Post by Syndicate on Dec 7, 2021 23:50:51 GMT -5
THE SANCTUM - UNKNOWN LOCATION
NOVEMBER 17TH, 2021 - 10:01AM
Ruka: Come. Let's talk about your future.
We find the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, in the same place we last left him: being beckoned by a hooded man that, just a few minutes earlier, he nearly killed. Surrounded by an underground cavalcade of empty jail cells and cobblestone walls, and wearing a sweaty white tank top and blue jeans, the Legacy Champion breathes heavily as he considers his options. He could run the other direction and try to escape this hellhole on his own - where he'd go, he had no idea - or he could follow Ruka, the leader of the clandestine Triad organization that lured him into their clutches, and potentially find out what’s really the reasoning behind all the torture and misdirection he's been forced to endure. After briefly glancing back over his left shoulder, Syndicate looks up at Ruka, takes a deep breath...and follows him up the stairs.
Ruka: I promise you, Mr. Irvine, all your questions are about to be answered.
Syndicate: Oh shit, you know how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
Ruka: …most of your questions.
After a short climb, Syndicate and Ruka reach the top of the brick-encased steps, where the Triad leader swings open a heavy wooden door. Behind it, they find themselves back within the central room of "The Sanctum", the Triad's fancy name for their secret hideout. As various anonymous attendants stand on all sides of the circular room - each wearing a black sleeveless sweatshirt with a hood that obscures the top half of their faces - Ruka walks up to the front of the space, where three blackened thrones sit side-by-side. He takes a seat in the centermost chair, right in between his two main compatriots - on the left is Ucho, "the One who Hears", and on the right, Oko, "the One who Sees". All three leaders of the Triads are dressed in similar attire as their assistants, with flowing red-and-black robes replacing their hoodies. Now left alone at the center of the chamber, Syndicate swivels his body around, taking note of all the men surrounding him.
Syndicate: Alright, assholes - listen up. I'm gonna tell all of you the exact same thing that I just told your precious little boss downstairs, and you better pay attention to every single word of it.
He uses his right index finger to point over at the now-seated Ruka.
Syndicate: Look at him. LOOK AT YOUR KING. See that speck of blood at the corner of his mouth? That was no accident. You people have taken over my entire life, you've threatened the safety of my friends and family, and for what? So that I can play your little games and help enact your Saw fantasy? Nah. We're done with all this. You'll tell me what's really going on here - you will give me the answers that I fucking DESERVE - or I will not stop until every single one of you bastards wakes up outside the gates of Hell. So let's get down to it, then - who the FUCK wants to tell me what's going on?
Syndicate glances around, and sees that no one - not a single attendant, nor any of the three leaders in front of him - seems even remotely phased by his comments. Shaking his head in disappointment, he looks up and stares straight into the covered face of Ruka.
Syndicate: Fine. You don't want to spill the beans?
Slowly, the Outlaw raises both of his hands in the air, in an apparent gesture of surrender.
Syndicate: ...then just take me out. Obviously, kidnapping people and ruining their lives is a pastime for y'all, so let's skip the formalities and get to the ending. I lost. You beat me. Now's your chance to kill me and wash it all away.
He pauses, waiting for a response, a movement, ANYTHING...but all he gets is a soft chuckle from the mouth of Ruka.
Ruka: Oh, Mr. Irvine, we have no reason to kill you…after all, we wouldn’t receive our payment if we did.
Syndicate: Wait a minute…you guys are getting paid?
An attendant walks over to the front of the Triad’s three thrones.
Attendant: He has arrived, Master Ruka.
Ruka: Good. Send him in.
A door can be heard swinging open down the long hallway connecting to the Sanctum’s throne room, followed by swift footsteps. Syndicate peers down the hall, with a look of suspicious curiosity on his face being immediately replaced by a mix of fear and shock.
Syndicate: You...
Seconds later, out of the shadows…Arik Holt emerges. The leader of True Society, an attempted murderer, and - somehow - the general manager of the Fallout brand. Wearing his signature gray suit and holding a silver briefcase in his right hand, Holt’s sickening smile glows in the overhead light as he faces Ruka and bows his head.
Arik: Thank you for your assistance in this, gentlemen. I’ll take it from here.
Ruka: Happy to be of service, Mr. Holt. Do you have our reward?
Holt smiles and playfully swings the briefcase back and forth.
Arik: Right here, good sirs. $100,000, plus a tip for bringing him to me in one piece - can't let good behavior go unrewarded, now can we?
Ruka motions over to the nearby attendant, prompting him to walk over to Arik and collect the case. Stepping back towards the thrones, the hooded assistant opens the chassis, and as they do, the camera catches a glimpse of multiple stacks of cash lying inside. They scan through the piles of money, ensuring its authenticity, before turning and facing Ruka.
Attendant: Looks good.
Ruka smiles and waves the servant off.
