Post by Syndicate on Feb 1, 2022 23:17:18 GMT -5
EXTENDED STAY AMERICA HOTEL - LOS ANGELES, CA
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 1:33PM
Colt: So, Syd...how's it going?
We fade into a shot of a relatively modern suite-style hotel room here in Los Angeles. Various art pieces - each probably purchased from Target for about $20 a pop, from the looks of them - line the walls and preside over the modest furniture featured in the space: a brown pull-out couch that's currently pushed against the wall, alongside a desk that's got a television taking up its entire surface, for some reason. Interior decoration crimes aside, the room itself doesn't matter...but its inhabitants certainly do.
Sitting on a tan, padded chair alongside the loveseat, we see Colt "the Maverick" Irvine - former amateur and professional wrestler, current family man, and, most recently, temporary therapist. With his legs crossed over one another, and holding a notepad and pen in his lap, the elder Irvine brother smiles at his charge as he pushes back his flowing brunette hair and settles in for the therapy session. Colt was brought here as an impromptu psychologist by two things: one, noted SportsMax agent, JJ Kline, who requested that one of his clients - and personal friends - be provided with help that only a brother can give. The other, a mysterious DVD mailed to him at his home in Tennessee, detailing the hitherto-unreleased events that transpired between the Triad, a clandestine group of Los Angeles mobsters secretly hired by Arik Holt to lure Colt's client into an evil faction. And who else should this particular session of mental analysis concern...but that piece-of-shit client himself.
On the couch next to Colt, the Project: Honor cameraman sent to document this meeting zooms in on the man himself - the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate. The last time we saw him in this room with his older brother, he at least had the Ultimate Briefcase to ease his tensions...but that Briefcase, like the Legacy Championship that came before it, is now gone, and with this in mind, it's easy to understand why Syndicate doesn't exactly seem to be in a talkative mood. As such, the True Society member - dressed in a black V-neck t-shirt and blue jeans - has only one thought circulating through his mind at this moment, as he hears Colt's icebreaker question.
We fade into a shot of a relatively modern suite-style hotel room here in Los Angeles. Various art pieces - each probably purchased from Target for about $20 a pop, from the looks of them - line the walls and preside over the modest furniture featured in the space: a brown pull-out couch that's currently pushed against the wall, alongside a desk that's got a television taking up its entire surface, for some reason. Interior decoration crimes aside, the room itself doesn't matter...but its inhabitants certainly do.
Sitting on a tan, padded chair alongside the loveseat, we see Colt "the Maverick" Irvine - former amateur and professional wrestler, current family man, and, most recently, temporary therapist. With his legs crossed over one another, and holding a notepad and pen in his lap, the elder Irvine brother smiles at his charge as he pushes back his flowing brunette hair and settles in for the therapy session. Colt was brought here as an impromptu psychologist by two things: one, noted SportsMax agent, JJ Kline, who requested that one of his clients - and personal friends - be provided with help that only a brother can give. The other, a mysterious DVD mailed to him at his home in Tennessee, detailing the hitherto-unreleased events that transpired between the Triad, a clandestine group of Los Angeles mobsters secretly hired by Arik Holt to lure Colt's client into an evil faction. And who else should this particular session of mental analysis concern...but that piece-of-shit client himself.
On the couch next to Colt, the Project: Honor cameraman sent to document this meeting zooms in on the man himself - the Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate. The last time we saw him in this room with his older brother, he at least had the Ultimate Briefcase to ease his tensions...but that Briefcase, like the Legacy Championship that came before it, is now gone, and with this in mind, it's easy to understand why Syndicate doesn't exactly seem to be in a talkative mood. As such, the True Society member - dressed in a black V-neck t-shirt and blue jeans - has only one thought circulating through his mind at this moment, as he hears Colt's icebreaker question.
Fuck off, Colt. Fuck right the hell off.
Syndicate could just say that aloud, right to his brother’s face, but for perhaps the first time in his life…he instead chooses to hold the negative thoughts in. After all, Colt doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of seeing Syndicate blow a gasket, so instead, the Los Angeles Outlaw – leaning forward on the hotel room’s loveseat with his head in his hands - keeps his responses to himself, staring blankly forward at a black-and-white picture of Chavez Ravine hung on the opposite wall as Colt breaks the silence himself.
Colt: Not well, I suppose. You’re probably just here because you have to be, and that’s fine - I understand.
Colt glances upward at Sydney, looking for any sort of response, but…nothing. Syd’s still got that three-mile stare of his.
Colt: Look, I’m just happy you’re here at all. I know your wrestling career has taken a…downturn, shall we say…but that’s okay! Wrestling is cyclical, after all, and no one person can stay on top forever. I get that as well as anyone.
Colt: If anything, losing the title and the briefcase in one fell swoop is just like ripping off a Band-Aid - now that you don’t have anything to protect, you can focus !00% of your efforts on getting right back up there to the top, and I’m gonna help you do just that!
Colt: So, to start off, and to help you look forward instead of dwelling on the past, I say we play a little game: word association!
Colt: I’m gonna say a few names, and I want you to say - or think to yourself, whatever you wanna do - the first word that comes to mind. Simple as Ma’s pumpkin cheesecake pie.
Colt: Alright, first up: Angelo Caito.
With nothing emanating from Syndicate’s mouth, Colt clicks his pen a few times, slightly annoyed at his brother, before continuing with his thoughts anyway.
Colt: Now, as we’ve already discussed, those people aren’t exactly the most “trustworthy” in the world…
Colt: …but external factors aside, I’ve got a feelin’ that you’re gonna need to rely on them in the future if you don’t want this “True Society” thing you’ve gotten involved in to go up in smoke. Your emotions may be telling you to beat them all senseless…
Colt: …but that’ll just make things worse - trust me.
Suddenly, Syndicate leans forward, visibly wincing. He reaches upward with his hand and presses against the right side of his forehead, which temporarily quells the pain while also giving himself time to breathe. At this, Colt just chuckles.
Colt: Thinkin’ too hard, bucko?
Syndicate’s eyes momentarily widen.
The former Legacy Champion leaps to his feet and rushes past Colt, who’s taken aback by his brother’s sudden movement.
Syndicate: I need some air.
Grabbing his Aviator sunglasses off the kitchenette’s countertop, Syndicate hurriedly leaves the hotel room, leaving a stunned Colt Irvine behind.
Colt: Fine, yeah, we can take a break, whatever.
He throws his notepad into the air - dealing with his brother is never a simple endeavor.
Colt: Not well, I suppose. You’re probably just here because you have to be, and that’s fine - I understand.
…do you? Do you “really” understand, Colt? If you did, you’d know damn well how it’s going – you, of ALL people, should know. After fourteen blissful years of not having to see your prissy little face around the house, pretending like you give a damn about anyone other than yourself, you just HAD to insert yourself into my business, didn’t you? You just HAD to see what lil’ ol’ Sydney was up to? Well, I’ll tell you how I was doing – I was at the top of the professional wrestling world, just like I deserve to be, until the moment YOU showed up.
Colt glances upward at Sydney, looking for any sort of response, but…nothing. Syd’s still got that three-mile stare of his.
Colt: Look, I’m just happy you’re here at all. I know your wrestling career has taken a…downturn, shall we say…but that’s okay! Wrestling is cyclical, after all, and no one person can stay on top forever. I get that as well as anyone.
Sure, but if your country–lookin’ ass didn’t show up on my balcony all those weeks ago, the cycle never would’ve turned over this quickly. You promised that you were gonna “help”, saying you’d teach me the “error of my ways”, but what happened instead? WHAT HAPPENED INSTEAD, COLT?
Colt: If anything, losing the title and the briefcase in one fell swoop is just like ripping off a Band-Aid - now that you don’t have anything to protect, you can focus !00% of your efforts on getting right back up there to the top, and I’m gonna help you do just that!
