Post by Syndicate on Sept 28, 2021 19:56:51 GMT -5
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - LOS ANGELES, CA
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2021 - 12:04AM
It's midnight in the City of Angels, and the Los Angeles Outlaw is spending this particular Saturday night staring daggers into the doorknob of his own house. For the past sixteen days, Syndicate has spent most of his time holed up in a Tokyo hotel, hiding from the world that he perceived to be against him. He didn't answer calls, he didn't go on social media, and - this is the part where he fucked up - he didn't tell his wife, Sophie, when he'd be back in town. It's an especially egregious fuck-up, too, as Sophie's lone request when he got back into wrestling was that he'd text her at least once a day to confirm that he was alright.
Thing is, Syndicate wasn't alright...he just didn't have the heart to tell Sophie that. Sure, he came out of his match with Julius Fairweather at Night of Honor with a damaged knee and concussion-like symptoms - the latter courtesy of Julius's "The Royale with Cheese" knockout punch that ended the bout - but he's dealt with both of those injuries many times throughout his career. Syndicate knew that he could deal with the pain. What he couldn't deal with, however, was the thoughts that kept themselves jammed into the forefront of his mind since that match with Julius. In the past, Syndicate was able to rely on his natural talent and ability to get what he wanted. You can blame it on weak competition or pure luck, sure, but regardless, he's quite proud of what he's been able to accomplish thus far in his wrestling career.
But what the Los Angeles Outlaw is now experiencing is the same feeling that college freshmen have after graduating from a small high school: he's now a big fish in an even bigger pond. Sure, he may talk a big game, but deep down, he knows the results speak for themselves. He managed to earn himself a Legacy title match, but since then, he's lost to both Jason Long and Julius Fairweather back-to-back. In just a few short weeks, Syndicate went from one of the hottest commodities in Project: Honor to just another name on the card. Why? He doesn't know. He may never really know.
That leads us to now, with Syndicate's hand resting on the doorknob. At this hour, he's hoping Sophie's asleep upstairs, allowing him to slip in undetected and save a likely argument for the morning, after the couple had both had their morning coffee. The Los Angeles Outlaw takes a deep breath, grabs his suitcase with one hand, and opens the door with the other. Stepping inside, he silently shuts the door behind him...but just as he does, the kitchen light flicks on, revealing Sophie herself leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. Wearing a blue t-shirt and black volleyball shorts, her furious expression tells the entire story.
Sophie: Welcome home.
Syndicate immediately takes note of the tension in his wife's voice and tries to escape the conversation.
Syndicate: Hey.
Sophie: "Hey"? That's all I get?
He wants nothing more than to run upstairs and go to bed, but Sophie's having none of it.
Syndicate: Soph, I just got home, and it's been a long week.
Sophie: Two weeks.
Syndicate: ...hmm?
Sophie: It's been two weeks. Two weeks since you last answered a text from your own wife. Two weeks since I had to call Project: Honor's HR department to make sure that you hadn't disappeared in another country. Two weeks since the last time I was sure that my husband wasn't fucking dead.
Syndicate picks up his black suitcase, sets it on the kitchen table, and looks over at Sophie with a look of frustration. He knows what's coming, and he knows he deserves it - might as well get it over with.
Syndicate: Okay, you’re obviously upset. What did I do wrong this time?
Sophie: You want the long version or the short version?
Syndicate: Short, please. I didn’t sleep at all on the -
Sophie: Long version, it is.
The Los Angeles Outlaw sighs and rubs his temple, preparing himself for a lecture.
Syndicate: Look, I'm sorry for not -
Sophie: Shut up. Shut the FUCK up, Syd. It's my turn to talk.
Syndicate's somewhat stunned by this explosion - he knew there would be an argument, but he isn't sure that he's ever seen Sophie this mad.
Sophie: You know, I don't watch your matches. I don't watch wrestling. To be honest, though, I don't need to, because I know what the results are based on your behavior alone. You win a match? You're bouncing off the fucking walls, telling anybody who'll listen that you're the greatest. But if you lose? You sulk, you cry, and you hide in a hole until it's time to start the cycle all over again. You make yourself out to be a badass, but you can't back your words up with action. And you wonder why nobody wants to be associated with you.
