that.
Then nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Fair.
She closes the bag halfway but does not zip it.
Meredith watches her.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: You've been correcting people.
Susan looks over.
SUSAN BRENNER: About what?
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Your name.
Susan's expression changes slightly.
Not anger.
Certainty.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm not Susie anymore.
Meredith waits.
Susan looks down at the photograph.
SUSAN BRENNER: Susie was a little girl.
A pause.
SUSAN BRENNER: Jax can remember her. I remember her too now.
Her fingers brush the edge of the photograph.
SUSAN BRENNER: But I'm not twelve years old.
She looks back at Meredith.
SUSAN BRENNER: And I'm not Feral.
Meredith studies her carefully.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: So Susan.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Susan Brenner.
Another quiet pause.
SUSAN BRENNER: That one's mine.
Meredith smiles.
Not broadly.
Just enough.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Susan Brenner it is.
Susan finally zips the bag.
Meredith's tone becomes a little more serious.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: What happens tomorrow?
Susan shoulders the bag.
SUSAN BRENNER: Breakfast.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Susan.
Another faint smile.
SUSAN BRENNER: I know.
She sets the bag back down.
This answer is harder.
SUSAN BRENNER: I've been thinking about wrestling again.
Meredith goes completely still.
There is no dramatic reaction.
Which somehow makes his concern clearer.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: I was hoping you were going to say gardening.
SUSAN BRENNER: I don't like gardening.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Pottery?
SUSAN BRENNER: Worse.
Meredith sighs.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Wrestling puts you back into an environment built around aggression, confrontation, physical pain, adrenaline and people deliberately trying to provoke emotional reactions from you.
SUSAN BRENNER: I know.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Those are exactly the responses we've spent months teaching you to recognize before they control you.
Susan looks down at her hands.
She slowly closes them into fists.
Then opens them again.
Controlled.
SUSAN BRENNER: That's part of why I want to do it.
Meredith's brow tightens.
Susan searches for the words.
SUSAN BRENNER: Feral didn't invent everything.
Meredith remains quiet.
SUSAN BRENNER: Moreau changed things. Marcus encouraged things. Yeti used things.
Her jaw tightens slightly.
SUSAN BRENNER: But they didn't create every angry thought I've ever had.
She looks directly at Meredith.
SUSAN BRENNER: Sometimes I'm angry because I'm angry.
A tiny smile from Meredith.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: That's a remarkably healthy sentence.
Susan almost laughs.
Almost.
SUSAN BRENNER: I need somewhere to put it.
She looks toward the small training gloves sitting beside her bag.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm strong. I'm healthy. I'm probably in better physical condition than I've ever been.
A beat.
SUSAN BRENNER: And I was good at wrestling.
Meredith corrects her gently.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Feral was good at wrestling.
Susan meets his eyes.
SUSAN BRENNER: So was I.
That distinction lands.
Meredith leans back.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Where?
Susan already has the answer.
SUSAN BRENNER: HCW.
That surprises Meredith.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: HCW.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Jax is going to hate it.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Probably.
SUSAN BRENNER: Molly will pretend she's being reasonable about it while agreeing with him.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Almost certainly.
Susan smiles.
Then becomes serious again.
SUSAN BRENNER: But it's away from Yeti.
A beat.
SUSAN BRENNER: Away from Marcus.
Another.
SUSAN BRENNER: Away from Vlad.
Her voice hardens slightly at the last name.
She recognizes it.
Breathes.
Lets it pass.
SUSAN BRENNER: Away from the Primal Horde.
Meredith notices the self-regulation but doesn't point it out.
SUSAN BRENNER: I don't want my first step outside Sanctuary to be straight back into their world.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: There will be people in HCW who remember you.
SUSAN BRENNER: I know.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: People who call you Feral.
Susan's jaw tightens.
SUSAN BRENNER: Once.
Meredith raises an eyebrow.
Susan catches herself.
SUSAN BRENNER: They'll get one correction.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Better.
Susan breathes out.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: And if someone tries deliberately to bring her back?
Susan is quiet for several seconds.
This is the question.
Finally:
SUSAN BRENNER: She's already there.
Meredith watches her.
Susan taps two fingers lightly against her temple.
SUSAN BRENNER: I still hear her sometimes.
No shame.
Just fact.
SUSAN BRENNER: When I'm frightened.
She closes her hand.
SUSAN BRENNER: When I'm furious.
A pause.
SUSAN BRENNER: Sometimes when someone gets too close behind me.
She looks at Meredith.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm not going to pretend Feral disappeared.
Another pause.
SUSAN BRENNER: But she doesn't get to drive anymore.
Meredith slowly stands.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: I still don't think wrestling is the best idea.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: I know.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Professionally, I would prefer something with considerably fewer steel chairs.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'll consider badminton.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: You won't.
SUSAN BRENNER: No.
Meredith smiles.
Then he offers Susan his hand.
Susan looks at it.
Months earlier, an unexpected hand reaching toward her might have provoked violence.
Now she takes it.
Meredith doesn't release immediately.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: You don't have to prove you're well by pretending nothing can hurt you.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: And I don't have to prove I'm dangerous by hurting everything that can.
Meredith's expression softens.
That answer tells him more than any evaluation could.
He pulls Susan gently into a hug.
Susan stiffens instinctively for half a second.
Then relaxes.
Returns it.
When they separate, Meredith looks toward the bag.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Call me.
SUSAN BRENNER: I will.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: That wasn't a suggestion.
SUSAN BRENNER: Yes, Doctor.
Susan shoulders the bag.
She reaches the doorway.
Stops.
Looks back at the room.
The room where Feral first learned that a closed door did not necessarily mean a cage.
SUSAN BRENNER: Meredith?
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: Yes?
SUSAN BRENNER: Thank you for not trying to turn me back into Susie.
Meredith understands immediately.
DR. MEREDITH CASEY: That was never the job.
Susan nods.
And leaves.
SCENE 2 — “LESSONS DUE”
The Mason home is unusually quiet.
No arena noise.
No cameras.
No screaming crowds.
Just the low hum of the television and the soft clinking of ice in a glass somewhere nearby.
Edie is curled into one end of the couch, dressed comfortably for an evening at home.
Flippers occupies the opposite end like he owns it.
Which, judging by the collection of snacks around him, he apparently believes he does.
Jack Mason sits in a chair across from them.
But Jack isn't really relaxing.
Not completely.
Resting across his hands is the mask of the Ghost of Christmas Past.
The same mask Jack pulled from Ghost's face after putting him to sleep and defeating him on the October 10 edition of Polar Power.
Jack turns it slowly between his fingers.
Studying it.
Not admiring it.
Assessing it.
Edie watches him for several moments.
EDIE: You've been staring at that thing for twenty minutes.
Jack doesn't look up.
MR. MASON: Twenty-three.
Edie raises an eyebrow.
Flippers makes a quiet chirp from the couch.