I’ll tell ya what happened – YOU took my eye off the prize. I was all ready to go into Columbus, Ohio and walk out with both of my prized possessions in tow, but you and your ego just had to get in the way of that. You distracted me, you took my attention off of Ozy and Billy, this is all YOUR GODDAMN FAULT, COLT. You ain’t helping anybody.
Colt: So, to start off, and to help you look forward instead of dwelling on the past, I say we play a little game: word association!
And another thing: what the hell do you even DO these days? You’re telling me that you can just up ‘n leave your day job to fly out to Los Angeles, California, in a vain attempt to cost your little brother his entire life’s work? How much paid sick leave you got saved up? Hell, you’re probably still working on the farm with Ma, ‘cause god forbid you do anything else in your life outside of peaking in high school!
Colt: I’m gonna say a few names, and I want you to say - or think to yourself, whatever you wanna do - the first word that comes to mind. Simple as Ma’s pumpkin cheesecake pie.
You’re the one that liked that pie - I always had ice cream instead. If you actually gave a shit about me, Colt, you’d remember that, but here we are.
Colt: Alright, first up: Angelo Caito.
Freeloader.
Colt: Havoc.Fraud.
Colt: Billy Bennett.Backstabbing little bitch.
With nothing emanating from Syndicate’s mouth, Colt clicks his pen a few times, slightly annoyed at his brother, before continuing with his thoughts anyway.
Colt: Now, as we’ve already discussed, those people aren’t exactly the most “trustworthy” in the world…
Damn straight.
Colt: …but external factors aside, I’ve got a feelin’ that you’re gonna need to rely on them in the future if you don’t want this “True Society” thing you’ve gotten involved in to go up in smoke. Your emotions may be telling you to beat them all senseless…
Right again, asshole.
Colt: …but that’ll just make things worse - trust me.
No, Colt - I DON’T trust you, and I never will. You can say whatever you want about the past, but excuses aside, you prompted ALL of this to happen when you sent me to the fuckin’ hospital and got me kicked off the wrestling team. You were too selfish to let your brother step into your precious little spotlight, and now, I’M the one that’s paying the price. How is that fair, Colt? Why is it that you can live your life unimpeded while I am left to SUFFER, EVERY SINGLE DAY, FIGHTING FOR MY GODDAMN LIFE -
Suddenly, Syndicate leans forward, visibly wincing. He reaches upward with his hand and presses against the right side of his forehead, which temporarily quells the pain while also giving himself time to breathe. At this, Colt just chuckles.
Colt: Thinkin’ too hard, bucko?
There he goes again with that “bucko” shit – he just LOVES to bring up his childhood nickname for me, as if remembering our terrible past will help “lighten the mood”.
Speaking of the past, though…what caused all THIS to happen? Sure, Colt was brought in by JJ to help “bring me back to reality” or some shit, but that was just because JJ hated that I joined True Society – the “bad guys”. A few months ago, I would’ve been first in line to fight Arik and his goons, but now, I’m a card-carrying cultist in my own right. What prompted all that to change? What caused me to go from fighting against authority…to defending it?
Syndicate’s eyes momentarily widen.
Bingo.
The former Legacy Champion leaps to his feet and rushes past Colt, who’s taken aback by his brother’s sudden movement.
Syndicate: I need some air.
Grabbing his Aviator sunglasses off the kitchenette’s countertop, Syndicate hurriedly leaves the hotel room, leaving a stunned Colt Irvine behind.
Colt: Fine, yeah, we can take a break, whatever.
He throws his notepad into the air - dealing with his brother is never a simple endeavor.
SANTA MONICA STATE BEACH - SANTA MONICA, CA
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 2:44PM
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 2:44PM
Syndicate didn't go back to Colt's hotel room that day. With any luck, he'd never go back there ever again.
Apparently, "getting some air" means driving halfway across Los Angeles to sit on a bench and stare out into the ocean - not sure if that's what Colt Irvine had in mind when his brother rushed out of their therapy session, but here we are. Syndicate, now wearing his black Aviator sunglasses as he rests his arms against the back of a boardwalk-adjacent wooden bench, sits here, all by himself, as beachgoer after beachgoer pass behind him, not realizing the celebrity lounging in their midst. Glancing over at the man behind the camera to make sure he's recording - and therefore, broadcasting his video feed straight to the Project: Honor archives - Syndicate takes in a heavy breath.
Syndicate: …I wanna get out of this world.
A kid accidentally throws a beach ball his way, but he neither flinches nor reacts as the child darts in front of him to retrieve it. He's numb to the tourists of his adopted hometown, by now.
Syndicate: You know, when I was a kid, Colt and I would get up super early on the weekends - like, 6:30 in the morning, or some shit - and we’d rush down those stairs into the living room, turn on the television, and watch our favorite show at the time: Pokémon.
The sound of someone snickering can be heard behind the camera, prompting an immediate glare towards the direction of the camera from the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Syndicate: Don't you dare fuckin' laugh - I'm being serious.
The laughter immediately fades - seems like Syndicate's warning hit home hard.
Syndicate: Every episode, Ash and his friends would travel to a new part of the region, meet new people, catch new monsters, etcetera, and by the end of the brisk 30-minute story - along with some particularly awful commercials from ZooPals and Time-Life, if I remember correctly - we’d see Team Rocket blast off again, friends reconcile, and the group move on to their next destination “as the journey continued!” Sure, it was a simple premise, but that was okay - I ate that shit up as a kid regardless. But what stuck with me the most, though, were the lessons that it tried to teach Colt and I as viewers: that teamwork was essential to success, that everyone would be willing to contribute and sacrifice for the greater good…and that, by the end of those 30 precious minutes, if you did what was right and followed your heart, all of life’s problems would be resolved. It really was that simple…but I know now that it was all just a blatant lie.
Syndicate: Twenty years later, I thought I had learned my lesson. When I first got into this business, I followed what I had learned from those Saturday morning cartoons and tried to be the “nice guy”. I’d help out the backstage crew with unloading the trucks, mentor the newbies on how to get better, that kind of shit. But it wasn’t until a few years later…that I was taught what happened to “nice guys” like myself. You get pushed aside, run down, and ignored by others that are more preoccupied with getting ahead in this world than giving you your due, and from that point on, I started doing things a bit differently. All of a sudden, I became the lone-wolf asshole that everybody hated, the guy that would rather retire or die than put his trust in someone. And you know what? I don’t regret it for a second. Ten World titles, a Hall of Fame-worthy career, anything and everything I could ever dream of…it was all at my fingertips, and if a few people hated me along the way? Fuck ‘em - they’d give up anything to stand where I stood…right at the top of the damn mountain.
Syndicate: I spent years building walls around my heart, making sure that I’d only ever make the most rational, intelligent decision that would help me find that ever-elusive prosperity…but after a while, those walls started to crack. I got married. I allowed myself to have friends for the first time since grade school. Perhaps worst of all, I made the choice to put my trust into the hands of complete strangers…and joined True Society. Why? Why did I go against an entire career’s worth of knowledge and advice, and consciously decide to strike the deal with the devil? Because I thought this time would be different. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was receiving an inkling of respect from my peers, that I had finally found a group of like-minded individuals that wanted to stand by my side and change the fuckin’ world. Sure, I’ve got Sophie and JJ and the rest of ‘em, but they only tolerate me because of my celebrity status, I’m sure of that. In contrast, True Society wanted me, Sydney Irvine, the person, not just the expendable husk of the man that I possess.
A small chuckle escapes Syndicate's lips.
Syndicate: But that was all a deception. Over the past number of weeks, I have been distinctly reminded of the fact that everyone in the professional wrestling business is out for themselves, and nothing more. For once, I thought I had a real cause to fight for, rather than limiting myself to the same personal pursuits that I’ve been dominating in for the past decade, but while the cause still exists…the backbone of support that I thought I had certainly doesn’t. What happened next should have been predictable - my “friends” left me for dead out there at Unbreakable Resolution, and just a few weeks later, those same “buddies” of mine took my briefcase, knocked me out cold, and left me behind. We could have kept going - we could have retained the top championship in professional wrestling within our grasp AND continued to possess the “insurance policy” while keeping the rest of our gold in tow. All you had to do…was protect the one man that brought prominence to this group, the one guy that held a title with any actual meaning behind it… but selfish desires got in the way, and who else should have to pay the price for being the dreaded “team player” than little ol’ me.