Syndicate: Hey, I'd like to see you get in that ring and do what I do week after week.
Sophie: Okay, you're right, I wouldn't be able to. But at least I'm able to be realistic about my future, unlike you. That's your biggest problem, Syd - you don't know how to stop yourself from spewing your unique brand of bullshit.
As Syndicate leans against the kitchen wall, Sophie slowly steps towards him, refusing to break eye contact.
Sophie: You had it all. A great career, an untouchable legacy, and a new job that didn't cause you to visit the hospital every week. When we got engaged, you told me that you were done with wrestling, and that you were happy with your new job at SportsMax. But that was a lie, wasn't it? You wanted to be happy, you wanted to be done, but you couldn't, because your ego was too damn big to let things be. Then, when you could have just walked away from it all, you came back and ruined everything, and you know who's fault that is? Yours. It's YOUR fault, Sydney. You get so fuckin' deep inside your own head that you don't know how to get out. And I'd be fine with letting you deal with your own problems, but when you hide in Tokyo for two weeks? When you refuse to talk to your wife for sixteen days? That's when your problem becomes my problem, and I'm not gonna deal with that. This "feeling sorry for yourself" shit ends NOW. You can either grow the fuck up, or you can leave pro wrestling and do something that you're better suited for - the choice is yours.
She's right. Syndicate knows she's right, and as Sophie stands in the center of the kitchen, breathing heavily with anger, he looks down at the tile flooring with his hands in his pockets. He realizes that nothing he can say in this moment will make her happy, so he decides to play it safe.
Syndicate: I love you...and I'm sorry.
...perhaps he was a bit too safe. Sophie's eyes widen in disbelief as Syndicate walks over to the door.
Syndicate: I'm going for a walk.
Sophie: No, you're staying here, and we're going to keep talking about -
***SLAM***
Rather than allowing the verbal assault to continue, Syndicate again chose to do what he always does in times of stress and runs away from his problems. Because of that choice, the Los Angeles Outlaw finds himself right back where he started: standing on his own porch in the middle of the night, with his hand on the doorknob. This time, though, he takes a deep breath and steps onto the sidewalk, ready to go clear his head.
SAN VICENTE BOULEVARD - LOS ANGELES, CA
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2021 - 1:22AM
SEPTEMBER 26TH, 2021 - 1:22AM
We return to the Los Angeles Outlaw an hour or so later, in the midst of his impromptu stroll through the City of Angels. With nothing on him but his troubled mind, Syndicate walks alone down the left sidewalk of San Vicente Boulevard, and as you might expect, there's not exactly a ton of other pedestrians in his vicinity at this time of night. Of course, a Project: Honor cameraman is here to watch over the Outlaw, but that's only because they're being paid - trust us, they'd rather be anywhere else.
Syndicate goes on walks like these often, when he needs to get away from his home life. When Syndicate first moved to LA, he could just lay on his own bed and think things through, but now? That bed is the partial property of the woman that he's trying to escape from in the first place. He doesn't want to avoid Sophie, of course - she's the only person in this world that he truly loves - he knows that no matter what he says, his wife will never be satisfied. Their earlier conversation made that crystal-clear.
And so, here are are. Syndicate, with nobody left to rely on but himself, marching down San Vicente Boulevard under the light of various sporadically-placed streetlamps. Unfortunately for us, however, he doesn't plan on being silent whilst on this trek.
Syndicate goes on walks like these often, when he needs to get away from his home life. When Syndicate first moved to LA, he could just lay on his own bed and think things through, but now? That bed is the partial property of the woman that he's trying to escape from in the first place. He doesn't want to avoid Sophie, of course - she's the only person in this world that he truly loves - he knows that no matter what he says, his wife will never be satisfied. Their earlier conversation made that crystal-clear.
And so, here are are. Syndicate, with nobody left to rely on but himself, marching down San Vicente Boulevard under the light of various sporadically-placed streetlamps. Unfortunately for us, however, he doesn't plan on being silent whilst on this trek.
Syndicate: Soph was right about one thing: I never learned how to stop.
A soft chuckle escapes the lips of the Outlaw, as it fully hits him just how screwed up his life is.
