Zenith 006

Eryk Masters: Welcome everyone to SHOOT Project Zenith! I'm Eryk Masters, alongside Jason Johnson, and Jason, after the absolute chaos of last week, I don't think I can even begin to predict what's in store tonight.

Jason Johnson: "Chaos" is the word, Eryk. We saw the World Tag Team Titles change hands twice in one night, and we have the fallout from that all over this card. The landscape of SHOOT Project has been completely redrawn by The Empire and The DeMONSTRance.

Eryk Masters: And The Empire is wasting no time in establishing what the top of the card should look like in their eyes. In our main event, "Izzy 2 Belts" Sia must defend her Empire State Championship against The Empire's own Madison Seton. Madison is hungry for gold, and Izzy is hungry to stay a double champion!

Jason Johnson: I'm not sure Izzy's momentum can survive a 3-on-1, which is what this is. But that's not the only personal war we're seeing tonight. Corey Lazarus is out for blood after the Kelser Covenant ambushed him and put his partner, Thunderwolf, on a stretcher last week.

Eryk Masters: Lazarus gets his hands on one of those attackers, Chance Kelser, but it's a volatile Triple Threat match that also includes the very dangerous Darkspade. Revenge is not going to be easy.

Jason Johnson: We also have that deeply disturbing rivalry between Pigpen Matsumoto and Peaknuckle escalating to a Ladder Match! After Pigpen's unhinged threats last week, I don't even want to think about what he'll do with a ladder.

Eryk Masters: And speaking of unhinged, The DeMONSTRance's monster, Sammy Rochester, is in action against a man who truly knows no fear, Holden Nobody. Holden confronted the beast, and tonight he gets his wish.

Jason Johnson: Plus, Eryk, we finally see the "miracle" return of NC-17, after that ridiculous "Cream of Obscene" press conference. A furious Mean Teen has booked him against his own protege, Scottie Barnes. And newcomer Aaron Dearinger makes his debut!

Eryk Masters: It's an absolutely loaded card, and we're kicking things off right now with Ricky Tenet and Trey Willett. Let's send it to the ring!

The doors open into what can only be described as the gray stone walls of a castle, adorned with various amounts of textiles in the Empyrean Forge’s new colors. Regal is a word one might use to describe it, with blue, gold, and white spread throughout.

There’s a table in the middle of the room with garish and comfortable chairs making up ten total spots. The table is designed as such that there are ten slices and each slice has a golden name plate and a logo for each member of the Empyrean Forge. Oh, and of course the table is round.

As they all begin to file in, their attention is captured immediately and they’re greeted by an unknown man dressed in a black suit who directs them to their various positions. They stream in, with the last two being Laura Seton and Joshua Breedlove. Breedlove has dressed for the occasion in full blue, gold, and white royal attire. An absolute monstrosity of a crown sits atop his head. He takes his place in the middle of the table and they all sit, simultaneously.

Breedlove: Now, as you all know, I love imagery and symbolism. I’ve rented a whole ass circus to make a point before, back when this was called the chad Ass brotherhood and the faces around the table weren’t quite as successful. But now, here we are. My knights of the round table.

He smiles and leans back into a ridiculous throne, built specifically for a ridiculous man.

Breedlove: The Empyrean Forge.

The Collins Twins sit on the right side of the table. They wear black leather tunics with fur around the collar, and have their World Tag Team Championships folded neatly and propped up in front of them like placards. Michael and Rowland raise their steins of a stout beer, presumably Guinness. They look at everyone around them, finally looking back at Breedlove.

The Collins Twins: Sláinte!

The brothers throw back their steins and enjoy their beer in the moment. To the left of Breedlove is his partner in this venture: former champion, trainer of champions, and all-around nightmare competitor Nate Robideau, the since-retired Blackhawk, who has acquiesced to the specialness of the occasion in dressing in an outfit that isnt athleisure. He’s in a suit specifically tailored to his still ludicrously meaty proportions to make him look comfortable, for once. His long hair is in two impeccable braids.

He doesn;t say shit, not yet, but he does rap his knuckles on the table and nod.

The person next to him isn’t shy about it, though.

Izzy: Is that crown star of hip hop and cinema Christopher Bridges?

Someone down the circle snorts a giggle at this, but no one else responds. Izzy Sia, The Kamatayan and still the Two Belt phenom, decided to dress up for this like she was going to leave and do military presses after, which knowing her, she probably will. In front of her on the table is a single looping Mobius strip of belts, Empire State connected to Premier and then back to Empire State, the plates displayed prominently. After a beat, she pops off again.

Izzy: ‘Cause that shit is ludicrous, full stop. But I’m sure that’s part of the point. It is kinda nice to see all this laid out in front of us. Real gang gang shit. Even if that means some of the rest of you have to come for my neck.

Laura Seton could barely get comfortable in her seat before Izzy spoke. And confusion to an infinite power takes over her. Madison turns to being a translator.

Madison Seton: She thinks the set up is awesome.

Laura Seton: There a new member here?

Madison Seton: Huh??

Then the bell rings in her head. The first thing Izzy said.

Madison Seton: No… Christopher Bridges is the real name of Ludacris.

That doesn't appear to help. Madison just rolls her eyes at her conservative sister.

Madison Seton: There's a hip-hop singer that goes by the name Ludacris… just never mind.

She turns to Izzy, a friendly but sly grin.

Madison Seton: That neck’s all mine later, honeybuns.

The Collins Twins each mow down on a giant turkey leg, wiping their faces with their arms, really getting along with the vibe of the situation at hand. They add to the aesthetic of the round table. Michael looks at Rowland and smiles wide, turkey hanging out of his mouth.

Michael Collins: Aye, we’ve got t’e Tag Team Championships back and it’s a good day, brother, a very good day, indeed.