Syndicate: That’s why I want to get out of this world, and why I’m still entirely committed to burning our current society to the fuckin’ ground…because if I don’t, that rot, that POISON of selfishness and disrespect will continue to spread until humanity collapses all on its own. Ash won’t fix all his problems by the end of the episode because Brock and Misty will be too busy challenging the Pokémon League themselves, getting in the way of their friend’s ambitions, and when that happens, he’s gonna feel exactly how I feel right now: abandoned by those that I trusted the most. Up until this point, I’ve toed the “company line”. I’ve done as I was told, I held myself back, and I stood side-by-side with my brothers- and sisters-in-arms…and what did I get for all that? Broken promises and broken bones.
Suddenly jumping up to his feet, Syndicate switches from idly staring out at the sea to looking directly into the camera lens.
Syndicate: I was made a fool on national television…and that’s never gonna happen again.
Leaving the bench behind, the Los Angeles Outlaw begins to make his way down the beach, weaving in-between various families and tourists that care more about distracting themselves from their boring lives with vacations to LA than actually fixing those dreary careers in the first place.
Syndicate: Do I regret the choices I’ve made to get here, now titleless and disgraced? Not a chance. You can take anyone from that Project: Honor locker room, from Jason Long to Jason Short, and give them the same abuse, disrespect, and hate that I’ve had thrown my way since joining this company…and they would have become just as disillusioned with this world as I have. They would have shaken Arik Holt’s hand, and they most certainly would have made all the same choices and mistakes that I did. I still believe that True Society can change the world for the better, that we can rid Project: Honor from all low-life nitwit jackasses that occupy its roster and make this place better for it…but we can only accomplish that if my “teammates” get their shit together, whether by choice…or by force. Because I’m all-in now - I’ve given up everything in my trophy case for this group, and if I have to personally beat the shit out of any of y’all to get you to see things from my perspective…then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.
Syndicate: Over the past month, I was treated to a bunch of bastards joining up, breaking rank, being egotiscical, and fucking up my life. And you know who started all that? That’s you, Billy. You never took me seriously, you never believed for a damn SECOND that I deserved to be here, and instead of treating me as your LEADER, you disrespected me and you took what was mine. Now, I’m sure you find my downfall a bit funny, don’t you? Hell, if Twitter is to be believed, it looks like you’ve been having a grand ol’ time hanging out with the untrustworthy little bitch that recently joined our ranks, a woman that is five seconds away from double-crossing us and burning down our entire operation, all because you and Arik somehow trust her after months of being one of True Society’s top enemies.
Syndicate: But little miss Savannah Sunshit is neither here nor there - there’s something else that bothers me much more, Billy. From our little “backstage chats” over the past few months, you treat me like I’m an self-absorbed little child that’s only concerned with my own escapades, but have you checked yourself out in a mirror recently? Because the way I see it, you’re more than happy to throw the rest of us to the fuckin’ wolves if it means you can get yourself a slightly larger piece of the pie. You’ve told me to my face that you’re a team player, and that you’ve got my back, but once the curtain rises, it’s as if you’re following a completely different script, and afterward, all you do is make excuse after excuse to try and cover your ass. Now, miraculously, you’ve got the briefcase, you’ve got the “girls’ night” buddy, you’ve got the influence of the head honcho - you’ve carved yourself a nice little niche here in TS, one that certainly wasn’t accidental. Because ever since you walked onto this ship, you’ve been sowing discontent everywhere you’ve gone - first with Slade, now with me - and one has to wonder…
Pausing briefly in front of a hot dog stand, Syndicate takes one look at the quality of meat being served - slimy, skinless dogs, like always - rolls his eyes, and continues down the beachfront.
Syndicate: …when are you gonna stop? You already took Slade’s Noble Championship and promptly threw it in the trash for the next shiny object put in your grubby little face. Directly or otherwise, you’ve already robbed me of everything I’ve got - what about Havoc, and his Prime title? Is Arik’s control of the entire group up for grabs? When, Billy, will you learn to settle the fuck down, know your role as a second-tier member of this organization - at BEST - and stop messing up everything we’ve ever worked for? I’ll tell you when - this week, Fallout XX, when I put that damn crown on my head and watch you finally have your “come to Jesus” moment and realize all the mistakes you’ve made thus far.
Syndicate: This whole schtick isn’t about you, Billy, and it never was. You came to Project: Honor straight outta the swamplands, searching for a better life as many others often do…but the bright lights of the big time blinded you and made you think you were someone you weren’t. Sure, everything’s gone according to plan up to this point, but you’ve been so preoccupied with your own successes that you’ve neglected to fix the weaknesses you’ve always carried with you. For example, that “iron grip” of yours that helps you with your submission maneuvers? That probably won’t do you much good after your neck gets “No Signal”ed to death and losing all control of your extremities. See what I mean? You’ve done anything you’ve wanted, not caring which of your peers you pissed off along the way, but whether you realize it or not, you’re just a few short seconds away from being thrown right back into the alligator’s mouth…and who else should be the one to send you there and teach you a lesson than the man you’ve been playfully tormenting this entire time? Billy Bennett, you’ve gained so much power since joining True Society that you’ve become drunk on it…it’s about time that I make you drink your own blood instead.
Satisfied, the Los Angeles Outlaw smirks as a man with numerous balloons passes by, likely looking to make a quick buck off of some poor kid that's probably gonna accidentally let the balloon go within five seconds of buying it.
Syndicate: …you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Angelo? That feeling of being robbed of something important to you? You made it all the way to the end of that "Golden Rules" match all by your lonesome, without any backup or assistance given to you by the rest of True Society - why? Because I was knocked out by one of our own, and the rest of the group - namely, the aforementioned Billy Bennett - left you for dead out there, defending your Gatekeeper title against three of Project: Honor’s best. How is that fair? How is it right that a CHAMPION should be abandoned by those they trust the most? I ask you these questions, Angelo, because they’re the exact same questions I asked myself when you, along with everyone else, stayed in the back and watched as Ozymandias and Elena DeDraca STOLE the most prestigious championship in this entire sport. So in terms of you losing your Gatekeeper Championship, I offer my most sincere apologies…while also promising you that you’re gonna have to lose a hell of a lot more if you want to hang with us.
Syndicate: I’ll be frank with you, buddy ol’ pal - I don’t harbor a ton of ill will against you. You seem like a pretty dedicated guy, willing to fight for what you want, and I respect that. I do have to say, though…you sure spew a lot of shit for someone that doesn’t have a lick of history to back any of it up. What’s more, every time I find myself around you, I catch you glancing over at me with an air of jealousy around you, and even if I don’t have a championship over my shoulder, you still stare into my pretty blue eyes like I’ve got somethin’ that you desperately want. What is that, Angelo? Is it my leather jacket? My long, luscious blonde hair that you could very much use for your own scalp? Or…is it my ability to do what you’ve never been able to do, and win not just one single World Championship…but multiple? I’m sure deep down, Syndicate: you’re just like Billy and the rest of ‘em, frustrated that no matter what you do for the rest of your life, you’ll always be closer to the Grim Reaper than you will be to matching my accomplishments in that ring, and although you have a chance to let that frustration out on me this Thursday on Fallout, it won’t change the fact that you’re nothing more than True Society’s drugged-up uncle.