Syndicate: Back when I was a kid, I'd spend nearly every weekend over at my friend's house, playing Mario Kart on the Nintendo 64 he and his brother shared. We'd have four people playing splitscreen, all huddled around a single Sony Trinitron, and we'd be on that shit for hours and hours until his mom would kick us out before dinner. Now, as a kid, I wasn't exactly interested in being "technical" with the driving mechanics, and I'd wager most other kids around that time felt the same. You don't slow down to get around tough corners - you blast through at full speed until you crash into something. And that's what I would always do: hold down the 'A' button, and just drive, baby. Sure, my buddies would hit me with blue shells and the like for being in first place, and sure, I'd lose races as a result, but in the end? I'd still be crossing that finish line, all the same. Fast forward to today, and I suppose you could say Julius Fairweather threw a hell of a blue shell my way, and at the end of the race, he came out on top. But just because the singular race is over...doesn't mean that the grand prix is.
Syndicate: You know, Julius...I was wrong about you. I thought I had you all figured out. Piece-of-shit hothead from Detroit that was finding success in the business, but would inevitably fall on his face when the going got tough - a tale as old as time. Hell, I was even brazen enough to compare you to Icarus, the kid that was given the ability to fly, but is instead remembered only for his dramatic fall from grace. I thought you'd fall as well, Julius...but you didn't. You did what you said you'd do, you gave me a "first-class ass-kicking", and you kept your little win streak going. And while I was laying there on the mat, floating in and out of consciousness...I realized my mistake. You're not Icarus, Julius. You're Achilles. For eleven straight matches, you have been damn near unbeatable. You've gone through your labors, you've taken down all of your challengers, and you've proven that you belong in the upper echelon of competitors here in Project: Honor. But just like Achilles, you've got yourself a weakness, one small chink in your armor that cannot be ignored...
After brushing back his long, blonde hair, Syndicate reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of Extra spearmint gum. He quickly unwraps a piece and shoves it into his mouth before finishing his thought.
Syndicate: ...me. You said it yourself, Julius: throughout this entire run, intentionally or otherwise, I’m the one guy that’s been able to hinder your momentum. I single-handedly took a Legacy title shot away from you, and even after you managed to walk away with an opportunity at the Prime Championship, that match was delayed because of the actions of the Los Angeles Outlaw. At Night of Honor, you came away with the win, but I think we can both agree that if my bum-ass knee hadn't given out, things may have ended up a bit differently. Even as you find success elsewhere in Project: Honor, you keep finding your way back into my neck of the woods, and I'm sure that pisses you off a little bit, doesn't it? Knowing that, try as you might, I'm the motherfucker that you just can't get rid of? Knowing that no matter what you do or how many punches you throw, I'll just keep coming back for more? Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this'll be the last time you and I face off in that ring...because this time, it's my turn to throw the damn shell.
Just as his favorite racer, Luigi, throws a banana peel on the track behind him, Syndicate spits the gum out onto the sidewalk. He finds that his gum usually runs out of flavor quickly, and this piece was clearly no exception to that rule.
Syndicate: I've had a lot of time to think about what went wrong in Tokyo. At first, I wasn't sure how someone with years of experience and championship pedigree in this business could fall to such a relative newbie like yourself. Even now, when I think back to you shaking your little head before nailing me with that knockout punch, it pisses me off to know that I let it happen. I watched our match over and over again, and you know what I finally realized? It's that my gameplan was flawed from the start. My goal was to beat the everliving shit out of you on pay-per-view, no matter the cost, and while I certainly succeeded at that goal...you did too. Every time we went outside the ring or got into a fistfight, you won the exchange, and you know what that made me realize? I can't out-fight you, Julius...but I can out-wrestle you.
Syndicate: I don't know if your time in the boxing and MMA circles made you forget your roots, but it's clear that when it comes to the "wrestling" portion of professional wrestling, you managed to fall short. Belly-to-belly suplex early in the match? An immediate two-count. You try to hit me with a knee strike? Reversal, "Fall from Grace", and you're seeing stars. Hell, even at the very end, when you were trying your hardest to tear the ligaments in my knee right off the bone, you were one second away from getting hit with the "Catalyst DDT" and seeing your winning streak shatter into a million pieces. Don't you see? Even though you won, you still managed to show weakness, and this week, I'm going to target that weakness with all I've got. You want a brawl, Julius? I'm gonna make sure that you don't get one...not this time.