EDIE: Thank you, Flippers. Very helpful.
Jack finally lifts his eyes.
The cold, controlled calm of Mr. Mason is unmistakable.
Not rage.
Not madness.
Precision.
Edie looks toward the mask.
EDIE: Are you happy?
Jack's expression barely changes.
MR. MASON: About what?
EDIE: Taking it from him.
Jack glances down at the mask again.
EDIE: Unmasking Ghost.
A pause.
MR. MASON: Happy is not the word I would use.
Edie waits.
Jack sets the mask carefully on the table.
Almost ceremonially.
MR. MASON: Satisfied.
Edie's mouth curls slightly.
EDIE: That sounds more like you.
Jack leans back.
MR. MASON: He needed a lesson.
A beat.
MR. MASON: One that was overdue.
Flippers looks from Jack to the mask.
Then back to Jack.
MR. MASON: Don't touch it.
Flippers immediately looks away.
Edie suppresses a smile.
Then her expression becomes more serious.
EDIE: Speaking of overdue lessons...
Jack looks at her.
She doesn't need to say the name immediately.
They both know.
EDIE: What about the Master of the Night?
The room changes.
Just slightly.
The warmth doesn't disappear.
But Jack's eyes do.
The husband sitting at home is gone.
Mr. Mason remains.
MR. MASON: Dracula.
Edie nods.
EDIE: Dracula.
Jack folds his hands together.
MR. MASON: His lesson is coming.
Edie studies him.
There is no excitement in his voice.
No boasting.
That makes the statement considerably more ominous.
EDIE: Soon?
Jack's eyes remain fixed on hers.
MR. MASON: Soon enough.
Edie exhales.
She has learned that tone.
Once Jack Mason decides something is inevitable, arguing over the timetable rarely helps.
A knock sounds at the front door.
Jack's head turns immediately.
Flippers freezes.
Edie looks toward the entryway.
Another knock.
Jack rises.
There is nothing hurried about the movement.
But every trace of domestic ease disappears.
EDIE: Expecting someone?
MR. MASON: No.
Jack moves toward the door.
He glances once toward Edie.
Then toward Flippers.
Flippers straightens.
Guard duty.
Jack reaches the door but doesn't open it immediately.
MR. MASON: Who is it?
A voice answers from the other side.
VAN HELSING: Abraham Van Helsing.
Jack's expression hardens.
Edie sits up.
Jack opens the door only partway.
Abraham Van Helsing stands outside.
Coat buttoned.
Expression serious.
Hands visible.
He takes one look at Jack and understands immediately that this is not a casual visit.
VAN HELSING: Mason.
MR. MASON: Helsing.
Neither man moves.
VAN HELSING: May I come in?
Jack doesn't answer immediately.
He looks Van Helsing over.
Then steps aside.
MR. MASON: Briefly.
Van Helsing enters.
Jack closes the door behind him.
Edie rises from the couch.
Her expression softens when she sees Abraham.
EDIE: Abraham.
Van Helsing's demeanor changes immediately.
Less hunter.
More physician.
More friend.
VAN HELSING: Edie.
He approaches her.
VAN HELSING: How are you feeling?
EDIE: Better.
Van Helsing gives her a look.
VAN HELSING: That is not a medical answer.
EDIE: Then you shouldn't have asked while you're off duty.
A faint smile touches his face.
VAN HELSING: Humor intact.
He gestures toward the couch.
VAN HELSING: Sit.
Edie does.
Jack remains standing nearby.
Watching.
Van Helsing performs a brief check.
Pupils.
Pulse.
Breathing.
A few quiet questions.
Flippers watches the entire process suspiciously.
Van Helsing eventually straightens.
VAN HELSING: Any nightmares?
Edie hesitates.
EDIE: Sometimes.
Jack's jaw tightens.
Van Helsing notices.
VAN HELSING: Disorientation?
EDIE: Not lately.
VAN HELSING: Panic episodes?
EDIE: Less often.
Van Helsing nods.
VAN HELSING: Good.
He gives her one final clinical look.
VAN HELSING: You're doing well.
EDIE: That's what I keep telling everyone.
VAN HELSING: Continue telling them.
He glances toward Jack.
VAN HELSING: Some are apparently difficult to convince.
Jack doesn't react.
MR. MASON: Is the examination finished?
Van Helsing meets his eyes.
VAN HELSING: Yes.
MR. MASON: Then thank you for checking on my wife.
Jack gestures toward the door.
MR. MASON: Good evening.
Van Helsing does not move.
Edie notices immediately.
So does Jack.
VAN HELSING: I didn't come only to see Edie.
Jack's face becomes completely unreadable.
MR. MASON: Of course you didn't.
Van Helsing glances toward Edie.
Then back to Jack.
VAN HELSING: We need to talk about Dracula.
Silence.
Flippers stops chewing.
Jack slowly returns to his chair.
But he doesn't sit.
MR. MASON: Talk.
Van Helsing takes a measured breath.
VAN HELSING: Leave him alone.
Jack stares at him.
Edie's eyes move between the two men.
MR. MASON: Excuse me?
VAN HELSING: Dracula is no ordinary enemy.
MR. MASON: I am aware.
VAN HELSING: No.
Van Helsing's voice firms.
VAN HELSING: You know what he did.
A beat.
VAN HELSING: That is not the same as understanding what he is.
Jack's expression sharpens.
MR. MASON: Be careful.
Van Helsing doesn't retreat.
VAN HELSING: I've spent my life understanding him.
MR. MASON: And how has that worked out?
Edie closes her eyes briefly.
That landed.
Van Helsing's jaw tightens.
VAN HELSING: The Hunter's Enclave is handling Dracula.
Jack almost smiles.
Almost.
MR. MASON: Handling him.
VAN HELSING: Yes.
MR. MASON: Interesting choice of words.
Van Helsing ignores the jab.
VAN HELSING: We have resources you don't have.
MR. MASON: I have resources you don't have.
VAN HELSING: This isn't a contest.
MR. MASON: No.
Jack finally sits.
Calmly.
MR. MASON: It isn't.
He leans back.
MR. MASON: Dracula and I have unfinished business.
VAN HELSING: I'm telling you to let us finish it.
Jack's voice remains quiet.
MR. MASON: And I am telling you no.
Van Helsing's eyes narrow.
VAN HELSING: Mason—
MR. MASON: Dracula took my wife.
The words are soft.
Almost conversational.
That makes them worse.
MR. MASON: He held her.
Another beat.
MR. MASON: Used her.
Another.
MR. MASON: Hurt her.
Edie's expression tightens.
Jack doesn't look away from Van Helsing.
MR. MASON: Then he expected me to continue with my life as though nothing had happened.
Van Helsing says nothing.
MR. MASON: I made Edie a promise.
VAN HELSING: I know.
MR. MASON: Then this conversation should be over.
Van Helsing steps closer.