Syndicate: You got kids, right? Course you do - someone your age and demeanor probably has twenty by now. And I’m sure they’re all really proud of you, Angelo - after all, you defied the odds, broke through into the wrestling business all those years ago, and now stand right at the precipice of greatness here in Project: Honor. But that clock keeps ticking, and you can cuss and bleed and fight all you want, but unless you take control of your life and help me reform humankind into something more equitable for all, those kids of yours are gonna grow up in the same, sad world that you and I try so desperately to escape each day. Is that what you want? Is butting heads against me, and throwing away any potential for the next generation to experience true happiness, really what you want, Angelo? Of course not. I’m not the real enemy that you should be focusing on, no, and until you come to grips with that, you’re gonna keep losing everything and everyone that’s close to you…just like I already have. So you can either fall in line, just like everybody else, or you will finally be forced to face the demons within you…when you get sent down to hell by the Los Angeles Outlaw.
As he finishes his rant towards Angelo, Syndicate's idle meandering has led him to a small sand castle. Its creators have long since left the beach, but since they had the foresight to build it a decent ways away from the shoreline, it's still standing in all its pathetic glory. Syndicate takes a moment to smile down at the castle, thinking about how much temporary dopamine it must have injected into its architects, before turning back up to the camera.
Syndicate: And finally…there’s you, Havoc. King of the castle. The golden boy. The one person around here that seems to actually get what they want, because we can afford to lose the Legacy title, the Noble title, all that, but GOD FORBID the Prime Championship gets put in danger. Over the past number of months, ever since you and Arik started this little True Society shindig, I’ve watched your ego grow larger with each passing day, and really, who can blame it? You’ve been absolutely fuckin’ untouchable…which means its about time that someone reminds you who the REAL top dog is around here…and all we need to do to find confirmation of that is to look into the past. What kickstarted all of this, sending True Society into motion and leading us to where we are now? That Barbed Wire Heaven Elimination match, from all the way back in August. Sure, you and I had butted heads before, but that was for stakes that didn’t matter in the slightest - once a Legacy Championship match was placed on the line, though? I made sure that I got the job done that night and secured the bag, while you…were forced to settle for a consolation prize. Think about it - you could have faced Elena, you could have defended against Ozy, and had everything aligned perfectly, you, Havoc, could be standing here today as the Project: Honor Legacy Champion!
Syndicate: …but, of course, that’s not what happened. I received that opportunity and used it to turn around my entire career, and ever since then, regardless of what others may say, you’ve always been second place here on Fallout. That’s just gotta suck, right? Knowing that no matter what you do, you’ll never be as good as the cocky little shit that passed you by, all those months ago? I’m sure it must be still weighing on you, because before our "Golden Rules" match, you lamented the loss of the Legacy title to Ozy…but you noticeably didn’t say anything about me being the one to get it back. What’s more, you volunteered yourself for the shot, as if you truly believe that you’re any better than the rest of us, working our asses off below deck so that you can have a comfy, cozy title reign while spending your time in the captain's quarters. That’s what I find the most frustrating about you, Havoc - it’s not the leadership that you’ve demonstrated over the last number of months that’s rubbed me the wrong way, but rather, the lack of it. Maybe that’s due to the “internal issues” you always seem to be having, or maybe it’s because you’re doing what all of y’all accused me of doing, and using True Society as nothing more than a way to hold onto your spot.
Syndicate: The hand-holding ends now, Havoc. I know you’re suffering on the inside, and I know you need help - we can get you there! True Society can make all that pain go away. If we want that to happen, though, we either need you to start putting yourself on the line for the good of the group…or we need to find someone that will. I’ve already proven that I’m willing to sacrifice everything I’ve got for the good of the cause and to appease the vicious personalities that we’ve welcomed into the trenches…are you willing to do the same? Or are you content with being that “king of the castle”, holding onto that gold until all else is lost? Either way, I’ll be paying close attention to you, and I’ll be watching to see if that little twerp inside you, Chris, ever manages to escape and wreck everything that we’ve worked for…and if he does, if you continue to struggle with your own soul and fail to keep control, Havoc, then I’ll be the one that makes the decision…to cut our losses.
Syndicate has now backtracked all the way to the parking lot nearest to the beach. Standing in the midst of car after car, lined up in neat little rows, the Outlaw faces the camera head-on and extends his arms outward in a "welcoming" gesture.
Syndicate: Don’t y’all get it? We’re so close - so very close - to immortality, but y’all keep getting in the way of the group’s collective goals, and I refuse to let that happen any longer. If no one else is going to stop True Society from eating itself alive, then I’ll do what needs to be done to change our fate. I’m not here to get stepped on or pushed aside any longer, and if you people don’t want Jason Long and Big Drip to win this war…then you better acknowledge the power that I hold in this company and this industry. For I can push us over the edge, burn this world to the ground, and help you all find a better life, or I can be the one that blows this place up - the choice is entirely yours. All you have to do is give me the respect that I rightfully deserve…that’s all I ask, and nothing more. Welcome…to the Syndicate.
Syndicate pauses for a moment before nodding his head and switching his gaze to behind the camera lens.
Syndicate: Think that’s good for now. I’m gonna drive over to Arby’s, grab a shake - meet you there.
?: Sounds good.
A deep, gruff voice emanates from behind the camera, belonging to the Project: Honor cameraman that’s been tasked with documenting Syndicate’s everyday life. As part of the Los Angeles Outlaw’s contract with the wrestling federation, he’s agreed to have every moment of his waking day documented, as if he’s on a reality show of some sort, and every moment of video is immediately sent over to the company’s video archive server for potential public release.
From the point-of-view of the camera - which, by rule, is never turned off outside of emergencies or battery swaps - we see the P:H camera operator turn and walk over to his car, which is conveniently parked just a few feet away. Opening the hatchback of the tan Subaru Outback, he turns the camera around and sets it down on the trunk’s fabric floor, revealing the man’s profile, and as he takes off some of his gear…we see Syndicate in the background, checking to make sure the operator isn’t paying attention, before hastily running over to his own car, a crimson Chevy Cruse. Hopping in, Syndicate pulls out of his parking spot and books it out of the lot, leaving the currently unaware documentarian behind.
Apparently, "getting some air" means driving halfway across Los Angeles to sit on a bench and stare out into the ocean - not sure if that's what Colt Irvine had in mind when his brother rushed out of their therapy session, but here we are. Syndicate, now wearing his black Aviator sunglasses as he rests his arms against the back of a boardwalk-adjacent wooden bench, sits here, all by himself, as beachgoer after beachgoer pass behind him, not realizing the celebrity lounging in their midst. Glancing over at the man behind the camera to make sure he's recording - and therefore, broadcasting his video feed straight to the Project: Honor archives - Syndicate takes in a heavy breath.
Syndicate: …I wanna get out of this world.
A kid accidentally throws a beach ball his way, but he neither flinches nor reacts as the child darts in front of him to retrieve it. He's numb to the tourists of his adopted hometown, by now.
Syndicate: You know, when I was a kid, Colt and I would get up super early on the weekends - like, 6:30 in the morning, or some shit - and we’d rush down those stairs into the living room, turn on the television, and watch our favorite show at the time: Pokémon.
The sound of someone snickering can be heard behind the camera, prompting an immediate glare towards the direction of the camera from the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Syndicate: Don't you dare fuckin' laugh - I'm being serious.
The laughter immediately fades - seems like Syndicate's warning hit home hard.
Syndicate: Every episode, Ash and his friends would travel to a new part of the region, meet new people, catch new monsters, etcetera, and by the end of the brisk 30-minute story - along with some particularly awful commercials from ZooPals and Time-Life, if I remember correctly - we’d see Team Rocket blast off again, friends reconcile, and the group move on to their next destination “as the journey continued!” Sure, it was a simple premise, but that was okay - I ate that shit up as a kid regardless. But what stuck with me the most, though, were the lessons that it tried to teach Colt and I as viewers: that teamwork was essential to success, that everyone would be willing to contribute and sacrifice for the greater good…and that, by the end of those 30 precious minutes, if you did what was right and followed your heart, all of life’s problems would be resolved. It really was that simple…but I know now that it was all just a blatant lie.