Michael’s face pulls a look, his nose crinkles, and the positively blinding plume of pure fog that follows makes it be known who’s the cause. Mike de los Huesos, fond in this season of large, stabproof Pelle Pelle leathers over buttercream sweaters. And at this present moment, cocnluding a dab from a rig composed of swoops and peaks of mint green glass, somewhere between Catalan Modernist architecture and alien science. Noticing the look, he waves his hand dissipating the smoke, before shrugging and flashing a gold-toothed grin.

Mikey: Sometimes you gotta pay the cost to dine with the boss.

Breedlove has the unnamed attendant, who we’ll soon learn is named Rupert, leaned down next to him. He’s delivering instructions, but what they are is not yet clear. Maria Madden has slipped in behind the group and takes her place off to the side and behind Breedlove’s throne.

Breedlove: Wonderful. Please, eat, drink, but most importantly… let’s chat. There’s a lot happening in the SHOOT Project right now and some splashes are happening in and around the place that are, frankly, beneath us. But first… I’d like to welcome our newest member… the immensely accomplished, insanely talented, future Hall of Famer… Laura Seton. A toast to her!

He raises his own stein in the air, and the others follow. Any reason to drink is one for the Collins Twins, who slosh some of their Guinness on their Turkeys.

Laura Seton: It is a privilege to have a seat at this table. I do not intend to disappoint.

Madison Seton: Cheers to that!

She grins as Madison raises her glass and takes a healthy drink.

Laura Seton: So to what do we have the pleasure of chatting about?

Breedlove: Our success, naturally. The Empire holds all of the championships in the SHOOT Project. Every single one. Plus…

He motions towards Laura Seton.

Breedlove: We just had an otherworldly recruitment pickup. And together, this group? We run professional wrestling. Truly. Not like, pretend spooky running wrestling. Not culty-mindcontrol running wrestling. We’ve got the proof. Right there in the middle of the table, and we got it through athletic prowess and determination. So, to the Empyrean Forge. To us.

He raises his stein once again. Izzy raises up a glass herself, taking a moment to draw her thoughts together

Izzy: I could say a big long thing about how I was starting to doubt I'd ever be here. Holding belts. Name in lights. But I despise boring people. So I'll just say thanks. Thanks, Kru Robideau. Thanks, drunks who I barely hang out with. Thanks, Dominican skeleton. Thanks, Seton, even if I'm gonna stomp you to paste later on, redwood. And why the fuck not?

She turns to Breedlove and flashes a grin.

Izzy: Thanks to you too, you large diameter dickhole.

Breedlove gives a fairly raucous laugh.

Breedlove: Told ya, Nate. Told ya she’d come around.

He turns his attention beyond the round table.

Breedlove: Now, camera crew… you’ve done your job, you’ve captured this moment. This goes out to all the pretenders out there. Here’s what success looks like. Get a shot of all that championship gold on that table.

The camera crew obliges, panning out and capturing every active championship that the SHOOT Project has to offer.

Breedlove: No spooky bullshit. No mind control weirdness. No culty weird shit. Just hard fucking work and talent. Now, get the fuck out of here because we have actual business to discuss and we gotta leave on a cliffhanger.

Fade.

As Darkspade rolls from the ring and begins making his way up the ramp, the final bell is a distant, meaningless echo. Who won? Who cares? The real story is written in the sweat and exhaustion staining the mat, in the rasping breaths of the two men collapsed on the canvas.

Laz and Chance are down, lungs screaming for air that won't come fast enough. But then, a shadow falls over them. At ringside, Hannah Kelser's expression isn't one of concern; it's one of appetite. One look confirms it: the official match may be over, but the carnage has only just begun.

She glides under the bottom rope, movements fluid and predatory. Chance’s signature baseball bat rests comfortably in her grip. She doesn't offer Chance a hand; she hauls him to his feet, a puppet master pulling his strings. A slow, devilish smile spreads across Hannah's lips. It's infectious. As Chance gets his bearings, his own features twist. The smeared, sweaty face paint, once a badge of honor, now cracks and curls around a grin of pure, unadulterated evil.

As if summoned, their two old pals, Sapphire and Velour, slip into the ring. They enter hand-in-hand, a picture of sinister solidarity, flanking their allies. The ring is their altar now.

Across the mat, Corey Lazarus groans, managing to push himself to all fours. He's vulnerable, a wounded animal. He looks up just as Chance begins to swing the bat in lazy, menacing loops, the air whistling softly with each pass. He’s warming up, looking like he’s about to tee off on Laz's skull.

Hannah turns her back to the impending assault, joining hands with Sapphire and Velour. The three of them stand united, heads bowed, as if starting a dark prayer.

In that exact moment, the arena lights snap off, plunging the scene into darkness. A split-second later, they slam back on, but now everything is washed in a sickening, deep crimson glow. The three women are silhouetted against the red, and Chance raises the bat high, ready to deliver the sermon.

The crowd is LOUD. Booing. Chanting some choice words at the Kelser Covenant. Absolute Chaos.

Then—

The lights flicker.

Once. Twice. And then out.

The Shoot-Tron crackles to life.

The screen fills with DUSTIN "THUNDERWOLF" KELSER - standing beside his Ford F-150 Raptor under a single overhead sodium light. Concrete all around. Cars parked in the shadows behind him. The orange glow makes him look older, harder, weathered.

He's in street clothes—dark jeans, grey henley, leather jacket unzipped. No entrance music. No pyro. No bullshit. Just a man and a camera.

His voice cuts through the arena noise like a blade.

THUNDERWOLF: "Chance. Hannah."

Not loud. Not shouting. Just commanding.

In the ring, Chance freezes, but so to does Hannah - their attention completely off their prey.

THUNDERWOLF: "That's enough."

Camera cuts flip between the screen and the ring, the flashes of phones being the only thing providing lights beyond the tron for its occupants. Chance straightens his posture to a full stand, slowly. Hannah steps back from Laz eyes locked on her father. Sapphire and Velour go shoulder to shoulder with them.

THUNDERWOLF: "You want my attention? You've got it. But not like this."

He gestures vaguely—could be toward the camera, could be toward them, could be toward everything.

