Post by Syndicate on Jan 7, 2022 23:23:45 GMT -5
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - LOS ANGELES, CA
JANUARY 4TH, 2021 - 4:29PM
?: Hey, Mr. Irvine! Hope you're having a good one!
Fuck off.
The Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, should know better than trying to go for a quick jog at this time of year. For all the rich assholes that live in his Paseo del Mar neighborhood on the Los Angeles coastline, it's still technically "winter break", even if there's not a speck of snow to be found anywhere in the vicinity. Yep, every single year, all these people - none of which have ever worked a single day in their entire lives - take off the two weeks following Christmas, seemingly in an effort to act as the bane of the Legacy Champion's existence. More traffic on the roads, the sound of jovial parties disturbing his sleep each night...and worst of all, the dreaded "friendly hello" when passing by their exorbitant mansions. Syndicate's neighbor across the street, in particular, is the most annoying; "hope you're having a good one"? Come on. All you really care about is how many points GameStop is up by - stop pretending like you give a singular shit about anyone else's life.
Of course, Syndicate did decide that this would be a great place to settle down with his wife, Sophie. They bought a house here in late 2018 - just two months after their honeymoon - using the money from Syndicate's final contract with the WWX, the federation where he first broke into the "big time". Syndicate wanted a quiet place to do his own thing, but Sophie wanted the beachfront view...so they compromised. It certainly wasn't cheap, and it's not the most extravagant place on the block, but it's home, and ever since moving in, the Los Angeles Outlaw has made it a habit to jog up-and-down Paseo del Mar in the late afternoon of each day, soaking in the coastal experience that he so dearly paid for.
We now find Syndicate just finishing up one of those runs, wearing a white tank top and black athletic shorts while taking a few deep breaths at the edge of his home's driveway. His long, stringy blonde hair is tied behind his head in a bun, if for no other reason than to keep him from having to pull it out of his face with every stride. Taking one last glance over at Mr. Hawthorne across the way and acknowledging his greeting with an extremely sarcastic salute - not that Mr. Hawthorne is capable of sensing sarcasm through his pile of well-performing mutual funds - Syndicate turns and makes his way up the pavement. As he does, he notices a black Toyota SUV parked in front of his garage...belonging to someone he wasn't expecting to see.
Syndicate: The hell's he doing here...
Stepping onto the front porch, the Los Angeles Outlaw wipes his feet on the mat and swings the front door open. He enters the house, and almost immediately, his suspicions are confirmed, as he makes eye contact with none other than his agent and "best friend", JJ Kline. Dressed in a pressed blue suit with matching tie, the famed owner of SportsMax bitterly taps his fingers on the island countertop in the middle of the home's kitchen, as if he's been waiting for Syndicate to arrive for a good while. Of course, just a few weeks prior, Syndicate had violently shoved JJ into that same island in a momentary fit of rage - JJ had confronted him over his involvement with Arik Holt's True Society faction and quickly sent him over the edge with his questioning - and the two hadn't spoken since. Usually, Syndicate, Sophie, and JJ all get together for Christmas at the SportsMax office, drinking their way through the lounge's beer fridge while the rest of the agency is out on holiday...but due to the Los Angeles Outlaw's actions, that didn't happen this year. "Maybe he's here for a late Christmas bash?", Syndicate thinks to himself, before mentally shaking his head. Fat fucking chance - JJ holds grudges like none other, and it doesn't look like that's changed this time around.
Glancing into the kitchen, he sees his wonderful wife, Sophie Irvine - speak of the devil - leaning against the fridge with her arms pensively crossed. She's dressed in a lime green top and blue jeans, and seems to be in just as sour of a mood as Kline. Ever since the aforementioned incident, Syndicate's been sleeping on the living room couch, and the two haven't exactly been "warm" to each other like in the past. It's long been Sophie's opinion that Syndicate should leave the wrestling industry entirely - she's seen how the allure of gold and respect have corrupted her husband in the past, and she doesn't want it to happen again - and now that Syndicate's inner madness has begun to manifest itself in her life, the Outlaw imagines that calls for his retirement are simply going to get louder and louder. Thus, he's mostly kept his distance from his wife...but it seems like tactic may have stopped working.
Sophie: Hey, Syd.
Syndicate: Hey…
Walking over into the kitchen itself, Syndicate grabs a blue water bottle sitting on the counter and starts filling it up in the sink. As he does, he suspiciously glances between the two people intently watching him.
Syndicate: …what’s up?
JJ: We need to talk.
Syndicate: Oh, God, what did Brittany bitch about at book club this time?
Syndicate chuckles, trying to lighten the mood...but no dice. Receiving no response, he gives up and sighs - he's got a guess as to what this is really about.
Syndicate: Listen, JJ, I already apologized for -
JJ: No, you texted me a week later, saying you were trying to kill a fly on my shoulder. That’s not gonna cut it.
The Los Angeles Outlaw raises his hands in mock surrender.
Syndicate: Fine, fine. What do you want, then?
Sophie: It’s not about what we want, Syd - it’s about what you need.
Syndicate: Jesus Christ, here we go again...
JJ: You’ve started spiraling again, Sydney. One day, you’re disappearing for days on end while you try to justify your terrible career decisions…and the next, you’re shoving your best friend into a countertop for having the balls to stand up to you. A few months ago, you were at least tolerable to be around, but ever since you won that belt and joined the damn Dark Side? It’s as if you’ve become a completely different person, and it’s not lost on us that kind of shit happens every single time you win yourself a World title.
Propped up on the island in the middle of the kitchen sits Syndicate’s Legacy Championship, a beautiful black belt clad in silver plating - as JJ finishes talking, Sophie picks it up, walks over to her husband, and pushes it into his torso.
Sophie: And every time it happens, the symptoms get worse. Years ago, you’d simply have temper tantrums, but that quickly turned into bloodlust, and finally, you convinced yourself last year that you were God himself - and for what? So that you can hang on to a few hunks of metal strapped to a piece of leather? Is this REALLY what’s important to you?
Sophie steps back, refusing to break eye contact with Syndicate, but her husband just scoffs.
Syndicate: Neither of you will ever understand what I -
Sophie: We don’t need to understand. You’re hurting people. That’s the end of the conversation.
Syndicate: Okay, but that’s the whole gig! That’s the entire point of everything that I do!
JJ: If your job’s primary duty is to cause pain to others…then maybe you got involved in the wrong line of work - especially when you’re putting the “safety” of an inanimate object over the only two people that actually give a shit about you anymore.
Sophie: You haven’t even lost your damn belt yet, and you’re already falling apart at the seams and acting out of desperation. I’m not gonna wait around and watch things get worse.
JJ: Neither am I. SportsMax has invested way too much money into you for us to pull the plug now - I need to make sure that you’re gonna stay stable, regardless of whether or not things go south this weekend. If the Department of Mental Health has to get involved again, you’re probably going to jail…and Sophie and I won’t let that happen. So, to combat any possible issues before they get out of hand…I’ve hired a life coach for you.
Pause.
Syndicate: …you did what?
Sophie: JJ's bringing in someone that understands how to deal with your problems better than either of us do, and whether you like it or not, you're gonna follow their advice.
Prior to joining Project: Honor, Syndicate underwent court-mandated therapy with the Los Angeles Department of Mental Health in order to resolve some so-called "psychopathic" tendencies. Sure, it helped bring a sense of normalcy back into his life, but he'd never admit that out loud...and he certainly doesn't want to go through it all over again.
Syndicate: This is absolutely ridiculous. I’m an able-bodied adult in the state of California - you can’t make decisions like this for me.
JJ: Ah, thought you might say that.
