Backstage.

Somewhere.

Maybe Anarchy.

Probably Anarchy.

(02-13-2026, 11:21 AM)Sir Lionel Pennyfarthing Said: "Lionel, this isn't a good id-"

"GN! TK M T TH CST SHT!"

...Gene sighs, before wheeling Lionel, still in his hospital bed on wheels up to the Anarchy sign-up sheet.

...

"MMHM."

Gene sighs before reaching into his pocket and taking out a pen. He slides it against the wires that are shutting Lionel's jaw.

"THNK Y"

Lionel masterfully, using only his excellently defined mandibles, toned from years of vocal warmups, draws his initals on the roster signup sheet.

The camera pulls away from the monitor and swings right, settling on Graves who had been watching this clip attentively.

"Stubborn.
Unbreakable.
INSTANTLY REMEMBERABLE!"

Graves whips his head back towards Furry, who is sitting on a bench in front of her locker, wrapped in compression bandages and ice packs.

"Why'd we lose this one again!?"

Furry winces as she tries to sit up straighter.

"…how many Germans was that? Six? Felt like twenty… Can’t even remember what day it is right now."

Graves doesn’t answer right away.

He just stares at her.

Not through her.

At her.

"Six?"

He tilts his head.

"That was six Germans, a spear, a gutbuster, a vertical, three spinebusters, and one attempted homicide."

He raises his index finger, as if to make the point: "You kicked out of all of it."

He looks back at the monitor. Rewinds. Watches the delayed vertical suplex again. The Sextuple German. The way her head snaps. The way she goes limp.

The way she doesn’t stay limp.

"You played dead."

He smirks.

"That’s my girl."

"I almost lost," she mutters with her eyes down at the floor. "I didn’t get him on that first roll-up. I was a second behind on the scramble. I left an opening that he fully exploited. I—"

"Shut up."

He steps closer and looms over her.

Evaluating.

"Miss Fury couldn’t wrestle for dick. She didn’t need to. She controlled the room. She controlled the air. She’d walk in and the ring would already belong to her. Half those idiots pinned themselves because she made them believe it was their destiny to lay at her feet."

He taps the screen.

"You?"

<-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------Rewind.

Arm drag.

Headlock.

Knee strikes.

"You can actually wrestle."

He scratches his head.

"Not sure where you learned it, but you’re ten times the wrestler Fury ever was. Tonight you proved you’re not just some street-cat I dragged out of an ally."

Furry’s jaw tightens.

She looks like she’s trying not to smile.

Or cry.

Or both.

"You took a gorilla press gutbuster from a man more intimidating than the Literal Gorilla who used to sit in gorilla—and you kicked out at two like it barely inconvenienced you."

He leans down slightly, eye to eye now.

"You didn’t win because I taught you sneaky tricks."

A crooked grin.

"You won because when your lungs were shredded and your spine looked like a slinky someone stepped on… you still had enough brain left to lie."

He taps her forehead with two fingers.

"You sold 'em on death. Then you stole life."

Furry swallows.

"So… what now? Back to the Boneyard? More drills? More suplex landings until I can’t feel my hands?"

Graves straightens up.

Snorts.

"The Boneyard?"

He waves it off.

"You graduated, idiot."

She blinks.

"You’re done being a student. You’re administration now."

She stares at him like he might've insulted her mother.

"Administration?"

"Yeah. You’re gonna help me run this bitch."

Energized, he paces.

"Sign-ups. Strategy. Who gets kept. Who gets cut. Who gets saved for later. 

You can teach that fancy wrestlin' too."

He points at her chest.

"You can wrestle. Great. Cool. Gold star."

He jabs his own temple.

"Now you learn control."

Furry looks down at her bandaged ribs.

"I liked the Boneyard."

There’s actual sadness there.

"Of course you did."

His voice softens.

Barely.

"That’s where you proved you weren’t no pussy-cat. Just a cat. But I don’t keep killers in training forever."

He reaches over and adjusts one of her ice packs roughly, but not carelessly.

"You beat a man built like a Hockey-masked-killer.

You’re not my project anymore."



Dramatic pause.



"You’re my partner."

He turns back to the monitor, rewinding the final millisecond.

The THREE!!!

The late kickout.

The win.

"Look under the bench. The box is for you..."

Furry leans down slow and pulls out a black wooden box.

She sets it on her lap.

Looks up at him.

He doesn’t look back.

Just crosses his arms and continues to stare into the paused monitor.

"Open it."

She lifts the lid.

Inside?

A name tag.




Her brow furrows.

"Yahoos felt more professional than dummies, and I really needed it to spell Fury, since you know—you're both now."

He shrugs.

"I dunno, maybe it's stupid. I'm not used to being—this—with people."

He tilts his head slightly.

She runs her thumb over the letters.


Her hand shifts inside the box again.

Under the tag?

Fabric.

She pulls it out.

New gear.

Graves finally turns to look at her.

"Administration doesn’t mean you stop fighting."

He nods toward the gear.

"It means when you fight, it means something."

She stares at it.

Quiet.

And there's that sadness again.

"F.U.R.Y. isn’t a nickname. It’s a position."

Furry exhales slowly.

"Congratulations."

He scratches at his jaw.

"You’re not a stray anymore..."