THUNDERWOLF: "Not with them. Not with those two idiots playing your backup dancers. Not with Corey bleeding out from his ears while you prove a point I already got weeks ago."

He pauses. Letting it land.

THUNDERWOLF: "You want to talk? I'm right here. Back parking lot. Just you, me, and the truth. No crowd. No weapons. No performance."

Camera tight on Chance's face. Jaw clenched. Breathing hard.

THUNDERWOLF: "Chance—"

His voice softens. Just slightly. Just enough to be paternal.

THUNDERWOLF: "I know you think I don't understand. That I don't see you. But I do, son. I see exactly what you're doing. I see you building a congregation because you think it makes you strong, a prophet, a master if you will. I see you hurting people because you think it makes you untouchable."

A quick beat, the crowd filling in the noise.

THUNDERWOLF: "But I can't protect you from the consequences forever."

Chance's fists clench.

THUNDERWOLF: "You're my son. That doesn't change. But being my son doesn't make you invincible. And the path you're walking right now? It ends badly. For everyone. Especially you."

Camera cuts to Hannah. Her expression is harder to read. Controlled. Calculating.

THUNDERWOLF: "Hannah."

She tilts her head slightly. Listening.

THUNDERWOLF: "You're smarter than this. You’re better than this. You always have been. You're not just following your brother, no—you're leading from behind the curtain. You're the voice of reason between the two of you, even when you pretend you're not. You, my little Hannah Banana, you hold all the cards when it comes to the two of you."

His tone gets firmer. Harder. She winces at the name.

THUNDERWOLF: "So be reasonable now. Walk away from them. Come talk to me. Let's end this before someone gets hurt worse than they already are."

Sapphire starts to move toward the ropes, shouting something at the screen. Chance holds up a hand—stop. She freezes.

THUNDERWOLF: "Leave the ring. Now. No more violence tonight. You want a war? We'll have one. But not with them."

He points at the camera. Direct. Unblinking.

THUNDERWOLF: "This is between us. Father and son. Mother and daughter. Family business. So stop hiding behind your Covenant and face me like the adults you keep claiming to be."

Long pause. The arena is dead silent now. Waiting.

THUNDERWOLF: "You've got five seconds to decide if you're brave enough to face me without your entourage, without… being those two’s bitch.”

He stares into the camera, pointing. Otherwise unmoving.

THUNDERWOLF: "Five."

Camera cuts to Chance and Hannah. They look at each other. Some silent conversation happening.

THUNDERWOLF: "Four."

Sapphire and Velour mock Thunderwolf, something about a big, bad Wolf. It goes unnoticed.

THUNDERWOLF: "Three."

Hannah paces, not sure what to do.

THUNDERWOLF: "Two."

Chance signals to Hannah. A sharp nod. They both drop back from Laz, stepping away from the violence.

THUNDERWOLF: "One."

Laz has managed to roll out of the ring on his own - skull still intact.

Chance raises his hand. Points at the Tron. Then points at the ramp— as if to say we're coming.

Sapphire and Velour take a step forward. Starting to protest. Chance shakes his head—not now.

THUNDERWOLF: "Smart choice."

A pause.

THUNDERWOLF: "I'll be waiting."

The screen cuts to black.

The arena lights come back up. Chance and Hannah are already moving up the ramp, leaving Sapphire and Velour standing in the ring looking confused and pissed.

Fade to commercial.

The cameras head backstage, where we find returning SHOOT Project superstar NC-17 walking the arena with a bottle of water in hand, stretching as he gets ready to head to the ring for his match. He’s wearing a powder pink shirt with the “Cream of Obscene” logo on the front; a sperm made in Seventeen’s likeness where the “O” should be, and his red mohawk is at full mast.

He’s accompanied by his valet, the weasel Johnny Vignochi, a thin leather-skinned caricature with a scraggly goatee and long greasy hair pulled up in a top-knot. Johnny’s wearing a purple silk shirt and sunglasses, and he’s scrolling his phone, seemingly reading back some analytics to his client. Seventeen looks annoyed.

NC-17: Look, John-Boy, you’re gonna have to speak English bud. 20,000 views sounds good to me. That’s not good? 20,000 people watched me spring out of a wheelchair, it was a fucking miracle. Whaddya mean that’s not good?

Vig: Teen, pal, it’s Tik Tok. 500,000 views is the threshold for success, that’s what they call going viral.

NC-17: Fuck ‘em. [grabbing his balls] I got something viral for ‘em alright. So what, big deal. I’m not popular with Gen Z, surprise surprise.

Johnny scratches the back of his head, concerned.

Vig: Yeah…no, you’re right. Not uh, super concerning. But the ointment, well, it’s not doin’ as well as we’d anticipated.

NC-17: Huh? The ointment’s great! My butthole doesn’t itch anymore, what else could a guy ask for?

Vig: It’s just that…we blew a chunk of that insurance money on the product launch and…we might not see as big a return as we thought. That’s all, Teen. I’m levelin’ with ya.

NC-17: You’re bringing the vibe down is what you’re doing. Look, we still got the Fireball sponsorship, and in about [Seventeen checks his imaginary watch]...ten minutes I’m gonna beat the ever living fuck outta Scottie Barnes, I could give a monkey’s cunt how many people watch it. Look, people LOVE me. I’m entertaining! I’ve got staying power, Vig, just give it a couple of shows.

From behind them, a calm voice cuts through the hallway.

Austin Anderson: Confidence looks good on you, Teen. It always did.

Both men turn. Austin Anderson steps into the light, wearing a dark blazer, calm and collected as ever. His voice carries weight but never strain.

NC-17: Well would ya lookit the cat dragged in. Professor Anderson. What’s up, man? You here to grade my performance?

Austin Anderson: Hardly. I was walking by, heard the word “staying power.” That’s a rare thing these days. Most chase the moment. You’ve built yourself on chaos, Teen. It’s a spectacle, sure, but I wonder if you ever think about what happens after the lights fade.

