Post by Syndicate on Feb 17, 2022 18:09:23 GMT -5
MCDONALD'S - LOS ANGELES, CA
FEBRUARY 15TH, 2022 - 12:21PM
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You are nothing.
You are but a man in an endless sea of men, just waiting to be swept aside by the never-ending disease known as “evolution”.
Millions before you have stood where you stand, and you’ve outlasted them all…but what makes you think you can continue to survive?
What makes you think that you’re any better than them?
You can’t keep up. You can’t stay afloat. You’re five seconds away from giving it all away.
The bomb inside your head is about to explode. Question is…
?: Order number 67! 67, your food’s up at the front!
…will you defuse it before it’s too late?
The Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, opens his eyes and takes a sharp breath in through his nose. Back to reality…or, whatever the hell this is, anyway.
Today, we find Syndicate leaning against a drink counter at - good God - McDonald’s. Normally, the Outlaw is a loyal Arby’s customer - their Beef and Cheddar Double, with a Jamocha Shake on the side, is the world’s perfect fast food meal, as far as he’s concerned - and he’s consciously avoided consuming any “meat” from the golden arches since he was a little kid back in Apter, Tennessee. He’s seen too many of his ol’ buddies lose years off their lives by going there every day, and he’s not going to become one of them.
That being said, there’s one day a year that Syndicate will willingly visit his local McDonald’s, against the advice of both his trainers and his conscience…and that day just so happens to be today.
Cashier: Order number 68 is ready!
You see, there’s nothing quite like the alluring taste of a McDonald’s Shamrock Shake. Sure, there are other part-time menu items offered both here and elsewhere, but those function merely as insults to human stomachs everywhere. The MicRib, in particular, is worse than an ant-infested leftover piece of mushroom-and-anchovy pizza that just barely missed the edge of the dumpster, and that’s a fact that Syndicate holds close to his heart. You want a real McRib, damn it, you go visit Syndicate’s favorite late-night snack stop when touring in the Midwest, Kwik Trip, and you pick up one of their Pork Rib Sandwiches, because Jesus Christ, anything is better than THE M-FUCKIN-C-FUCKIN-R-I-B FROM A PITIFUL CHARICATURE OF A RESTARUANT LIKE MCDONALD’S HOPES TO BE-
Cashier: 69!
As the McDonald’s employee calls out everyone’s favorite number, just one day after St. Valentine’s commercialized feast, Syndicate winces and reaches up towards the right side of his temple. He’s not sure what’s causing it, but over the past number of weeks, he’s been experiencing these momentary piercing headaches anytime he lets his mind wander a bit too far off the path, and especially when he finds himself extremely aggravated at something or other. It usually clears up within a few seconds, though, as it does here, just in time for Syndicate to realize that his order’s ready.
Standing up from the edge of the condiment counter, Syndicate steps over to the front counter…and sees it. A delectable, perfect little slice of heaven, carefully poured into a single-use, medium-sized plastic cup.
The Shamrock Shake.
God’s gift to non-Irish Americans everywhere.
Cashier: Are you…are you number 69, sir?
A confident smirk finds its way onto Syndicate’s face.
Syndicate: …you’re damn right, I am.
Angrily taking the shake out of the worker’s hand, Syndicate stares him dead in the eye as he takes his first sip. The Outlaw lets the processed green goop flow all over his tongue, swallows, and licks his lips…satisfied with his purchase.
Syndicate: See you next year.
Nodding at the extremely confused - and slightly creeped out - employee, Syndicate takes his leave. Weaving through the small crowd of people waiting around for their orders, he takes a seat in an empty booth next to one of the windows that line the dining area on all sides. Wearing a black tank-top and ripped-up blue jeans, the former Legacy Champion takes another Shamrock Sip™️ as he stares out the window at the passing traffic…thinking about how simple all those people’s lives are, existing without the yearly burden of servitude to the almighty Arches that Syndicate finds himself bound to.
It’s at this moment, as he leans back against the hard plastic rear of his booth, that Syndicate finally finds a bit of inner peace, a moment of calm in his otherwise crazy-ass life. He’s gotten a bit more of these “pauses” recently - previously, a Project: Honor cameraman would be constantly documenting every moment of his life, but he successfully lobbied JJ to get that clause taken out of his contract - but each individual blessing seemingly comes with a curse…and just like before, it’s within these brief pockets of silence that his inner monologue takes hold.
You’ve made it this far, not based on talent, but based on your ability to lie, cheat, and steal your way to the top.
You wish to be respected, but you know you don’t truly deserve that respect.
You’re an imposter, Sydney. Nothing more, nothing less.
And everyone else knows it, too.
?: Well, well, well…look who it is!