Reaching into the inside of his suit jacket, JJ Kline pulls out a roll of papers. Unfolding them, he turns to the fourth page of the packet.
Syndicate: What are you doing?
JJ: Reading a section from the contract you signed with SportsMax just over six months ago. Ahem…
The agent clears his throat before continuing.
JJ: Section C, paragraph 2. “If the Client is deemed by the Agency to be of an unstable mental state - including, but not limited to, erratic behavior, threatening the safety of others, and enjoying any item of food from the White Castle menu - the Agency is hitherto granted power of attorney for the duration of the contract between Agency and Client, designating the Agency to act in the Client’s name, in their stead and for their benefit”, blah, blah, blah.
Nonchalantly tossing the contract onto the kitchen counter, JJ smiles as his client shakes his head, furious.
Syndicate: You son of a bitch…
JJ: Hey, man - you’re the one that signed it.
Syndicate: And you’re the one that made me sign it in a fuckin’ Applebee’s, of all places! And on my birthday, too!
JJ: Regardless, the Board convened yesterday - the decision’s already been made. Putting aside our friendship, you are a financial asset to SportsMax, one that we are bound to protect at all costs. This life coach is gonna help you figure things out, and who knows? Maybe you’ll manage to keep yourself from self-destructing this time around.
Syndicate rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall of his home - even if he sued, he knows he wouldn't be able to get himself out of this predicament.
Syndicate: Whatever. Who’d you get - Dr. Bennett again?
JJ: Oh, of course not. After your sessions with Olivia last spring, she ended up retiring so that someone else would have to deal with you next time. Thus, we had to go with plan B…and I think you two may already be acquainted with one another.
JJ gestures to the nearby stairway that leads up to the second floor, and as he does, a man starts making his way down. At first, all we see is a pair of well-worn jeans, along with brown cowboy boots.
Syndicate: No…NO...
We've never seen this person before, but based on Syndicate's reaction, there's absolutely no mistaking his identity.
This is Colt “The Maverick” Irvine.
This is the person that started everything.
This…is Syndicate’s brother.
A few minutes later, we find Syndicate outside on the balcony of his home, leaning against the wooden guardrail and watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean. Many people would kill for this view, and rightfully so - there's nothing quite as calming as staring into the endless horizon while listening to wave after wave crash into the sandy coastline. However, right now, the peacefulness out here doesn't seen to be having much of an effect, as only one word is circling throughout Syndicate's mind:
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
What is HE doing here? How the hell did JJ even get in contact with him?? Why did anyone think this would be a good idea???
Pressing his head into his hands, Syndicate takes a deep breath and thinks about what led to this. In 2008, he was a junior in high school, and his brother, Colt, was one year his elder. Both were stars on the Apter High School wrestling team, each predicted to win a state individual title in their respective weight classes...but it was Colt that was named captain of the team, not Sydney. Of course, these days, this seems like a bit of petty grade school drama, but back then? Sydney was an emotional wreck. There had been co-captains before - why not this time? Why was Sydney Irvine, just as good of a competitor and teammate as his older brother, shunned in favor of Colt? Furthermore, why did Colt get all the respect and accolades while Sydney was left in the dust, forced by circumstance to fight for himself? To Sydney, the context didn't matter - he believed he was the better Irvine brother, and he was going to prove it.
Losing his temper, Sydney challenged Colt to a wrestling match on the backyard trampoline - just like the ones they would have as kids after watching the local pro wrestling fed on the family's Sony Trinitron every Saturday afternoon. If Colt won the contest, Sydney would shut up and let things proceed as they had been, but if Sydney prevailed - something that he'd never been able to do over the past decade of wrestling his brother - then Colt would give up his captainship to the younger Irvine. On that fateful August day in rural Tennessee, the brothers traded hold for hold, with neither being able to gain an upper hand over the other...that was, until Colt grabbed onto Sydney's neck and swept his leg, hitting a DDT onto the trampoline's mesh.
It's a move that they had done to each other numerous times before, each without incident...but today was different. This time, as Sydney's head made contact with the black net, it gave way underneath the weight of the two brothers, sending both crashing to the ground. Colt ended up fine - a few scratches and bruises from landing on the grass below, but nothing major. Sydney, on the other hand, faired much worse, as he fell directly onto a metal support bar, fracturing his skull and separating his right shoulder. He blacked out almost immediately, and while he was unconscious, he was rushed to a local medical facility to undergo immediate restorative surgery.
Sydney ended up making a full recovery in short order...but the damage had already been done. While he had spent weeks in the hospital, the wrestling season started without him, and by the time he was back to 100%, the cutoff to qualify for state competition had already passed. Colt had gone on to finish out his senior year with a state individual title, while also captaining the Apter squad to a team championship as well. Sydney, meanwhile, was left standing on the sidelines, watching his brother accomplish all the things that he should have. Sure, Colt had apologized for the incident, but was he really sorry? After all, forcing Sydney out of the spotlight only let Colt hog even more of it, and after being left in the hospital for weeks with nothing but his own thoughts, Sydney silently wondered if Colt had sent him through that trampoline on purpose in order to take him out of action.
He knew that wasn't true, of course, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind kept telling him otherwise, and finally, the night of the state wrestling championships in Chattanooga, Sydney Irvine reached his breaking point. While his parents and family were busy celebrating with Colt on the floor of McKenzie Arena, Sydney found himself at the city's Greyhound bus station with nothing but a few hundred bucks in his pocket and a duffel bag of clothes. Rather than face his issues head-on, Sydney Irvine decided to run away from it all and start his life anew...and what better place to run to, he thought to himself, than the bright lights of Los Angeles, California?
Since that moment, the brothers had only spoken on one occasion, that being October of last year when Sydney - now known to the world as Syndicate - was going through one of his "Wrestling God" episodes. Even then, it was an extremely brief conversation, and it was over the phone - today was the first time in fourteen years that the two brothers had come face-to-face, and seconds after they made eye contact, Syndicate made the same choice as he did back in '08: he ran away, escaping to his balcony and slamming the sliding glass door behind him. He was hoping no one would follow, and thus far, none of the people inside the house dared to step outside and face a furious Sydney Maxwell Irvine, who's now looking for anything - ANYTHING - to distract himself from what just happened.
As he stares out at the setting sun, Syndicate closes his eyes and finds himself reminded of another instance of something falling...
Fuck off.
The Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, should know better than trying to go for a quick jog at this time of year. For all the rich assholes that live in his Paseo del Mar neighborhood on the Los Angeles coastline, it's still technically "winter break", even if there's not a speck of snow to be found anywhere in the vicinity. Yep, every single year, all these people - none of which have ever worked a single day in their entire lives - take off the two weeks following Christmas, seemingly in an effort to act as the bane of the Legacy Champion's existence. More traffic on the roads, the sound of jovial parties disturbing his sleep each night...and worst of all, the dreaded "friendly hello" when passing by their exorbitant mansions. Syndicate's neighbor across the street, in particular, is the most annoying; "hope you're having a good one"? Come on. All you really care about is how many points GameStop is up by - stop pretending like you give a singular shit about anyone else's life.
Of course, Syndicate did decide that this would be a great place to settle down with his wife, Sophie. They bought a house here in late 2018 - just two months after their honeymoon - using the money from Syndicate's final contract with the WWX, the federation where he first broke into the "big time". Syndicate wanted a quiet place to do his own thing, but Sophie wanted the beachfront view...so they compromised. It certainly wasn't cheap, and it's not the most extravagant place on the block, but it's home, and ever since moving in, the Los Angeles Outlaw has made it a habit to jog up-and-down Paseo del Mar in the late afternoon of each day, soaking in the coastal experience that he so dearly paid for.