Ruka: He's all yours.
Displaying a confident smirk, Arik Holt nods and swivels to face the Los Angeles Outlaw, who has been left completely speechless by this sudden turn of events.
Arik: Come here often?
Syndicate: You...you were behind all of this?
Arik: Mmm, I wouldn’t say that I was “behind” it…more like “just a bit on the side, eagerly watching you get freaked the fuck out”.
Holt, with his hands folded behind his back, begins to slowly pace back-and-forth in front of the Legacy Champion.
Arik: To be honest, I'm a bit surprised you didn't figure it out sooner. Think about it for a sec - how the hell do you think these guys managed to get backstage at Fallout?
After taking a moment to process Arik's words, Syndicate's eyes widen as he thinks back to Fallout XIII in Chicago, where he came in contact with an undercover Triad operative in the backstage area.
The crew member just looks up at Syndicate and smiles.
Crew Member: It's like we told you, Mr. Irvine. We're only here to help you...we want you to free your soul.
Crew Member: It's like we told you, Mr. Irvine. We're only here to help you...we want you to free your soul.
Arik: Or, what about when they called you on your private cell phone after your match on Fallout XIV?
?: Anytime will do. We'll know when you leave your home, and we'll know when you arrive at the location.
Syndicate: You sick fucks.
?: Oh, and by the way, I'd dry off your back a bit more...looks like you missed a spot.
Syndicate instinctively reaches for the small of his back, and the caller was right: it did need to be dried off.
Syndicate: How did you...
Syndicate: You gave them access to the cameras.
Arik: Project: Honor cameras document your entire life from all angles - all it takes to see everything is a simple password.
From his throne on the other side of the room, Ruka butts in.
Ruka: We tried to clue you in on it all yesterday, but you were too suspicious of our intentions to recognize the hints placed right at your feet. We couldn't spell it out for you completely, however...it was too early for that.
Ruka: Over the next number of days, you will undergo a series of trials, each intended to strengthen your body and mind for the fight to come.
The Legacy Champion squints his eyes at Ruka, confused.
Syndicate: DAYS?? You don't think Sophie and JJ are gonna wonder where I am?
Ruka: Oh, don’t worry - we have that covered. They're both under the impression that Project: Honor needed you for a promotional tour - they'll be none the wiser. Your employer has been taken care of as well.
Ruka: You need to understand one thing: everyone, from the hot dog vendor on the sidewalk to the big wigs on the 50th floor, are part of the world that takes you for granted. If you want to be given the respect that you’ve rightfully earned, then society has to change.
Syndicate, having now fully realized what's been happening behind his back, looks down at the stone floor and shakes his head.
Syndicate: So what the fuck do you want with me, then? Has this just been a crazy-ass salary negotiation, or something?
Arik: Well, as you just saw, I don't need to take any more of your money - JJ Kline's doing a good job of that on his own, isn't he?
The Los Angeles Outlaw grimaces at this comment - he doesn't want to believe that his good friend and agent would be abusing him for profit, but Ruka and the Triad have already shown him the truth.
Arik: You know, champ...I like you. Since the day you first stepped into Project: Honor, I've been watching you like a hawk, and I have to say that I'm extremely pleased with what I've seen.
Arik Holt steps over to the center of the room, where just last night, Syndicate was ordered by the Triad to knock out three individuals that had inadvertently caused him grief.
Arik: People must be willing to fight against a world that has wronged them. They must persevere through hardship, and if backed into a corner, they must be willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want. These are the qualities I look for in a potential ally, Syndicate, and based on the three trials that you just survived, you've got them all in spades.
The bald psychopath turns and faces the Legacy Champion head-on.
Arik: You are exactly the person that we need. You check all the boxes, and you already have the hardware to show that you belong. So as for why I've asked the Triad to bring you here today, Syndicate, it's actually quite simple: I want you to join True Society.
Syndicate: If you wanted me so bad, why didn't you just ask me directly?
Arik: Well, where's the fun in that?
Holt chuckles as he extends his arms outward in a welcoming gesture.
Arik: I think we both know that if I had simply popped the question on a whim, you'd immediately say no. You've got that rebellious spirit in you, Syndicate, and there's not a chance in hell that you would have taken my request at face value - isn't that right?
For once, Syndicate agrees with his boss - a few weeks ago, he wouldn’t even consider this offer. But now...now, things are different. He's got a championship to protect, respect from his peers to earn...and whether he likes it or not, a Triad-provided truth to seek out.
Arik: I want to change the world, Syndicate…and I want you to help me. Join True Society, and you’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted: companions that have your back, protection from the fools gunning for your title, and the opportunity to burn down the society that has wronged you. You want to be respected by your peers? This is your fucking chance.
He extends his right hand towards the Legacy Champion.
Arik: Shake my hand…and you’ll have it all.