VAN HELSING: Your promise is exactly why I'm here.
Jack's eyes narrow.
VAN HELSING: You think this is about revenge.
MR. MASON: I didn't use that word.
VAN HELSING: Then what word would you use?
Jack answers without hesitation.
MR. MASON: Education.
Edie looks down for a moment.
Van Helsing stares at him.
MR. MASON: Dracula has spent a very long time believing there are no consequences he cannot escape.
A faint smile appears.
Cold.
Controlled.
MR. MASON: I intend to correct that misconception.
VAN HELSING: And what happens when he retaliates?
The smile vanishes.
VAN HELSING: What happens when he decides the fastest way to hurt you is through her again?
Jack's eyes flash.
Edie immediately recognizes the danger.
EDIE: Abraham—
But Van Helsing continues.
VAN HELSING: You know I'm right.
Jack rises.
Slowly.
VAN HELSING: If you love Edie—
That does it.
Jack takes one deliberate step toward him.
MR. MASON: Stop.
Van Helsing holds his ground.
VAN HELSING: If you love her, you will back away from Dracula.
Jack's face goes completely still.
VAN HELSING: Keep her safe.
Silence.
Jack looks at Van Helsing for several seconds.
When he speaks, there is no raised voice.
No shouting.
Only Mr. Mason.
MR. MASON: Do not ever use my love for my wife as leverage against me.
Van Helsing's expression changes slightly.
MR. MASON: You came into my home.
A beat.
MR. MASON: You checked on Edie.
Another.
MR. MASON: For that, you have my gratitude.
Jack points toward the door.
MR. MASON: Now leave.
Van Helsing doesn't move.
VAN HELSING: Mason—
MR. MASON: Leave.
Edie watches both men.
Van Helsing finally exhales.
He looks toward her.
VAN HELSING: Edie.
She nods.
EDIE: Abraham.
There is sadness in it.
Not anger.
Van Helsing turns back toward Jack.
VAN HELSING: The Enclave will go after Dracula whether you cooperate or not.
Jack steps aside, opening a clear path to the door.
MR. MASON: Then I suggest you stay out of my way.
Van Helsing gives him one final look.
Then exits.
Jack shuts the door behind him.
Locks it.
For several seconds he simply stands there with his hand resting on the deadbolt.
The room is quiet again.
But not peaceful.
Jack turns.
Edie is watching him.
Flippers has wisely remained silent.
Jack walks back toward the living room.
His eyes briefly fall upon the Ghost of Christmas Past's mask.
Then he looks at Edie.
EDIE: He was trying to protect me.
Jack nods once.
MR. MASON: I know.
EDIE: He wasn't wrong about Dracula being dangerous.
MR. MASON: I know that too.
Edie searches his face.
EDIE: But you're still going after him.
Jack sits beside her.
For the first time since Van Helsing arrived, some of the coldness leaves his expression.
Not much.
Enough.
He takes Edie's hand.
MR. MASON: I made you a promise.
Edie looks down at their joined hands.
MR. MASON: I told you Dracula would learn what it means to come after my family.
His thumb moves gently across her knuckles.
MR. MASON: I told you I would deliver that lesson.
Edie raises her eyes to his.
Jack's expression settles again.
Controlled.
Certain.
Mr. Mason.
MR. MASON: I keep my promises.
A long beat.
Flippers looks toward the Ghost's mask.
Then toward Jack.
Then quietly pushes the mask a little farther away from himself.
Edie notices.
Despite everything, a small smile crosses her face.
Jack looks toward the mask one final time.
One lesson completed.
Another still waiting.
And somewhere in the darkness—
Dracula's turn is coming.
SCENE 3 — “A GOAL OF YOUR OWN”
The NPCW Training Centre is nearly empty.
Most of the day's wrestlers have already finished. A few distant weights clank from another room, but the main ring belongs to two men.
Coach Cal Mercer stands outside the ropes in his usual dark track jacket, whistle hanging against his chest and a stopwatch in one hand.
Inside the ring, Negropolis is several rounds into conditioning drills.
Black training gear.
Gloves.
And, as always, the skull mask.
Sweat has darkened the fabric around his shoulders, but the mask remains exactly where it always does.
Cal checks the stopwatch.
CAL MERCER: Again.
Negropolis plants both hands on his knees.
NEGROPOLIS: You said that six agains ago.
CAL MERCER: And somehow you survived all six.
Negropolis slowly straightens.
The skull turns toward him.
NEGROPOLIS: Inspiring.
CAL MERCER: I wasn't trying to inspire you.
Cal points toward the opposite ropes.
CAL MERCER: Move.
Negropolis takes off.
He hits the ropes, rebounds, crosses the ring and drops into a defensive sprawl at Cal's signal.
Back up.
Across again.
Turn.
Rebound.
Cal watches everything.
Foot placement.
Balance.
Breathing.
Nothing escapes him.
CAL MERCER: You're opening your left side when you're tired.
Negropolis stops.
NEGROPOLIS: I'm not tired.
Cal looks at the stopwatch.
Then at him.
CAL MERCER: Of course not.
A beat.
CAL MERCER: Again.
Negropolis stares at him through the skull mask.
Then runs.
Several minutes later, Negropolis sits on the middle turnbuckle while Cal makes a note on his clipboard.
Neither speaks for a while.
Finally, Cal closes the folder.
CAL MERCER: How's Jack?
Negropolis looks toward him.
NEGROPOLIS: Which version?
Cal doesn't smile.
CAL MERCER: Jack.
Negropolis looks away.
The answer takes longer than Cal expected.
NEGROPOLIS: Functional.
CAL MERCER: That's a medical chart.
NEGROPOLIS: He's sleeping. Mostly.
A pause.
NEGROPOLIS: Edie's home.
CAL MERCER: I know.
NEGROPOLIS: She's good for him.
Cal waits.
Negropolis knows that isn't enough.
NEGROPOLIS: Mr. Mason is... settled.
Cal's eyes narrow slightly.
CAL MERCER: Settled.
NEGROPOLIS: Controlled.
Another pause.
NEGROPOLIS: Focused.
CAL MERCER: On?
Negropolis turns his masked face back toward Cal.
NEGROPOLIS: Dracula.
Cal gives a slow nod.
Not surprised.
CAL MERCER: You worried?
Negropolis folds his arms.
NEGROPOLIS: Yes.
There is no hesitation.
CAL MERCER: Think he's losing control?
Negropolis considers that.
Then slowly shakes his head.
NEGROPOLIS: No.
His voice lowers.
NEGROPOLIS: That's what worries me.
Cal says nothing.
NEGROPOLIS: Madman lost control.
A beat.
NEGROPOLIS: Mean Jack enjoyed losing it.
Another.
NEGROPOLIS: Mr. Mason knows exactly what he's doing.
Cal studies him.
NEGROPOLIS: Ghost learned that.
Negropolis pauses.
NEGROPOLIS: Dracula will too.