Another interruption breaks Syndicate off from his thoughts…but after seeing who’s chosen to approach him at the table, he very much wishes it hadn’t. Of course, this is Colt “the Maverick” Irvine, Syndicate’s older brother…and mandated, makeshift “therapist”. After not speaking to each other for fourteen years after the fateful “trampoline incident” of 2008, JJ Kline - Syndicate’s agent - brought Colt to Los Angeles to help Syndicate out of his mental “funk”, as JJ likes to put it. More directly, JJ didn’t approve of Syndicate’s association with Arik Holt’s True Society, and thus, he used his power as agent to fuck things up - hence, Colt’s presence here today.
It should be mentioned that Syndicate was supposed to be in Colt’s hotel room right now, participating in yet another required “therapy” session, but come on - you can’t skip Shamrock Shake Day. Of course, this isn’t Syndicate’s first time “skipping school” or anything like that - he’s come up with plenty of excuses over the past number of weeks to avoid having to spend any time whatsoever with his annoying, egotistical, piece-of-shit brother - but it looks like he’s not getting away with things this time. Letting out an audible sigh, Syndicate glances up at a gleeful Colt and nods.
Syndicate: Hi.
Colt: Figured you might be here today - did you hear that Shamrock Shakes are back?
God, how dense can one man be? Syndicate holds up his drink and shakes it in Colt’s face, visibly annoyed with Colt’s question.
Syndicate: Yup. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to -
Before even giving Syndicate the opportunity to shoo him away, Colt sits down on the other side of the booth. Damn it.
Syndicate: …talk with you, obviously - that’s what I’d like to do.
Syndicate really laid on the sarcasm with that one, but “the Maverick” is either completely ignoring it…or didn’t recognize it in the first place. Neither would seem out of place, from Syndicate’s point-of-view.
Colt: Great! So, look, I noticed you didn’t show up for our session today, but you know what? That’s fine, because at least you’re spending the time doing things you love.
Syndicate: Right, and I’d love it if you’d leave me be.
Colt: Ahh, but that there’s the rub, ain’t it? If I leave you alone, you could leave here, go about your business, eventually fall back into the evil little trappings of your mind or whatever, and then - who knows? It only takes you a few short moments to send yourself off the deep end - daily therapy sessions are supposed to help with that!
Syndicate takes another sip of his shake, clearly not understanding Colt’s point.
Syndicate: Yeah, well, your sessions aren’t helping shit.
Colt: Because you’re not attending them.
Syndicate: Because you’ve STILL refused to tell me why the hell you’re doing all of this in the first place! You conveniently have the excuse of JJ foolishly asking you here, and that Triad DVD you got sent in the mail from God knows where, but not ONCE have you told me what your motive is behind all this.
Colt: Oh, come on, bucko - I’m just here to help you get back up on your feet.
Syndicate: I am on my feet! I’m standing just fine!
Colt: Well, right now, you’re technically sitting…
Syndicate: Oh, shut up. You’re just making things worse. It’s because of you, Colt, that I lost the Legacy title last month, and furthermore, it’s because of you that my own teammates no longer trust me to hold up my end of the bargain. All you had to do was stay out of my life and let me do my own thing, but you couldn’t do that, could you, Colt? You couldn’t stand to watch from your apartment back home and see your little brother - the one that you worked so, so hard to hold back when we were kids - succeed in ways you could have never possibly imagined for yourself? I drink because of you, Colt - hell, I’ve thought about fuckin’ retiring because you’re here, doing your damndest to push me right over the edge of the cliff without putting a single thought towards what’s gonna break my fall! And if it weren’t for the Triad having my back, I would have nothing left, Colt, and that’s all thanks to you. So how about you get the fuck out of my booth, go back home to Apter, and forget all about your brother’s perfect…fucking…life?!?
Silence. Syndicate takes yet another drink of his precious Shamrock Shake - this one considerably angrier than those that came before - as he stares across the booth at his brother…who seems to be pondering something.
Colt: …I thought you said you were done with the Triad.
Shit.
Syndicate: I am.
Colt: Yeah, yeah, but you said the Triad “has your back”. Have you been in contact with them?
Syndicate: No, not recently.
Colt: How recently?
Syndicate: Oh, a few weeks, at least.
Colt: A few WEEKS?? Syd, you told me the last time you saw the Triad was back in November. What’s happened since then?
Syndicate: That’s none of your business.
Colt: Oh, it’s entirely my business.
Syndicate: Come on, Colt, it honestly doesn’t matter.
Colt: Have you been in contact with the Triad, Sydney?
Syndicate glances back out the window to his left, desperately wishing he could escape this line of questioning…but there’s nowhere left to run.
Colt: Answer me.
Syndicate: Okay, okay, okay. Yes, I contacted the Triad, but not because I wanted to - because you, and all the bullshit that you bring along with you, left me with no choice. You think I like being abandoned out there every week, Colt? You think I enjoy being made fun of and embarrassed by my own teammates? I went to the Triad because there was nowhere left to turn, you understand?
Another pause. Colt doesn’t seem to know what to make of this situation.
Colt: …take me to them.
Upon hearing this idea, Syndicate nearly spits out his entire Shamrock Shake.