A car speeds past Syndicate, its headlights shining right in the Outlaw's face, but it's as if he doesn't even notice. All he can think about right now is Julius Fairweather...and how much he wants to punch that fucker in the face.
Syndicate: We’re in Chicago this week, and that got me thinking - remember the Jordan Rules? Of course you do, you’re from Detroit. Back then, Jordan was a great player - not quite the greatest, but great - and the Pistons had to figure out a way to beat him. So they got physical, they got all rough-and-tumble, and as a result of those efforts, Jordan's body gave out and the Pistons beat the Bulls in three straight years. But in the fourth year, Julius? Jordan and his team busted out a little thing called the triangle offense, and after that, everything fell apart for the Detroit Pistons. The same holds true for us, thirty years later - you've got your little "Outlaw Rules", and you're ready to show up on Fallout and give me the same beating that you surgically administered at Night of Honor. But the game has changed, Julius, and if you're not prepared for that...then you'll just be known as the guy that let little ol' Syndicate rattle off a fuckin' threepeat. This isn't about the future, this isn't about Jason or Elena or anyone else, nah - this is about you and me, in that ring, settling the score, and you better be prepared for the future if you do come up short. Me, I've got nothing to lose, but you? This winning streak is your only real accomplishment in this business, and once it's gone, all you'll be is your momma's little bitch.
Syndicate: It's about time that you and everyone else in this company that I'm not someone that's gonna take a beating and turn the other cheek, because as long as I've got this camera pointed at my chiseled face, you're not gonna be able to escape me. You may see me as an annoyance, like a little gnat circling your head, but trust me...I can be so, so much more dangerous than you'd ever expect. Elena and the Legacy Championship can wait, because right now? After you’ve given out eleven straight ass-kickings...it’s about time someone returns the favor. Welcome...to the -
As the Los Angeles Outlaw completes his catchphrase, a man walking in the opposite direction bumps into his left shoulder and brushes past. Syndicate, all too used to rude Los Angeles pedestrians, just keeps on walking.
Syndicate: Watch it, asshole.
?: Oh, we have been watching, Mr. Irvine.
Syndicate stops in his tracks, confused. Did that rando just say, "Mr. Irvine"?
Syndicate: ...how the hell do you know my name?
He turns and sees the man that just ran into him, standing alone in the middle of the otherwise-empty sidewalk. Syndicate immediately notices three things about him: one, he's wearing a black unmarked hoodie that obscures the top half of his face, leaving only his stubble-filled chin visible in the dim light. Two, he's a few inches taller than Syndicate, and looks to be at least fifty pounds heavier - he wouldn't be easy to take down in a fight. And three, even as his hands are firmly placed in the pockets of his jeans, some sort of circular tribal tattoo can be seen on the backside of his left hand.
Hooded Man: We know a great number of things about you, your name being the first on that list.
Syndicate: “We”? Who are you, some backwater paparazzi shitbag?
Hooded Man: All in due time, Mr. Irvine. All in due time.
Syndicate: Nah, there won’t be a “due time.” Get the fuck out of my face!
Syndicate throws a punch, but the stranger dodges to the left.
Hooded Man: We are not here to harm you, we are only here to help.
Another attempted punch, and another miss.
Hooded Man: You toil in your daily life, demonstrating your wide range of talents to the world, and yet, they label you as a pariah.
The Los Angeles Outlaw attempts a third punch, but this time, the Hooded Man catches it with his right hand without skipping a beat.
Hooded Man: From Apter to the WWX to today - everywhere you go, you are taken for granted. Even your own wife doesn’t believe in your ability to succeed...isn’t that right?
The man lets go of a stunned Syndicate's hand. Unable to form a coherent thought, the Outlaw steps backward, looking for an out, but just like the earlier moment with Sophie that the man is referencing, Syndicate doesn't have anywhere to go.
Hooded Man: You now find yourself at a crossroads in your life. You are being forced to choose between the people that you love and the career that you’re passionate about. But you shouldn’t have to make that choice. You should be able to do as you please, without anyone else trying to run interference. Your peers should respect and accept you for the person that you are. That’s the life that you truly desire.
