Post by Syndicate on Nov 9, 2021 22:08:57 GMT -5
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - LOS ANGELES, CA
NOVEMBER 6TH, 2021 - 5:51PM
...fuck. Too much salt.
We find our favorite Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, staring into the abyss of his own failed cooking endeavors. It's a Saturday night in the City of Angels, but while his peers may spend their weekends partying or indulging in life's most primal urges, Syndicate - dressed in a black tank top and gray sweatpants - has instead chosen to stay in. It's not like he had anyone to go out with, anyway - his agent and friend, JJ Kline, typically has Saturdays blocked off for his other clients, and his wife, Sophie...hasn't been the happiest person to be around, as of late.
Syndicate had hoped things would get better in the wake of his unexpected victory at Bloodbath. Sophie had made it clear that she felt Syndicate was wasting his life away in the world of professional wrestling, accomplishing nothing while risking everything, but now? He's finally got something to show for his efforts. He's got the one prize that anyone else in the industry would kill to have, the one that promises to keep him at the top of the world for the foreseeable future: the Project: Honor Legacy Championship. As Syndicate picks at his overcooked and over-seasoned steak in the middle of his home's darkened kitchen, we catch a glimpse of the aforementioned championship, propped up on the table in front of the Outlaw, its silver faceplate glittering in the ambient glow from the modern chandelier hanging above. The title belt hasn't left Syndicate's side since Bloodbath, and who can blame him for keeping it close? After all, to the Los Angeles Outlaw, the Legacy Championship symbolizes that he had finally made it back to the top of the industry, and regardless if anyone else ends up respecting him for that accomplishment...he'll always have these moments. It's just too bad that this particular moment is accompanied with a tasteless New York strip.
Frustrated with himself, Syndicate pushes the plate forward in an effort to keep himself from eating any more. He stands up from the table and moves over to the small window located above the kitchen sink; taking one glance outside, silently hoping to himself that JJ would be pulling into the driveway and looking for something to do, Syndicate turns to the camera with a soft smile present on his bearded face.
Syndicate: It’s amazing how quickly the world changes.
Pivoting, Syndicate leans against the edge of the counter and crosses his arms over his torso.
Syndicate: People can meet, fall in love, and get crushed by the embrace of death, all in one day. Entire civilizations rise and crumble before our very eyes, before any of us can even blink. Hell, just this past weekend, Aaron Rodgers, once revered as the second coming of Jesus Christ on the football field, tanked all of his goodwill and reputation in just one single interview. That’s how quickly life can change. From my point of view, three seconds is all you need to make a difference in this world, and at Bloodbath? That’s exactly how long it took for me to turn this place on its fucking head.
Suddenly, Syndicate jumps back over to the kitchen table, grabs the Legacy Championship belt, and holds it mere inches away from the camera's lens. The "LEGACY CHAMPION" wordmark can be clearly seen across its center, along with a prominent "SYNDICATE" nameplate attached at the bottom.
Syndicate: Look at this. LOOK AT THIS. This doesn't belong to Elena anymore. It's not in the hands of Jason Long or Mark Hunter or any of the others that have failed to capture it in the past. No, this is mine - IT'S ALL FUCKIN' MINE - and while I'd love to be the guy that shuts up and moves on, I must ask that you allow me to gloat for a few short moments. After all, this is all a bit ridiculous, isn't it? Just one week ago, Elena DeDraca was still at the top of the wrestling world. The abandoned Fontainebleau hotel was being retrofitted for an all-out war. Most strikingly, 99% of people in Las Vegas believed that the battle for the Legacy Championship had already been decided. So what happened? How could the British Raven, the woman crowned as one of the greatest champions ever, experience such a definitive, shocking fall from grace? Simple: I clipped off her wings. You all saw what went down in that hotel: after what seemed like a lifetime of pain and bloodshed, the almighty Elena DeDraca was the one that cracked under the pressure. The woman that has tried so hard to appear calm and collected was the same woman that ended up taking her eye off the prize. And who else would be there to pick off the scraps...than the man that, by all accounts, shouldn't have been there in the first place.