CAL MERCER: And you're planning to stop him?
The skull mask turns.
NEGROPOLIS: From Dracula?
Cal nods.
NEGROPOLIS: No.
A beat.
NEGROPOLIS: From himself, if it comes to that.
Cal looks down at his clipboard.
Makes one small note.
Then closes it again.
CAL MERCER: There it is.
Negropolis tilts his head.
NEGROPOLIS: There what is?
Cal steps through the ropes.
His old injury makes the movement slightly slower than it once would have been, but there is nothing uncertain about him.
He walks toward Negropolis.
CAL MERCER: Your answer.
NEGROPOLIS: To what?
CAL MERCER: What you're training for.
Negropolis stands.
NEGROPOLIS: I'm training because that's why people come to training centres.
CAL MERCER: Cute.
NEGROPOLIS: I've been called worse.
CAL MERCER: Usually by Jack.
Negropolis gives the smallest shrug.
Cal gestures around the ring.
CAL MERCER: You've been in here four days this week.
NEGROPOLIS: Five.
CAL MERCER: Even worse.
He looks directly into the empty black eyes of the skull mask.
CAL MERCER: But every time I ask what you're working toward, the answer eventually becomes Jack.
Negropolis's posture stiffens.
NEGROPOLIS: He's my friend.
CAL MERCER: I know.
NEGROPOLIS: My partner.
CAL MERCER: I know.
NEGROPOLIS: The Misfits are my family.
CAL MERCER: I know that too.
Cal lets the silence sit.
Then:
CAL MERCER: None of those things answer the question.
Negropolis folds his arms again.
NEGROPOLIS: What question?
Cal steps closer.
CAL MERCER: What do you want?
Negropolis is silent.
Cal waits.
No answer.
CAL MERCER: That's what I thought.
Negropolis turns away.
NEGROPOLIS: Keeping this group together seems like a fairly respectable goal.
CAL MERCER: That's a responsibility.
Negropolis stops.
CAL MERCER: Not a goal.
The words hit harder than Cal raises his voice.
Which is not at all.
NEGROPOLIS: Someone has to watch Jack.
CAL MERCER: Edie watches Jack.
A beat.
CAL MERCER: Polly watches Jack.
Another.
CAL MERCER: Flippers watches Jack.
Negropolis looks over his shoulder.
NEGROPOLIS: Flippers watches the refrigerator.
CAL MERCER: Sometimes that includes Jack.
A faint silence passes between them.
As close to a joke as Cal needs.
Then his expression becomes serious again.
CAL MERCER: You've spent a long time following Jack into whatever war he's fighting.
Negropolis turns fully.
NEGROPOLIS: Following?
There is an edge now.
Cal hears it.
Doesn't care.
CAL MERCER: Following.
NEGROPOLIS: I've pulled him out of more trouble than—
CAL MERCER: Exactly.
Negropolis stops.
CAL MERCER: Jack has a crisis, you respond.
Cal counts them off with his fingers.
CAL MERCER: Jack changes. You respond.
CAL MERCER: Edie disappears. You respond.
CAL MERCER: Dracula shows up. You respond.
CAL MERCER: The Primal Horde starts something. You respond.
He lowers his hand.
CAL MERCER: You're very good at responding.
A beat.
CAL MERCER: When was the last time you chose something first?
Negropolis says nothing.
Cal walks toward the corner and picks up a water bottle.
He tosses it.
Negropolis catches it.
CAL MERCER: You're not Jack Mason's bodyguard.
NEGROPOLIS: Never said I was.
CAL MERCER: Then stop building your career like one.
Negropolis's masked stare remains fixed on him.
CAL MERCER: I'm not telling you to abandon your friend.
Cal leans against the ropes.
CAL MERCER: I'm telling you that being Jack's friend shouldn't require you to stop being Negropolis.
Silence.
Longer this time.
Cal lets him sit with it.
Then:
CAL MERCER: Wilber Townsend.
Negropolis's head tilts.
NEGROPOLIS: What about him?
CAL MERCER: Northern Lights Champion.
NEGROPOLIS: I'm aware.
CAL MERCER: Good.
Cal points toward him.
CAL MERCER: Go take it from him.
Negropolis just stares.
For once, Cal has actually surprised him.
NEGROPOLIS: That's your advice?
CAL MERCER: No.
Cal shakes his head.
CAL MERCER: Advice is cheap.
He taps the whistle against his chest.
CAL MERCER: I'm your coach.
A beat.
CAL MERCER: I'm giving you a target.
Negropolis looks toward the empty ring.
NEGROPOLIS: Wilber “Terrorfang” Townsend.
CAL MERCER: That's the one.
NEGROPOLIS: Northern Lights Championship.
CAL MERCER: Also the one.
Negropolis slowly walks toward the ropes.
Thinking.
NEGROPOLIS: You think I can beat him.
Cal's answer is immediate.
CAL MERCER: Wrong question.
Negropolis looks back.
CAL MERCER: Do you think you can beat him?
The skull mask gives Cal nothing.
Negropolis steps between the ropes and onto the floor.
He begins unwrapping one wrist.
Then stops.
NEGROPOLIS: I've spent most of this year fighting beside people.
Cal waits.
NEGROPOLIS: Or fighting for them.
Another pause.
NEGROPOLIS: Haven't thought much about fighting for something that was mine.
Cal nods.
CAL MERCER: Maybe start.
Negropolis looks toward one of the monitors mounted near the training ring.
It is currently dark.
NEGROPOLIS: Why Townsend?
Cal picks up the remote.
CAL MERCER: Because you're ready for somebody who matters.
The monitor comes alive.
Footage appears.
Wilber “Terrorfang” Townsend.
Match footage.
Entrances.
Strikes.
Championship defenses.
Cal has already prepared it.
Negropolis notices.
NEGROPOLIS: You had that ready before we started this conversation.
CAL MERCER: Yes.
NEGROPOLIS: So this wasn't spontaneous.
CAL MERCER: Nothing useful usually is.
Negropolis looks back at the screen.
Wilber raises the Northern Lights Championship.
The camera freezes on the image.
Champion.
Title.
Target.
Negropolis stands motionless beneath it.
Cal watches him.
CAL MERCER: Jack's going to keep having problems.
Negropolis doesn't look away from the screen.
CAL MERCER: That's Jack.
A beat.
CAL MERCER: You don't have to make every one of them yours.
Negropolis remains silent.
Several seconds pass.
Then:
NEGROPOLIS: Start the match.
Cal does not react immediately.
NEGROPOLIS: From the beginning.
A faint satisfaction crosses Cal's face.
Nothing more.
He presses play.
CAL MERCER: Now we're training for something.
Negropolis folds his arms and watches Wilber Townsend move across the screen.
Studying him.
Footwork.
Timing.
Habits.
Weaknesses.
The skull mask gives nothing away.
