Arthur Pleasant stands tall. His silhouette moves silkily against a chiffon-white wall like some kind of spectre. A dozen small hatchets are glinting in the dim light of a small, undisclosed room.

Is this happening inside The Pinnacle?

Is this happening now? 

So many questions arise the moment we see our ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ.

The wall itself is a macabre tapestry of envelopes, each affixed haphazardly, some askew, others overlapping. Scrawled across the front of each, in what appears to be a hurried, furious hand, is a name. 

Pleasant’s movements are precise, almost ritualistic. He’d select a hatchet from a velvet-lined box at his feet, the soft metallic clink the only sound in the room. His grip is firm, knuckles white, as he brings the hatchet back. Then? A flicker of controlled rage within his eyes. With a swift, almost imperceptible flick of his wrist, the hatchet would arc through the air, a silver streak, before embedding itself with a satisfying thud into an envelope. Sometimes, it would pierce the paper cleanly, pinning it to the wall. Other times, it would tear, leaving a jagged wound, providing some context on just how much force there was behind the throw. He isn’t aiming for the center of the envelopes, see. Rather, for the names themselves. As if seeking to obliterate the very identity they represented. 

A faint, nearly imperceptible smile plays on his lips as each hatchet finds its mark. A silent, grim satisfaction in the violent punctuation of each inscribed name.

Arthur Pleasant: Daybreak. The symbolization of the triumph of light over darkness.

A lie.

Flash. The ĠÓḐȘÉṆĎ, Arthur Pleasant, was clad in pristine white bishop robes and stood solemnly before a congregation shrouded in grief. His voice, a low rumble, filled the hushed chapel as he presided over the somber ceremony. The soft glow of candlelight flickered across his face, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to mock the supposed sanctity of the moment. Where one would speak of life and loss, his snakelike tongue weaved a tapestry of despair that settled heavily upon the mourners.

Each mourner wore a plastic bag over their face with a bloody smiley over it. They all seemed to be gasping. Another flash and we’re back to Arthur Pleasant in the present.

Arthur Pleasant: These times we live in? Not in the real world of the Charlie Kirks and systemic poisoning of our collective humanity. No. The times I speak of… are within the walls of SHOOT Project. We are all…living a lie. Perpetuating it as time goes on. We have been living this lie for quite some time, in fact. Each era trying desperately to define itself in a positive, phosphorescent glow.

A lie.

A…profound lie.

Pleasant throws another hatchet, connecting brutally in the center of a name; Lou.

Flash. The mourners, their faces still obscured by the grotesque smiley-faced plastic bags, now trudge forward, their shoulders bowed under the weight of a plain wooden casket. It seems to be impossibly light, almost hollow, as they carried it with a disturbing lack of effort. The candlelight continues to flicker, catching the plastic, making the distorted smiles seem to writhe in the dim light. They move in a slow, mournful procession, their breath fogging the inside of the bags with each labored gasp. Their grief is suffocating under a lingering lie. Another flash, and we’re back to Arthur Pleasant in the present.

Arthur Pleasant: This era… will not be defined by a lie. This era will be defined by truth. By the unraveling of everything you thought you knew. By the shattering of YOUR light. This era… is the era of the ĠÓḐȘÉṄĎ and His parishioners of the unvarnished truth. Not a… profound fucking lie.

Another smile.

Another Flash. The plastic bags, once a symbol of obscured grief, now tore away, revealing the horrifying truth beneath. The mourners’ faces were contorted in silent screams, mouths agape, eyes wide and fixed. Their skin, a sickly pallor, seemed to cling to their bones, and their features were frozen in the agonizing throes of a final, desperate breath. It was a tableau of absolute terror, a macabre choir of the damned, their last moments forever etched into their horrifying visages. The candlelight now seemed to illuminate not grief, but pure, unadulterated horror. The casket they once carried had lain opened and on the floor. Completely empty. Another FLASH, and we’re back to Arthur Pleasant in the present, once again.

Arthur Pleasant: I will show you. I will show you ALL what happens when you try to define an era with a lie. 

I will show you the truth.

And we… will show you the punishment for the lie. 

We move at DAYBREAK.

A beat.

Arthur Pleasant: There… a challenge awaits. Consider it an open one.

The ĠÓḐȘÉṄĎ chuckles for a moment.

Then… nothing. Just blackness before a waiting, silenced crowd at Zenith 4.

We open backstage.  Chad Kyle is staring at a photo of Chance Kessler that he downloaded from Google Images and printed from Dan Stein’s Desk.  That’ll teach him not to lock his door when there is a Chadster on the loose.  User Password “SteinRulez1!” indeed.  Chad is laser focused, or as laser focused as he can be.  More like the strobe function on a laser pointer.  

Chad Shadowboxes towards the general vicinity of the photo that he has sloppily taped onto what appears to be an inflatable Santa Claus.  Every now and again one of his punches will graze the beard that pokes out from under the photo of Chance, causing it to sway slightly backwards.  With every punch thrown Chad grunts as if he is Rocky Marciano.  Pigen, seemingly had enough, inhales almost an entire cigarette in a single drag.  

Pigpen: Chad fuck.  

Chadster: What’s up, sensei?

Pigpen: Remember first lesson?

Chadster: Don’t call you Sensei?

Pigpen: (lighting another cigarette from the smolder of the previous) That was second lesson, fuck Chad.