To Syndicate, in this moment, it's as if time stands still. Arik Holt, with his arm outstretched, smiling as the Triad watches curiously from behind. What brought Syndicate to this point? What could he have possibly done to deserve all of this?
He thinks back to Apter, Tennessee, back when he was a bright-faced, determined sixteen-year-old, looking to etch his name in the history books one way or another. He wished to be captain of the immensely successful Apter state wrestling squad. He strived for an individual state championship. Most of all, though...he just wanted his brother, Colt, to approve of him. Colt was always one step ahead - he was always able to do just a bit more than Sydney ever could, and because of it, he also received all of the praise and admiration. Sydney was the kid in the back row, the runt of the litter, and no matter how hard he tried to break out of the mold and come into his own...he was only ever seen as Colt's younger brother, and frustrated by that inevitability, Sydney hopped on a Greyhound bus and left Apter for the bright lights of Los Angeles. He was ready to start over.
Sydney - now known as "Syndicate" - first got into professional wrestling with the express purpose of making a quick buck and getting himself back on his feet. He was involved with a few independent promotions for a number of years before finally landing a full-time gig with the World Wrestling eXistence in 2013. Eight years later, Syndicate stood as one of the most successful competitors in the company's history, winning nine World championships. But did any of that really matter? No. Even though he moved across the country, even though he killed off his former self and became a new man, and even as he shed blood, sweat, and tears to prove that he belonged...nobody ever respected his accomplishments. Syndicate was still seen as a "second-tier" wrestler, unable to carry a show on his own back. He was pushed aside for big matches, taken for granted by those in charge, and when the company closed earlier this year, he was once again left standing alone, left to pick up the pieces of his shattered life. Desperate to make his mark on the industry and exorcise the demons of his past, Syndicate took a new job with Project: Honor. It was time to start over again.
Flash forward to today. Syndicate is the reigning Legacy Champion, having overcome immense odds to get there, but does any of it really matter? He's still being treated the same as he was prior to the win - if not worse. His peers say that he doesn't truly fit in, that he's nothing more than a passing fad. His wife wants him to quit...his agent is already planning for his retirement...there's no one left in his corner. Sure, Syndicate's the champion, but once that's gone? He's got nothing...absolutely nothing. It's with this thought in his head that Syndicate - as time resumes around him - takes a deep breath, and shakes Arik Holt's hand.
Syndicate is starting over for a third time...but this time around, he's gonna make sure that it sticks.
Arik: Welcome to True Society, Syndicate. Let's go purging.
Seemingly giddy with excitement, Arik Holt turns, bids adieu to Ruka, Ucho, and Oko, and makes his way back down the same hallway that he entered from. Syndicate, meanwhile, decides to take a moment to collect himself, but that moment is cut short by the voice of Ruka.
Ruka: Alright, Mr. Irvine, time for you to go.
Syndicate looks up at the Triad leader, pushes back his long blonde hair, and nods.
Syndicate: Thanks for nothing, asshole.
He takes a step towards the exit tunnel, but is immediately pushed back by a nearby Triad attendant.
Ruka: Sorry...that exit is for paying customers only.
Syndicate: You've gotta be fuckin' kidding me, can't I -
Ruka: Once more...for old time's sake...
Before he can even think about protesting, the attendant reaches into his pocket, pulls out a damp piece of white cloth, and shoves it into Syndicate's mouth. Seconds later, the world goes dark.
PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY - LOS ANGELES, CA
DECEMBER 1ST, 2021 - 7:18PM
DECEMBER 1ST, 2021 - 7:18PM
We emerge on a foggy day in downtown Los Angeles, where the Legacy Champion, Syndicate, is being driven home from the airport. This is his first time visiting home since the events of the Purge and Mall Mayhem from the weekend prior - one of those matches made him feel like "king of the world", while the other...felt like hitting rock bottom.
Sitting in the back seat of a brand-new black Toyota Sequoia - driven by a silent chauffeur that was provided, of course, by Arik Holt - Syndicate leans back and closes his eyes for a moment. Although he did manage to survive the fall off of the Mall of America balcony, he is certainly still feeling the affects of Ozymandias's actions. Underneath his black leather jacket and white t-shirt lies numerous scars, bruises, and stitches, all graciously provided by the massive Christmas tree that he managed to fall into. But does any of that actually matter to Syndicate now? Not really. After all...he's the one with all the prizes. On the seat to his left, the Project: Honor Legacy Championship is propped up for display, functioning as a fixation point for the Los Angeles Outlaw during this arduous trip through LA traffic. On Syndicate's right, a black briefcase leans against the Sequoia's window, with his "Los Angeles Outlaw" logo now spray-painted on its side. This is, of course, the Universal Briefcase, which grants Syndicate the ability to challenge for any of Fallout's three main championships on a moment's notice. And who else should hold such a power...but the man that already holds the top prize in the entire wrestling business?