But for the first time in a long while, Negropolis isn't thinking about Jack Mason's next fight.
He's thinking about his own.
And about the championship waiting at the end of it.
SCENE 4 — “THE PAYMENT TRAIL”
Budapest, Hungary — Late Evening
Rain streaks the windows of a narrow office above an old freight brokerage near the Danube.
The building should have been abandoned years ago.
Most of it has been.
The hallway outside is dark, the paint peeling from the walls, old shipping notices curling away from corkboards that no one has touched in a decade.
Inside one office, however, a single green-shaded desk lamp burns.
Files cover the table.
Old customs declarations.
Freight manifests.
Bank transfers.
Insurance certificates.
Handwritten route codes.
The sort of paperwork designed to look meaningless unless someone knows what they are looking for.
Ace MacDougal sits hunched over the desk, glasses low on his nose, turning through a stack of photocopied records.
Across from him, Fabian Falcone stands immaculate as ever, jacket still buttoned despite the hour, reading another ledger beneath the light.
Ace drops one document onto the table.
ACE MACDOUGAL: That's the third one.
Fabian doesn't look up.
FABIAN FALCONE: Fourth.
Ace looks at him.
Fabian slides another paper across the table.
FABIAN FALCONE: You missed Bucharest.
Ace pulls the document closer.
His eyes scan it.
A freight payment.
A date.
A coded disbursement.
Another number.
His expression darkens.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Same clearing account.
FABIAN FALCONE: Yes.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Different company.
FABIAN FALCONE: On paper.
Ace keeps reading.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Different route.
FABIAN FALCONE: Again, on paper.
Ace leans back.
ACE MACDOUGAL: And ye're telling me all of these run through the same broker?
Fabian finally looks up.
FABIAN FALCONE: I am telling you that someone wanted them to look separate.
A beat.
FABIAN FALCONE: They were not.
Ace looks back down at the records.
There is no humor in him now.
No booming laugh.
No manager's patter.
This is the Ace MacDougal who spent years flying cargo into places other men avoided.
The man who understands routes.
The man who understands what paperwork looks like when someone has taken great care to make sure no one understands it.
He pulls one page from the pile.
ACE MACDOUGAL: This one.
Fabian moves beside him.
Ace taps a line.
ACE MACDOUGAL: That's Rask.
Fabian nods.
FABIAN FALCONE: The identifier matches the record I showed you.
Ace's jaw tightens.
The paper lists no full name.
Only an abbreviated personnel code.
A payment.
Travel.
Accommodations.
Equipment allowance.
Ace reads it twice.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Hired muscle.
FABIAN FALCONE: Yes.
Ace looks sharply toward him.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Do not say that like it makes him innocent.
Fabian's expression does not change.
FABIAN FALCONE: I didn't.
Ace rises from the chair.
He begins pacing.
ACE MACDOUGAL: He was there.
FABIAN FALCONE: Yes.
ACE MACDOUGAL: He helped them.
FABIAN FALCONE: Yes.
Ace slams one hand down onto the desk.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Then he carries it.
Fabian allows the anger to sit.
Doesn't interrupt.
Ace stares at the payment record.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Hired muscle still made a choice.
A beat.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Hired muscle still held my sister in that room.
Fabian's gaze lowers slightly.
FABIAN FALCONE: I know.
Ace points at the paper.
ACE MACDOUGAL: So dinnae start cleaning him up for me.
Fabian remains calm.
FABIAN FALCONE: I'm not cleaning anything.
He reaches into another folder.
Pulls out a second document.
Places it beside Dominik's payment.
FABIAN FALCONE: I'm separating levels.
Ace looks down.
Different code.
Different amount.
Much larger.
FABIAN FALCONE: Rask was paid.
Fabian taps the second document.
FABIAN FALCONE: Someone else authorized the payment.
Another page.
FABIAN FALCONE: Someone else coordinated transport.
Another.
FABIAN FALCONE: Someone else arranged extraction.
Another.
FABIAN FALCONE: Someone else made certain local records disappeared afterward.
Ace's eyes move across the documents.
The anger doesn't disappear.
It changes direction.
ACE MACDOUGAL: So he wasn't running it.
FABIAN FALCONE: No.
Ace studies the pattern.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Was he even close to whoever was?
Fabian hesitates.
That hesitation tells Ace plenty.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Fabian.
FABIAN FALCONE: I don't know.
Ace gives him a hard look.
FABIAN FALCONE: And unlike some people in your profession, I prefer not to invent answers when I don't have them.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Ye picked a poor week tae discover principles.
Fabian almost smiles.
Almost.
Instead, he turns another document toward Ace.
FABIAN FALCONE: But this matters.
Ace follows his finger.
A logistics code appears on three separate transfers.
Same structure.
Different cities.
Different years.
ACE MACDOUGAL: That's not one operation.
FABIAN FALCONE: No.
Ace sits back down.
Slowly now.
The weight of what he is seeing has changed.
ACE MACDOUGAL: How many?
FABIAN FALCONE: I don't know yet.
ACE MACDOUGAL: How many, Fabian?
FABIAN FALCONE: Enough that we stop treating what happened to Catriona as an isolated crime.
Ace looks away.
Rain taps against the glass.
For several seconds, neither man speaks.
Then Ace's phone vibrates.
Once.
He looks at the screen.
Encrypted message.
No name displayed.
Just an identifier.
Ace's face tightens.
Fabian notices.
FABIAN FALCONE: Trouble?
Ace doesn't answer.
He opens the message.
BILLY: Rhea’s getting closer to him.
He still doesn’t know who she is.
She’s holding the line.
For now.
Ace reads it again.
Then a third time.
Fabian watches him.
FABIAN FALCONE: Rhea?
Ace looks up sharply.
ACE MACDOUGAL: How the hell—
FABIAN FALCONE: You have precisely two expressions when you're worried.
Fabian gestures toward the phone.
FABIAN FALCONE: One is for your wrestlers.
A beat.
FABIAN FALCONE: The other is for your family.
Ace looks back at the screen.
ACE MACDOUGAL: She's too close.
FABIAN FALCONE: To Rask.
Ace nods.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Aye.
He starts typing.
Stops.
Deletes it.
Starts again.
Stops.
Fabian watches.
FABIAN FALCONE: What are you telling her?
ACE MACDOUGAL: Tae get out.
Fabian says nothing.
Ace looks at him.
ACE MACDOUGAL: What?
FABIAN FALCONE: Nothing.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Ye've got that look.
FABIAN FALCONE: I have many looks.
ACE MACDOUGAL: That one means ye think I'm being stupid.
Fabian adjusts his cuff.
FABIAN FALCONE: I think you're being an uncle.
Ace exhales through his nose.
ACE MACDOUGAL: She's my niece.
FABIAN FALCONE: I am aware.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Her mother was murdered.
FABIAN FALCONE: Also aware.
ACE MACDOUGAL: And the man who helped those bastards is standing ten feet from her every bloody day.