Chadster: Right.  Of course. 

Matsumoto stands–well, clambers to his feet–and walks down his protoge, cigarette clasped firmly between twho rows of yellow teeth.  

Pigpen: So say.  

Chad drops his arms, rolling his eyes.  

Chadster: But why though, I already–

CRACK!  No warning, no counting to three-Pigpen Matsumoto just hauls off and slaps the shit out of Chad Kyle, so hard that his head sags to one side and he blinks slowly.  

Pigpen: So.  Say.  

Chadster: That sucks, dude, don’t fuckin’--

CRACK!  Another.  Pigpen grabs him by his shoulders, leaning in close.  

Pigpen: So.  Say.  Fuck!

Chad signs, rubbing his cheek, slowly nodding his head.  The eyes that meet Pigpen’s aren’t bored or rolling with adolescent-grade annoyance–they’re full of fire.  

Chadster: "World shit.  People shit.  All bleed…all die.”  

At this, Pipgen grins a broken mouthful and shakes his student. 

Pigpen: Yes, fuck!  Not so dumb!  Fuck Chans Kessler.  

He hobbles to his seat, sitting down with a grunt.  

Pigpen: Tell me.  Tell Pigpen how you make him piss pants in agony.

Chad stands still, stares at Santa Claus and delivers a single strike to the face of Jolly ole’ Saint Nick.  The scotch tape holding Chance’s face still flies to the side.  Santa deflates, Chance falls.  Something breaks in Chad.  He isn’t smiling.  He isn’t laughing.  He is staring directly towards the camera.

Chadster:  Chance Kessler.  You don’t know me.  You don’t know what I’ve done or been through.  You’re just like all of the rest of them.  All you see is a walking joke.  You spout your fancy words and your flowery speech and all you manage to say is that you will break me.  Power Devil couldn’t break me.  Cyber Beast couldn’t break me.  Cory Lazerous couldn’t break me.  I faced against Hall of Famers, I’ve faced against new comers.  I stepped into the ring with the only woman who every loved me not named Mama Kyle.  They may have beat me.  They couldn’t break me.  The joke of it all isn’t Chad Kyle.  I was never the joke.  I was the one that everyone tried to put down, but no one quite could.  So easy to beat, so easy to ignore.  But impossible to kill.  Pigpen is helping me see just how much it’s worth being the man that no one can kill.  Tonight you are going to come to the ring.  You won’t be giving some well-rehearsed speech about how small and worthless I am then.  No.  You’re the first.  Weeks of training.  Weeks of pain.  Look at this man’s face!  Does he look like he ever laughs to you!?  

Chad turns to Pigpen who, for his part, can do nothing but roll his eyes.

Chadster:  There were no jokes to be had in his dojo.

Pigpen shouts “Not Fucking Dojo” from the background.

Chadster:  The first lesson I learned is how shitty you all are.  How much pain you all caused me and how to unleash that monster onto the world.  I’m so sick of being everyone’s punching bag.  I’m tired of being everyone’s joke.  Chance, you get a treat.  You get to be the first one to ever step into the ring with a Chadster that is ready to do whatever it takes to win.  Everyone is laughing now, but I promise that once tomorrow comes, it won’t be so funny.  So Chance, mark this down.  This is the day that you helped me introduce the world to the New Kingdom of Chad.  I hope you enjoy your stay.

Chad turns his face away from the camera.  Pigpen, now paying attention, motions Chad back towards the camera.

Pigpen: Finish now!  

Chad, looking a little flustered that he forgot the best part turns back towards the camera

Chadster: Right.  BITCH FUCK!

Pipgen grunts and gets to his feet, and walks over to Chad, placing a hand on his shoulder.  

Pigpen: See?  Pigpen dad now.  Make you iron.  

He spits.  

Pigpen: Okay.  I am murdering dog.  

He hobbles off, grunting and cursing what one assumes is a rumbling blue streak under his breath, leaving his protege to consider the lessons before resuming his warmups.  We cut away…

The screen is black but we can hear the fans cheering profusely.  Their cheering increases as the scene fades into the image of Black Sheep Baez, backstage, wearing one of his sleeveless logo t-shirts, and he’s ready to perform.  It’s obvious that he’s one of the hottest superstars on the SHOOT Project roster based on crowd reaction alone.  Their support gets louder, and the folks in production are having a helluva time chasing the dials to balance it all out.  All Sheep can give right now is a smirk because he knows.  He understands it.  He embraces their support just as much as they embrace his.  

Black Sheep Baez:  You hear that?  

Baez opens the solo segment with a peculiar question and it decreases the crowd volume.  The first SHOOT Project Premier champion points at his ear.  It’s evident by Baez’s facial expression that he’s confident with the words that are about to leave his mouth.  He’s wearing a proud grin and his intense blue eyes don’t leave the camera.  

There’s something off about those beautiful blues.  Baez’s flesh is scuffed above the left eye, and there’s several stitches below his right.  He’s got a few splits in his lips.  Those are mementos.  That’s the result of what happens when you fuck around and find out.  

Black Sheep Baez:  That’s influence.  That’s the response that you get when you’re respected due to influence.  The song of my peoples.  But, it’s a deserved influence because it’s reciprocated.  I’m cheerin’ them on as they cheer on ya boi.  You show respect then you get it in return.  So, ya’damn right I’m an influencer.  