Sighing, Syndicate glances forward at the road ahead. Amidst the fog, traffic lights and car bumpers can be seen as everyone fights to make their way to the southern end of the city. Left with nothing to do but entertain his own thoughts, Syndicate glances at the camera mounted to the windshield and smiles.
Syndicate: ...do I have everybody's attention now?
As he speaks, the Los Angeles Outlaw grabs his Legacy Championship and puts it in his lap, holding it against his torso as if coddling a baby.
Syndicate: Just a few short weeks ago, you all saw me as nothing more than a man with a belt. A prestigious, important belt, sure - but nothing more than that. I was pegged by the masses as a placeholder, an afterthought, a blip in the radar that only served to take the spotlight away from those that were more deserving. Even now, I sit before you as a broken man that's - to be quite honest - lucky to even be alive, let alone talking to a camera. But that's the miracle of time, isn't it? No matter how much strife or punishment you endure, as long as you stay alive, there'll always be another chance to right the wrongs of your past...and it's within that same line of thinking that I come to you now - broken, sure...but, in another way, healed.
Syndicate: Everyone's seen the headlines by now. "Syndicate Joins True Society". "The Legacy Champion Turns to the Dark Side". I'll be honest, I've been too busy not dying to check my phone, but I'm sure there's at least a few of you out there wondering why I did what I did. Was it for fame? Power? The selfish desire to keep my championship at all costs? I suppose you'll never find out, because I don't owe you an explanation - in fact, I don't owe you anything. This world has done everything possible to hinder my growth and hold me down, but finally, after 29 long years, I'm in a position to fight back. I have the power to call the shots. Most importantly, though...I've got a group of noble warriors that accept me for who I am and have my back when I stumble. So, ladies and gentlemen, given those advantages...can you really blame me for accepting Arik Holt's gracious offer? Put yourself in my shoes, for just a moment. Throughout your entire life, society rejects you at every turn. You aren't seen as an actual person, but rather, a puppet that can be controlled and taken advantage of. If you were in that situation, and someone offered you a way out...wouldn't you say yes? Wouldn't you shake their hand, thank them for their generosity, and work to get rid of what pushed you down that hole in the first place? That's what I chose to do, and now...I can truly say, once and for all, that my soul has been freed.
A few cars up, a frustrated driver honks their horn, prompting an avalanche of other frustrated people doing the exact same thing...but Syndicate isn't even the slightest bit fazed. After all, he's lived here for thirteen years - he's used to this shit by now.
Syndicate: But that doesn't jive with the will of the people, does it? A man finally reaching his world-class potential, on the biggest stage, with everything on the line? That kind of story is usually reserved for the movies - in the real world, it's the establishment's sole intention to keep themselves in power, at all costs. You're one of them, Jason. You can't stand me, not because of who I am, but because of what I represent. After all, I did what you couldn't - I took advantage of my Legacy title shot, and I made sure that I walked out of Bloodbath with Big Silver wrapped around my waist. Right now, as things stand, I stand in the same position that you've been so heavily gunning for, and I know that's tearing you up inside, isn't it? I'll tell you one thing, Jason, and it's a bit of cold-hearted truth that you're not gonna want to hear: I've replaced you. You, Jason Long, were cocky enough to stay put - keeping yourself in the same "Emperor" state of mind, oblivious to anyone or anything that could possibly be a threat, but look how that turned out. You lost everything, while the man that chose to reinvent himself rose to the top in your stead. You have consistently shown, time and time again, that you are simply too dense to recognize your own weaknesses, and while you were busy playing pretend in the backyard, Daddy Syndicate was watching from inside the house...holding the syringe that would finally put you out of your misery.
Syndicate: You know, there's a part of me that feels bad for you, Jason. You've spent your entire career, systematically alienating anyone and everyone that dared to become close to you. After all, you were the KING, and you truly believed that you were perfectly capable of hanging onto that crown all by yourself. But then...Night of Honor happened. You went into that Tokyo Dome, promising to burn Elena DeDraca alive and finally ascend to the mountaintop...and you were so overconfident, so distracted by your own thoughts and dreams, that you failed to notice the unstoppable train hurtling towards you until it was far, far too late. Now? You've hit rock bottom, and what's more, there's a sadistic, determined group of individuals whose only goal is to keep you there. How does it feel, Jason, to know that there's no one left that has your back? How does it feel to be "second-class"? Tell me how it really feels, Jason, to be treated like you don't matter. Those are the same emotions that I've experienced, day after day, year after year, throughout my entire life, and if I'm being honest, it feels good to see someone as brash and egotistical as you go through it too. It feels really, really good to see someone suffer the way that I was made to suffer. But you know what the difference is between my experience and yours, Jason? Arik Holt helped me get back on my feet...but because of your own words, thoughts, and actions, there's nobody around that's gonna be helping you. And before you fire back at me and the rest of True Society, saying that "you don't need any help" and that "you can destroy True Society all on your own" or whatever, just remember...that that's the same damn attitude that got you stuck here in the first place.