Syndicate has absolutely no idea what the hell is going on. He starts nervously laughing, praying that yet another chance to run away from a bad situation will manifest.
Syndicate: Ah, haha, very funny! This is one of those hidden camera prank shows, right? Wow, I bet Sophie was in on the whole thing, you told her to blow up at me, and now you’re cornering me to get my reaction. Bravo!
He claps his hands and looks around at the surrounding area, hoping for the producers of the "show" will reveal themselves and end this exchange.
Syndicate: Alright, guys, you can all come out now! The ruse is up!
The Hooded Man extends his arms outward, as if to show that, well, there's nothing to show.
Hooded Man: There is no ruse, Mr. Irvine, and we do not kid. You deserve better. You deserve...to free your soul.
Reaching into his left pocket, the man pulls out a black business card and hands it to Syndicate. The Outlaw looks down at it and is immediately confused, as it contains no contact information whatsoever.
Hooded Man: We’ll be expecting you...and we will be watching.
The faintest of smiles can be seen on the Hooded Man's lips as he turns and walks down a nearby alleyway, leaving Syndicate alone on the street. Trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened, he tries to follow him...
Syndicate: Hey, wait up, you never told me your -
...but as he turns and looks down the alley, he finds that the man has completely disappeared.
Syndicate: - name.
Now finding himself alone, Syndicate takes a moment to collect himself. How did that guy know about his fight with Sophie? How did he know so much about his past? Syndicate may never get that answer, and judging by the man's sudden disappearance, he comes to the only possible conclusion.
Syndicate: Fuckin’ stalker...
Taking one last glimpse at the mysterious business card, Syndicate rips it in half and throws it into the air, the pieces fluttering in the slight breeze as they fall to the sidewalk. He places his hands in his pockets, shakes his head, and resumes his nighttime walk as the shot is eaten up by black-and-white television static.
A soft chuckle escapes the lips of the Outlaw, as it fully hits him just how screwed up his life is.
Syndicate: Back when I was a kid, I'd spend nearly every weekend over at my friend's house, playing Mario Kart on the Nintendo 64 he and his brother shared. We'd have four people playing splitscreen, all huddled around a single Sony Trinitron, and we'd be on that shit for hours and hours until his mom would kick us out before dinner. Now, as a kid, I wasn't exactly interested in being "technical" with the driving mechanics, and I'd wager most other kids around that time felt the same. You don't slow down to get around tough corners - you blast through at full speed until you crash into something. And that's what I would always do: hold down the 'A' button, and just drive, baby. Sure, my buddies would hit me with blue shells and the like for being in first place, and sure, I'd lose races as a result, but in the end? I'd still be crossing that finish line, all the same. Fast forward to today, and I suppose you could say Julius Fairweather threw a hell of a blue shell my way, and at the end of the race, he came out on top. But just because the singular race is over...doesn't mean that the grand prix is.
Syndicate: You know, Julius...I was wrong about you. I thought I had you all figured out. Piece-of-shit hothead from Detroit that was finding success in the business, but would inevitably fall on his face when the going got tough - a tale as old as time. Hell, I was even brazen enough to compare you to Icarus, the kid that was given the ability to fly, but is instead remembered only for his dramatic fall from grace. I thought you'd fall as well, Julius...but you didn't. You did what you said you'd do, you gave me a "first-class ass-kicking", and you kept your little win streak going. And while I was laying there on the mat, floating in and out of consciousness...I realized my mistake. You're not Icarus, Julius. You're Achilles. For eleven straight matches, you have been damn near unbeatable. You've gone through your labors, you've taken down all of your challengers, and you've proven that you belong in the upper echelon of competitors here in Project: Honor. But just like Achilles, you've got yourself a weakness, one small chink in your armor that cannot be ignored...
After brushing back his long, blonde hair, Syndicate reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of Extra spearmint gum. He quickly unwraps a piece and shoves it into his mouth before finishing his thought.