Baez zings with a bit of pizazz, and a twist of ‘tude.  Another show of respect from the crowd as they pop his response to Valentino’s commentary.   

Black Sheep Baez:  I ask Vito Valentino, what do you know about it?  What do you know about influence? Does anyone around here look at you, the title you represent, and think: damn - i’m influenced by that?  Nah, it don’t drive no passion from anybody, fam.

Sheep shakes his head and looks down as if to mourn the lack of influence that radiates from Valentino.    

Black Sheep Baez:  He at least knows how to be influenced.  

Then he snaps his head back up at the camera and smiles.

Black Sheep Baez:  By ya boi, of course.  All that talk just to say you finna powerbomb me?  Ha.  Vague threats, generic violence, cringe phrases, self-contradiction, repetitiveness and a weak payoff.  It’s like the opposite of bein’ a professional wrestler.  It’s apparent that you aint makin’ sense anymore.  Nah, he aint it.  He aint influencin’ Black Sheep Baez.

Chin up, the nod, you know - that look a homie gives you when they see the type of warrior you really are.  That’s the look that Black Sheep is sending through the camera.  He’s not giving you that look, no, he’s giving it to…

Black Sheep Baez:  Izzy Sia!  My dawg!  Ha!  I see you.  We aint through.  Not by a long shot.  Nah, we got a lot of work to do.  I aint see no fight in these other muh’fuckers like I see in you.  That’s the fight I want.  That’s the fight you finna need to get to the top.  Make note, fam.  You wanna get to the top?  Find the dawg in the yard who fights to the fuckin’ death.  You know.  Kamatayan shit. 

Baez’s upper lip curls upward, like a confident snarl, as he bobs his head to the beat of his drum.  There’s a charm in the smug smirk that he shares just before wrapping up his message.

Black Sheep Baez:  Therefore, tonight, when I’m face-to-face with these dudes in the ring?  It don’t matter who I’m taggin’ or fightin’.  All I’m seein’ is the Kamatayan, her desire to bring death to defend her passion, and what it all means to ya boi once I defeat’er.  The rest is all a distraction.  

A moment of contemplation and controlled breathing.  His war-torn eyes haven’t left the screen, and his adorable grin hasn’t faded.  He’s ready to head toward the ring and take care of business, but not before hitting his trademark catchphrase.

Black Sheep Baez: That’s on God. 

Then he steps out of frame as the scene fades to black.  

JOHNNY NAPALM

VITO VALENTINO

GABRIEL TUCK

BLACK SHEEP BAEZ

Peaknuckle, on his hands and knees, “walks” on a treadmill in the backstage area, while Maxine Gillespie holds a leash attached to the collar around his neck and sits cross-legged at a nearby table.

Maxine Gillespie: Don't tire yourself out, sweet boy. Remember, if you win this best of five against Pigpen, you get to have human food for an entire week!

Peaknuckle: AROO ROO ROO!!!

Peaknuckle excitedly speeds up on the treadmill.

Suddenly—heralded by a grunt, a kick at the door, and the wheezing exhale of imported cigarettes–who chould arrive at the scene but none other than the King of All Death himself, Pigpen Matsumoto!  He stomps over to the treadmill, and Peanknuckle starts scrambling forwards, running in place for a few moments before leaping off the machine and cowering at Maxine's feet.

Pipgen: [Animal!]  You are the shit of the world!  [You havent signed up for matches, you stupid motherfucker, you’ve signed up for assisted suicide!  I’m not going to put you down like a cow to be slaughtered.  No.]

He mimics a shotgun, racking with a “cha-chick” and pointing it at Peaknuckle, who trembles at the rapid machine gun bursts of Japanese he’s being subjected to.

Pigpen: Boom.  [No, quick deaths are for things that we hold dear, those are honorable deaths, you?!  You I’m gonna fuckin’ snuff, slow as can be, bleed you dry across five shows, and you know what it’s for?  Nothing.  I’m not making my legacy, I’m not warning others, I’m not trying to prove any.  Single.  God damned.  Point.  I’m just doing it because I like grinding big fuckers like you to paste and really making you feel hopeless before that final bell.  You aren’t at SHOOT Project, loser.  You’re in Hell.]

He stands up to his full height with some difficulty and regards Maxine, bowing to her as smoothly as his battered skeleton can allow.  When he speaks it’s in English, and we can tell he’s been practicing this given the tone of his delivery and better syntax.

Pigpen: Maxine.  You are the sunshine that is making for bright days after what is many years of storms and gloom.  I will one day cherish our every moments together.  

He looks to the ‘dog.’ 

Pigpen: Pigpen is Satan.  I drag you to torture!  Fuck!  Don’t be late to putting down.  

Pigpen storms off. Peaknuckle whimpers, clutches Maxine's leg.

Maxine kicks him away. Watching Pigpen leave, she places her hand on her own collarbone — the closest thing she has to a heart.

PIGPEN MATSUMOTO

The camera cuts backstage to a dimly lit hallway. Most of the production crates and gear trunks have been pushed aside, leaving a narrow stretch illuminated only by a flickering fluorescent light. A single wooden bench sits against the wall — worn, splintered, too small for the two figures seated on it.