Fabian's tone remains measured.
FABIAN FALCONE: Did you send her there?
Ace's eyes flash.
ACE MACDOUGAL: No.
FABIAN FALCONE: Did you ask her to go?
ACE MACDOUGAL: No.
Fabian waits.
Ace knows where this is going.
ACE MACDOUGAL: She went herself.
FABIAN FALCONE: Exactly.
Ace looks down at the unfinished message.
ACE MACDOUGAL: I told her not tae.
FABIAN FALCONE: How effective was that?
Ace gives him a murderous look.
Fabian remains perfectly composed.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Ye've never met Rhea.
FABIAN FALCONE: I don't believe that would alter the answer.
Against his will, Ace lets out a short breath that is almost a laugh.
Almost.
Then his face grows serious again.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Billy's watching her.
FABIAN FALCONE: Good.
ACE MACDOUGAL: He cannae make it obvious.
FABIAN FALCONE: Better.
Ace looks at the phone again.
ACE MACDOUGAL: I hate this.
FABIAN FALCONE: That is probably healthy.
Ace looks at him.
FABIAN FALCONE: You are allowing her to make her own choices despite being terrified of those choices.
A pause.
FABIAN FALCONE: Most men prefer control.
Ace's expression darkens.
ACE MACDOUGAL: I've had enough men making choices for my family.
Fabian absorbs that.
Ace deletes the message he had been typing.
Instead he writes something shorter.
ACE: Keep watching. No confrontation. If anything changes, call me immediately.
He sends it.
The phone disappears into his coat.
Fabian turns back toward the records.
FABIAN FALCONE: Then we keep doing our part.
Ace looks down at the ledger again.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Finding who paid them.
FABIAN FALCONE: Eventually.
Ace narrows his eyes.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Eventually?
Fabian taps the payment code.
FABIAN FALCONE: First we identify who moved the money.
Another tap.
FABIAN FALCONE: Then who moved the people.
Another.
FABIAN FALCONE: Then who issued the instructions.
Ace stares at him.
ACE MACDOUGAL: And then?
Fabian meets his eyes.
FABIAN FALCONE: Then we discover whether the person giving the orders was answering to someone else.
Silence.
Ace looks again at the pages spread across the desk.
Budapest.
Bucharest.
Warsaw.
Vienna.
Different companies.
Different accounts.
Different names.
The same structure underneath.
Ace slowly gathers the pages into one pile.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Ye knew this was bigger.
Fabian doesn't answer immediately.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Before tonight.
FABIAN FALCONE: I suspected.
Ace glares.
ACE MACDOUGAL: There's that word again.
FABIAN FALCONE: Suspicion is not proof.
ACE MACDOUGAL: And ye've still got things ye're not telling me.
Fabian's expression gives away nothing.
FABIAN FALCONE: Yes.
Ace's eyes harden.
At least the answer was honest.
ACE MACDOUGAL: One day I'm going tae get very tired of that.
FABIAN FALCONE: I assumed you already were.
Fabian slides the final ledger toward him.
Ace opens it.
Inside are rows of transfers.
Dozens.
The same peculiar routing notation appears again and again.
Ace traces one line with his finger.
Then another.
And another.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Dominik was paid here.
Fabian nods.
Ace turns the page.
ACE MACDOUGAL: And this one?
FABIAN FALCONE: Different operation.
Another page.
ACE MACDOUGAL: This?
FABIAN FALCONE: Different again.
Ace stops turning pages.
His eyes remain fixed on the repeating pattern.
ACE MACDOUGAL: That's not one job.
Fabian stands beside him.
Both men stare at the ledger.
FABIAN FALCONE: No.
The rain continues against the windows.
Fabian's finger rests beside the recurring code.
FABIAN FALCONE: That's a network.
Ace slowly closes the ledger.
His expression is no longer simply angry.
Now he is focused.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Then we start pulling at it.
Fabian looks toward him.
FABIAN FALCONE: Carefully.
Ace stands.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Aye.
He picks up the ledger.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Carefully.
A beat.
ACE MACDOUGAL: Until somebody at the other end feels the tug.
The desk lamp clicks off.
Darkness fills the room.
And somewhere far beyond Budapest, a trail that has been buried for years has finally begun to move.
SCENE 5 — “THE BLACK SUN TOME”
Arctic — Bigfoot’s Cave Home
The wind howls outside like something alive.
Snow lashes against the stone mouth of the cavern in long white sheets, but deep inside Bigfoot’s home, the world is warmer.
A massive fire roars in the hearth pit at the center of the main chamber, its orange light dancing across rough stone walls, old furs, carved shelves, and stacks upon stacks of ancient tomes gathered over years that most men would call impossible.
The cave is part sanctuary, part archive.
And tonight, Bigfoot sits alone before the fire with a heavy book spread across his lap.
He turns a page carefully.
Then another.
Then another.
His massive brow furrows.
The pages are filled with old symbols, hand-drawn sigils, primal route-maps, and layered notes in several dead and half-dead tongues.
None of them are telling him what he wants.
Nearby, several open tomes lie scattered across a low stone table and the floor around him. Some are bound in hide. Others in bark. One looks as if it may once have been stitched with sinew. The air smells of ash, dust, ink, and very old magic.
Bigfoot exhales sharply through his nose.
BIGFOOT: Nothing.
He shuts the tome in his hands and sets it down with more frustration than force.
His gaze drifts toward another open volume resting beside the fire.
He reaches for it, scanning the marked passage again.
A diagram of broken rings.
A circle of standing stones.
A pattern of celestial alignment.
His eyes move to the accompanying notation.
BIGFOOT: “To unbind the severed seal…”
He reads on.
Slowly.
His eyes narrow.
The passage describes an unbinding ritual—one capable of weakening or reopening a sealed threshold between realms.
For the first time all night, something close to hope crosses his face.
Then he keeps reading.
And that hope dies almost immediately.
The ritual would require multiple conduits of power.
Not just skilled mystics.
Very powerful wielders of magic.
The kind of power few beings could command, and fewer still could be trusted with.
Bigfoot lowers the book and stares into the fire.
BIGFOOT: Of course.
He closes the tome and places it atop the others.
For a long moment he simply sits there, one massive forearm resting across his knee, firelight flickering across his fur and face.
Yolgrimm had offered no answer.
Grimva had sealed the Primal Expanse away.
The old paths were gone.
The portals dead.
And every road Bigfoot can still trace leads to another wall.
He leans forward to pull another tome from a nearby pile.
Then pauses.
Something at the edge of the table catches his eye.
A book.
One he does not remember seeing before.
Bigfoot slowly reaches for it.
It is old.
Very old.
Bound in black leather, the surface worn smooth with age, though not in any way he can place. The edges and corners are marked with delicate silver highlights, almost like filigree or protective inlay. No title is stamped across the front. No runes mark the spine.