The car in front of the Toyota Sequoia slams on its brakes in an apparent effort to stop for a red light, causing the chauffeur to do the same. Syndicate briefly jolts forward before being pulled back by the SUV's seatbelt, and after staring daggers into the offender's rear-view mirror, he continues.
Syndicate: And then there's your partner in crime, good ol' Julius Fairweather. How's it been, buddy? Last time I saw you, you were lying in the ring, battered and bloodied, while I touched that final corner of the ring and launched myself into the stratosphere. Just like Jason, you got left behind - you hit an impassable ceiling, just like you have in every single one of your little hobbies prior to becoming a professional wrestler. This time around, though, that ceiling is inching downward, and sooner or later, it's gonna turn you into a Flat Stanley-lookin' ass. You know, Julius, I'm sure that after your top-3 finish at the Purge, you're looking to build some momentum and eat away at True Society's foundation, right? Hell, you've even got a chance at Havoc's Prime Championship coming up! Wouldn't it be nice to right the wrongs of your past, finally get your head out of your own ass, and take that prestigious championship away from True Society? I'm sure that that's the image you fall asleep to at night. But you know what's really funny about that? Sure, you could beat us at Fallout, and sure, you could win the Prime Championship, or any of the other Fallout titles, somewhere down the line...but as soon as you make even the slightest dent in that prison wall with your pathetic plastic spoon, I'll be the one walking in and snapping your silly little dreams in two.
The Legacy Champion reaches over and pats the top of the Universal Briefcase, as if reminding Julius that it's in his possession.
Syndicate: You see, I like to think of myself as True Society's "Insurance Policy", because the moment that you or anyone else pulls off a MIRACLE and beats Havoc, Slade, or Valkyrie for their championships...there's nothing stopping me from sliding on down to that ring and undoing all of that hard work in three short seconds. God, that would suck, wouldn't it? I mean, just think of all the sad faces in the crowd, as they realize that their heroes - their CONQUERORS - put in all that work for absolutely nothing. That could be you, Julius, but let's be real with ourselves here - you're not getting anywhere close to a championship as long as we're around. Sure, you beat me at Night of Honor, but after that? Nada. You've failed, again and again, to re-establish your place in the pantheon of Fallout's best, and what's more? You, Julius Fairweather, failed to do anything but stand and watch as True Society took over this company from within. Now, it's too late...you've already lost, and this match at Fallout is gonna be no different. You see that ceiling coming down at you, threatening your very existence, and all you do to fight back is throw some punches and hope it learns its lesson. But that ceiling ain't stopping, Julius, and now that you've made an enemy out of True Society, you're gonna find the exact same thing that Jason Long's gonna find: there's no one left to save you. At Fallout, I'm gonna teach you what you should have already learned from your cherished idol in his 1996 film, "Hard Eight": when you're playing against the house...the house always fucking wins.
The driver finally turns onto Paseo del Mar, where the Irvine Household is located - this long journey is almost over.
Syndicate: Hell, you've even got some fresh faces showing up to tango with True Society, blissfully unaware of the pain and agony that's about to come their way. Sawyer, I don't believe we've been formally introduced...sure, I did bash your fucking face in with a well-timed Original Syn during the Purge, but I did that to a lot of people that night, and the faces just kinda start blending together after a while. Now, right off the bat, you've already accomplished things that most of the rest of the roster would DREAM of achieving. After all, you pinned the Prime Champion AND earned yourself a shot for that same title, all in the same night! That's pretty impressive, not going to lie...but I think you may have miscalculated your strategy a little bit. Because now, you're not under the radar anymore. You're not just another name on the roster sheet, no. Now, you've got the full, undivided attention of True Society, and as your partners in this match will most assuredly tell you...that's a dangerous fuckin' spot to be in.
Syndicate: Let me be honest with you, Sawyer: you should have stayed in the woods. You should have stayed away from this world and everyone in it, because whether you realize it or not, they're all out to get you, and they'll never accept you for who you truly are. I learned that lesson a long time ago, and by joining Arik Holt and True Society, I ensured that I would never be subjected to the world's judgement again. Will you make the same decision for yourself, or will you consciously continue to defend the very same people that killed your sister all those years ago? Why should they deserve to be happy, Sawyer? Why are they allowed to roam the streets when YOU were forced into the shadows? You could join us, my friend, and save yourself from all of that pain...or, you could do what you're doing now, and fail to avenge Jordan's senseless killing by latching on to the side that shot her down in the first place. The choice is yours...but until you do decide, I'm left with no choice but to treat you just like I treated you at the Purge: as a threat to my goals. You wanna get revenge on me for putting you down in the dirt, Sawyer? Come at me with your best shot...and I'll make damn sure that you get to see your sister again real soon.