Syndicate: That's what grinds everyone's gears, isn't it? After all this time, after failed attempt after failed attempt to dethrone Elena, it wasn't one of the "pillars" of Project: Honor that got the job done, no. It was Syndicate, the guy that didn't belong, the broken toy at the bottom of the toy box. Hell, up until last week, you could probably go up to anyone in that locker room and ask them if they knew who the hell Syndicate was, and I GUARANTEE you'd get some confused faces. Put simply, I was a nobody...but now, that same nobody is your Legacy Champion, the cream of the crop, the belle of the ball, and all of a sudden, those initial impressions that you all had of me are forced to change. The big knock on my career in Project: Honor is that I wasn't able to win "the big one". I didn't beat Jason Long, I fell short to Julius Fairweather at Night of Honor, and I "clearly" couldn't compete with the others at the top of the Fallout mountain. But that's all gone now - that reputation has been lost to the sands of time, whether you'd like to admit it or not. Now, I'm sure that y'all are gonna get together and move the goalposts, saying that "oh, Syndicate may have beaten Elena, but she clearly wasn't that good! Syndicate needs to prove himself against a REAL challenge." Right? RIGHT?
The Los Angeles Outlaw flashes his trademark cocky little smirk as he continues.
Syndicate: Wrong. You don't have that power anymore. You don't get to move the goalposts just because you're upset that I keep launching myself through them - that's not how this is going to work. Like it or not, your savior has been killed in cold blood, and in her place stands a variant of Syndicate unlike any you've seen before. A man that doesn't follow rules or precedents. A man that doesn't bend the knee to the will of "Society". A man that would rather die in that motherfucking ring than give up HIS championship.
Syndicate: One week ago, the night before Bloodbath, I walked the streets of Las Vegas in an attempt to clear my mind. The place was filled at the brim with fans - men, women, and children, all dressed in their favorite Savannah Sunshine t-shirt or Ozymandias mask. And as I, a fresh-and-blood Project: Honor superstar at the peak of his profession, mingled with these people, it became abundantly clear that to them...I was a stranger, just another face in a sea of meaningless faces. That's all I was...that's all I've ever been. But like I said at the beginning of all this, history is always on the precipice of change, and now? You people have no choice. There won't be any more hiding or dodging or goalpost-moving, none of that. Moving forward, this company is under new management, and before long...EVERYONE will know my name.
Syndicate sets his precious Legacy title back down on the table, making sure to place it in such a way that it's still prominently visible in the camera's shot.
Syndicate: But of course, some people just don't understand. They don't listen. They don't process the warnings that I've been trying to give since the very start. Case in point: Billy Bennett. Billy, I understand that you're new around here, right? First televised match in the company, and what's this? You get to make your Fallout debut...against the best in the fuckin' world. No pressure. You know, I heard what you had to say about my match at Bloodbath, and man, nothing brings a tear to my eye quite like seeing a bum-ass little hick like yourself nearly climax at the thought of touching this Legacy Championship. Now, I'm sure lesser men and women would just merely dismiss you as "out of your league" for even THINKING that you can hold your own against the best, but me? I see things a bit differently. I've been in your position - first day on the job, looking to make an impact - and I get what must be going through your mind as you pick yourself up out of that swamp and prepare to face off against the Outlaw. You've got confidence, you've got spunk, and I would be an absolute clown to dismiss you out of hand like so many others have done to me. But that doesn't mean that I'm not going to make an example outta you. You may be used to wrangling up snakes in that backwater hometown of yours, but you're not facing off against a serpent this time around. You're facing a man...one that's ready to bury you six feet under for even thinking that you can survive outside of that damn bog.
Syndicate: Unfortunately, Billy, we're not wrestling in the middle of the Everglades. We're not facing off in a swamp. We're not going to be in your world...we'll be in mine. You may be partial to grappling and making people tap out to your bevy of submission maneuvers, but you know who took the same approach? Elena DeDraca...look what happened to her. I'm not here to have a long, drawn-out affair with you, Billy - I'm here to take care of business, knock you the fuck out, and leave before the clock hits eight. That is to say, if you hope to have a even the slimmest chance of satisfying your desire for pain and suffering in that ring this Thursday, you better be more than a one-trick pony. You better be prepared to jump out of your comfort zone. Most importantly, you better be ready to not play the role of "hunted"...but rather, the role of "hunted". Because you won't have a gun or your family or a damn PRAYER of making it past the Los Angeles Outlaw unless you're prepared to give up everything you've ever known to get the job done. It's just like I said...we're fighting by MY rules now, Billy, and at Fallout...we'll see who disappoints who.