Chance and Hannah Kelser. Side by side. Not speaking at first, just sitting. Chance is in full gear, his facepaint sharp, his gloves folded across his knees. Hannah is in black with her headband gleaming, a small leather-bound book titled “The Abyss” balanced delicately in her lap. The sound of water dripping from a nearby pipe echoes faintly, like rain remembered.

Backstage Worker (off-camera, muttering): You can’t just sit here… this hall’s for crew traffic…

The worker passes by with a headset, but Hannah’s eyes snap up from her book. One glance is enough. The worker freezes, goes pale, and quickly retreats without another word.
Chance finally speaks, his voice low, almost ritualistic.

Chance Kelser: Funny, is it not? How benches always feel the same. In schools. In courtrooms. In storms. Places where people wait… hoping someone will come for them.

He looks up at the camera now, eyes hollow under the streaks of paint.

Chance Kelser: But no one ever comes. No one ever will. So, we learned. We became our own salvation.

Hannah closes her book softly, the faintest smirk curling across her lips.

Hannah Kelser: And tonight, Chad Kyle gets to learn it too. He will wait for someone to save him. The referee. The fans. The heroes in his little songs. But the storm always comes, and it always drowns the weak.

She tilts her head toward Chance, as though presenting him to the camera.

Hannah Kelser (whispering): Lesson Two: Wings break. Crowns crumble.

The camera lingers on them in silence. No music. Just the hum of the failing light above and the steady drip of water echoing through the hallway, before the shot fades to black.

CHANCE KELSER

Backstage, and Izzy Sia is not in great shape.  

Not to be all “you should see the other guy”, but you probably should–Baez deffo caught the worst of their interaction, though if it’s due to her superior firepower or due to the fight being broken up before he could get his lick back, you be the judge.  So yeah, she’s got a few cuts, and her cheek is all puffed up and lumpy, but otherwise, she seems in cocky spirits.  Wearing a new, pristine track suit with “Empyrean Forge - KAMATAYAN” on the right chest, she’s actually smiling, despite the fact that the act threatens to open up her split lip again.  

Izzy: I talk with a lot of bluster.  Bravado.  Cause, like, I kinda have to, right?  

She crosses her decidedly swole arms, chuckling to herself.  

Izzy: Imagine me walking on camera right now.  Goodie two shoes about it.  “Gosh, I just hope that everyone does their best and that the fans are entertained!”.  Graham cracker shit, honestly.  Who wants that?  Who takes that seriously?  But most importantly…where’s the fun in it for me?  

A snort.  

Izzy: See, I like fighting.  I like getting in people’s faces.  I was a star student, y’know?  Shit, I was pre-law.  I’m still a nerd.  But I traded in the books for fight tape.  Traded in research in the library for research on how to become what you see now.  You think I got all this by accident?  Nah, baby girls, I get this sculpted with science.  Testing.  Metabolic hacking.  Hypertrophy.  So I’ll always be a nerd.  I’ll always have trouble on my mind.  I’ll always be the best conditioned athlete anywhere I walk, believe that.  

She saunters up to the camera, getting closer, punctuating this next point with several stabs of a finger towards her chest.

Izzy: And I’ll always be hungry for what’s mine.  

Sia grins, not even furrowing her brow in the least that this action makes her cut open right back up.  The slightest sight of blood is noted along her bottom lip.  She licks it and keeps going.

Izzy: That’s where all of you are kind of mistaken about me.  I don’t hear a lot of respect on my name, which is fine.  Two of you have belts, and being real, Vito has cleaned my clock more than once.  But if you think I’m eating these losses  and not doing any actual learning?  Dead wrong. I was slinging a 4.0 at UNLV, you think I can’t run tape on every single one of you mugs.

 Learning your ins and outs is light work.  Figuring out how to leverage that knowledge is a little more tough, because the proof can only be right then.  Bell rings.  Crowd is moving.  Adrenaline pumping.  And maybe you’re extra pissed off at me, like I know Baez is gonna be.  Maybe you hit a little harder than I expected.  Maybe you’ve got more tenacity than I gave you credit for.  Maybe a lot of things.

Shrug.   

Izzy: But maybe you go for that kick that worked on me before and all you connect with is air.  Maybe you waistlock me for that german suplex that almost took me out of my boots last time, but in a blink I’m behind you and about to snap your elbow.  Maybe you charge me for that spear or clothesline, your real money hit, works every time–but this time it just doesn’t.  

She steps back from making the frame a tight squeeze, giving some space so that she can start pacing a little.  With crossed arms she makes a few loops, searching for the right words.  

Izzy: This shit is a game of attrition.  That’s where most of you get fucked up.  You think this win is the biggest.  You take pride in the pin.  But ask yourself something.  

With an outstretched finger and a no-bullshit gaze, she challenges the camera, the viewer, and most importantly, her opponents.  

Izzy: Who’s more impressive?  The guy who wins a belt?  Or the pint-sized powerhouse who mops the floor with five other talented, legendary combatants–well, four others and one punk fuckboy named Black Sheep Baez–and walks out with two belts?  

Hands on the hips.  Lean forward.  Sneer.  

Izzy: Trust me, 20 years down the line?  I’ll be the era-defining highlight moment.  I’ll be immortal.  And the rest of you are gonna be statistics at best.   

With that, she starts to chuckle, throwing a middle finger to the camera before striding off.  The feed cuts away…

A shot of New York City's iconic skyline.

Drone footage of the ground below.