He turns it over in his hands.
Studies it.
His expression shifts.
Not fear.
Not yet.
Confusion.
BIGFOOT: Where did you come from?
He searches his memory.
The cave.
The tomes.
The artifacts.
The many things he has collected, inherited, or carried from one forgotten place to another.
Surely he would remember a book like this.
And yet—
Nothing.
No memory of finding it.
No memory of storing it.
No memory of ever opening it.
He frowns more deeply.
BIGFOOT: I’ve seen you before.
But even as he says it, he knows it is not quite true.
Not the book itself.
Something about it.
Something in its presence.
Something that almost touches memory before slipping away again.
Carefully now, Bigfoot opens the cover.
The inside is stranger still.
The pages are not parchment.
Not paper.
Not vellum.
Papyrus.
Old, brittle-looking, but somehow preserved far beyond what should be possible.
He turns the first page.
Then another.
And another.
Lines of symbols run across the surface in dark faded ink.
The language feels familiar.
That is what unsettles him most.
Not readable.
Not to him.
But familiar.
Like a half-remembered scent from childhood.
Like a voice heard in a dream years ago.
Bigfoot's thumb brushes the edge of the page.
His breathing slows.
He flips forward.
The symbols continue.
Illustrations begin to appear between the script—sharp black sketches of stars, circles, jagged crowned figures, winding paths, and geometric structures too precise to belong to the more primal works surrounding him.
Then he reaches one page and stops.
A drawing fills most of it.
A pyramid.
Ancient and severe.
At its apex hangs or rises a black sun.
Not eclipsed.
Not shadowed.
Black by nature.
Its dark circle radiates long angular rays over the structure below.
Bigfoot stares at the image.
The fire crackles behind him.
The wind moans faintly outside.
He does not move.
BIGFOOT: …
His eyes travel over every line of the drawing.
The slope of the stone.
The position of the sun.
The symbols around the edge.
He knows—somewhere deep, distant, unreachable—that this means something.
Something important.
Something old.
But he cannot place it.
He leans closer.
His fingers hover over the page but do not touch the ink.
BIGFOOT: What are you?
No answer.
Only the fire.
Only the storm.
Only the maddening sensation that the image should mean more than it does.
After several long moments, Bigfoot finally closes the book halfway and rubs a hand across his face.
BIGFOOT: Water.
He rises from his seat and crosses the cave toward a stone basin fed by a trickle of meltwater from deeper within the cavern.
He cups both hands, drinks, then splashes a little across the back of his neck.
He stands there for a few seconds longer than necessary, collecting himself.
Then he turns and heads back toward the fire.
The black leather tome is gone.
The spot where it had rested beside the others is empty.
But Bigfoot does not notice.
His eyes go instead to the scattered tomes still open before the hearth.
His mind has already fallen back into the problem that brought him here in the first place.
The Primal Expanse.
The sealed paths.
The closed ways.
He lowers himself back to the floor, reaches for another book, and opens it.
BIGFOOT: There has to be a way.
He bends once more over the old texts, firelight flickering across the pages as snow and darkness gather outside.
Behind him, unseen, the shadows along the cave wall seem just a little deeper than they were before.
And whatever book had found him—
has chosen, for now, to remain a mystery.
SCENE 6 — “THE NEXT MATCH”
The Sanctuary is quieter than usual.
Susan Brenner stands near the main entrance with a black duffel bag resting beside her boots.
Everything she owns fits inside it.
There was a time when that would have bothered her.
Today it feels different.
Not empty.
Portable.
Her discharge papers are folded neatly into one of the outside pockets. A few personal belongings sit on top of the bag, waiting to be packed last.
Susan looks back down the corridor toward the room that has been hers for months.
She doesn't stare for long.
A familiar voice comes from behind her.
POLLY MASON: You weren't seriously going to leave without saying goodbye, were you?
Susan turns.
Polly Mason stands a few feet away, dressed casually rather than in ring gear.
Susan's expression softens almost imperceptibly.
SUSAN BRENNER: Was considering it.
POLLY MASON: Rude.
SUSAN BRENNER: Efficient.
Polly walks closer.
Her eyes settle on the duffel bag.
Then on Susan.
POLLY MASON: So this is it.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Meredith signed off this morning.
POLLY MASON: How do you feel?
Susan considers the question.
SUSAN BRENNER: Like everyone's going to keep asking me that for the next six months.
Polly smiles.
POLLY MASON: Probably longer.
Susan gives the faintest trace of a smirk.
Then the humor passes.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm ready.
Polly doesn't immediately answer.
She studies Susan for a moment.
Not checking her.
Not evaluating her.
Just looking at her.
POLLY MASON: Yeah.
A beat.
POLLY MASON: I think you are too.
That lands differently than Susan expects.
She looks away.
SUSAN BRENNER: Don't say that too loudly. Meredith might revoke my discharge.
POLLY MASON: Meredith thinks you're ready to leave Sanctuary.
SUSAN BRENNER: She thinks what I'm planning after Sanctuary is stupid.
Polly's eyebrow rises.
She already knows.
POLLY MASON: Wrestling.
Susan looks back at her.
SUSAN BRENNER: You don't sound surprised.
POLLY MASON: Susan, you've spent half your recovery period asking me to hit you harder during training.
SUSAN BRENNER: You weren't hitting hard enough.
POLLY MASON: See?
Susan almost smiles again.
Polly folds her arms.
POLLY MASON: You've been getting sharper every week. Your conditioning is ridiculous. Your timing's coming back.
Susan watches her carefully.
SUSAN BRENNER: Feral's timing.
Polly shakes her head.
POLLY MASON: Yours.
Susan says nothing.
Polly steps a little closer.
POLLY MASON: She doesn't get to own everything you were good at.
Susan's gaze drops briefly.
That one reaches her.
SUSAN BRENNER: Meredith said something similar.
POLLY MASON: Smart woman.
SUSAN BRENNER: She was considerably less enthusiastic about the wrestling part.
POLLY MASON: She's a doctor.
SUSAN BRENNER: And you aren't?
POLLY MASON: No. I'm the idiot who kept agreeing to spar with you.
SUSAN BRENNER: Also true.
They share a brief smile.
Then Polly becomes more serious.
POLLY MASON: If you're really doing this, I can help.
Susan waits.
POLLY MASON: Iron Ring starts a new quarter soon. I can talk to Hammer. Get you assessed privately before anybody makes a big deal about it.
Susan shakes her head immediately.
SUSAN BRENNER: No.
Polly pauses.
Not offended.
Just curious.
POLLY MASON: No?
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm not going to Iron Ring.
POLLY MASON: Okay.
Susan studies her.
SUSAN BRENNER: That's all?
POLLY MASON: Did you want me to argue?
SUSAN BRENNER: Jax would.
POLLY MASON: Jax considers arguing a form of cardio.
That finally gets a genuine short laugh from Susan.