Syndicate: Twenty years later, I thought I had learned my lesson. When I first got into this business, I followed what I had learned from those Saturday morning cartoons and tried to be the “nice guy”. I’d help out the backstage crew with unloading the trucks, mentor the newbies on how to get better, that kind of shit. But it wasn’t until a few years later…that I was taught what happened to “nice guys” like myself. You get pushed aside, run down, and ignored by others that are more preoccupied with getting ahead in this world than giving you your due, and from that point on, I started doing things a bit differently. All of a sudden, I became the lone-wolf asshole that everybody hated, the guy that would rather retire or die than put his trust in someone. And you know what? I don’t regret it for a second. Ten World titles, a Hall of Fame-worthy career, anything and everything I could ever dream of…it was all at my fingertips, and if a few people hated me along the way? Fuck ‘em - they’d give up anything to stand where I stood…right at the top of the damn mountain.
Syndicate: I spent years building walls around my heart, making sure that I’d only ever make the most rational, intelligent decision that would help me find that ever-elusive prosperity…but after a while, those walls started to crack. I got married. I allowed myself to have friends for the first time since grade school. Perhaps worst of all, I made the choice to put my trust into the hands of complete strangers…and joined True Society. Why? Why did I go against an entire career’s worth of knowledge and advice, and consciously decide to strike the deal with the devil? Because I thought this time would be different. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was receiving an inkling of respect from my peers, that I had finally found a group of like-minded individuals that wanted to stand by my side and change the fuckin’ world. Sure, I’ve got Sophie and JJ and the rest of ‘em, but they only tolerate me because of my celebrity status, I’m sure of that. In contrast, True Society wanted me, Sydney Irvine, the person, not just the expendable husk of the man that I possess.
A small chuckle escapes Syndicate's lips.
Syndicate: But that was all a deception. Over the past number of weeks, I have been distinctly reminded of the fact that everyone in the professional wrestling business is out for themselves, and nothing more. For once, I thought I had a real cause to fight for, rather than limiting myself to the same personal pursuits that I’ve been dominating in for the past decade, but while the cause still exists…the backbone of support that I thought I had certainly doesn’t. What happened next should have been predictable - my “friends” left me for dead out there at Unbreakable Resolution, and just a few weeks later, those same “buddies” of mine took my briefcase, knocked me out cold, and left me behind. We could have kept going - we could have retained the top championship in professional wrestling within our grasp AND continued to possess the “insurance policy” while keeping the rest of our gold in tow. All you had to do…was protect the one man that brought prominence to this group, the one guy that held a title with any actual meaning behind it… but selfish desires got in the way, and who else should have to pay the price for being the dreaded “team player” than little ol’ me.
Syndicate: That’s why I want to get out of this world, and why I’m still entirely committed to burning our current society to the fuckin’ ground…because if I don’t, that rot, that POISON of selfishness and disrespect will continue to spread until humanity collapses all on its own. Ash won’t fix all his problems by the end of the episode because Brock and Misty will be too busy challenging the Pokémon League themselves, getting in the way of their friend’s ambitions, and when that happens, he’s gonna feel exactly how I feel right now: abandoned by those that I trusted the most. Up until this point, I’ve toed the “company line”. I’ve done as I was told, I held myself back, and I stood side-by-side with my brothers- and sisters-in-arms…and what did I get for all that? Broken promises and broken bones.
Suddenly jumping up to his feet, Syndicate switches from idly staring out at the sea to looking directly into the camera lens.
Syndicate: I was made a fool on national television…and that’s never gonna happen again.
Leaving the bench behind, the Los Angeles Outlaw begins to make his way down the beach, weaving in-between various families and tourists that care more about distracting themselves from their boring lives with vacations to LA than actually fixing those dreary careers in the first place.
Syndicate: Do I regret the choices I’ve made to get here, now titleless and disgraced? Not a chance. You can take anyone from that Project: Honor locker room, from Jason Long to Jason Short, and give them the same abuse, disrespect, and hate that I’ve had thrown my way since joining this company…and they would have become just as disillusioned with this world as I have. They would have shaken Arik Holt’s hand, and they most certainly would have made all the same choices and mistakes that I did. I still believe that True Society can change the world for the better, that we can rid Project: Honor from all low-life nitwit jackasses that occupy its roster and make this place better for it…but we can only accomplish that if my “teammates” get their shit together, whether by choice…or by force. Because I’m all-in now - I’ve given up everything in my trophy case for this group, and if I have to personally beat the shit out of any of y’all to get you to see things from my perspective…then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.
Syndicate: Over the past month, I was treated to a bunch of bastards joining up, breaking rank, being egotiscical, and fucking up my life. And you know who started all that? That’s you, Billy. You never took me seriously, you never believed for a damn SECOND that I deserved to be here, and instead of treating me as your LEADER, you disrespected me and you took what was mine. Now, I’m sure you find my downfall a bit funny, don’t you? Hell, if Twitter is to be believed, it looks like you’ve been having a grand ol’ time hanging out with the untrustworthy little bitch that recently joined our ranks, a woman that is five seconds away from double-crossing us and burning down our entire operation, all because you and Arik somehow trust her after months of being one of True Society’s top enemies.
Syndicate: But little miss Savannah Sunshit is neither here nor there - there’s something else that bothers me much more, Billy. From our little “backstage chats” over the past few months, you treat me like I’m an self-absorbed little child that’s only concerned with my own escapades, but have you checked yourself out in a mirror recently? Because the way I see it, you’re more than happy to throw the rest of us to the fuckin’ wolves if it means you can get yourself a slightly larger piece of the pie. You’ve told me to my face that you’re a team player, and that you’ve got my back, but once the curtain rises, it’s as if you’re following a completely different script, and afterward, all you do is make excuse after excuse to try and cover your ass. Now, miraculously, you’ve got the briefcase, you’ve got the “girls’ night” buddy, you’ve got the influence of the head honcho - you’ve carved yourself a nice little niche here in TS, one that certainly wasn’t accidental. Because ever since you walked onto this ship, you’ve been sowing discontent everywhere you’ve gone - first with Slade, now with me - and one has to wonder…
Pausing briefly in front of a hot dog stand, Syndicate takes one look at the quality of meat being served - slimy, skinless dogs, like always - rolls his eyes, and continues down the beachfront.
Syndicate: …when are you gonna stop? You already took Slade’s Noble Championship and promptly threw it in the trash for the next shiny object put in your grubby little face. Directly or otherwise, you’ve already robbed me of everything I’ve got - what about Havoc, and his Prime title? Is Arik’s control of the entire group up for grabs? When, Billy, will you learn to settle the fuck down, know your role as a second-tier member of this organization - at BEST - and stop messing up everything we’ve ever worked for? I’ll tell you when - this week, Fallout XX, when I put that damn crown on my head and watch you finally have your “come to Jesus” moment and realize all the mistakes you’ve made thus far.
Syndicate: This whole schtick isn’t about you, Billy, and it never was. You came to Project: Honor straight outta the swamplands, searching for a better life as many others often do…but the bright lights of the big time blinded you and made you think you were someone you weren’t. Sure, everything’s gone according to plan up to this point, but you’ve been so preoccupied with your own successes that you’ve neglected to fix the weaknesses you’ve always carried with you. For example, that “iron grip” of yours that helps you with your submission maneuvers? That probably won’t do you much good after your neck gets “No Signal”ed to death and losing all control of your extremities. See what I mean? You’ve done anything you’ve wanted, not caring which of your peers you pissed off along the way, but whether you realize it or not, you’re just a few short seconds away from being thrown right back into the alligator’s mouth…and who else should be the one to send you there and teach you a lesson than the man you’ve been playfully tormenting this entire time? Billy Bennett, you’ve gained so much power since joining True Society that you’ve become drunk on it…it’s about time that I make you drink your own blood instead.
Satisfied, the Los Angeles Outlaw smirks as a man with numerous balloons passes by, likely looking to make a quick buck off of some poor kid that's probably gonna accidentally let the balloon go within five seconds of buying it.