NC-17: [smirking] I don’t think about the lights fading. They stay on me. Always have. Always will. And by the way, it’s Seventeen to you.

Austin chuckles softly.

Austin Anderson: You remind me of a lot of young talents I’ve seen come and go. Loud, confident, a little reckless. But there’s someone else here who isn’t so loud, someone building momentum in a different way.

It’s Johnny Vig’s turn to interject.

Vig: You talking about Emiko?

Austin Anderson: I am. She caught my attention. She moves with purpose. She doesn’t just fight to win. She fights to become. There’s a difference.

Vig: Alright, get a grip pal. The robe, the mask, the whole “mystic warrior” thing? It’s a cool look, I’ll give her that. But it’s all theater.

Austin Anderson: Everything in this business is theater. The difference is in who writes the story. Some people perform the scene. Others create it. Emiko creates it. She has intent behind every step she takes.

NC-17: [laughs] Johnny, who is this chucklefuck and why is he in my locker? “Some people perform the scene”. If you’re not careful I might perform a scene all over the both of ya’s. She’s another nobody, just like you Anderson. Just another Jane Fuck tryna stand out.

Austin Anderson: Perhaps. Or perhaps she’s choosing her path carefully. Some stories start quietly, Teen. You don’t notice the groundwork until you’re standing in the middle of it, wondering when it all began.

NC-17: You tryna tell me she wants the smoke?

Seventeen spreads his tattooed arms as if to welcome a conflict. He’s chuckling, but Johnny doesn’t seem as nearly amused.

Austin Anderson: I don’t pretend to know her motives. But she has direction. And you have something she might find valuable - attention. Sometimes that’s all it takes to become a target.

NC-17 is still smiling as he takes a drink from his bottle.

NC-17: I’ve been a target since day one, old man. Comes with the territory when you’re the most interesting guy in the room.

Austin smiles, faintly.

Austin Anderson: You are interesting. No one can deny that. But interest fades when novelty does. Emiko doesn’t chase novelty. She chases meaning. That’s a harder thing to beat.

Johnny looks between them, unsure if he should say something. NC-17 breaks the moment with a dismissive shrug.

NC-17: Look, I appreciate the pep talk or whatever this is, but I got a date with a fat fuck in a mullet here shortly. Emiko wants to play games, fine.

The “cream of obscene’s” eyes narrow and he sneers. There’s a menace in his low gravel.

NC-17: I’ve been playing games my whole life.

Austin Anderson: I’m sure you have. Just remember, some players don’t move pieces. They move the board.

With that, Anderson begins to walk down the hallway without looking back. NC-17 watches him go, shaking his head.

NC-17: Guy talks like a fortune cookie.

Vig: Yeah, but, uh… you think he meant something by all that?

NC-17: [shrugs] He meant he’s bored. Probably jealous. Whatever. Let’s go. Time to rock and roll with my cock and balls. WOOO.

The camera fades as NC-17 slaps himself in the head and starts for the ring, Johnny Vig in tow.

We head backstage where we find a bruised and beaten Aaron Dearinger sitting on a bench in the locker room, a towel over his head. He’s still in his orange wrestling tights and white boots, and he doesn’t seem to be getting out of his gear any time soon. In fact, he’s icing his knees. But while Johnny Napalm may have gotten the victory, Aaron’s spirit doesn’t seem to be broken. If anything, he’s nonchalant, old, and in pain. He lets the pressure off his knee for a moment, wincing.

“You know, that was a helluva debut, man.”

Dearinger looks up briefly to see the owner of the voice and it is none-other than Josh Kaine.

Josh Kaine: I was in EWA with Napalm and I can tell ya first hand, ain’t no shame in losin’ to him, dude. He’s a fuckin’ beast in the ring.

The younger competitor grins, holding out a hand.

Josh Kaine: You’re lookin’ like you’re gonna need more’n just ice for that later on. I’m Josh Kaine. Nice to meet ya.

Aaron immediately puts on a face as if he’s no longer in pain, but when he stands to shake Josh’s hand he cringes and sits back down.

Aaron: Aaron Dearinger. Yeah, that’s a big sonuvabitch, that Napalm, and ugly enough to make a bulldog walk backwards. Ain’t no thang though. We’ll get it next time. Say, where do I know that accent? You ain’t from round abouts are ya?

Josh: Nah, ain’t no New Yorker. Born and raised in Lenoir, North Carolina. Ain’t a big place, most folks ain’t heard of it neither. But yeah, you ain’t wrong. Napalm is a big ol’ boy and he’ll wallop ya good if you ain’t careful.

The son of Sinn just grins as he leans back against the wall.

Josh: Don’t feel bad none about it though, seen him lay folks out a lot quicker’n you went down.

The older wrestler suddenly eases up, recognizing a fellow southerner. A nice change of pace from all this fast city living. He levels with Josh.

Aaron: Boy I couldn’t feel bad if I wanted to. You win some you lose some, that’s always been the game. I’m just here by the grace of God, gittin’ to live it. That’s good enough for me.

He swivels his head around to make sure nobody’s in earshot.

Aaron: I only wish it were anywhere but New York.

The older Dearinger man gives us a good ‘hyuk hyuk” and a look that says “know what I mean young feller?” But his face quickly goes serious again.

Aaron: Truth be told I gotta git my old ass back in the gym again. Napalm can’t be that much younger’n me, I got no excuse. But I don’t know a single soul up here and where I’m from, you whistle ‘fore you walk into a stranger’s camp.

Josh: And where I’m from, you don’t whistle at night. That’s really the only rule ‘bout whistlin’ we got back home, least accordin’ to my gramma.

Josh Kaine just shrugs, not moving from his spot against the wall. It feels decent to be anchored somewhere now that Laura Seton’s crossed a bridge and he’d refused to follow. So she could go her own way and he could just focus on his own damn career.