Syndicate: Oh, but lil' Sasquatch isn't the only person gracing me with their presence, are they? You know, when I got into this business, I didn't think I'd be spending my time facing off against people that believe they're some sort of two-faced deity, but here we are. Thanatos, I must say that your performance at Bloodbath was quite remarkable, and I congratulate you on getting past absolute, undisputed LEGENDS in this business such as...uh...
The Outlaw glances downward and slightly pulls his right hand out of his jeans pocket, as if he's reading something off of his palm.
Syndicate: ...Cain Sinclair and SWITCHBLXDE.
Now taking both hands out of their respective pockets, Syndicate provides the viewing audience with a rousing slow clap.
Syndicate: Wow. What else can be said? I mean, you come to Project: Honor on the premise of being a Greek god, of all things, and you've got this apparent "good cop, bad cop" thing going on, but let's push all that to the side for a moment and make one thing perfectly clear. Those guys that you defeated at Bloodbath are just that: guys. Names on an endlessly shuffling list of names that'll never amount of anything. Now, by winning a match, you've already risen above that pack, but before you get all excited, just realize that it's a long, long, long way up to the top. I've seen crazy people like you find success, sure - hell, Havoc just became Prime Champion - but the difference between you and them, Thanatos, is that they're not afraid to show off their true colors. They'll be the first to admit that they're not right in the head, but you? You pretend to be stable outside of the ring, and when you do find yourself between those ropes, you put on a mask and hide yourself from the world. That's all this is, Thanatos: an elaborate ruse to distract yourself from your own problems and insecurities, and let me be the first to tell you that relying on disguises won't get you very far in this business. You want to know why people avoid you, Thanatos? It's not because of your temper or behaviors, no. It's because you're fake. You're a phony. You got kicked the hell out of Europe not because you were too "violent" to keep around, but because you were incapable of solving your own problems.
Syndicate: It's a cruel world, Thanatos, and it's clear to me that you're not ready to be a part of it. This isn't storytime with Socrates, buddy - this is real fuckin' life, and in real life, Zeus isn't gonna be around to save your ass when you just got knocked to the ground by the Legacy Champion. You call yourself an angel - a DEMIGOD - but there's no salvation for you here. This match isn't going to bring meaning to the past twenty years of your pathetic existence, but by the end of the night, I promise that you will have gained one thing, Thanatos: an understanding of where you stand in the pecking order. You've got a lot of shit to figure out on your own, and that's no place to be when you're facing off against the Los Angeles Outlaw. So as for you and Billy...I need you both to see the position you're in. I'm the guy that everyone wants to take out, the man that did what all others had failed to do. I am undeterred, I am unstoppable, and most importantly, I...am undisputed. You can go and beat up my sorry-ass partner, Ellie Quinn, all you want, but if you want to come at me? Be my guest. Line up, steady your feet, and take your shot...but for the love of God, don't you dare fuckin' miss. Welcome...to the -
***RING RING...RING RING...***
Syndicate: Oh, God damn it...
He walks over to the kitchen counter and picks up his ringing phone. As he flips the screen over, he notices that the caller's name seems to be unavailable.
After a moment of hesitation, Syndicate slides his thumb over the green "Answer" button and puts the phone's speaker up to his ear.
?: Congratulations.
That voice. That damn voice.
Syndicate: I told you to stop calling me.
It's not exactly a mystery who decided to ring Syndicate's phone this evening. This is, of course, Ruka: the mysterious, faceless leader of the Triad, an organization that has followed Syndicate at every turn over the past number of weeks. They've requested that Syndicate join their cause in an effort to "rehabilitate" him - to "free his soul", as the other heads of the Triad, Ucho and Oko, so eloquently put it - but the Outlaw is unsure of their true motivations.
Ruka: Would you rather we show up at your front door?
Syndicate's got no response to that one - nobody else knows about his affiliation with the Triad, and he'd very much like to keep it that way.
Ruka: Thought not. Have you made your decision?
Syndicate: My answer is no.
Ruka: Really? Is that so?
Syndicate: Yes. I don't need help from a bunch of motherfuckin' stalkers to get what I want. I went into that abandoned hotel and I beat Elena DeDraca all by myself, thank you very much - all you've done is waste my time. As far as I'm concerned, y'all can kick rocks.
Ruka: Interesting.
The deep, rattling voice of Ruka pauses for a moment before responding to Syndicate's apparent rejection.