We now find Syndicate just finishing up one of those runs, wearing a white tank top and black athletic shorts while taking a few deep breaths at the edge of his home's driveway. His long, stringy blonde hair is tied behind his head in a bun, if for no other reason than to keep him from having to pull it out of his face with every stride. Taking one last glance over at Mr. Hawthorne across the way and acknowledging his greeting with an extremely sarcastic salute - not that Mr. Hawthorne is capable of sensing sarcasm through his pile of well-performing mutual funds - Syndicate turns and makes his way up the pavement. As he does, he notices a black Toyota SUV parked in front of his garage...belonging to someone he wasn't expecting to see.
Syndicate: The hell's he doing here...
Stepping onto the front porch, the Los Angeles Outlaw wipes his feet on the mat and swings the front door open. He enters the house, and almost immediately, his suspicions are confirmed, as he makes eye contact with none other than his agent and "best friend", JJ Kline. Dressed in a pressed blue suit with matching tie, the famed owner of SportsMax bitterly taps his fingers on the island countertop in the middle of the home's kitchen, as if he's been waiting for Syndicate to arrive for a good while. Of course, just a few weeks prior, Syndicate had violently shoved JJ into that same island in a momentary fit of rage - JJ had confronted him over his involvement with Arik Holt's True Society faction and quickly sent him over the edge with his questioning - and the two hadn't spoken since. Usually, Syndicate, Sophie, and JJ all get together for Christmas at the SportsMax office, drinking their way through the lounge's beer fridge while the rest of the agency is out on holiday...but due to the Los Angeles Outlaw's actions, that didn't happen this year. "Maybe he's here for a late Christmas bash?", Syndicate thinks to himself, before mentally shaking his head. Fat fucking chance - JJ holds grudges like none other, and it doesn't look like that's changed this time around.
Glancing into the kitchen, he sees his wonderful wife, Sophie Irvine - speak of the devil - leaning against the fridge with her arms pensively crossed. She's dressed in a lime green top and blue jeans, and seems to be in just as sour of a mood as Kline. Ever since the aforementioned incident, Syndicate's been sleeping on the living room couch, and the two haven't exactly been "warm" to each other like in the past. It's long been Sophie's opinion that Syndicate should leave the wrestling industry entirely - she's seen how the allure of gold and respect have corrupted her husband in the past, and she doesn't want it to happen again - and now that Syndicate's inner madness has begun to manifest itself in her life, the Outlaw imagines that calls for his retirement are simply going to get louder and louder. Thus, he's mostly kept his distance from his wife...but it seems like tactic may have stopped working.
Sophie: Hey, Syd.
Syndicate: Hey…
Walking over into the kitchen itself, Syndicate grabs a blue water bottle sitting on the counter and starts filling it up in the sink. As he does, he suspiciously glances between the two people intently watching him.
Syndicate: …what’s up?
JJ: We need to talk.
Syndicate: Oh, God, what did Brittany bitch about at book club this time?
Syndicate chuckles, trying to lighten the mood...but no dice. Receiving no response, he gives up and sighs - he's got a guess as to what this is really about.
Syndicate: Listen, JJ, I already apologized for -
JJ: No, you texted me a week later, saying you were trying to kill a fly on my shoulder. That’s not gonna cut it.
The Los Angeles Outlaw raises his hands in mock surrender.
Syndicate: Fine, fine. What do you want, then?
Sophie: It’s not about what we want, Syd - it’s about what you need.
Syndicate: Jesus Christ, here we go again...
JJ: You’ve started spiraling again, Sydney. One day, you’re disappearing for days on end while you try to justify your terrible career decisions…and the next, you’re shoving your best friend into a countertop for having the balls to stand up to you. A few months ago, you were at least tolerable to be around, but ever since you won that belt and joined the damn Dark Side? It’s as if you’ve become a completely different person, and it’s not lost on us that kind of shit happens every single time you win yourself a World title.
Propped up on the island in the middle of the kitchen sits Syndicate’s Legacy Championship, a beautiful black belt clad in silver plating - as JJ finishes talking, Sophie picks it up, walks over to her husband, and pushes it into his torso.
Sophie: And every time it happens, the symptoms get worse. Years ago, you’d simply have temper tantrums, but that quickly turned into bloodlust, and finally, you convinced yourself last year that you were God himself - and for what? So that you can hang on to a few hunks of metal strapped to a piece of leather? Is this REALLY what’s important to you?
Sophie steps back, refusing to break eye contact with Syndicate, but her husband just scoffs.
Syndicate: Neither of you will ever understand what I -
Sophie: We don’t need to understand. You’re hurting people. That’s the end of the conversation.
Syndicate: Okay, but that’s the whole gig! That’s the entire point of everything that I do!
JJ: If your job’s primary duty is to cause pain to others…then maybe you got involved in the wrong line of work - especially when you’re putting the “safety” of an inanimate object over the only two people that actually give a shit about you anymore.
Sophie: You haven’t even lost your damn belt yet, and you’re already falling apart at the seams and acting out of desperation. I’m not gonna wait around and watch things get worse.
JJ: Neither am I. SportsMax has invested way too much money into you for us to pull the plug now - I need to make sure that you’re gonna stay stable, regardless of whether or not things go south this weekend. If the Department of Mental Health has to get involved again, you’re probably going to jail…and Sophie and I won’t let that happen. So, to combat any possible issues before they get out of hand…I’ve hired a life coach for you.
Pause.
Syndicate: …you did what?
Sophie: JJ's bringing in someone that understands how to deal with your problems better than either of us do, and whether you like it or not, you're gonna follow their advice.
Prior to joining Project: Honor, Syndicate underwent court-mandated therapy with the Los Angeles Department of Mental Health in order to resolve some so-called "psychopathic" tendencies. Sure, it helped bring a sense of normalcy back into his life, but he'd never admit that out loud...and he certainly doesn't want to go through it all over again.
Syndicate: This is absolutely ridiculous. I’m an able-bodied adult in the state of California - you can’t make decisions like this for me.
JJ: Ah, thought you might say that.
Reaching into the inside of his suit jacket, JJ Kline pulls out a roll of papers. Unfolding them, he turns to the fourth page of the packet.
Syndicate: What are you doing?
JJ: Reading a section from the contract you signed with SportsMax just over six months ago. Ahem…
The agent clears his throat before continuing.
JJ: Section C, paragraph 2. “If the Client is deemed by the Agency to be of an unstable mental state - including, but not limited to, erratic behavior, threatening the safety of others, and enjoying any item of food from the White Castle menu - the Agency is hitherto granted power of attorney for the duration of the contract between Agency and Client, designating the Agency to act in the Client’s name, in their stead and for their benefit”, blah, blah, blah.
Nonchalantly tossing the contract onto the kitchen counter, JJ smiles as his client shakes his head, furious.
Syndicate: You son of a bitch…
JJ: Hey, man - you’re the one that signed it.
Syndicate: And you’re the one that made me sign it in a fuckin’ Applebee’s, of all places! And on my birthday, too!
JJ: Regardless, the Board convened yesterday - the decision’s already been made. Putting aside our friendship, you are a financial asset to SportsMax, one that we are bound to protect at all costs. This life coach is gonna help you figure things out, and who knows? Maybe you’ll manage to keep yourself from self-destructing this time around.
Syndicate rolls his eyes and leans back against the wall of his home - even if he sued, he knows he wouldn't be able to get himself out of this predicament.
Syndicate: Whatever. Who’d you get - Dr. Bennett again?
JJ: Oh, of course not. After your sessions with Olivia last spring, she ended up retiring so that someone else would have to deal with you next time. Thus, we had to go with plan B…and I think you two may already be acquainted with one another.