Syndicate: …you know what I’m talking about, don’t you, Angelo? That feeling of being robbed of something important to you? You made it all the way to the end of that "Golden Rules" match all by your lonesome, without any backup or assistance given to you by the rest of True Society - why? Because I was knocked out by one of our own, and the rest of the group - namely, the aforementioned Billy Bennett - left you for dead out there, defending your Gatekeeper title against three of Project: Honor’s best. How is that fair? How is it right that a CHAMPION should be abandoned by those they trust the most? I ask you these questions, Angelo, because they’re the exact same questions I asked myself when you, along with everyone else, stayed in the back and watched as Ozymandias and Elena DeDraca STOLE the most prestigious championship in this entire sport. So in terms of you losing your Gatekeeper Championship, I offer my most sincere apologies…while also promising you that you’re gonna have to lose a hell of a lot more if you want to hang with us.
Syndicate: I’ll be frank with you, buddy ol’ pal - I don’t harbor a ton of ill will against you. You seem like a pretty dedicated guy, willing to fight for what you want, and I respect that. I do have to say, though…you sure spew a lot of shit for someone that doesn’t have a lick of history to back any of it up. What’s more, every time I find myself around you, I catch you glancing over at me with an air of jealousy around you, and even if I don’t have a championship over my shoulder, you still stare into my pretty blue eyes like I’ve got somethin’ that you desperately want. What is that, Angelo? Is it my leather jacket? My long, luscious blonde hair that you could very much use for your own scalp? Or…is it my ability to do what you’ve never been able to do, and win not just one single World Championship…but multiple? I’m sure deep down, Syndicate: you’re just like Billy and the rest of ‘em, frustrated that no matter what you do for the rest of your life, you’ll always be closer to the Grim Reaper than you will be to matching my accomplishments in that ring, and although you have a chance to let that frustration out on me this Thursday on Fallout, it won’t change the fact that you’re nothing more than True Society’s drugged-up uncle.
Syndicate: You got kids, right? Course you do - someone your age and demeanor probably has twenty by now. And I’m sure they’re all really proud of you, Angelo - after all, you defied the odds, broke through into the wrestling business all those years ago, and now stand right at the precipice of greatness here in Project: Honor. But that clock keeps ticking, and you can cuss and bleed and fight all you want, but unless you take control of your life and help me reform humankind into something more equitable for all, those kids of yours are gonna grow up in the same, sad world that you and I try so desperately to escape each day. Is that what you want? Is butting heads against me, and throwing away any potential for the next generation to experience true happiness, really what you want, Angelo? Of course not. I’m not the real enemy that you should be focusing on, no, and until you come to grips with that, you’re gonna keep losing everything and everyone that’s close to you…just like I already have. So you can either fall in line, just like everybody else, or you will finally be forced to face the demons within you…when you get sent down to hell by the Los Angeles Outlaw.
As he finishes his rant towards Angelo, Syndicate's idle meandering has led him to a small sand castle. Its creators have long since left the beach, but since they had the foresight to build it a decent ways away from the shoreline, it's still standing in all its pathetic glory. Syndicate takes a moment to smile down at the castle, thinking about how much temporary dopamine it must have injected into its architects, before turning back up to the camera.
Syndicate: And finally…there’s you, Havoc. King of the castle. The golden boy. The one person around here that seems to actually get what they want, because we can afford to lose the Legacy title, the Noble title, all that, but GOD FORBID the Prime Championship gets put in danger. Over the past number of months, ever since you and Arik started this little True Society shindig, I’ve watched your ego grow larger with each passing day, and really, who can blame it? You’ve been absolutely fuckin’ untouchable…which means its about time that someone reminds you who the REAL top dog is around here…and all we need to do to find confirmation of that is to look into the past. What kickstarted all of this, sending True Society into motion and leading us to where we are now? That Barbed Wire Heaven Elimination match, from all the way back in August. Sure, you and I had butted heads before, but that was for stakes that didn’t matter in the slightest - once a Legacy Championship match was placed on the line, though? I made sure that I got the job done that night and secured the bag, while you…were forced to settle for a consolation prize. Think about it - you could have faced Elena, you could have defended against Ozy, and had everything aligned perfectly, you, Havoc, could be standing here today as the Project: Honor Legacy Champion!
Syndicate: …but, of course, that’s not what happened. I received that opportunity and used it to turn around my entire career, and ever since then, regardless of what others may say, you’ve always been second place here on Fallout. That’s just gotta suck, right? Knowing that no matter what you do, you’ll never be as good as the cocky little shit that passed you by, all those months ago? I’m sure it must be still weighing on you, because before our "Golden Rules" match, you lamented the loss of the Legacy title to Ozy…but you noticeably didn’t say anything about me being the one to get it back. What’s more, you volunteered yourself for the shot, as if you truly believe that you’re any better than the rest of us, working our asses off below deck so that you can have a comfy, cozy title reign while spending your time in the captain's quarters. That’s what I find the most frustrating about you, Havoc - it’s not the leadership that you’ve demonstrated over the last number of months that’s rubbed me the wrong way, but rather, the lack of it. Maybe that’s due to the “internal issues” you always seem to be having, or maybe it’s because you’re doing what all of y’all accused me of doing, and using True Society as nothing more than a way to hold onto your spot.
Syndicate: The hand-holding ends now, Havoc. I know you’re suffering on the inside, and I know you need help - we can get you there! True Society can make all that pain go away. If we want that to happen, though, we either need you to start putting yourself on the line for the good of the group…or we need to find someone that will. I’ve already proven that I’m willing to sacrifice everything I’ve got for the good of the cause and to appease the vicious personalities that we’ve welcomed into the trenches…are you willing to do the same? Or are you content with being that “king of the castle”, holding onto that gold until all else is lost? Either way, I’ll be paying close attention to you, and I’ll be watching to see if that little twerp inside you, Chris, ever manages to escape and wreck everything that we’ve worked for…and if he does, if you continue to struggle with your own soul and fail to keep control, Havoc, then I’ll be the one that makes the decision…to cut our losses.
Syndicate has now backtracked all the way to the parking lot nearest to the beach. Standing in the midst of car after car, lined up in neat little rows, the Outlaw faces the camera head-on and extends his arms outward in a "welcoming" gesture.
Syndicate: Don’t y’all get it? We’re so close - so very close - to immortality, but y’all keep getting in the way of the group’s collective goals, and I refuse to let that happen any longer. If no one else is going to stop True Society from eating itself alive, then I’ll do what needs to be done to change our fate. I’m not here to get stepped on or pushed aside any longer, and if you people don’t want Jason Long and Big Drip to win this war…then you better acknowledge the power that I hold in this company and this industry. For I can push us over the edge, burn this world to the ground, and help you all find a better life, or I can be the one that blows this place up - the choice is entirely yours. All you have to do is give me the respect that I rightfully deserve…that’s all I ask, and nothing more. Welcome…to the Syndicate.
Syndicate pauses for a moment before nodding his head and switching his gaze to behind the camera lens.
Syndicate: Think that’s good for now. I’m gonna drive over to Arby’s, grab a shake - meet you there.
?: Sounds good.
A deep, gruff voice emanates from behind the camera, belonging to the Project: Honor cameraman that’s been tasked with documenting Syndicate’s everyday life. As part of the Los Angeles Outlaw’s contract with the wrestling federation, he’s agreed to have every moment of his waking day documented, as if he’s on a reality show of some sort, and every moment of video is immediately sent over to the company’s video archive server for potential public release.
From the point-of-view of the camera - which, by rule, is never turned off outside of emergencies or battery swaps - we see the P:H camera operator turn and walk over to his car, which is conveniently parked just a few feet away. Opening the hatchback of the tan Subaru Outback, he turns the camera around and sets it down on the trunk’s fabric floor, revealing the man’s profile, and as he takes off some of his gear…we see Syndicate in the background, checking to make sure the operator isn’t paying attention, before hastily running over to his own car, a crimson Chevy Cruse. Hopping in, Syndicate pulls out of his parking spot and books it out of the lot, leaving the currently unaware documentarian behind.