It disappears quickly, but Polly notices it.
Susan reaches down and closes one of the compartments on her bag.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm going to HCW.
Polly's expression changes.
Not alarm.
Recognition.
POLLY MASON: HCW.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Far enough away.
Polly doesn't need to ask from what.
Susan answers anyway.
SUSAN BRENNER: Yeti.
A beat.
SUSAN BRENNER: Vlad.
Another.
SUSAN BRENNER: Marcus.
Her jaw tightens.
SUSAN BRENNER: The Horde.
Polly watches the reaction.
Susan catches it.
Her shoulders loosen deliberately.
Her breathing settles.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm not going back into that orbit.
POLLY MASON: HCW isn't exactly peaceful.
SUSAN BRENNER: I didn't say I wanted peaceful.
Polly gives her a knowing look.
POLLY MASON: No. I suppose you didn't.
Susan straightens.
SUSAN BRENNER: I need distance.
POLLY MASON: From NPCW?
SUSAN BRENNER: From them.
She takes a moment.
SUSAN BRENNER: If I go to Iron Ring, I'm still here.
Polly understands.
SUSAN BRENNER: Same buildings. Same people. Same chances of turning a corner and seeing somebody who remembers me as—
She stops herself.
Polly doesn't finish the word for her.
Susan continues.
SUSAN BRENNER: I need somewhere I can start as Susan Brenner.
POLLY MASON: Not as the woman everybody rescued.
Susan's eyes lift.
SUSAN BRENNER: Exactly.
POLLY MASON: Not as Jax's sister.
Susan nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: Exactly.
Polly waits.
Susan finishes it herself.
SUSAN BRENNER: And not as Feral.
Silence.
Then Polly nods.
POLLY MASON: HCW makes sense.
Susan looks almost suspicious.
SUSAN BRENNER: You really aren't going to try to stop me?
Polly glances toward the Sanctuary corridor.
When she speaks again, her tone is quieter.
POLLY MASON: Moreau spent enough time making decisions for both of us.
Susan becomes still.
Polly looks directly at her.
POLLY MASON: I'm not going to start doing it for him.
That hits harder than either woman expected.
For a moment neither speaks.
There are things between them they rarely discuss directly.
Laboratories.
Manipulation.
Experiments.
The feeling of discovering that somebody else had been writing pieces of your life without permission.
Polly breaks the silence.
POLLY MASON: Do I think throwing yourself back into professional wrestling is the safest possible decision?
SUSAN BRENNER: No.
POLLY MASON: Do I think safety has ever been your primary motivation?
SUSAN BRENNER: Also no.
POLLY MASON: Then we're making progress.
Susan looks down at her hands.
SUSAN BRENNER: I'm still angry.
POLLY MASON: I know.
SUSAN BRENNER: Sometimes really angry.
Polly nods.
POLLY MASON: I know that too.
SUSAN BRENNER: Meredith thinks wrestling might feed it.
POLLY MASON: It might.
Susan looks up.
She wasn't expecting that answer.
POLLY MASON: Or it might give you somewhere to put it.
A pause.
POLLY MASON: That's going to be your responsibility to figure out.
Susan slowly nods.
SUSAN BRENNER: I think I can.
Polly's expression becomes slightly more pointed.
POLLY MASON: That's not the same thing as proving you can.
Susan accepts the correction.
SUSAN BRENNER: No.
POLLY MASON: Good.
Susan bends down and lifts her duffel.
Polly looks at it.
Then back at her.
POLLY MASON: Have you decided what you're wrestling as?
Susan hesitates.
Then:
SUSAN BRENNER: Susan Brenner.
Polly smiles.
POLLY MASON: Good name.
SUSAN BRENNER: Apparently I've had it for a while.
POLLY MASON: Anything else?
Susan looks at her.
There is the smallest flicker of uncertainty.
Not fear.
Something closer to embarrassment.
SUSAN BRENNER: Wild Star.
Polly blinks.
Susan's brow tightens.
SUSAN BRENNER: Don't.
POLLY MASON: I wasn't going to say anything.
SUSAN BRENNER: Your face did.
POLLY MASON: My face thinks it's good.
Susan doesn't believe her.
POLLY MASON: I'm serious.
Polly gestures subtly toward Susan.
POLLY MASON: It fits.
SUSAN BRENNER: Why?
Polly considers her answer.
POLLY MASON: Because you're still wild.
Susan's expression hardens slightly.
Polly continues before she can react.
POLLY MASON: But you're not lost anymore.
Susan goes quiet.
Polly gives her a small smile.
POLLY MASON: That's the important part.
Susan looks away.
For a moment, her composure slips just enough to reveal how much the words affect her.
Then she looks back.
SUSAN BRENNER: The North Star.
Polly smiles a little wider.
POLLY MASON: Now you're showing off.
SUSAN BRENNER: Maybe.
Polly steps forward.
POLLY MASON: One condition.
Susan raises an eyebrow.
SUSAN BRENNER: You just said you weren't going to make decisions for me.
POLLY MASON: I'm not.
She holds out her hand.
POLLY MASON: I'm making a request.
Susan looks at it.
POLLY MASON: If you need anything, you call me.
Susan's expression becomes serious again.
POLLY MASON: Training. Someone to talk to. Someone to yell at. Someone to hit.
SUSAN BRENNER: You volunteering for that last one?
POLLY MASON: Within reason.
SUSAN BRENNER: Coward.
Polly laughs softly.
Then:
POLLY MASON: I'm serious, Susan.
Susan knows.
She takes Polly's hand.
SUSAN BRENNER: I know.
Polly squeezes it once.
POLLY MASON: Doesn't matter where you wrestle.
She releases Susan's hand.
POLLY MASON: You don't have to do the next part alone.
Susan looks toward the exit.
For years, doors meant cages.
Labs.
Orders.
Places she wasn't allowed to leave.
Now the Sanctuary doors stand open.
No guards.
No handlers.
Nobody telling her when to move.
Susan adjusts the strap of the duffel across her shoulder.
SUSAN BRENNER: Tell Jax I'll call him.
Polly gives her a look.
POLLY MASON: You should probably tell Jax yourself.
SUSAN BRENNER: I was afraid you'd say that.
POLLY MASON: He's going to take HCW really well.
SUSAN BRENNER: How long do you think he'll yell?
POLLY MASON: Depends how quickly Molly confiscates his phone.
Susan laughs.
A real one this time.
Then she turns toward the door.
She takes several steps before stopping.
Without looking back:
SUSAN BRENNER: Polly.
POLLY MASON: Yeah?
Susan turns.
SUSAN BRENNER: Thank you.
Polly knows she isn't talking about training.
POLLY MASON: Anytime.
Susan nods.
Then she walks through the doors.
Not Susie.
Not Feral.
Not somebody's experiment.
Susan “Wild Star” Brenner.
And for the first time in a very long time, the direction she chooses is entirely her own.
Excellent
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