JJ gestures to the nearby stairway that leads up to the second floor, and as he does, a man starts making his way down. At first, all we see is a pair of well-worn jeans, along with brown cowboy boots.
As the man makes his way to the bottom of the stairs, more of his profile is revealed. With long, flowing brunette hair, slim yet muscular arms, and a chiseled jaw rivaling Syndicate's own, he exudes a certain aura of confidence as he nods at JJ and looks over at the Los Angeles Outlaw...whose eyes have widened immeasurably at the sight of the person across from him.
?: Howdy, Syd. Good to see ya.
?: Howdy, Syd. Good to see ya.
We've never seen this person before, but based on Syndicate's reaction, there's absolutely no mistaking his identity.
This is Colt “The Maverick” Irvine.
This is the person that started everything.
This…is Syndicate’s brother.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
What is HE doing here? How the hell did JJ even get in contact with him?? Why did anyone think this would be a good idea???
Pressing his head into his hands, Syndicate takes a deep breath and thinks about what led to this. In 2008, he was a junior in high school, and his brother, Colt, was one year his elder. Both were stars on the Apter High School wrestling team, each predicted to win a state individual title in their respective weight classes...but it was Colt that was named captain of the team, not Sydney. Of course, these days, this seems like a bit of petty grade school drama, but back then? Sydney was an emotional wreck. There had been co-captains before - why not this time? Why was Sydney Irvine, just as good of a competitor and teammate as his older brother, shunned in favor of Colt? Furthermore, why did Colt get all the respect and accolades while Sydney was left in the dust, forced by circumstance to fight for himself? To Sydney, the context didn't matter - he believed he was the better Irvine brother, and he was going to prove it.
Losing his temper, Sydney challenged Colt to a wrestling match on the backyard trampoline - just like the ones they would have as kids after watching the local pro wrestling fed on the family's Sony Trinitron every Saturday afternoon. If Colt won the contest, Sydney would shut up and let things proceed as they had been, but if Sydney prevailed - something that he'd never been able to do over the past decade of wrestling his brother - then Colt would give up his captainship to the younger Irvine. On that fateful August day in rural Tennessee, the brothers traded hold for hold, with neither being able to gain an upper hand over the other...that was, until Colt grabbed onto Sydney's neck and swept his leg, hitting a DDT onto the trampoline's mesh.
It's a move that they had done to each other numerous times before, each without incident...but today was different. This time, as Sydney's head made contact with the black net, it gave way underneath the weight of the two brothers, sending both crashing to the ground. Colt ended up fine - a few scratches and bruises from landing on the grass below, but nothing major. Sydney, on the other hand, faired much worse, as he fell directly onto a metal support bar, fracturing his skull and separating his right shoulder. He blacked out almost immediately, and while he was unconscious, he was rushed to a local medical facility to undergo immediate restorative surgery.
Sydney ended up making a full recovery in short order...but the damage had already been done. While he had spent weeks in the hospital, the wrestling season started without him, and by the time he was back to 100%, the cutoff to qualify for state competition had already passed. Colt had gone on to finish out his senior year with a state individual title, while also captaining the Apter squad to a team championship as well. Sydney, meanwhile, was left standing on the sidelines, watching his brother accomplish all the things that he should have. Sure, Colt had apologized for the incident, but was he really sorry? After all, forcing Sydney out of the spotlight only let Colt hog even more of it, and after being left in the hospital for weeks with nothing but his own thoughts, Sydney silently wondered if Colt had sent him through that trampoline on purpose in order to take him out of action.
He knew that wasn't true, of course, but a nagging voice in the back of his mind kept telling him otherwise, and finally, the night of the state wrestling championships in Chattanooga, Sydney Irvine reached his breaking point. While his parents and family were busy celebrating with Colt on the floor of McKenzie Arena, Sydney found himself at the city's Greyhound bus station with nothing but a few hundred bucks in his pocket and a duffel bag of clothes. Rather than face his issues head-on, Sydney Irvine decided to run away from it all and start his life anew...and what better place to run to, he thought to himself, than the bright lights of Los Angeles, California?
Since that moment, the brothers had only spoken on one occasion, that being October of last year when Sydney - now known to the world as Syndicate - was going through one of his "Wrestling God" episodes. Even then, it was an extremely brief conversation, and it was over the phone - today was the first time in fourteen years that the two brothers had come face-to-face, and seconds after they made eye contact, Syndicate made the same choice as he did back in '08: he ran away, escaping to his balcony and slamming the sliding glass door behind him. He was hoping no one would follow, and thus far, none of the people inside the house dared to step outside and face a furious Sydney Maxwell Irvine, who's now looking for anything - ANYTHING - to distract himself from what just happened.
As he stares out at the setting sun, Syndicate closes his eyes and finds himself reminded of another instance of something falling...
Ozymandias has Syndicate pressed over his head as if he’s going to execute the World Ender backbreaker that few have been able to get up from. But then, The Butcher of Reine has a change of heart…
Oh, God, not again...
...as he takes a few big steps forward and hurls Syndicate over the fourth floor railing!
No, no, NO...
For a moment it’s as if time stops completely as a look of terror emerges on Syndicate’s face. He flails with his hands in a desperate attempt to catch something, but there is nothing within his reach. He plummets downward, almost certainly to his imminent death, before his body collides with one of the forty foot Christmas trees set up in the west central plaza. After bouncing off the gigantic fir tree, Syndicate continues to fall the rest of the distance, his body ultimately landing on the announce table of Trey Booker and J.T. Price, shattering it with a thunderous crash.
Syndicate has tried so very hard to block this moment from his memory, but it's no use. Multiple times each week, he's awoken in the middle of the night, right as he hears the immortal words of Trey Booker echo through his mind...
Opening his eyes once again, the images fade. He, of course, survived the fall, but at what cost? He could have any number of undiagnosed internal injuries, and he certainly doesn't feel ready to defend his Legacy Championship quite yet, even if he has been medically cleared and even competed at Wired Consequences just a few weeks prior. Nevertheless, defend he shall...against the very man that caused him so much pain in the first place.
Syndicate: ...no one is immortal.
He takes a moment to breathe deeply, calming himself down from the daydream, before continuing.
Syndicate: It all came crashing down so fast. One moment, I'm standing on the top floor of the Mall of America with the Legacy Championship, Ultimate Briefcase, and a Mall Mayhem prize all within my grasp...and the next, I'm in freefall. And when I crashed down onto that announce table, mere seconds away from losing any sliver of consciousness, all I could see - all I could possibly perceive in that moment - was the masked face of the man that threw me there in the first place.
The Legacy Champion can see it quite clearly - the metal crossbar covering the mouth, with only the man's remorseless eyes and bald scalp visible. This, of course...is the face of Ozymandias.
Syndicate: It was then that I was painfully reminded of the infamous Latin phrase: "memento mori". "Remember you must die." For a second there, I thought I might do just that - pass away into the afterlife, without a care and without a hope of making it into Valhalla. Of course, I awoke later that evening in a hospital bed, destined to recover, but that thought, that phrase, stuck with me. "Memento mori." Hmm.
Syndicate: You understand that feeling too, don't you, Ozymandias? Being moments away from death and seeing the vision of Saint Peter standing in front of the pearly gates, waiting to pass judgement on your soul? Of course you do. Yes, we've both gone through similar near-death experiences...only mine was caused by your hand. Why? What had I ever done to anger you, to push you to your limit and force you to nearly take another man's life? After all, I'm just lil' ol' Syndicate, right? The kid that's in WAY over his head and is lucky to even be on the Project: Honor roster, let alone its TOP champion? Why come after me, of all people, Ozy...and on the flip side, why the fuck would I be stupid enough to try and return the favor?