Josh: Oh shit wait you’re tellin’ me you ain’t gonna throw hands with me. Sorry, man, takes a bit to click sometimes yanno? Ain’t stupid, I promise ya, there’s just a bunch goin’ on upstairs and yeah just sayin’, ain’t no threat from over here neither. I don’t beat folks unless they gimme a good reason, I just don’t like bullies. You need a gym bud though, I’m down. I like meetin’ new folks.

Deep, hearty laughter cuts through the Hallmark moment.

King Homewrecker: What is this? Farmersonly.com? Jesus, King Homewrecker thought watching Napalm dismantle the one hillbilly was sad enough. But this? No wonder your double cheeked up wife wants King Homewrecker.

Homewrecker pinches his nipple through his little mesh shirt and snakes his lengthy tongue out. That’s enough to get any man back into fighting form. Aaron drops the ice and draws up with clenched fists.

Aaron: Now that’s the second time in two weeks my wife’s name been in your mouth. There ain’t gonna be a third time.

King Homewrecker: Are “dems fighting words”? You want King Homewrecker to cuckold you in front of all the fat slobs back in your trailer park? Call it, hillbilly.

At this point, Josh moves between the two to keep the peace. The tension’s about to spill over. Aaron spits on the floor and wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

Aaron: You and me next week. Zenith 007. My wife’ll be front and center to watch me shove that stupid crown up yer ass.

King Homewrecker: Getting King Homewrecker all riled up with this talk of foreplay. King Homewrecker can assure you that the only ass getting crowned at Zenith 007 will be your wife’s dumpy. See you soon, hillbilly.

Josh has to physically keep the older man from climbing over top of him and going after the exiting Homewrecker. As much as he’s outwardly struggling to hold Dearinger back, the internal struggle to not join the older man in whooping some ass was clearly just as strong.

Josh: Stop, man! It ain’t worth it, just save it for the ring. Man’s name is Homewrecker and yer just showin’ him how easy he can get under your skin.

Kaine finally pushes Dearinger back a bit, putting a step of physical distance between them.

Josh: Look, ain’t sayin’ what he’s sayin’ isn’t bad, just don’t fall for it. Whoop his ass in the ring in front of everyone, man. That’s how you really beat a arrogant sumbitch like that. Hell man, my Ma’s from Texas too. She’d tell ya the same.

Aaron brushes Kaine’s arm off of him, not impolitely, and tries to process his words. He finally makes peace with it.

Aaron: Yeah…you ain’t wrong.

He can’t help but stare back after the departing Homewrecker, a fire sparking in his blue eyes.

Aaron: He’ll git his here soon enough.

The scene fades even though the tension lingers.

The house lights dim slightly as “Raise a Little Hell” by Trooper begins to play. There are no pyrotechnics, no flashing lights, and no goal horn. The song plays over the speakers without any added production effects.

Harv Norris and Rick Hull step through the curtain and onto the stage. Both are in their usual Punch Line ring gear, but the World Tag Team Championship belts are absent. Harv walks with his head down, holding a microphone in his right hand. Rick follows a few steps behind, his expression neutral but heavy. The two pause briefly at the top of the ramp before continuing toward the ring.

The New York crowd reacts with a mix of boos and scattered cheers. The noise level is lower than usual for a Punch Line entrance. There are no flag-waving antics or crowd gestures from either man as they walk the aisle. They enter the ring without fanfare.

Eryk Masters: This is not the Punch Line we’re used to seeing. No Roy Vezina. No championship belts. And you can see the defeat written all over their faces.

Jason Johnson: After losing the World Tag Team Championships to The Last Vanguard, who then immediately lost them to the Collins Brothers in controversial fashion, The Punch Line’s world has been turned completely upside down.

Inside the ring, Rick leans back into a corner with his arms folded, eyes down. Harv stands in the middle, waiting for the music to stop. The song fades out, leaving a quiet murmur from the audience.

Harv raises the microphone, hesitates, and lowers it again. He tries a second time, then pauses once more. The crowd settles into silence.

Harv Norris: Right… so… this is… this is harder than I thought it’d be, b’y.

He pauses, looking down at his feet.

Harv Norris: Me whole life, I’ve been tellin’ people I’m the best. That we’re the best. That The Punch Line is the greatest tag team in the world. And for a while there, for a glorious while, we had the gold to prove it.

He looks up at the crowd, his eyes showing genuine vulnerability.

Harv Norris: But now? Now we don’t got the titles. We don’t got Roy, he’s still recoverin’ from them attacks, and we don’t even got… we don’t even got our confidence anymore, to be honest with ye.

Some sympathetic murmurs from the crowd.

Harv Norris: And I know, I KNOW, ye don’t care about our feelings. Ye paid good money to see champions, not a couple of broken-down hockey goons feelin’ sorry for themselves. But here’s the thing, b’y, we owe ye an apology.

The crowd reacts with surprise.

Harv Norris: We let ye down. Not just the people who cheered for us, though God knows why any of ye would, but the people who BOOED us too! See, whether ye loved us or hated us, we gave ye somethin’ to react to! We were CHAMPIONS! We were the standard! And now…

He gestures to his empty shoulder where a title belt should be.

Harv Norris: Now we’re just two guys who couldn’t get the job done when it mattered most.

Rick Hull shifts slightly in the corner, his jaw clenched tight.

Harv Norris: The Last Vanguard beat us. Fair and square, they beat us. And then the Collins Brothers, they went and took the titles from them. So now the belts we worked so hard for, the titles we defended with blood and sweat and Roy’s constant yellin’ about proper nutrition, they’re around the waists of the team we thought we’d put behind us.

He runs a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with the words.

Harv Norris: And ye know what the worst part is? It’s not losin’ the titles. It’s not Roy bein’ out. It’s not even havin’ to watch the Collins Brothers parade around with OUR gold. The worst part is… we let YOU down.

A section of the crowd actually cheers supportively. Harv looks genuinely surprised.

Harv Norris: See, whether ye loved us or hated us, we were supposed to be the best. We were supposed to be unbeatable Canadian excellence! And now? Now we’re just… we’re just lost, b’y.