Syndicate: ...me. You said it yourself, Julius: throughout this entire run, intentionally or otherwise, I’m the one guy that’s been able to hinder your momentum. I single-handedly took a Legacy title shot away from you, and even after you managed to walk away with an opportunity at the Prime Championship, that match was delayed because of the actions of the Los Angeles Outlaw. At Night of Honor, you came away with the win, but I think we can both agree that if my bum-ass knee hadn't given out, things may have ended up a bit differently. Even as you find success elsewhere in Project: Honor, you keep finding your way back into my neck of the woods, and I'm sure that pisses you off a little bit, doesn't it? Knowing that, try as you might, I'm the motherfucker that you just can't get rid of? Knowing that no matter what you do or how many punches you throw, I'll just keep coming back for more? Hey, if it makes you feel any better, this'll be the last time you and I face off in that ring...because this time, it's my turn to throw the damn shell.
Just as his favorite racer, Luigi, throws a banana peel on the track behind him, Syndicate spits the gum out onto the sidewalk. He finds that his gum usually runs out of flavor quickly, and this piece was clearly no exception to that rule.
Syndicate: I've had a lot of time to think about what went wrong in Tokyo. At first, I wasn't sure how someone with years of experience and championship pedigree in this business could fall to such a relative newbie like yourself. Even now, when I think back to you shaking your little head before nailing me with that knockout punch, it pisses me off to know that I let it happen. I watched our match over and over again, and you know what I finally realized? It's that my gameplan was flawed from the start. My goal was to beat the everliving shit out of you on pay-per-view, no matter the cost, and while I certainly succeeded at that goal...you did too. Every time we went outside the ring or got into a fistfight, you won the exchange, and you know what that made me realize? I can't out-fight you, Julius...but I can out-wrestle you.
Syndicate: I don't know if your time in the boxing and MMA circles made you forget your roots, but it's clear that when it comes to the "wrestling" portion of professional wrestling, you managed to fall short. Belly-to-belly suplex early in the match? An immediate two-count. You try to hit me with a knee strike? Reversal, "Fall from Grace", and you're seeing stars. Hell, even at the very end, when you were trying your hardest to tear the ligaments in my knee right off the bone, you were one second away from getting hit with the "Catalyst DDT" and seeing your winning streak shatter into a million pieces. Don't you see? Even though you won, you still managed to show weakness, and this week, I'm going to target that weakness with all I've got. You want a brawl, Julius? I'm gonna make sure that you don't get one...not this time.
A car speeds past Syndicate, its headlights shining right in the Outlaw's face, but it's as if he doesn't even notice. All he can think about right now is Julius Fairweather...and how much he wants to punch that fucker in the face.
Syndicate: We’re in Chicago this week, and that got me thinking - remember the Jordan Rules? Of course you do, you’re from Detroit. Back then, Jordan was a great player - not quite the greatest, but great - and the Pistons had to figure out a way to beat him. So they got physical, they got all rough-and-tumble, and as a result of those efforts, Jordan's body gave out and the Pistons beat the Bulls in three straight years. But in the fourth year, Julius? Jordan and his team busted out a little thing called the triangle offense, and after that, everything fell apart for the Detroit Pistons. The same holds true for us, thirty years later - you've got your little "Outlaw Rules", and you're ready to show up on Fallout and give me the same beating that you surgically administered at Night of Honor. But the game has changed, Julius, and if you're not prepared for that...then you'll just be known as the guy that let little ol' Syndicate rattle off a fuckin' threepeat. This isn't about the future, this isn't about Jason or Elena or anyone else, nah - this is about you and me, in that ring, settling the score, and you better be prepared for the future if you do come up short. Me, I've got nothing to lose, but you? This winning streak is your only real accomplishment in this business, and once it's gone, all you'll be is your momma's little bitch.
Syndicate: It's about time that you and everyone else in this company that I'm not someone that's gonna take a beating and turn the other cheek, because as long as I've got this camera pointed at my chiseled face, you're not gonna be able to escape me. You may see me as an annoyance, like a little gnat circling your head, but trust me...I can be so, so much more dangerous than you'd ever expect. Elena and the Legacy Championship can wait, because right now? After you’ve given out eleven straight ass-kickings...it’s about time someone returns the favor. Welcome...to the -
As the Los Angeles Outlaw completes his catchphrase, a man walking in the opposite direction bumps into his left shoulder and brushes past. Syndicate, all too used to rude Los Angeles pedestrians, just keeps on walking.