Syndicate: Lesser men would cower at the feet of their mothers in a scenario such as mine, begging for God to save them. Others would do anything they could to avoid you, Ozy, whether that be simply running away or making pre-emptive excuses for their expected loss at the hands of the notorious “Butcher of Reine”. But as for me…all I can say is that it's about damn time. I have occupied a roster spot here in Project: Honor for the past ten months, and ever since signing my infamous name on that dotted line, I’ve been waiting for this exact moment in time to occur. Besides myself and the rest of my True Society compatriots, three people in this company stood out from the rest. Three wrestlers that sat above the others. Three competitors…that quickly became targets: Elena DeDraca, Jason Long…and you, Ozymandias. For Elena, I knocked her out like a fucking light the first chance I got, and took what was rightfully mine. One down. Then, I went after Jason, and while he’s certainly tried his best to look tough and put up a fight, it’s pretty clear that his career’s taken a bit of a tumble, shall we say, since trying to combat the inevitable at the Second Annual Purge. And now, at Unbreakable Resolution II…I finally get the chance to cross off the third name on my little hitlist, and at the same time, get my revenge on the man that was mere inches away from ending it all.
He pauses for a moment to take it all in. Mere months ago, not a soul in the entire would could have possibly predicted that Syndicate could reach these heights...but reach them, he did. Sure, he may have an elevated view of himself, but deep down, even he's a bit surprised with how well his Project: Honor career has gone. Of course...he'd never let that thought escape his own inner sanctum.
Syndicate: Now, all the incels watching at home are probably thinking to themselves, “wait a sec, Syd. Ozy already hates your guts enough to throw you right off a fourth-story balcony - why the fuck would you piss him off more by ending his record-breaking Grand Championship reign?” To those people - first off, go back to your Razer RGB keyboards and your Old School Runescape and stop asking stupid rhetorical questions, and second…let me tell you. Because I’m sure most people would have just stayed out of Ozymandias’s way as much as possible - having to defend a belt, while also fighting for another one, would keep his attention split between two goals, and I’m sure as hell not naïve enough to ignore that fact. But ever since winning this Legacy Championship, I have systematically broken down each of my opponents, piece by piece, until any shred of possible resistance has been torn apart and laid to waste, and I'm already well on my way towards doing the same damn thing to you, Ozy...whether you realize it yet or not.
Syndicate: Elena DeDraca was the most powerful, dominant champion this company had ever seen…until she met me. Jason Long was so focused on being the “top guy”...that he found himself overlooking a force that he could not possibly contain. And as for you, Ozy, the one thing you’ve had going for you was that Grand title, and what better way to derail your career than making you go from a potential “double champ” to title-less in the span of two weeks? See, to me, it’s not just about retaining MY Legacy title…it’s also about teaching you - and everyone else in this godforsaken company - who’s really in charge around here. Because you can love me, you can hate me, and you can punch this cute lil’ face all you want, but like it or not, I’m ALWAYS in control of my own affairs, and by costing you your precious Grand Championship, I proved just that. On Proving Ground, I cut off one of your tentacles…and at Unbreakable Resolution, I’ll make damn sure that the rest get chopped off, too.
Syndicate: Just like I saw through Elena as nothing more than a cocky little bitch that depended on her associates to stay atop the mountain, I don't perceive you as the threat you're made out to be, Ozy. Sure, you've got the strength and power to beat down anybody in this business, but this Sunday, I'm gonna make sure that your advantages become your undoing. The way I see it, all I've gotta do is chop off those lumbering legs of yours and knock you down onto the mat, taking away the source of your might, and then what happens? I lock in The Vault, I choke the fuckin' daylights out of you, the ref drops your hand a few times, and everyone in the crowd gets to go home happy, knowing that the most dominant force in the history of Proving Ground has finally, totally, and completely met his end. You can call that prediction the ramblings of a madman with his entire livelihood at stake, sure...but I simply refer to it as a "strategy". Because I know that I don't need to beat you down in this match, nor do I have to somehow overpower you, no. Instead, all I have to do...is survive.
The Los Angeles Outlaw raises his arms outward and cocks his head, smiling as if he thinks he's got everything figured out.
Syndicate: After all, a pin's a pin no matter how it comes forth, and anyone on the Fallout roster can tell you just how damn good I am at making that happen. Strikes, submissions, grapples - I've got the whole shebang, baby, and unlike the last time we came face-to-face...you're the only person I've gotta concern myself with. You are my singular point of focus, and I'd be lying if I said I haven't been spending the last number of weeks studying your every move, learning how you tick - or, more accurately, how to roll out of the World Ender and latch onto your head for a match-ending Catalyst DDT. However, like I said before, I'm not naïve - it’s a damn MIRACLE that I’m even alive today, let alone be prepared to defend my title at Unbreakable Resolution. But do you know what I’m not afraid of, Ozy? Losing. You see, you may have done a real bang-up job of almost killing me at the Mall of America, but unfortunately, Mall Mayhem wasn’t a “yeet your opponent off a balcony” match, and by the time you did your deed and walked away, I had already secured myself a prize and accomplished what I sought out to do. You were so preoccupied with causing me pain that you missed out on actually managing to win…and luckily for me, winning is exactly what I specialize in. Fucking me up is all well and good, sure…but it’s not gonna get you any closer to this.
Syndicate: But let’s not get it twisted here: you are not the “hunter” in this scenario - I am. I’ve been challenging you and calling you out for MONTHS, ever since I started moseying on up to the main-event level, and until now, you’ve routinely refused to even mention my name. Why? Do you truly see me as that little of a threat? Is it because you don’t think I deserve to hold Big Silver over my shoulder? Or…is it because you’re simply at a loss for words? After all, you were the one that stood and watched as I single-handedly took down your contemporaries, the same people that you actually considered to be threats. Am I really still that much of a non-factor to you, Ozy - am I THAT far below your radar, or are you just unable to admit that you were wrong about me from the start? I could not possibly admit that about you, Ozy, because you're exactly the person I predicted you'd be when I first got a glimpse of you. You were once a man with a village, an entire civilization, to protect. Those people depended on you, over all others, to continue living their lives in peace and harmony...but when that storm came, when those waves crashed up upon the shoreline, you FAILED, Ozymandias, to save them. You may say that you heard their voices scream out to you, begging for you to bring them back to reality...but in said reality, the only person that could actually save them is God himself. You can put on your little getup and play "pretend" all you want, Ozy, and you can believe whatever it is your little witch, Meredith, whispers into your ear, but sooner or later, you're gonna be forced to face the truth - that you're just a man underneath it all, a mortal like the rest of us, bound to a bitch of a woman that's using your survivor's guilt to maintain control over you.
Syndicate: Is that the life you truly want to live, acting as the "protector" of a population that has since ceased to exist? If so, you may just have to rely on that experience even more than usual, because along with True Society, I'm gonna see to it that the very world you fight in...is burnt down to a smoldering crisp. We must begin anew, with a strong foundation to bring happiness to all those who come after us. That’s my true goal, Ozymandias…while you’ve been preoccupied with destruction and brutality, myself and True Society have been working to repair this world from the harm that you and your peers have caused. Your propensity for causing agony is completely unsustainable - sure, you have all the accolades now, but if you continue unchecked…sooner or later, there won’t be anyone left to beat. You’ll be all alone in this world you helped create, and while you may have “succeeded” in your goal for vengeance, your hunger and desire will never go away...and regardless of what you do or who you continue to hurt, the people of Old Harbour that you love so dearly are going to stay six feet under where they fucking BELONG.