SAN VICENTE BOULEVARD - LOS ANGELES, CA
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 3:12PM
OFF-CAMERA
OFF-CAMERA
Syndicate’s not goin’ to Arby’s…not by a long shot.
While he does crave the taste of a good ol’ Jamocha shake, as he often does, that was just a ruse to throw the Project: Honor cameraman off the trail. With any luck, the operator will fight tooth-and–nail through the busy traffic elsewhere in the city, desperate to follow his charge, only to arrive at the restaurant and find out…that plans had changed. But why go through all the trouble? Why does it matter that Project: Honor doesn’t track his life for a few short moments?
Simple: Arik Holt - and the rest of the world, for that matter - can’t know what’s about to go down.
Syndicate was doing just fine for himself before the Triad got into his life. He defeated Elena DeDraca and won the Legacy Championship before the mysterious group of Los Angeles mobsters was fully hired on by the Fallout general manager with the goal of bringing Syndicate into True Society, and while the Outlaw is still absolutely dedicated to the group’s cause…he’s got some personal matters he needs to take care of on the side, things that most definitely do not require Holt’s involvement. Even more importantly, if his teammates aren't going to have his back...then he's gotta make sure he won't need them to get what he wants.
Speeding along San Vicente Boulevard in Los Angeles, California, Syndicate reaches over to the passenger’s seat and grabs his black Galaxy S20. He skillfully keeps his eyes on the road in front of him - briefly checking in his rearview mirror to make sure the cameraman’s Subaru wasn’t somehow following – before unlocking the phone and tapping a few numbers into the dialer.
Syndicate: Come on, pick up, asshole, pick up…
Hitting the green “Call” button, Syndicate holds the phone up to his ear. The recipient’s phone rings once - and only once – before he hears the rich, gravel-like voice he was hoping for.
Ruka: Hello, Mr. Irvine.
In the past, Syndicate had a tendency to run away from his problems, taking the easy route when he could and escaping consequences at every turn. But now…now, things are different. Now, he knows what he has to do. And even though he may literally be slipping away from the auspices of his assigned camera operator at this very moment…
Syndicate: I’m on San Vicente – I need directions to the Sanctum, NOW!
…Syndicate isn’t running away from reality – not this time. It’s time to tackle his problems head-on.
It’s time…to visit the Triad once again.
THE SANCTUM - UNKNOWN LOCATION
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 3:35PM
OFF-CAMERA
JANUARY 27TH, 2021 - 3:35PM
OFF-CAMERA
The second Syndicate saw the familiar circular tribal marking engraved on the cobblestone floor, he knew he was in the right place.
In Syndicate's previous encounters with the Triad - nearly all of which were forced upon him - the group would send someone to knock him out with chloroform before bringing him here, and based on the edge in Ruka's voice during their call earlier, it sounds as though the leader is a bit wary of the Los Angeles Outlaw knowing his way to their hideout. Regardless, Syndicate got himself here by hook or by crook...and most importantly, without the watchful eye of a Project: Honor camera in the vicinity.
As Syndicate steps into the center of the circular, stone-encased room, he finds himself suddenly surrounded on all sides by hooded attendants, each certainly prepared to act if things get hairy. More importantly than them, however, is who sits in three black thrones situated at the front of the room. On the left, there's Ucho, known as "the One who Hears"; on the right, Oko, "the One who Sees". And in the center...the man that Syndicate most wishes to speak with: Ruka, head Triad member and the Outlaw's main point of contact with the organization. Each Triad kingpin wears a hood of their own, with Ruka's being the most elaborate - red center stripes framing what's otherwise a sea of dark fabric. Only the sinister smile of Ruka can be seen under the hood...and boy, is he smiling.
Ruka: Well, well, well…what an intriguing surprise.
Syndicate, still huffing a bit from rushing into the Sanctum as fast as he could, takes a moment to steady himself - as he does, a Triad attendant walks over with an unlabeled bottle of water, offering it to the Outlaw.
Ruka: Care for a drink? We source the finest liquid refreshments here, straight from Adobe Springs.
Without thinking, the Los Angeles Outlaw unscrews the cap and takes a swig...but it's only seconds later before spitting the water all over the attendant.
Syndicate: Bullshit - this is Dasani!
Syndicate throws the water bottle at Ruka's head, but the Triad leader expertly dodges, leaning to the side and sending the bottle careening harmlessly into the side of his throne.
Ruka: Eh, what can I say - gotta offload it somehow.
Syndicate: Your super-secret front that keeps this entire operation afloat is…selling bottled water?
Ruka: Well, that’s only one arm of our empire - we also rent billboards, dabble in real estate, operate a few holding companies…
Syndicate: Alright, alright, ENOUGH with the shit. Are y’all still under contract with Arik?
Ruka: No, no, of course not - the last time Mr. Holt and I spoke was when he came to “pick you up”, shall we say.
Syndicate: And there’s no other bozos that are paying you to lure me in?
Ruka lets out a hearty belly laugh.
Ruka: Trust me, Mr. Irvine - if there were, you’d know by now.
Syndicate: Good. I want to hire you, then.
It takes a moment for Ruka to register what Syndicate is saying.
Ruka: …hmm?
Syndicate: You heard me. I want to hire the Triad…to continue rehabilitating me.
"Rehabilitation" was what the Triad termed the series of trials that Syndicate underwent prior to being offered a spot in True Society. Put simply, the Triad promised to help Syndicate "take agency over his life" and teach him how to fight back against a world of oppressors looking to bring him down.
Ruka: Well, Mr. Irvine, we did rehabilitate you. You passed our three Trials with flying colors.
Syndicate: Yes, but that was all in preparation to join True Society, and the second Arik came into the picture, y’all left quicker than San Francisco's Super Bowl hopes. Thing is, y’all didn’t get the job done, and I want to rectify that.
Syndicate walks forward and steps directly in front of Ruka's throne, looking up at him with pure determination and rage etched into his face.
Syndicate: No more secrets…no more games. I’ll pay you whatever it is you want - double, TRIPLE, what Holt paid - name your damn price, it doesn't matter. I want agency. I want control. I want the power to do what I want, when I want, and most of all, I want every single piece of shit in Project: Honor to go burn in hell. Those people laugh at me, they treat me as a joke, and even though GREATNESS IS STANDING RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEIR FUCKING FACES, THEY REFUSE TO GIVE ME THE RESPECT THAT I RIGHTFULLY DESERVE!
For the second time today, Syndicate's face contorts in pain as he reaches up and holds the right side of his forehead. It seems as though a second headache has afflicted the Legacy Champion, something that he sees Ruka seemingly smile at...but the Triad member remains silent as Syndicate comes back to his senses.
Syndicate: So are you gonna help me, Ruka…are y’all gonna FUCKIN’ help me…or did I come all the way here, break contract, and probably piss off my agent for nothing?
Ruka takes a moment to ponder before glancing to his left and right in the direction of his cohorts, both slightly nodding as he does. Satisfied with their responses, Ruka turns back to the desperate Syndicate.
Ruka: …it seems we may be able to strike ourselves a deal, Mr. Irvine. Luckily for you, Mr. Holt ended our agreement…prematurely, shall we say. There are more Trails for you to undergo, more rehabilitation to be done. Your soul has been partially freed by our methods already, but Mr. Holt and his vices have been holding you back from your true potential.
Ruka finally stands up from this throne and makes his way down to where Syndicate waits; the two men now stare at each other, face-to-face.
Ruka: I see another persona within you, a killer instinct merely waiting to be fully unleashed. You’ve been told by your wife and agent to suppress those violent thoughts within you, but they can be brought back into the light. Yes, from the looks of things, there is assuredly more work to be done…and it’s not work that your brother will be able to assist with.