Ruka: You know, I remember meeting you for the first time, Mr. Irvine. Wandering the streets of Los Angeles, alone, trying to grapple with your own personal problems. You put so much time, energy, and effort into professional wrestling, and what was the result? Your wife rejected you. Your agent laughed at you. The world didn't even bother to learn your name. You had nothing, Mr. Irvine...until we found you. You may be too dense to realize this, but ever since you first met the Triad, your life has already changed for the better.
Syndicate: Yeah, and like I said, that's all on me. You had nothing to do with that.
Ruka: Are you sure? I know they teach that correlation does not mean causation, but we can't help but notice that you've been undefeated since our fateful encounter on San Vicente. You beat a man that had defeated you previously, you exorcised a ghost from your past, and just last week? You did what only two others have been able to do: climb to the top of the mountain in Project: Honor and become Legacy Champion. Now, did this flurry of success just come about based on your own doing...or, was there something else at play?
Syndicate walks over towards his home's nearby stairwell and looks up, checking to make sure that his wife, Sophie, wasn't coming down anytime soon. Last he heard, she was folding laundry in the bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall, and sure enough, he hears the theme song to "RuPaul's Drag Race" playing on the room's TV, confirming his hopes. Satisfied, he turns back to the kitchen.
Syndicate: I still don't know what you want from me.
Ruka: Just like we told you, that is irrelevant. What matters is that you're already becoming a better man that you ever have been. You did what most people would claim was impossible, and now? The world can't hide from you. They can't push you aside and pretend that you don't exist. As long as you hold that title, that Legacy Championship...you're unstoppable. But what happens when you falter, Mr. Irvine? What happens when you lose, and it all gets taken away from you? You're right back to square one. But we have the power to prevent that future from ever occurring. We can help you stay on top. We can help you become the ideal version of yourself. We can help you...free your soul.
The Legacy Champion hesitates. Part of him wants to believe that this is all an elaborate ruse, something put together by JJ to rile him up and unleash his competitive spirit. Part of him thinks that Ruka and his associates are full of shit. Part of him wants to hang up the phone right now, contact the police, and take down this little operation before it gains any more ground. Unfortunately...that side of Syndicate wasn't the part that spoke his next words.
Syndicate: ...okay. I'll give you guys a shot.
Regardless of his suspicions, Syndicate can't argue with the results thus far. To him, the Legacy title is the Holy Grail, the one item that he desires to possess over everything else. He can't let it slip through his fingers, and regardless of the potential cost, Syndicate feels as though he needs to take risks in order to stay on top. This...is certainly one of those risks.
Ruka: Good. When you're ready to begin your rehabilitation, call us at this number and we'll take you to the Sanctum to begin your trials.
Syndicate raises his eyebrows, confused by the wording of that last statement.
Syndicate: Trials? What do you mean by -
Ruka: You've made your choice - the contract has been sealed. Goodbye.
*BEEP*
Ruka ends the call, leaving Syndicate alone with his thoughts in his kitchen. "Trials"? Whatever that means, Syndicate's pretty sure it doesn't involve flipping dirt bikes through obstacle courses. Before he can think through possible scenarios, however, his wife, Sophie Irvine, slowly walks down the stairs and into Syndicate's bubble. Wearing a pink tank top and volleyball shorts, the brunette looks at her husband with the slightest hint of suspicion in her eyes...although Syndicate doesn't seem to notice.
Sophie: Who was that?
Syndicate: Oh, uh...just JJ.
Sophie clearly doesn't buy it, but Syndicate doesn't care - he's too busy blankly staring over at his Legacy Championship, as various scenarios of what might happen to it race through his head.
Sophie: Gotcha.
She sniffs the air, noticing a hint of pepper in the air before looking down and seeing the steak Syndicate had cooked earlier.
Sophie: Make any for me?
Shit.
Syndicate: No, uh...sorry.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. How could Syndicate have messed this one up? Seems like a slam dunk, in hindsight - make dinner, and for a moment, you make Sophie happy. Too bad he couldn't even manage to do that.
Syndicate: ...I'll go eat upstairs. Got some work to do.
Hastily grabbing both the plate of badly cooked steak and the Legacy Championship, Syndicate bounds upstairs to the relative safety of his office, leaving a confused and frustrated Sophie Irvine behind to make her own dinner. As she opens the fridge to see what's available to eat, the screen is slowly overtaken from all sides by black-and-white static.