The champ takes a step towards the Project: Honor cameraman that's been sent to silently document his entire life, prompting the technician to take a step back in fear. Syndicate isn't focused on the person behind the camera, though - rather, his eyes seemingly pierce through the camera lens itself, as he metaphorically speaks directly to his Unbreakable Resolution opponent.
Syndicate: Just a few short weeks ago, you truly were the “king of kings”, ruling over Proving: Ground and dispatching anyone that dared to rebel. You possessed the Grand Championship, and with it, you alone controlled the destinies of all the men and women surrounding you. But time passes, Ozy, and with that passage of time comes ruin. Even the strongest empires must one day fall…and unfortunately for you, that day is here. You tried to end my entire world at Mall Mayhem, and it's about time that I do the same, for just like the world in Percy Shelley’s famous sonnet - one that you're most assuredly already familiar with - your sovereignty over this company is about to crumble into dust. Difference is, your undoing shall not come in the form of a hurricane or any other natural force...but at the hands of the Los…Angeles…Outlaw. At Unbreakable Resolution, Hurricane Loke shall come again...and this time, it's gonna finish the job. Welcome…to the Syndicate.
Satisfied, Syndicate turns back to the horizon, over which the sun has long since disappeared, but just as he does, the sliding door behind him slips open...
...and out steps the "devil" himself, Colt "The Maverick" Irvine. The older Irvine brother smiles over at Syndicate, but the Los Angeles Outlaw - sensing his presence - refuses to turn towards him, instead choosing to speak to him with an hateful tone that could even make Mother Teresa run for cover.
Syndicate: Get the fuck out of my house.
Colt: Oh, c’mon, Syd - that’s no way to treat family!
Syndicate: You’re not my family...not anymore.
Colt: I reckon a simple blood test would beg to differ.
"The Maverick" walks over and joins his brother against the balcony's railing, leaning on it with his right arm while patting Syndicate on the shoulder with his left. No sooner does his hand make contact with Syndicate's shoulder, however, does the Outlaw swivel around and get directly into Colt's face.
Syndicate: You touch me again, and I’ll throw you right off this fucking balcony.
At this, Colt does nothing but step back and chuckle, his wispy brown hair swaying in the breeze.
Colt: No, you wouldn’t. You may have the balls to nearly kill some folks off the side of the road in backwater Minnesota, but you know that you wouldn’t do the same to me.
Syndicate glares at him and turns back around.
Colt: Look, Syd, I’m only here to help straighten things out.
Syndicate: If you really wanted to help, you’d leave.
Colt: What, and let you send JJ back to the hospital? Fat chance, bucko.
Colt had hoped that the "bucko" comment - his nickname for Syndicate from when they were young - would help lighten the mood, but it gets no response out of the Legacy Champion.
Colt: Last year, when you were having one of your “Wrestling God” episodes, I came here to try and help…but I ended up abandoning you, and things fell apart even further from there. I’m not making that mistake again. I know the Legacy title is important to you, but your behavior as champion has only reinforced the negative feelings people have for you. You’ve gotten into some rough shit in this new company of yours - True Society, Triad, all of that - and I’ve gotta ask, is it really worth it?
Immediately, Syndicate freezes in place, his eyes wide with fear. Did Colt just say what he thought he'd said?
Syndicate: …how’d you know about the Triad?
Colt: Ah, yes - that’s the other reason why I’m here.
Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the door is closed, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a DVD encased in a blue plastic sleeve.
Colt: I got this in the mail the other day, along with a note that read “Keep him quiet”. Not sure who sent it, but I saw what I needed to see.
Syndicate: …what, exactly?
Colt: You. I saw surveillance footage of you attacking innocent civilians, damn near choking an old man to death, and agreeing to join a group of mobsters. Whole bunch of illegal shit that you did, Syd.
Syndicate's shoulders fall as he releases a breath. The gig is up.
Syndicate: So why don’t you just turn me in, then? Put me out of my fucking misery and end this whole charade? You'd sure as hell make Soph and JJ happy.
Colt: …because I also saw why you did all of those things. Those men preyed on your insecurities, and turned them around on you in order to get you to act in a way you otherwise wouldn’t.
He once again tries patting Sydney on the shoulder...and this time, the gesture isn't immediately rejected.
Colt: I know the real Sydney Irvine…and he’s certainly not the man I saw on that video. It’s as if you entered a trance where your only goal was self-preservation. That wasn’t you, Syd, I know that…but I don’t think the Los Angeles Police Department would be able to tell the difference. This video gets out, and you’re gonna have a lot more problems than just spending a few nights in jail.
Just as things seem to be going alright between the two brothers, Syndicate suddenly gets back on the offensive, looking over at Colt with a knowing look, as if he had finally figured everything out.
Syndicate: I get it. You’re blackmailing me so that I play along with your little “life coach” routine, right? You don't want me to "run away" again, so you're using the Triad stuff to keep me in line. Is that all this is?
Colt shakes his head.
Colt: …nope. Not even close.
The elder Irvine takes the DVD and slams it against his right knee, breaking it in half, before winding up and throwing it off the balcony. It falls into a small stream below, shattering into even more pieces and washing away towards the Pacific. Shocked, Syndicate lunges after it, nearly falling over the railing.
Colt: No one else is ever gonna see that shit.
He notices Syndicate's quizzical look and decides to explain further.
Colt: It's like I said earlier - I’m here to help you, Sydney, not hold something from your past over your head and force you to fall in line. Now, you can either deal with your older brother being around a bit more often…or you can try your luck with whoever else JJ decides to hire on. The choice is yours.
The Los Angeles Outlaw takes a moment to steady himself. Colt has more than enough ammunition to throw Syndicate to the wolves, and if the roles were reversed, Syndicate knows he wouldn't hesitate to do just that to the brother that wronged him all those years ago. Instead, however, Colt seems to be offering him a sign of peace...why? Sydney can't possibly imagine that after all these years, Colt would want to help Sydney...would he? Of course, he could still demand that "The Maverick" leave his rightful property, but that could lead to him being turned into the police...doesn't seem like much of a choice, in hindsight.
Syndicate: Fine. Just get the hell off my balcony.
His response prompts a warm smile to come over Colt's face.
Colt: Great. We start next week - see you then.
Leaving his brother with one last nod-and-smile combination, Colt "The Maverick" Irvine slides open the glass door and enters the house once again, leaving Syndicate alone. Sure, he's got a title to defend, and he's got True Society to back him up in the ring...but here, right now, on the utopian shoreline of Los Angeles, California, there's nobody left to help Syndicate but himself. As he ponders what the future holds for him and his relationship with Colt, the video feed is eaten up from all sides by black-and-white static.
TREY BOOKER: MY GOD! HE’S KILLED HIM! AS GOD IS MY WITNESS, HE’S BROKEN IN HALF!
Opening his eyes once again, the images fade. He, of course, survived the fall, but at what cost? He could have any number of undiagnosed internal injuries, and he certainly doesn't feel ready to defend his Legacy Championship quite yet, even if he has been medically cleared and even competed at Wired Consequences just a few weeks prior. Nevertheless, defend he shall...against the very man that caused him so much pain in the first place.
Syndicate: ...no one is immortal.
He takes a moment to breathe deeply, calming himself down from the daydream, before continuing.
Syndicate: It all came crashing down so fast. One moment, I'm standing on the top floor of the Mall of America with the Legacy Championship, Ultimate Briefcase, and a Mall Mayhem prize all within my grasp...and the next, I'm in freefall. And when I crashed down onto that announce table, mere seconds away from losing any sliver of consciousness, all I could see - all I could possibly perceive in that moment - was the masked face of the man that threw me there in the first place.