A walking caravan of hippies weave through the pedestrian traffic like a hundred snakes through sandy, desert dunes.

They are led by two.

Wilder Meadow.

Miles Driftwood.

The people they lead through the streets are much like them. Peace loving, but violent. Bare-footed. Tattoos, both ink and henna art. Face paint. Dreadlocks. Patchwork pants. LSD filling the holes in their heart with intense visuals and body highs.

Dogmatic in their devotion to the sun. Their politics are absolute, their morality black and white. 

The truth is, you're either for them or against them.

And they are many.

The Sunflower Cartel eventually reaches the Pinnacle and Miles turns, cries out to them.

Miles Driftwood: THANK THE SUN FOR THIS OPPORTUNITY!!!

The followers all fall to their knees, and pray to the Sun above them with gratitude and devotion.

Miles and Wilder kneel as well, and pray with them.

Through the manic haze of so many hippies praying individually as a collective towards the bright orange orb above them, Wilder peaks at Miles — who pounds the pavement with his bare fists and thanks the Sun vehemently — and smiles at his devotion.

The Sunflower Cartel have arrived.

The Sunworshippers are at Zenith. 

SCOTTIE BARNES

Another burst of static takes over the screen, settling once again on blurred shadows. As before, two of them are massive, hulking figures. The third is also big, though not as hulking as the other two.

The crooning voice of Luther Vandross breaks the silence.

If this world were mine…

The love song plays on, volume fading to the background as the distorted voice speaks once again.

You’re plagued.

The change of scenery hasn’t changed your afflictions.

Cults…

Cartels…

Crimson Rituals…

Empires…

They plague you like recurring nightmares.

They’re a cancer.

Allow us to be your scalpel.

Not out of a need to be heroic.

Not born from a higher purpose.

No.

It’s much simpler.

Another burst of static. The scene is dominated by a movie scene from New Jack City. Nino Brown in all his glory stands in front of a projector screen showing Tony Montana.

“The world is mine…”

Static again.

Laughter. Distorted and out of place. The voice continues.

Soon.

The song crescendos.

If this… world… were mine…”

One last burst of static and we cut away.

LEO CRUZ

JOAO RIBEIRO

MILES DRIFTWOOD

WILDER MEADOW

The cameras cut away from the noise of the arena to a quieter, more refined setting backstage. Leather SHOOT Project banners line the wall, lit up by a steady glow of smooth spotlights rather than the chaos of strobe or pyro. At center stage sits a polished oak table, a thick folder in the middle with SHOOT’s insignia embossed in black and silver. Two chairs flank it — one already occupied by Chief Operating Officer Dan Stein, dressed in a dark tailored suit, lavender tie, SHOOT crest pin on his lapel. His expression is businesslike, but there’s a warmth under it, the faint smirk of a man who still remembers being a fan before he was an executive.

The other chair remains empty — until the heavy door creaks open.

Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser steps into frame. Dressed sharp but not flashy: a charcoal-gray silk shirt from Luca Faloni, open at the collar; tailored black dress pants; polished black Armani shoes that catch the light with each stride. His hair is slicked back, streaks of silver threading through the black, his trimmed beard catching the glow. No gear, no theatrics — this isn’t the pillar of a community long since dead. This is the man, older and wiser, signing on the dotted line. Still, there’s an aura in the room when he enters, the kind that makes the camera instinctively draw in tighter.

Stein rises from his seat, extending a hand.

Eryk Masters: [from ringside]: For years, SHOOT Project fans have asked if they’d ever see it — and now, history is about to be made. Dustin ‘Thunderwolf’ Kelser, the Last Standing Pillar of the AOWF, sits down with COO Dan Stein to make it official. An eighteen-month contract that ties one of the most decorated veterans in this sport to SHOOT Project.  A moment almost twenty-five years in the making.

As Thunderwolf grips Stein’s hand, the camera sweeps to catch both men framed against the SHOOT backdrop. Respect in Stein’s eyes. A refreshing calm in Wolf’s. A merging of two collectives colliding over a single table.

Thunderwolf lowers himself into the chair, his eyes flicking to the folder, then back to Stein. The atmosphere feels heavy but not hostile — mutual respect binding the moment together. The crowd noise is faint in the distance, but here it’s silent enough to hear the rustle of paper.

Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser:  I’ve fought in a hundred arenas, bled under a thousand lights… but this?  This is something truly special.  Dan, Mr. Stein, it’s an absolute pleasure to be here today.

Stein gives another one of his trademark smirks. This time there is no sense of smugness - only glee.

Dan Stein: I'd be remiss if I didn't say I think myself and millions of SHOOT Project fans around the world are familiar with your work and what you can bring to the SHOOT Project as a whole. For 25 long years you've been on our radar... I can't believe it's time to put pen to paper and finally welcome you home.

Dustin Kelser: [measured] You’ve had me on your radar for a long time?  Funny,  I’ve had SHOOT on mine for even longer.  And the thing is, I'm not just coming back, here, to this great establishment  to be another name on your wall - far from it.  I'm coming here to be a pillar for you, for your community, that will never fall.

He pauses for a moment and cuts a smirk, genuine - but definitely playing to the camera.

Dustin "Thunderwolf" Kelser:  I am finally home.