Glancing out the window, Syndicate notices the pastel-white exterior of his home. Knowing it's time to wrap things up, Syndicate stares dead into the camera lens, as if talking to not only Julius, Jason, and Sawyer...but to the entire world.
Syndicate: So, boys, it's clear we've come to a bit of an impasse. True Society wants to change the world for the better, but y'all are content with how things are. Think about this for a moment: if the seconds of time are always ticking by...is it really possible to stop the future from coming? You three, along with the rest of Project: Honor, are trying to do just that...but your efforts are in vain. One way or another, we will create a new society, and it's up to you to decide whether or not you wish to be a part of it. I answered "yes"...will you do the same when the time comes? Welcome...to the Syndicate.
The driver pulls into Syndicate's driveway and parks the vehicle, prompting the Los Angeles Outlaw to gather his things. With his black Adidas backpack strapped to his back, and with his Legacy title and Universal Briefcase in tow, he opens the door to his left and gingerly steps out of the SUV, careful to avoid re-aggravating any of his injuries. As he shuts the door behind him, however, the driver rolls down his window, revealing a familiar circular tribal tattoo on his left hand...the mark of the Triad.
Syndicate: What the...I thought Arik was the one that sent you!
At this, the hitherto-mute driver smiles and looks at the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Driver: Mr. Irvine, even though you're no longer in our care...we'll still be watching. Good day.
With a curt nod, the chauffeur rolls his window back up and reverses out of the driveway, leaving Syndicate alone with his belongings and his thoughts. What will the future hold for him, now that the Triad has stepped aside and Arik Holt has taken their place? Will he finally find what he's been looking for in life? Will his peers finally respect him? Will his wife, Sophie, approve of his endeavors? Turning to face the home's front door...he knows there's only one way to find out. As he steps towards the house, preparing to face his new destiny, the camera feed is consumed by static.
Sitting in the back seat of a brand-new black Toyota Sequoia - driven by a silent chauffeur that was provided, of course, by Arik Holt - Syndicate leans back and closes his eyes for a moment. Although he did manage to survive the fall off of the Mall of America balcony, he is certainly still feeling the affects of Ozymandias's actions. Underneath his black leather jacket and white t-shirt lies numerous scars, bruises, and stitches, all graciously provided by the massive Christmas tree that he managed to fall into. But does any of that actually matter to Syndicate now? Not really. After all...he's the one with all the prizes. On the seat to his left, the Project: Honor Legacy Championship is propped up for display, functioning as a fixation point for the Los Angeles Outlaw during this arduous trip through LA traffic. On Syndicate's right, a black briefcase leans against the Sequoia's window, with his "Los Angeles Outlaw" logo now spray-painted on its side. This is, of course, the Universal Briefcase, which grants Syndicate the ability to challenge for any of Fallout's three main championships on a moment's notice. And who else should hold such a power...but the man that already holds the top prize in the entire wrestling business?
Sighing, Syndicate glances forward at the road ahead. Amidst the fog, traffic lights and car bumpers can be seen as everyone fights to make their way to the southern end of the city. Left with nothing to do but entertain his own thoughts, Syndicate glances at the camera mounted to the windshield and smiles.
Syndicate: ...do I have everybody's attention now?
As he speaks, the Los Angeles Outlaw grabs his Legacy Championship and puts it in his lap, holding it against his torso as if coddling a baby.
Syndicate: Just a few short weeks ago, you all saw me as nothing more than a man with a belt. A prestigious, important belt, sure - but nothing more than that. I was pegged by the masses as a placeholder, an afterthought, a blip in the radar that only served to take the spotlight away from those that were more deserving. Even now, I sit before you as a broken man that's - to be quite honest - lucky to even be alive, let alone talking to a camera. But that's the miracle of time, isn't it? No matter how much strife or punishment you endure, as long as you stay alive, there'll always be another chance to right the wrongs of your past...and it's within that same line of thinking that I come to you now - broken, sure...but, in another way, healed.
Syndicate: Everyone's seen the headlines by now. "Syndicate Joins True Society". "The Legacy Champion Turns to the Dark Side". I'll be honest, I've been too busy not dying to check my phone, but I'm sure there's at least a few of you out there wondering why I did what I did. Was it for fame? Power? The selfish desire to keep my championship at all costs? I suppose you'll never find out, because I don't owe you an explanation - in fact, I don't owe you anything. This world has done everything possible to hinder my growth and hold me down, but finally, after 29 long years, I'm in a position to fight back. I have the power to call the shots. Most importantly, though...I've got a group of noble warriors that accept me for who I am and have my back when I stumble. So, ladies and gentlemen, given those advantages...can you really blame me for accepting Arik Holt's gracious offer? Put yourself in my shoes, for just a moment. Throughout your entire life, society rejects you at every turn. You aren't seen as an actual person, but rather, a puppet that can be controlled and taken advantage of. If you were in that situation, and someone offered you a way out...wouldn't you say yes? Wouldn't you shake their hand, thank them for their generosity, and work to get rid of what pushed you down that hole in the first place? That's what I chose to do, and now...I can truly say, once and for all, that my soul has been freed.