The Legacy Champion can see it quite clearly - the metal crossbar covering the mouth, with only the man's remorseless eyes and bald scalp visible. This, of course...is the face of Ozymandias.
Syndicate: It was then that I was painfully reminded of the infamous Latin phrase: "memento mori". "Remember you must die." For a second there, I thought I might do just that - pass away into the afterlife, without a care and without a hope of making it into Valhalla. Of course, I awoke later that evening in a hospital bed, destined to recover, but that thought, that phrase, stuck with me. "Memento mori." Hmm.
Syndicate: You understand that feeling too, don't you, Ozymandias? Being moments away from death and seeing the vision of Saint Peter standing in front of the pearly gates, waiting to pass judgement on your soul? Of course you do. Yes, we've both gone through similar near-death experiences...only mine was caused by your hand. Why? What had I ever done to anger you, to push you to your limit and force you to nearly take another man's life? After all, I'm just lil' ol' Syndicate, right? The kid that's in WAY over his head and is lucky to even be on the Project: Honor roster, let alone its TOP champion? Why come after me, of all people, Ozy...and on the flip side, why the fuck would I be stupid enough to try and return the favor?
Syndicate: Lesser men would cower at the feet of their mothers in a scenario such as mine, begging for God to save them. Others would do anything they could to avoid you, Ozy, whether that be simply running away or making pre-emptive excuses for their expected loss at the hands of the notorious “Butcher of Reine”. But as for me…all I can say is that it's about damn time. I have occupied a roster spot here in Project: Honor for the past ten months, and ever since signing my infamous name on that dotted line, I’ve been waiting for this exact moment in time to occur. Besides myself and the rest of my True Society compatriots, three people in this company stood out from the rest. Three wrestlers that sat above the others. Three competitors…that quickly became targets: Elena DeDraca, Jason Long…and you, Ozymandias. For Elena, I knocked her out like a fucking light the first chance I got, and took what was rightfully mine. One down. Then, I went after Jason, and while he’s certainly tried his best to look tough and put up a fight, it’s pretty clear that his career’s taken a bit of a tumble, shall we say, since trying to combat the inevitable at the Second Annual Purge. And now, at Unbreakable Resolution II…I finally get the chance to cross off the third name on my little hitlist, and at the same time, get my revenge on the man that was mere inches away from ending it all.
He pauses for a moment to take it all in. Mere months ago, not a soul in the entire would could have possibly predicted that Syndicate could reach these heights...but reach them, he did. Sure, he may have an elevated view of himself, but deep down, even he's a bit surprised with how well his Project: Honor career has gone. Of course...he'd never let that thought escape his own inner sanctum.
Syndicate: Now, all the incels watching at home are probably thinking to themselves, “wait a sec, Syd. Ozy already hates your guts enough to throw you right off a fourth-story balcony - why the fuck would you piss him off more by ending his record-breaking Grand Championship reign?” To those people - first off, go back to your Razer RGB keyboards and your Old School Runescape and stop asking stupid rhetorical questions, and second…let me tell you. Because I’m sure most people would have just stayed out of Ozymandias’s way as much as possible - having to defend a belt, while also fighting for another one, would keep his attention split between two goals, and I’m sure as hell not naïve enough to ignore that fact. But ever since winning this Legacy Championship, I have systematically broken down each of my opponents, piece by piece, until any shred of possible resistance has been torn apart and laid to waste, and I'm already well on my way towards doing the same damn thing to you, Ozy...whether you realize it yet or not.
Syndicate: Elena DeDraca was the most powerful, dominant champion this company had ever seen…until she met me. Jason Long was so focused on being the “top guy”...that he found himself overlooking a force that he could not possibly contain. And as for you, Ozy, the one thing you’ve had going for you was that Grand title, and what better way to derail your career than making you go from a potential “double champ” to title-less in the span of two weeks? See, to me, it’s not just about retaining MY Legacy title…it’s also about teaching you - and everyone else in this godforsaken company - who’s really in charge around here. Because you can love me, you can hate me, and you can punch this cute lil’ face all you want, but like it or not, I’m ALWAYS in control of my own affairs, and by costing you your precious Grand Championship, I proved just that. On Proving Ground, I cut off one of your tentacles…and at Unbreakable Resolution, I’ll make damn sure that the rest get chopped off, too.
Syndicate: Just like I saw through Elena as nothing more than a cocky little bitch that depended on her associates to stay atop the mountain, I don't perceive you as the threat you're made out to be, Ozy. Sure, you've got the strength and power to beat down anybody in this business, but this Sunday, I'm gonna make sure that your advantages become your undoing. The way I see it, all I've gotta do is chop off those lumbering legs of yours and knock you down onto the mat, taking away the source of your might, and then what happens? I lock in The Vault, I choke the fuckin' daylights out of you, the ref drops your hand a few times, and everyone in the crowd gets to go home happy, knowing that the most dominant force in the history of Proving Ground has finally, totally, and completely met his end. You can call that prediction the ramblings of a madman with his entire livelihood at stake, sure...but I simply refer to it as a "strategy". Because I know that I don't need to beat you down in this match, nor do I have to somehow overpower you, no. Instead, all I have to do...is survive.
The Los Angeles Outlaw raises his arms outward and cocks his head, smiling as if he thinks he's got everything figured out.
Syndicate: After all, a pin's a pin no matter how it comes forth, and anyone on the Fallout roster can tell you just how damn good I am at making that happen. Strikes, submissions, grapples - I've got the whole shebang, baby, and unlike the last time we came face-to-face...you're the only person I've gotta concern myself with. You are my singular point of focus, and I'd be lying if I said I haven't been spending the last number of weeks studying your every move, learning how you tick - or, more accurately, how to roll out of the World Ender and latch onto your head for a match-ending Catalyst DDT. However, like I said before, I'm not naïve - it’s a damn MIRACLE that I’m even alive today, let alone be prepared to defend my title at Unbreakable Resolution. But do you know what I’m not afraid of, Ozy? Losing. You see, you may have done a real bang-up job of almost killing me at the Mall of America, but unfortunately, Mall Mayhem wasn’t a “yeet your opponent off a balcony” match, and by the time you did your deed and walked away, I had already secured myself a prize and accomplished what I sought out to do. You were so preoccupied with causing me pain that you missed out on actually managing to win…and luckily for me, winning is exactly what I specialize in. Fucking me up is all well and good, sure…but it’s not gonna get you any closer to this.
Syndicate: But let’s not get it twisted here: you are not the “hunter” in this scenario - I am. I’ve been challenging you and calling you out for MONTHS, ever since I started moseying on up to the main-event level, and until now, you’ve routinely refused to even mention my name. Why? Do you truly see me as that little of a threat? Is it because you don’t think I deserve to hold Big Silver over my shoulder? Or…is it because you’re simply at a loss for words? After all, you were the one that stood and watched as I single-handedly took down your contemporaries, the same people that you actually considered to be threats. Am I really still that much of a non-factor to you, Ozy - am I THAT far below your radar, or are you just unable to admit that you were wrong about me from the start? I could not possibly admit that about you, Ozy, because you're exactly the person I predicted you'd be when I first got a glimpse of you. You were once a man with a village, an entire civilization, to protect. Those people depended on you, over all others, to continue living their lives in peace and harmony...but when that storm came, when those waves crashed up upon the shoreline, you FAILED, Ozymandias, to save them. You may say that you heard their voices scream out to you, begging for you to bring them back to reality...but in said reality, the only person that could actually save them is God himself. You can put on your little getup and play "pretend" all you want, Ozy, and you can believe whatever it is your little witch, Meredith, whispers into your ear, but sooner or later, you're gonna be forced to face the truth - that you're just a man underneath it all, a mortal like the rest of us, bound to a bitch of a woman that's using your survivor's guilt to maintain control over you.