Wait a sec. Colt came into the picture long after he was done dealing with the Triad - that's relatively brand-new information that they should not be privy to.
Syndicate: Hang on…how the hell do you know about Colt?
Ruka: Oh, Mr. Irvine…don’t you remember what we told you all those months ago?
Syndicate thinks back to the last time he encountered the Triad...and suddenly, it all makes sense.
Ruka: We’ve always been watching you, and we always will be. No amount of dodging cameramen through the streets of LA will change that.
He extends a hand.
Ruka: We accept your offer and agree to continue your rehabilitation…
Without a second thought, Syndicate immediately accepts the handshake.
Ruka: ...but as with all of our deals...
Feeling a stabbing sensation in his hand, Syndicate releases Ruka's palm. He looks at his own hand and notices a drop of blood extruding from the center - glancing over at the Triad leader, Syndicate sees that he was holding a tiny, concealed knife.
Ruka: ...they may only be sealed in blood.
Syndicate looks up at the Triad director, thinking through the decisions that led to this point. Did he make the right choice to come back to the Triad? Will this truly help him regain that "killer instinct" that Ruka believes is lying dormant within him? It may take him a while to answer either of those questions...
Ruka: See you soon, Mr. Irvine.
...but before he can think any of them through, a hand reaches around from behind and presses a damp white cloth into his mouth, sending the Los Angeles Outlaw tumbling into the void.
In Syndicate's previous encounters with the Triad - nearly all of which were forced upon him - the group would send someone to knock him out with chloroform before bringing him here, and based on the edge in Ruka's voice during their call earlier, it sounds as though the leader is a bit wary of the Los Angeles Outlaw knowing his way to their hideout. Regardless, Syndicate got himself here by hook or by crook...and most importantly, without the watchful eye of a Project: Honor camera in the vicinity.
As Syndicate steps into the center of the circular, stone-encased room, he finds himself suddenly surrounded on all sides by hooded attendants, each certainly prepared to act if things get hairy. More importantly than them, however, is who sits in three black thrones situated at the front of the room. On the left, there's Ucho, known as "the One who Hears"; on the right, Oko, "the One who Sees". And in the center...the man that Syndicate most wishes to speak with: Ruka, head Triad member and the Outlaw's main point of contact with the organization. Each Triad kingpin wears a hood of their own, with Ruka's being the most elaborate - red center stripes framing what's otherwise a sea of dark fabric. Only the sinister smile of Ruka can be seen under the hood...and boy, is he smiling.
Ruka: Well, well, well…what an intriguing surprise.
Syndicate, still huffing a bit from rushing into the Sanctum as fast as he could, takes a moment to steady himself - as he does, a Triad attendant walks over with an unlabeled bottle of water, offering it to the Outlaw.
Ruka: Care for a drink? We source the finest liquid refreshments here, straight from Adobe Springs.
Without thinking, the Los Angeles Outlaw unscrews the cap and takes a swig...but it's only seconds later before spitting the water all over the attendant.
Syndicate: Bullshit - this is Dasani!
Syndicate throws the water bottle at Ruka's head, but the Triad leader expertly dodges, leaning to the side and sending the bottle careening harmlessly into the side of his throne.
Ruka: Eh, what can I say - gotta offload it somehow.
Syndicate: Your super-secret front that keeps this entire operation afloat is…selling bottled water?
Ruka: Well, that’s only one arm of our empire - we also rent billboards, dabble in real estate, operate a few holding companies…
Syndicate: Alright, alright, ENOUGH with the shit. Are y’all still under contract with Arik?
Ruka: No, no, of course not - the last time Mr. Holt and I spoke was when he came to “pick you up”, shall we say.
Syndicate: And there’s no other bozos that are paying you to lure me in?
Ruka lets out a hearty belly laugh.
Ruka: Trust me, Mr. Irvine - if there were, you’d know by now.
Syndicate: Good. I want to hire you, then.
It takes a moment for Ruka to register what Syndicate is saying.
Ruka: …hmm?
Syndicate: You heard me. I want to hire the Triad…to continue rehabilitating me.
"Rehabilitation" was what the Triad termed the series of trials that Syndicate underwent prior to being offered a spot in True Society. Put simply, the Triad promised to help Syndicate "take agency over his life" and teach him how to fight back against a world of oppressors looking to bring him down.
Ruka: Well, Mr. Irvine, we did rehabilitate you. You passed our three Trials with flying colors.
Syndicate: Yes, but that was all in preparation to join True Society, and the second Arik came into the picture, y’all left quicker than San Francisco's Super Bowl hopes. Thing is, y’all didn’t get the job done, and I want to rectify that.
Syndicate walks forward and steps directly in front of Ruka's throne, looking up at him with pure determination and rage etched into his face.
Syndicate: No more secrets…no more games. I’ll pay you whatever it is you want - double, TRIPLE, what Holt paid - name your damn price, it doesn't matter. I want agency. I want control. I want the power to do what I want, when I want, and most of all, I want every single piece of shit in Project: Honor to go burn in hell. Those people laugh at me, they treat me as a joke, and even though GREATNESS IS STANDING RIGHT IN FRONT OF THEIR FUCKING FACES, THEY REFUSE TO GIVE ME THE RESPECT THAT I RIGHTFULLY DESERVE!
For the second time today, Syndicate's face contorts in pain as he reaches up and holds the right side of his forehead. It seems as though a second headache has afflicted the Legacy Champion, something that he sees Ruka seemingly smile at...but the Triad member remains silent as Syndicate comes back to his senses.
Syndicate: So are you gonna help me, Ruka…are y’all gonna FUCKIN’ help me…or did I come all the way here, break contract, and probably piss off my agent for nothing?
Ruka takes a moment to ponder before glancing to his left and right in the direction of his cohorts, both slightly nodding as he does. Satisfied with their responses, Ruka turns back to the desperate Syndicate.
Ruka: …it seems we may be able to strike ourselves a deal, Mr. Irvine. Luckily for you, Mr. Holt ended our agreement…prematurely, shall we say. There are more Trails for you to undergo, more rehabilitation to be done. Your soul has been partially freed by our methods already, but Mr. Holt and his vices have been holding you back from your true potential.
Ruka finally stands up from this throne and makes his way down to where Syndicate waits; the two men now stare at each other, face-to-face.
Ruka: I see another persona within you, a killer instinct merely waiting to be fully unleashed. You’ve been told by your wife and agent to suppress those violent thoughts within you, but they can be brought back into the light. Yes, from the looks of things, there is assuredly more work to be done…and it’s not work that your brother will be able to assist with.
Wait a sec. Colt came into the picture long after he was done dealing with the Triad - that's relatively brand-new information that they should not be privy to.
Syndicate: Hang on…how the hell do you know about Colt?
Ruka: Oh, Mr. Irvine…don’t you remember what we told you all those months ago?
Syndicate thinks back to the last time he encountered the Triad...and suddenly, it all makes sense.
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.
Ruka: We’ve always been watching you, and we always will be. No amount of dodging cameramen through the streets of LA will change that.
He extends a hand.
Ruka: We accept your offer and agree to continue your rehabilitation…
Without a second thought, Syndicate immediately accepts the handshake.
Ruka: ...but as with all of our deals...
Feeling a stabbing sensation in his hand, Syndicate releases Ruka's palm. He looks at his own hand and notices a drop of blood extruding from the center - glancing over at the Triad leader, Syndicate sees that he was holding a tiny, concealed knife.
Ruka: ...they may only be sealed in blood.
Syndicate looks up at the Triad director, thinking through the decisions that led to this point. Did he make the right choice to come back to the Triad? Will this truly help him regain that "killer instinct" that Ruka believes is lying dormant within him? It may take him a while to answer either of those questions...
Ruka: See you soon, Mr. Irvine.
...but before he can think any of them through, a hand reaches around from behind and presses a damp white cloth into his mouth, sending the Los Angeles Outlaw tumbling into the void.