A little late to the party, but making his presence immediately known is that of one, Gregory Price.  Sports Agent extraordinaire.  Co-CEO of Brink of Time Media. Fine tailored suit of gray, no-nonsense written across his face as he pulls up a folding chair next to Thunderwolf.  He chomps at his gum and smiles at his client.  He remains silent.

Dan Stein: SHOOT Project isn't just welcoming one of the greatest wrestling talents to ever lace up their boots, we're also welcoming one of the greatest locker room presences in wrestling. That's something that we've been trying to hone in on with this move to New York City and The Pinnacle. We've been hiring new talent but we haven't just been hiring anyone. We've been selective. Thought out. Dustin "Thunderwolf" Kelser hits all the points of the rubric we have. Every. Single. One.

Dustin Kelser: [glances at Price with a smirk, then back to Stein] “Selective.  Thought out.  That’s why I’m here.  Not because it was easy, not because it was convenient… but because SHOOT still means something in this business.  And I’m not interested in being a part of something that doesn’t.

Thunderwolf reaches for the pen, his fingers brushing over the thick contract.  He doesn’t sign just yet.  Instead, he looks up at Stein, eyes steady.

Dustin Kelser: Dan, you’re not just getting a name, or a reputation.  You’re getting a man who knows what it means to carry weight.  What it means to show up when the lights burn the hottest, and when the fans expect the most.  That’s not cheap hype.  That’s not nostalgia.  That’s just who I am.  I'm proud to be here, and proud to represent you and this company.

He finally signs his name in deliberate strokes.  The camera lingers on the pen scratching across the paper before it pulls back to Stein’s reaction.  At the same time, Gregory Price mentions something in a hushed whisper about Misty Starks.

Wolf cocks an eyebrow at Price, clearly caught off guard.  Price leans in, lowering his voice just enough for the mic to still catch it.

Gregory Price: She’s part of the package, Dustin.  I represent Misty as well.  And if this is a new chapter for you?  It’s a new one for her, too.  Take her on as your manager.

Wolf’s head turns sharply, eyes narrowing.  He wasn’t briefed on this.  His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t speak right away — the surprise is written all over his face.  Stein raises his palms like he’s smoothing out the tension, but his expression is more supportive than defensive.

Dan Stein: For what it’s worth, I agree.  Misty’s legacy in this business is something to admire.  She brings star power, history, and connection that can’t be taught.  With you on the roster and her in your corner?  That’s lightning in a bottle.

Wolf sits back, hands clasped, exhaling through his nose.  He’s clearly processing, not thrilled about being blindsided.  The camera catches the faintest smirk at the corner of his mouth — half amusement, half irritation.

Dustin Kelser: [dryly] Funny way of dropping that on me, Gregory.

Price just chomps his gum and shrugs, unbothered.

Gregory Price: “That’s what you pay me for.”

Wolf shakes his head, letting out a low chuckle, though his eyes are still sharp.

Dustin Kelser: Misty Starks doesn’t take orders, and sure as hell not from me.  If she wants to stand in my corner, she’ll make that call herself.  But if you’re telling me SHOOT wants her here too…

He looks between Stein and Price, then back into the camera.

Dustin Kelser: …then I guess this just got a lot more interesting.

He straightens in his chair, tone hardening.

Dustin Kelser: But let’s not get lost in side deals.  I didn’t sign this contract for nostalgia.  I signed it for a fight.  October 19th — The Punchline.  Rick Hull and Harv Norris.  SHOOT Tag Team Titles.  Me… and Corey Lazarus.

The crowd watching on the big screen pops.  Stein smiles, nodding his approval.  Price slaps the contract folder with satisfaction.  He snickers as Stein looks over to him for clarification.

Gregory Price: I've been representing Corey for the last 24 years. Expecting anything less means I'm not doing right by my client, or in this case, clients.

Thunderwolf keeps it steady and on path, eyes on the camera across from him.

Dustin “Thunderwolf” Kelser: October 19th — the joke ends and forever begins… but wait, it seems like we're forgetting something.  That's right.  Daybreak.  I'm issuing an open challenge… First come, first serve.  If you think you've got what it takes to hang with The Charm, The Master, The Last Standing Pillar of the community?  Stand up and make your move.

Fade out on Stein’s pleased expression, Price’s quiet gum-chewing grin, and Wolf’s cold, unwavering gaze.

JOSHUA BREEDLOVE

MADISON SETON

HARV NORRIS

RICK HULL

The arena is still buzzing from the main event as Harv Norris and Rick Hull make their way up the ramp, championship belts over their shoulders. Both men are battered and exhausted.

Eryk Masters: What a match!

Jason Johnson: Harv and Rick look like they’ve been through a war, Eryk. Win or lose, matches like this take years off your career.

The crowd is on their feet, a mixture of reactions as the champions slowly make their way toward the back. Harv raises his belt weakly while Rick just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other.

Suddenly, two figures in black SHOOT Project hoodies with the hoods pulled up emerge from the crowd near the barricade. They’re wearing what appear to be Dinosaurio Pequeno masks that completely obscure their faces.

Eryk Masters: Wait a minute… who are those guys?

Jason Johnson: I don’t know, but they’re not supposed to be there!

The masked figures hop the barricade with athletic precision. Security starts moving toward them, but they’re too quick.

The first attacker launches himself at Rick Hull from behind with a devastating clothesline that sends the Rocket crashing face-first into the steel ramp. Rick’s championship belt goes flying across the metal surface with a loud clatter.