A few cars up, a frustrated driver honks their horn, prompting an avalanche of other frustrated people doing the exact same thing...but Syndicate isn't even the slightest bit fazed. After all, he's lived here for thirteen years - he's used to this shit by now.
Syndicate: But that doesn't jive with the will of the people, does it? A man finally reaching his world-class potential, on the biggest stage, with everything on the line? That kind of story is usually reserved for the movies - in the real world, it's the establishment's sole intention to keep themselves in power, at all costs. You're one of them, Jason. You can't stand me, not because of who I am, but because of what I represent. After all, I did what you couldn't - I took advantage of my Legacy title shot, and I made sure that I walked out of Bloodbath with Big Silver wrapped around my waist. Right now, as things stand, I stand in the same position that you've been so heavily gunning for, and I know that's tearing you up inside, isn't it? I'll tell you one thing, Jason, and it's a bit of cold-hearted truth that you're not gonna want to hear: I've replaced you. You, Jason Long, were cocky enough to stay put - keeping yourself in the same "Emperor" state of mind, oblivious to anyone or anything that could possibly be a threat, but look how that turned out. You lost everything, while the man that chose to reinvent himself rose to the top in your stead. You have consistently shown, time and time again, that you are simply too dense to recognize your own weaknesses, and while you were busy playing pretend in the backyard, Daddy Syndicate was watching from inside the house...holding the syringe that would finally put you out of your misery.
Syndicate: You know, there's a part of me that feels bad for you, Jason. You've spent your entire career, systematically alienating anyone and everyone that dared to become close to you. After all, you were the KING, and you truly believed that you were perfectly capable of hanging onto that crown all by yourself. But then...Night of Honor happened. You went into that Tokyo Dome, promising to burn Elena DeDraca alive and finally ascend to the mountaintop...and you were so overconfident, so distracted by your own thoughts and dreams, that you failed to notice the unstoppable train hurtling towards you until it was far, far too late. Now? You've hit rock bottom, and what's more, there's a sadistic, determined group of individuals whose only goal is to keep you there. How does it feel, Jason, to know that there's no one left that has your back? How does it feel to be "second-class"? Tell me how it really feels, Jason, to be treated like you don't matter. Those are the same emotions that I've experienced, day after day, year after year, throughout my entire life, and if I'm being honest, it feels good to see someone as brash and egotistical as you go through it too. It feels really, really good to see someone suffer the way that I was made to suffer. But you know what the difference is between my experience and yours, Jason? Arik Holt helped me get back on my feet...but because of your own words, thoughts, and actions, there's nobody around that's gonna be helping you. And before you fire back at me and the rest of True Society, saying that "you don't need any help" and that "you can destroy True Society all on your own" or whatever, just remember...that that's the same damn attitude that got you stuck here in the first place.
The car in front of the Toyota Sequoia slams on its brakes in an apparent effort to stop for a red light, causing the chauffeur to do the same. Syndicate briefly jolts forward before being pulled back by the SUV's seatbelt, and after staring daggers into the offender's rear-view mirror, he continues.
Syndicate: And then there's your partner in crime, good ol' Julius Fairweather. How's it been, buddy? Last time I saw you, you were lying in the ring, battered and bloodied, while I touched that final corner of the ring and launched myself into the stratosphere. Just like Jason, you got left behind - you hit an impassable ceiling, just like you have in every single one of your little hobbies prior to becoming a professional wrestler. This time around, though, that ceiling is inching downward, and sooner or later, it's gonna turn you into a Flat Stanley-lookin' ass. You know, Julius, I'm sure that after your top-3 finish at the Purge, you're looking to build some momentum and eat away at True Society's foundation, right? Hell, you've even got a chance at Havoc's Prime Championship coming up! Wouldn't it be nice to right the wrongs of your past, finally get your head out of your own ass, and take that prestigious championship away from True Society? I'm sure that that's the image you fall asleep to at night. But you know what's really funny about that? Sure, you could beat us at Fallout, and sure, you could win the Prime Championship, or any of the other Fallout titles, somewhere down the line...but as soon as you make even the slightest dent in that prison wall with your pathetic plastic spoon, I'll be the one walking in and snapping your silly little dreams in two.
The Legacy Champion reaches over and pats the top of the Universal Briefcase, as if reminding Julius that it's in his possession.