He turns to look at Rick, who’s staring at the mat.

Harv Norris: Rick there, he’s barely said two words since we lost. And for Rick, that’s sayin’ somethin’ because he barely says two words on a GOOD day! But this… this hit him hard. Hit us both hard.

Rick Hull finally speaks without moving from his corner.

Rick Hull: We failed.

Those two words carry more weight than any promo.

Harv Norris: Aye, Rocket. We failed. We failed Roy. We failed each other. And we failed all of ye.

He addresses the crowd directly now, his voice cracking slightly.

Harv Norris: I know most of ye probably don’t care. Ye probably think we got what was comin’ to us after all the trash we talked. And maybe yer right. But I’m standin’ here tonight because… because we need to say this. We need to admit it.

He takes a deep breath.

Harv Norris: We’re sorry. We’re sorry we lost the titles. We’re sorry we couldn’t keep ‘em away from the Collins Brothers. We’re sorry we weren’t good enough when it counted.

The crowd’s reaction is mixed: some boos, some cheers, some just watching intently.

Harv Norris: But here’s the thing, New York… here’s the thing about us Newfoundlanders, about us Canadians, about The Punch Line. We don’t stay down for long. We might get knocked on our arses, but we get back up. We ALWAYS get back up.

There’s a spark of the old fire returning to his voice.

Harv Norris: Roy’s gonna recover. He’s already callin’ us every hour tellin’ us we need to train harder, eat better, be smarter. And me and Rick? We’re gonna do exactly that. We’re gonna get back in that ring, we’re gonna fight our way back up, and we’re gonna get those titles back around our waists where they belong!

Rick Hull finally pushes off from the corner and walks to stand beside Harv.

Rick Hull: Not done yet.

Harv Norris: That’s right! We’re NOT done yet! The Collins Brothers might have OUR titles right now, but they’re just keepin’ ’em warm for us! Because mark me words, and this is a PROMISE, The Punch Line WILL be World Tag Team Champions again!

The crowd starts to react more positively now, feeding off the renewed energy.

Harv Norris: But we can’t do it alone, b’y. We need… and I can’t believe I’m about to say this… we need YOUR support. Whether ye love us or hate us, whether ye cheer us or boo us, we need ye to BELIEVE that we can climb back to the top!

He looks around the arena.

Harv Norris: Can we get a little support here, New York? Can ye help a couple of broken-down hockey goons remember what it feels like to be champions?!

Surprisingly, a decent portion of the crowd actually cheers. It’s not unanimous, but it’s genuine.

Harv Norris: (getting emotional) Thank ye… thank ye, b’y. That means more than ye know.

Rick Hull: We’ll earn it back.

Harv Norris: Aye, we’ll EARN it back! Every bit of respect, every bit of glory, every bit of gold, we’ll EARN it! Starting right now, The Punch Line begins the climb back to the top! And when we get there, and we WILL get there, we’ll remember this moment. We’ll remember when we were at our lowest, and New York… New York didn’t completely turn its back on us.

He raises the microphone one more time.

Harv Norris: So to everyone watchin’, the Collins Brothers, The Last Vanguard, every team in that locker room, consider this yer warnin’. The Punch Line is down, but we ain’t OUT! And when we come back, and we WILL come back, it’s gonna be with a fury ye’ve never seen before!

Rick Hull: Count on it.

Harv Norris: Roy’s recoverin’. We’re trainin’. And soon, VERY soon, The Punch Line will remind everyone why we were the best tag team in the world and why we WILL BE AGAIN!

Harv drops the microphone. The thud echoes through the arena as “Raise a Little Hell” starts again. This time, the walk up the ramp is steadier. The two exchange a brief look with the crowd before heading to the back.

Eryk Masters: I don’t know what to make of this, Jason. Did we just see a different side of The Punch Line?

Jason Johnson: Humility, Eryk. Defeat is a powerful teacher. The question is, can they actually climb back to the top? Or was this their peak?

The same pool of light from earlier. THUNDERWOLF stands in it, hands in his jacket pockets. He looks tired. Not physically—though his ribs are still taped under his shirt, visible through the thin henley—but emotionally. Like he's been carrying something heavy for too long.

MISTY STARKS stands beside him. Black leather pants, black long sleeve, hair pulled into a bun like she’s ready for a fight, but hoping she won't need to resort to one.

They don't speak. Just wait. Two lovers trying to figure it out. A Father and a Mother.

Footsteps echo on concrete.

CHANCE and HANNAH emerge from the darkness, stepping into the light.

They stop about ten feet away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to run if they need to.

The four of them form a square. Parents on one side. Children on the other.

Silence. Just the distant hum of the arena, muffled car horns from the city, and someone's radio playing faintly in the distance.

Chance speaks first.

CHANCE KELSER: "You called. We came. Make it quick."

His voice is hostile. Guarded. The voice of someone who doesn't want to be here but couldn't stay away.

THUNDERWOLF: "I asked you to come out here because I needed you to hear this. Both of you—"

HANNAH KELSER: "See that? That is a camera."

She gestures up and to the left, both puzzled and pissed. Sure enough, a production camera on a tripod, red light glowing. Recording everything. Just like the first time.

HANNAH KELSER: "Did you forget we are still on a live wrestling show? Was parading us around as children not enough for you? This does not need to happen here in front of the world to see."

THUNDERWOLF: (doesn't even look at the camera) "Let them watch. Let everyone watch. I don't care anymore. If this is how we have to get through to you, then so be it."

MISTY STARKS: (stepping forward slightly, voice softer) "We love you. Both of you. That's why we're here."

CHANCE KELSER: (laughing—bitter, sharp) "Love. Right. Is that what you call abandonment? Divorce? Choosing everyone else over us?"

THUNDERWOLF: "I chose wrong. I know that. I chose the road, the easy way out, my own pain over being your father. And I'm sorry. I've said it before and I'll say it every day for the rest of my life if that's what it takes."

Pause.

THUNDERWOLF: "I'm sorry."