Eryk Masters: WHAT THE HELL?!

Jason Johnson: Rick Hull just got blindsided!

The second attacker spears Harv around the midsection, driving him backward into the side barricade with a sickening crash that buckles the steel barrier. Harv’s belt falls as he crumples to the ground, gasping for air.

Eryk Masters: This is a mugging! These masked cowards are attacking our World Tag Team Champions!

The attackers begin stomping away at the fallen champions with vicious, calculated strikes. The first attacker pulls Rick to his feet and delivers a brutal European uppercut that snaps Rick’s head back violently, sending blood spattering across the entrance ramp.

Jason Johnson: Look at the precision of these attacks, Eryk! This isn’t random violence, these guys know exactly what they’re doing!

The second attacker has Harv trapped against the barricade, driving repeated knee strikes into his ribs while Harv tries desperately to cover up. Each impact echoes through the arena with a sickening thud.

Security finally reaches the scene, but the attackers are ready. The first one catches a security guard with a spinning back elbow that drops him instantly, the guard’s head bouncing off the steel ramp. The second attacker grabs another security guard and launches him over the barricade into the front row, clearing out several fans in the process.

Eryk Masters: These guys are tearing through security like tissue paper!

Jason Johnson: Wait! Here comes Roy Vezina!

Roy Vezina comes sprinting through the entrance curtain, having shed his suit jacket somewhere backstage. In his hands is a hockey stick, and his face is twisted with rage and desperation.

Roy Vezina: GET AWAY FROM THEM!

Roy charges down the ramp swinging the hockey stick like a battle axe. The first attacker turns just in time to catch the stick across his chest with a crack that can be heard throughout the arena, sending him staggering backward and gasping for breath.

Eryk Masters: Roy Vezina has evened the odds with that hockey stick!

Jason Johnson: But look out!

The second attacker springs at Roy from the side, but Roy pivots and catches him with the butt end of the hockey stick to the gut, doubling him over and leaving him retching on the ramp.

Meanwhile, Rick Hull has fought back to his feet, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He grabs the first attacker by the throat with both hands and drives him backward into the LED entrance screen with tremendous force, the impact causing the screen to flicker and spark.

Eryk Masters: Rick Hull is back in this fight and he looks absolutely murderous!

Jason Johnson: That entrance screen just took serious damage from that impact!

Harv has also recovered, wiping blood from his mouth and spitting red onto the steel ramp. He charges at the second attacker with a wild haymaker, but the masked man ducks and counters with a picture-perfect dropkick that sends Harv tumbling down the ramp, his body bouncing off each steel grate with metallic clangs.

The brawl has now spread across the entire entrance area. Roy swings his hockey stick in wide, desperate arcs, trying to keep both attackers at bay while Rick and Harv struggle to regain their footing on the blood-slicked ramp.

Eryk Masters: This is absolute pandemonium! The Pinnacle has turned into a war zone!

Jason Johnson: There’s blood everywhere, and these attackers came prepared for a fight!

The first attacker pulls something from his hoodie pocket, brass knuckles that gleam under the arena lights. He loads up his right hand and catches Rick with a devastating right cross that drops the big man to one knee, blood immediately pouring from a gash above his eye.

Eryk Masters: Brass knuckles! This has crossed every line!

Roy sees Rick go down and explodes with fury, swinging his hockey stick like he’s trying to decapitate someone. The stick connects with the attacker’s forearm with a sickening crack, and the man screams as he drops the brass knuckles, clutching his potentially broken arm.

Jason Johnson: Roy Vezina just broke that hockey stick across that man’s arm!

More security floods the area, but the chaos is too intense. The second wave of guards gets caught up in the violence as bodies fly everywhere. One guard gets clotheslined by the second attacker and goes flying over the announce table, scattering papers and monitors.

Eryk Masters: Security can’t even get close to this carnage!

The second attacker grabs Harv and attempts to powerbomb him on the steel ramp, lifting him high into the air. But Harv fights out of it mid-move and counters by driving his elbow repeatedly into the attacker’s skull until the man is forced to drop him.

Jason Johnson: Harv fighting for his life up there!

In the struggle, one of the attackers’ masks gets completely torn off in Rick Hull’s hands.

The arena explodes in recognition.

Eryk Masters: OH MY GOD! IT’S MICHAEL COLLINS!

Jason Johnson: THE COLLINS BROTHERS! MICHAEL AND ROWLAND COLLINS ARE THE ATTACKERS!

Michael Collins, now unmasked and bleeding from his scalp, spits blood and glares at Rick Hull with pure hatred. Behind him, Rowland Collins rips off his own mask and hood, revealing himself completely, his face also bloodied from the violence.

Eryk Masters: The former World Tag Team Champions have just launched a vicious, premeditated assault on The Punch Line!

Jason Johnson: This was planned! They came dressed to blend in, masked to hide their identity!

Roy Vezina’s face transforms from confusion to absolute rage as he realizes who he’s been fighting.

Roy Vezina: YOU COWARDLY PIECES OF TRASH!

Roy charges at Michael Collins with the broken hockey stick raised like a spear, but Michael ducks and catches Roy with a spinebuster onto the steel ramp that echoes throughout the arena like a gunshot. Roy’s body bounces off the metal with a horrible thud.

Eryk Masters: Roy Vezina just got planted on that steel ramp!