Syndicate: Is that the life you truly want to live, acting as the "protector" of a population that has since ceased to exist? If so, you may just have to rely on that experience even more than usual, because along with True Society, I'm gonna see to it that the very world you fight in...is burnt down to a smoldering crisp. We must begin anew, with a strong foundation to bring happiness to all those who come after us. That’s my true goal, Ozymandias…while you’ve been preoccupied with destruction and brutality, myself and True Society have been working to repair this world from the harm that you and your peers have caused. Your propensity for causing agony is completely unsustainable - sure, you have all the accolades now, but if you continue unchecked…sooner or later, there won’t be anyone left to beat. You’ll be all alone in this world you helped create, and while you may have “succeeded” in your goal for vengeance, your hunger and desire will never go away...and regardless of what you do or who you continue to hurt, the people of Old Harbour that you love so dearly are going to stay six feet under where they fucking BELONG.
The champ takes a step towards the Project: Honor cameraman that's been sent to silently document his entire life, prompting the technician to take a step back in fear. Syndicate isn't focused on the person behind the camera, though - rather, his eyes seemingly pierce through the camera lens itself, as he metaphorically speaks directly to his Unbreakable Resolution opponent.
Syndicate: Just a few short weeks ago, you truly were the “king of kings”, ruling over Proving: Ground and dispatching anyone that dared to rebel. You possessed the Grand Championship, and with it, you alone controlled the destinies of all the men and women surrounding you. But time passes, Ozy, and with that passage of time comes ruin. Even the strongest empires must one day fall…and unfortunately for you, that day is here. You tried to end my entire world at Mall Mayhem, and it's about time that I do the same, for just like the world in Percy Shelley’s famous sonnet - one that you're most assuredly already familiar with - your sovereignty over this company is about to crumble into dust. Difference is, your undoing shall not come in the form of a hurricane or any other natural force...but at the hands of the Los…Angeles…Outlaw. At Unbreakable Resolution, Hurricane Loke shall come again...and this time, it's gonna finish the job. Welcome…to the Syndicate.
Satisfied, Syndicate turns back to the horizon, over which the sun has long since disappeared, but just as he does, the sliding door behind him slips open...
...and out steps the "devil" himself, Colt "The Maverick" Irvine. The older Irvine brother smiles over at Syndicate, but the Los Angeles Outlaw - sensing his presence - refuses to turn towards him, instead choosing to speak to him with an hateful tone that could even make Mother Teresa run for cover.
Syndicate: Get the fuck out of my house.
Colt: Oh, c’mon, Syd - that’s no way to treat family!
Syndicate: You’re not my family...not anymore.
Colt: I reckon a simple blood test would beg to differ.
"The Maverick" walks over and joins his brother against the balcony's railing, leaning on it with his right arm while patting Syndicate on the shoulder with his left. No sooner does his hand make contact with Syndicate's shoulder, however, does the Outlaw swivel around and get directly into Colt's face.
Syndicate: You touch me again, and I’ll throw you right off this fucking balcony.
At this, Colt does nothing but step back and chuckle, his wispy brown hair swaying in the breeze.
Colt: No, you wouldn’t. You may have the balls to nearly kill some folks off the side of the road in backwater Minnesota, but you know that you wouldn’t do the same to me.
Syndicate glares at him and turns back around.
Colt: Look, Syd, I’m only here to help straighten things out.
Syndicate: If you really wanted to help, you’d leave.
Colt: What, and let you send JJ back to the hospital? Fat chance, bucko.
Colt had hoped that the "bucko" comment - his nickname for Syndicate from when they were young - would help lighten the mood, but it gets no response out of the Legacy Champion.
Colt: Last year, when you were having one of your “Wrestling God” episodes, I came here to try and help…but I ended up abandoning you, and things fell apart even further from there. I’m not making that mistake again. I know the Legacy title is important to you, but your behavior as champion has only reinforced the negative feelings people have for you. You’ve gotten into some rough shit in this new company of yours - True Society, Triad, all of that - and I’ve gotta ask, is it really worth it?
Immediately, Syndicate freezes in place, his eyes wide with fear. Did Colt just say what he thought he'd said?
Syndicate: …how’d you know about the Triad?
Colt: Ah, yes - that’s the other reason why I’m here.
Glancing over his shoulder to make sure the door is closed, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a DVD encased in a blue plastic sleeve.
Colt: I got this in the mail the other day, along with a note that read “Keep him quiet”. Not sure who sent it, but I saw what I needed to see.
Syndicate: …what, exactly?
Colt: You. I saw surveillance footage of you attacking innocent civilians, damn near choking an old man to death, and agreeing to join a group of mobsters. Whole bunch of illegal shit that you did, Syd.
Syndicate's shoulders fall as he releases a breath. The gig is up.
Syndicate: So why don’t you just turn me in, then? Put me out of my fucking misery and end this whole charade? You'd sure as hell make Soph and JJ happy.
Colt: …because I also saw why you did all of those things. Those men preyed on your insecurities, and turned them around on you in order to get you to act in a way you otherwise wouldn’t.
He once again tries patting Sydney on the shoulder...and this time, the gesture isn't immediately rejected.
Colt: I know the real Sydney Irvine…and he’s certainly not the man I saw on that video. It’s as if you entered a trance where your only goal was self-preservation. That wasn’t you, Syd, I know that…but I don’t think the Los Angeles Police Department would be able to tell the difference. This video gets out, and you’re gonna have a lot more problems than just spending a few nights in jail.
Just as things seem to be going alright between the two brothers, Syndicate suddenly gets back on the offensive, looking over at Colt with a knowing look, as if he had finally figured everything out.
Syndicate: I get it. You’re blackmailing me so that I play along with your little “life coach” routine, right? You don't want me to "run away" again, so you're using the Triad stuff to keep me in line. Is that all this is?
Colt shakes his head.
Colt: …nope. Not even close.
The elder Irvine takes the DVD and slams it against his right knee, breaking it in half, before winding up and throwing it off the balcony. It falls into a small stream below, shattering into even more pieces and washing away towards the Pacific. Shocked, Syndicate lunges after it, nearly falling over the railing.
Colt: No one else is ever gonna see that shit.
He notices Syndicate's quizzical look and decides to explain further.
Colt: It's like I said earlier - I’m here to help you, Sydney, not hold something from your past over your head and force you to fall in line. Now, you can either deal with your older brother being around a bit more often…or you can try your luck with whoever else JJ decides to hire on. The choice is yours.
The Los Angeles Outlaw takes a moment to steady himself. Colt has more than enough ammunition to throw Syndicate to the wolves, and if the roles were reversed, Syndicate knows he wouldn't hesitate to do just that to the brother that wronged him all those years ago. Instead, however, Colt seems to be offering him a sign of peace...why? Sydney can't possibly imagine that after all these years, Colt would want to help Sydney...would he? Of course, he could still demand that "The Maverick" leave his rightful property, but that could lead to him being turned into the police...doesn't seem like much of a choice, in hindsight.
Syndicate: Fine. Just get the hell off my balcony.
His response prompts a warm smile to come over Colt's face.
Colt: Great. We start next week - see you then.
Leaving his brother with one last nod-and-smile combination, Colt "The Maverick" Irvine slides open the glass door and enters the house once again, leaving Syndicate alone. Sure, he's got a title to defend, and he's got True Society to back him up in the ring...but here, right now, on the utopian shoreline of Los Angeles, California, there's nobody left to help Syndicate but himself. As he ponders what the future holds for him and his relationship with Colt, the video feed is eaten up from all sides by black-and-white static.