HANNAH KELSER: (cold) "Sorry does not fix the wreckage you left behind."

MISTY STARKS: "No. It doesn't. But it's a start. And we're asking—begging—you to let us start. To come home. To let us try to fix what we broke."

CHANCE KELSER: "You did not break us. You destroyed our innocence."

His voice rises. Anger bleeding through the control.

CHANCE KELSER: "You did not just leave—you made us watch you leave. Over and over. Every tour. Every match. Every time Father chose Enika over us. Every time Mother chose the pills over us. Every time we were left with babysitters or Dominique or whoever else you could pawn us off on while you played wrestler and she played victim."

MISTY STARKS: (flinching like she's been slapped) "I was sick, Chance. I was drowning."

HANNAH KELSER: "So were we. But nobody seemed to care."

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

THUNDERWOLF: (voice steady, absorbing the hit) "You're right. We failed you. Both of us. We were so busy trying to survive our own pain from the loss of your unborn sister that we didn't see yours. And by the time we did, Styx was already there. Already poisoning you. Already teaching you that love was manipulation and that family was weakness."

CHANCE KELSER: "Styx did not teach us that. You did. By example."

Dustin takes that like a punch to the gut. Visible. Real.

THUNDERWOLF: (quieter) "Maybe. But Styx made it worse. He weaponized it. He turned your pain into your own religion. And now you're preaching it to anyone who'll listen."

HANNAH KELSER: "Because it is the truth, MOTHER! Our belief in the Abyss is real. The only honest, real thing in a world full of lies. And one day, oooh, one day mother, it will swallow you whole; consuming your very essence for nothing more than sustenance. We will be rewarded for the chaos, for the entropy that we sow. While the two of you? The two of you will be consumed and your husks will be thrown into bottomless maw, never to heard from or thought of again."

MISTY STARKS: "The Abyss is grief, baby. It's just grief dressed up in mythology. I know because I lived there too. For years. And the only thing that pulled me out was realizing I still had people worth living for."

HANNAH KELSER: "Who? Him?"

She gestures at Dustin with disdain.

HANNAH KELSER: "The man who left you? Who chose everything over you? Who married someone else and had another kid while you were falling apart?"

MISTY STARKS: "The man who came back. Who's trying. Who's here right now asking you to come home even though you put him in the hospital."

CHANCE KELSER: (defensive) "He put himself there. He chose to get back in that ring."

THUNDERWOLF: "You're right. I did. Because I'm stubborn and stupid and I thought I could reach you by proving I could still stand up. But you know what I learned?"

He takes a step forward. Just one. Non-threatening but present.

THUNDERWOLF: "You don't need me to be Thunderwolf. You don't need me to be the Pillar or Main Event City or whatever the hell else people call me these days. You need me to be your father. And I can do that. If you let me."

CHANCE KELSER: "It is too late."

THUNDERWOLF: "It's not. It's never too late. Not while we're all still breathing. Not while there's still a chance—"

He catches himself. The irony of his son's name isn't lost on him.

THUNDERWOLF: "—not while there's still hope."

HANNAH KELSER: (voice like a knife) "Hope is a lie people tell themselves to avoid facing reality."

MISTY STARKS: "Hope is what keeps you alive when everything else is gone. I know. I've been where you are. Standing in the dark, convinced everyone abandoned you, convinced you're better off alone."

Her voice cracks slightly.

MISTY STARKS: "But you're not. You're just scared."

HANNAH KELSER: (voice rising) "We are not scared—"

MISTY STARKS: "You're terrified. Both of you. Terrified that if you let us back in, we'll hurt you again. And baby, I can't promise we won't. We're human. We'll mess up. But we'll never stop trying. We'll never stop loving you. Even when you make it impossible."

CHANCE KELSER: (quieter, more dangerous) "Then you are fools."

THUNDERWOLF: "Maybe. But we're your fools. And we're not giving up on you."

Long silence. The weight of twenty-five years pressing down on this parking lot.

Dustin takes another step forward. Slowly. Deliberately.

Opens his arms.

THUNDERWOLF: "Come here, son. Please. Let me—"

Chance looks at him. For just a second, something flickers in his eyes. Something young. Something hurt. Something that might be hope.

He takes a step forward.

Then stops.

His face twists. Hardens.

He closes the distance in two steps.

And SPITS in Dustin's face.

The sound is wet, visceral, shocking.

CHANCE KELSER: "That is what I think of your apologies."

Dustin doesn't move. Doesn't wipe it off. Just stands there with his arms still open, spit running down his cheek.

THUNDERWOLF: (voice steady, heartbreaking) "You can spit on me. You can hate me. You can put me in the hospital again. But I'm still your father. And I'm still here."

HANNAH KELSER: (voice cold as winter) "Then you are more pathetic than we thought."

She steps forward.

Pulls her arm back.

And SLAPS him across the face.

HARD.

The sound echoes off concrete and cars and the night itself.

Dustin's head turns with the impact. His jaw clenches.

But he doesn't move.

Misty does, though.

INSTANTLY.

Her hand shoots out like a snake, catching Hannah's wrist as it falls. The GRIP is visible—white knuckles, tendons standing out, fingers digging into flesh.

Hannah gasps. Tries to pull away. She can't. The harder she fights it the closer it takes her to the ground

Misty's face goes through a rapid sequence of emotions:

RAGE — pure, protective, mama bear unleashed.

POWER — realizing she could break this wrist, snap it like kindling, end this once and for all.

RECOGNITION — this is my daughter, this is my baby, this is the girl I used to sing to sleep at night.

HORROR — what am I doing, what am I becoming, I'm turning into him.

She SQUEEZES.

Hard enough that Hannah makes a sound—half gasp, half whimper.

Then forces herself to LET GO.

Hannah stumbles back, cradling her wrist. Shocked. Actually scared.

MISTY STARKS: (voice shaking, barely controlled) "Don't. Ever. Touch him again."