Syndicate: Watch it, asshole.
?: Oh, we have been watching, Mr. Irvine.
Syndicate stops in his tracks, confused. Did that rando just say, "Mr. Irvine"?
Syndicate: ...how the hell do you know my name?
He turns and sees the man that just ran into him, standing alone in the middle of the otherwise-empty sidewalk. Syndicate immediately notices three things about him: one, he's wearing a black unmarked hoodie that obscures the top half of his face, leaving only his stubble-filled chin visible in the dim light. Two, he's a few inches taller than Syndicate, and looks to be at least fifty pounds heavier - he wouldn't be easy to take down in a fight. And three, even as his hands are firmly placed in the pockets of his jeans, some sort of circular tribal tattoo can be seen on the backside of his left hand.
Overall, not somebody that Syndicate particularly wants to mess with, alone on the streets of LA. And yet, the man remains persistent.
Hooded Man: We know a great number of things about you, your name being the first on that list.
Syndicate: “We”? Who are you, some backwater paparazzi shitbag?
Hooded Man: All in due time, Mr. Irvine. All in due time.
Syndicate: Nah, there won’t be a “due time.” Get the fuck out of my face!
Syndicate throws a punch, but the stranger dodges to the left.
Hooded Man: We are not here to harm you, we are only here to help.
Another attempted punch, and another miss.
Hooded Man: You toil in your daily life, demonstrating your wide range of talents to the world, and yet, they label you as a pariah.
The Los Angeles Outlaw attempts a third punch, but this time, the Hooded Man catches it with his right hand without skipping a beat.
Hooded Man: From Apter to the WWX to today - everywhere you go, you are taken for granted. Even your own wife doesn’t believe in your ability to succeed...isn’t that right?
The man lets go of a stunned Syndicate's hand. Unable to form a coherent thought, the Outlaw steps backward, looking for an out, but just like the earlier moment with Sophie that the man is referencing, Syndicate doesn't have anywhere to go.
Hooded Man: You now find yourself at a crossroads in your life. You are being forced to choose between the people that you love and the career that you’re passionate about. But you shouldn’t have to make that choice. You should be able to do as you please, without anyone else trying to run interference. Your peers should respect and accept you for the person that you are. That’s the life that you truly desire.
Syndicate has absolutely no idea what the hell is going on. He starts nervously laughing, praying that yet another chance to run away from a bad situation will manifest.
Syndicate: Ah, haha, very funny! This is one of those hidden camera prank shows, right? Wow, I bet Sophie was in on the whole thing, you told her to blow up at me, and now you’re cornering me to get my reaction. Bravo!
He claps his hands and looks around at the surrounding area, hoping for the producers of the "show" will reveal themselves and end this exchange.
Syndicate: Alright, guys, you can all come out now! The ruse is up!
The Hooded Man extends his arms outward, as if to show that, well, there's nothing to show.
Hooded Man: There is no ruse, Mr. Irvine, and we do not kid. You deserve better. You deserve...to free your soul.
Reaching into his left pocket, the man pulls out a black business card and hands it to Syndicate. The Outlaw looks down at it and is immediately confused, as it contains no contact information whatsoever.
Hooded Man: We’ll be expecting you...and we will be watching.
The faintest of smiles can be seen on the Hooded Man's lips as he turns and walks down a nearby alleyway, leaving Syndicate alone on the street. Trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened, he tries to follow him...
Syndicate: Hey, wait up, you never told me your -
...but as he turns and looks down the alley, he finds that the man has completely disappeared.
Syndicate: - name.
Now finding himself alone, Syndicate takes a moment to collect himself. How did that guy know about his fight with Sophie? How did he know so much about his past? Syndicate may never get that answer, and judging by the man's sudden disappearance, he comes to the only possible conclusion.
Syndicate: Fuckin’ stalker...
Taking one last glimpse at the mysterious business card, Syndicate rips it in half and throws it into the air, the pieces fluttering in the slight breeze as they fall to the sidewalk. He places his hands in his pockets, shakes his head, and resumes his nighttime walk as the shot is eaten up by black-and-white television static.