Syndicate: You see, I like to think of myself as True Society's "Insurance Policy", because the moment that you or anyone else pulls off a MIRACLE and beats Havoc, Slade, or Valkyrie for their championships...there's nothing stopping me from sliding on down to that ring and undoing all of that hard work in three short seconds. God, that would suck, wouldn't it? I mean, just think of all the sad faces in the crowd, as they realize that their heroes - their CONQUERORS - put in all that work for absolutely nothing. That could be you, Julius, but let's be real with ourselves here - you're not getting anywhere close to a championship as long as we're around. Sure, you beat me at Night of Honor, but after that? Nada. You've failed, again and again, to re-establish your place in the pantheon of Fallout's best, and what's more? You, Julius Fairweather, failed to do anything but stand and watch as True Society took over this company from within. Now, it's too late...you've already lost, and this match at Fallout is gonna be no different. You see that ceiling coming down at you, threatening your very existence, and all you do to fight back is throw some punches and hope it learns its lesson. But that ceiling ain't stopping, Julius, and now that you've made an enemy out of True Society, you're gonna find the exact same thing that Jason Long's gonna find: there's no one left to save you. At Fallout, I'm gonna teach you what you should have already learned from your cherished idol in his 1996 film, "Hard Eight": when you're playing against the house...the house always fucking wins.
The driver finally turns onto Paseo del Mar, where the Irvine Household is located - this long journey is almost over.
Syndicate: Hell, you've even got some fresh faces showing up to tango with True Society, blissfully unaware of the pain and agony that's about to come their way. Sawyer, I don't believe we've been formally introduced...sure, I did bash your fucking face in with a well-timed Original Syn during the Purge, but I did that to a lot of people that night, and the faces just kinda start blending together after a while. Now, right off the bat, you've already accomplished things that most of the rest of the roster would DREAM of achieving. After all, you pinned the Prime Champion AND earned yourself a shot for that same title, all in the same night! That's pretty impressive, not going to lie...but I think you may have miscalculated your strategy a little bit. Because now, you're not under the radar anymore. You're not just another name on the roster sheet, no. Now, you've got the full, undivided attention of True Society, and as your partners in this match will most assuredly tell you...that's a dangerous fuckin' spot to be in.
Syndicate: Let me be honest with you, Sawyer: you should have stayed in the woods. You should have stayed away from this world and everyone in it, because whether you realize it or not, they're all out to get you, and they'll never accept you for who you truly are. I learned that lesson a long time ago, and by joining Arik Holt and True Society, I ensured that I would never be subjected to the world's judgement again. Will you make the same decision for yourself, or will you consciously continue to defend the very same people that killed your sister all those years ago? Why should they deserve to be happy, Sawyer? Why are they allowed to roam the streets when YOU were forced into the shadows? You could join us, my friend, and save yourself from all of that pain...or, you could do what you're doing now, and fail to avenge Jordan's senseless killing by latching on to the side that shot her down in the first place. The choice is yours...but until you do decide, I'm left with no choice but to treat you just like I treated you at the Purge: as a threat to my goals. You wanna get revenge on me for putting you down in the dirt, Sawyer? Come at me with your best shot...and I'll make damn sure that you get to see your sister again real soon.
Glancing out the window, Syndicate notices the pastel-white exterior of his home. Knowing it's time to wrap things up, Syndicate stares dead into the camera lens, as if talking to not only Julius, Jason, and Sawyer...but to the entire world.
Syndicate: So, boys, it's clear we've come to a bit of an impasse. True Society wants to change the world for the better, but y'all are content with how things are. Think about this for a moment: if the seconds of time are always ticking by...is it really possible to stop the future from coming? You three, along with the rest of Project: Honor, are trying to do just that...but your efforts are in vain. One way or another, we will create a new society, and it's up to you to decide whether or not you wish to be a part of it. I answered "yes"...will you do the same when the time comes? Welcome...to the Syndicate.
The driver pulls into Syndicate's driveway and parks the vehicle, prompting the Los Angeles Outlaw to gather his things. With his black Adidas backpack strapped to his back, and with his Legacy title and Universal Briefcase in tow, he opens the door to his left and gingerly steps out of the SUV, careful to avoid re-aggravating any of his injuries. As he shuts the door behind him, however, the driver rolls down his window, revealing a familiar circular tribal tattoo on his left hand...the mark of the Triad.
Syndicate: What the...I thought Arik was the one that sent you!
At this, the hitherto-mute driver smiles and looks at the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Driver: Mr. Irvine, even though you're no longer in our care...we'll still be watching. Good day.
With a curt nod, the chauffeur rolls his window back up and reverses out of the driveway, leaving Syndicate alone with his belongings and his thoughts. What will the future hold for him, now that the Triad has stepped aside and Arik Holt has taken their place? Will he finally find what he's been looking for in life? Will his peers finally respect him? Will his wife, Sophie, approve of his endeavors? Turning to face the home's front door...he knows there's only one way to find out. As he steps towards the house, preparing to face his new destiny, the camera feed is consumed by static.