HANNAH KELSER: (backing up, rubbing her wrist) "You almost—"

MISTY STARKS: "I know. And I didn't! Because you're my daughter. But Hannah, so help me God, if you ever touch him again, I won't stop myself next time. I will shatter every bone in your body and nurse you back to health my goddamn self."

Chance moves immediately—stepping between them, putting himself between Misty and Hannah.

Protective. Possessive. Taken aback by the word he hadn’t heard his mother use in his mere twenty-five years.

CHANCE KELSER: "We are done here."

THUNDERWOLF: (finally wiping the spit from his face with his sleeve) "Yeah. We are. For now."

HANNAH KELSER: (to Misty, voice shaking with anger or fear or both) "You are not my mother anymore."

Misty's eyes fill with tears. But her voice stays firm.

MISTY STARKS: "Yes I am. I always will be. Even when you don't want me to be."

CHANCE KELSER: (to Dustin, voice low and dangerous) "Next time we meet, it will not be talking."

THUNDERWOLF: "Then next time, I won't hold back."

Chance and Hannah turn in unison. Walk away. Back toward the arena entrance, back into the darkness beyond the light.

The camera holds on Dustin and Misty.

Standing alone in the pool of light.

Watching their children disappear.

We cut to the back. Holden has an ice bag taped to his shoulder. The Resistance World Championship sits at his feet next to him. His face is smeared with blood, a light cleaning having been done, but overall still a mess, with some of the cuts still letting out little droplets. A trainer shines a light in Holden's eyes. He places a finger against Holden's neck, checking the spot where Sammy choked him out with a chain.

Trainer: I'm not seeing anything that indicates permanent damage, and I don't think you have a concussion, but you should really go to a hospital tonight if you can swing it, have an actual doctor look you up and down.

Holden shook his head, wincing again at the pain in his neck. His voice came out hoarse and choked, his throat scratchy from the chain choking him.

Holden Nobody: If you say I'm fine, I trust ya.

Trainer: Your larynx is probably bruised, so your voice might be a little-

Holden Nobody: Fucked?

The trainer laughed.

Trainer: Yeah...a little fucked for a bit.

Holden nodded, speaking again in a voice that seemed distant and aged.

Holden Nobody: Thanks, I'll keep that in mind.

As the trainer prepares to leave, a hand appears on his shoulder. Holden looks shocked as Real Deal walks into the frame, an envelope in hand.

Real Deal: I'd like it if we went ahead and called an ambulance to get Mr. Nobody properly checked out.

Real Deal looks down at Holden, who looks befuddled to say the least.

Real Deal: We want to make sure you’re in tip-top shape for whatever...stunt you pull next. So, you know, have the doctor's bill my office.

Real Deal hands the envelope to Holden.

Real Deal: Read it, have an agent or a lawyer look over it if you have one of those, and return it to legal by the end of this week. If you don’t have a lawyer, I’d get one after you sign this contract. There wouldn’t be any negotiating if you did, for what it’s worth. It’s this or nothing. Negotiate your next one.

Real Deal smiles at Holden.

Real Deal: You came close to toppling Rochester. Good shit out there kid.

With that, Real Deal walks off camera. Holden's jaw is practically on the floor, his hand grasping the envelope. The trainer snaps at him, drawing Holden's attention.

Trainer: So...real healthcare?

Holden nods.

Holden Nobody: Yeah, real healthcare.

When he’s at the shows, which is every single time because he’s actually the hardest working man in professional wrestling, Breedlove enjoys the comfort of a private locker room befitting a star on his level and a World Champion to boot. Other members of the Empire trickle in and out, usually just to get ready for whatever they’ve got coming up next or to bullshit with him to get their mind off of something, or anything along those lines.

In that way, what the Empire’s locker room serves as is more of a command center than a place to change. Breedlove keeps a handful of the Empire’s staff on hand with tablets containing data and analytics to go over with anyone, should they want or need it. Right now, he’s attended by Maria Madden, Clemson Dean, and his beleaguered cousin, Kelvin Breedlove.

Joshua Breedlove: Vin, that’s what I’m calling you now Kelvin. Kelvin is just too many syllables for what I need to say to you, so you’re Vin. From now on.

Kelvin Breedlove sighs, annoyed. His cousin was super generous in letting him stay on at the Empire after he fell out with SHOOT proper, but man was it annoying sometimes.

Vin: Whatever man, you call me whatever you need to call me so long as these checks keep rolling in.

Breedlove nods, but before he is able to speak again, there’s a knock at the door and without being permitted entrance, Dan Stein, SHOOT Project’s very busy COO walks in. He catches everyone off guard.

Breedlove: Remind me to go through how watching a door works for you, Vin. Ugh.

He turns and looks at Stein.

Breedlove: Mr. Stein, to what do I owe the… we’ll call it a visit and not necessarily a pleasure. That part is up to you.

Stein takes a good, long look at Breedlove, really making things a little awkward before responding.

Stein: I’ll get right to the point. You need to stop ducking X-Calibur.

Breedlove feigns surprise.

Breedlove: Whatever could you mean, Stein. I’m where I say I’m going to be at all times. I’m very easy to find. You can either find me here or at the Forge. If X-Calibur wants to chat, he can make an appointment. I have very little to say to him.

Stein: Right, I’m not hearing any of that right now. With the three of you… you know, him, Laura, and you… you’re all giving me a headache and I’m tired of hearing about it. You know, though, an appointment is a good idea.

Breedlove sits forward and raises an eyebrow.

Stein: So I think at the next Zenith? We’re going to have a little face to face. It’ll be X-Calibur, Laura Seton, and the SHOOT Project World Champion… Joshua Breedlove. And you’re going to talk about the future.

Breedlove: Now, hold on a min-

Stein raises a hand.

Stein: No no, this was a great suggestion on your part. Thank you for making it. I look forward to seeing whatever happens.

Breedlove: But wait, I’m–

Stein: Always good to see you, champ. I have other things to get to. Goodbye, and umm… back to you all at the desk!

Fade.