Harv and Rowland Collins are now trading wild, desperate punches near the barricade, neither man giving an inch. Blood flies with each impact as they beat each other senseless. The crowd is on their feet, some cheering the chaos, others backing away from the violence.

Rick Hull wipes blood from his face, leaving a crimson smear across his cheek, and advances on Michael Collins like a man possessed. Michael tries to escape up the ramp, but Rick catches him and the two begin trading devastating blows that echo through the arena.

Jason Johnson: This is beyond personal now, Eryk! The Collins Brothers couldn’t accept losing the titles!

Eryk Masters: But their ambush is backfiring! The Punch Line is fighting back with everything they’ve got!

The violence escalates as more weapons come into play. Rowland Collins grabs a camera cable and tries to choke Harv with it, while Michael Collins picks up one of the dropped championship belts and swings it at Rick’s head like a mace.

Jason Johnson: They’re using the championship belts as weapons now!

Blood pools on the steel ramp as the five-man brawl continues to rage. Roy, despite being battered, manages to grab a steel chair from ringside and brings it crashing down across Rowland’s back with a metallic crash that can be heard in the cheap seats.

Eryk Masters: Chair shots! This has become an all-out war!

Rick Hull, blood streaming down his face like war paint, hoists Michael Collins to his feet and drives him through the announce table with a devastating spear that sends monitors, papers, and debris flying everywhere.

Jason Johnson: THROUGH THE ANNOUNCE TABLE! GOOD GOD!

The table explodes into pieces as Michael’s body crashes through it, leaving him motionless in the wreckage while sparks fly from destroyed electronic equipment. Breedlove and Madison Seton have rolled out to the floor, going to aid the Collins Twins. Madison pulls Hull to his feet after his trip through the announce table and whips him hard into the stairs. 

Eryk Masters: This is basically an ambush! An Empire-led ambush! 

Jason Johnson: I DID think it was weird that Breedlove had no problem at all doing this match. 

Breedlove is directing traffic while putting the boots to Roy Vezina. Rowland Collins has Harv Norris down and nearly out from choking him with the cable. Breedlove pulls Vezina to his feet and LEVELS him with a lariat. Vezina’s head hits the ground hard and the crowd boos, letting the Empire know how they feel about it all. 

Eryk Masters: There’s just no way the Punch Line was ready for this. They couldn’t have possibly been. 

Jason Johnson: Oh, definitely not. I can’t even tell if this was just a well-laid trap or if it’s just a strike while the iron is hot situation, and–

As Jason is finishing his sentence, a red and black blur flies out from the backstage area and immediately goes after Rowland Collins, taking him off his feet. The camera isn’t fast enough to catch them and they then interrupt Breedlove, nailing him in the jaw with a HARD right. The camera FINALLY catches up and the crowd goes nuclear when it’s revealed that LAURA SETON has joined the fray! 

Jason Johnson: The former champ! Evening the odds! 

Eryk Masters: This is DEFINITELY needed from the Punchies side, Jason. Laura is making a big time save here, and she’s just going to TOWN on the World Champion! 

Big rights and lefts rock Breedlove, who’s getting bounced up against the barricade. Laura takes a big wind up, ready to hit a knockout blow, when she’s stopped mid-swing by a fist catching her arm. The camera zooms out and it’s Madison Seton who’s caught Laura’s arm, and now… the two sisters stand face to face, Laura unfazed, unmoving. Madison glowering. 

“WE CAME TO TELL THE TRUTH, THE WHOLE TRUTH, AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH” 

The crowd gets even louder as the Real Deal’s music hits, signaling the entrance of SHOOT Project’s owner and CEO! 

Jason Johnson: FINALLY. Let’s get some order in the court. 

Eryk Masters: Everyone’s turned to look, all the madness has stopped, except Laura Seton and Madison Seton who can’t take their eyes off of each other, and now Breedlove is back to his feet, grinning gleefully between the two of them. 

The Real Deal appears at the top of the ramp, microphone in hand, and his music cuts nearly instantly as he draws it closer to his face. 

Real Deal: Yeah, that’s what I fucking thought. 

The crowd laughs. 

Real Deal: You hear the music, you stop your bullshit. This brawl is out of control and I’m not going to risk three of my champions and even more of my stars, so here’s what we’re going to do. At DAYBREAK..

He pauses, the crowd metaphorically leans in.

Real Deal: We’re going to see the Collins Twins challenging the Punch Line for the World Tag Team Championships, and that match? 

Real Deal smirks. 

Real Deal: That’s going to be a LADDER MATCH. 

The crowd pops and Real Deal nods, Michael and Rowland look at each other and nod in affirmation. Harv and Rick are back to their feet, smiling through the pain as well. 

Real Deal: But that’s not all. Nono. Josh Breedlove? Laura Seton? We’re putting an end to this once and for all. 

Jason Johnson: Oh? I’m listening…

Eryk Masters: So is the rest of the world.

Real Deal: Laura Seton’s getting a rematch for the World title at Daybreak and Breedlove? You’re going to defend, and you’re going to like it. So in the main event at Daybreak, we’re going to see Laura Seton challenge Joshua Breedlove for the World Heavyweight Championship… FALLS. COUNT. ANYWHERE. And if there’s ANY interference? From ANYONE? Empire or not? You’ll be fired. 

Now, cut this show. We’re done. See you at Daybreak.

Black.