Syndicate: …what?
Colt: Take me to the Triad. We’ve all gotta figure this shit out, together.
Syndicate: Not a chance, Colt. Leave this alone.
Colt: You bring me there, Syd, or I will leave this booth, drive right over to the LAPD, and tell them all about this shit - the innocent people you attacked, the lives that you’ve threatened, everything.
Syndicate’s eyes widen. He thought Colt was only playing metaphorical checkers here…but it looks as though the Los Angeles Outlaw was sorely mistaken.
Syndicate: You’re joking.
Colt: Fuckin’ try me.
…checkmate.
WESTERN AVENUE - LOS ANGELES, CA
FEBRUARY 15TH, 2022 - 1:11PM
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FEBRUARY 15TH, 2022 - 1:11PM
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Well…Shamrock Shake Day’s going swimmingly, thanks for asking.
Not only was Syndicate’s beloved beverage left behind on the McDonald’s table - Colt basically pushed him out the door before he had a chance to grab it - but now, he’s stuck with his brother in the middle of bumper-to-bumper midday traffic. Perfect. Fucking perfect.
Syndicate sits in the driver’s seat of his prized 2012 Chevy Cruze, wearing his classic black Aviator sunglasses and with his long blonde hair tied back into a bun. To his right, Colt - with his luscious brunette hair sitting atop the shoulders of his wite t-shirt - stares ahead wistfully…not fully knowing what he’s gotten himself into.
With the tension palpable between the two Irvines, Colt decides to try and lighten the mood by reaching forward towards the center console, attempting to turn on the radio…but Syndicate swats his hand away before he can do so.
Syndicate: No music.
Colt: Why not?
Syndicate: Because I’m trying to concentrate.
Colt: About what?
Syndicate: About what I’m going to tell Ruka and the rest of the Triad when they see your skinny ass waltzing on into their secret headquarters, that’s what!
Successfully receiving the message, Colt clenches his teeth and nods.
Colt: Got it.
Another few moments of silence pass as Colt begins to shift around in his seat a bit. From Syndicate’s point-of-view, Colt doesn’t like not being in control of a situation…but like it or not, that’s just how it’s gonna be from this point forward.
Colt: So, uh…this WarGames match of yours.
Syndicate: Oh, Jesus Christ, don’t start with that shit.
Colt: Come on, Syd - we’re gonna be stuck in this traffic for a bit, might as well make use of it.
Syndicate: Is this therapy? Are you officially making this a session?
Colt: You bet your ass I am.
Syndicate sighs - well, having control was fun while it lasted.
Syndicate: Fine. Have it your way. You wanna talk, let’s talk. WarGames match - what about it?
“The Maverick” chuckles to himself as he turns back over to his younger brother.
Colt: I knew I’d break you outta that shell eventually. You think you’re ready? Got everyone scouted?
Syndicate: It doesn’t matter what I think. My teammates wanna mess around with my well-being all the time, that’s fine - they can take care of things themselves.
Colt: What, you don’t think the rest of your little group’s gonna need your help?
Syndicate: If they did, they would have treated me with the respect that I deserve. I can understand my opponents hating my guts, that checks out…but my own flesh and blood? That’s different.
Colt: Yeah, I’d hate it if someone close to me wanted me dead.
Syndicate: Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.
The cars in front of Syndicate finally start moving, giving the Los Angeles Outlaw enough room to drive forward…just in time to get stopped at a stoplight. Great.
Colt: Okay, okay, let’s ignore True Society for now - y’all are here to “change the world” or whatever, that’s your own thing moving on. What about these KaVengers fellows? What do you know about them?
Syndicate: Bunch of childish idiots looking for a sliver of the spotlight and meddling in business that doesn't concern them. That's all they are.
Colt: Okayyy, but they still make up half of your opponents. You've gotta take them at least a smidge seriously.
Syndicate: Oh, fuck off, Colt. Have you seen some of those fools? I know you don't ordinarily watch wrestling anymore, probably because you're still upset about your own failed career in the business, but if you did, you'd know exactly what I'm talking about. That bumbling buffoon bitch baby boy, Larry KaChow, got all those guys together because they felt disrespected and ignored by the world around them, and I sure as hell respect that - I mean, that’s the entire reason behind True Society’s existence, too. Problem is, Ka-Chigga’s somehow managed to assemble a collection of talent that even Rachel Phelps from Major League would refuse to touch. Hell, did you see their entrance from last week’s Proving Ground? Those guys were out there playing patty cake! That’s something that second graders wouldn’t be caught dead doing, let alone fully grown men with bills to pay and matches to lose.
Colt: You don’t think it’s all some sort of “mind games” they’re playin’?
Syndicate: Oh, it absolutely is - for all I know, they want me to underestimate them, because that’s the only way any of them end up winning any matches. I’m sure that if Larry got his sorry excuse for a high school Chess Club together and had them really put their minds to it, they could do some damage here in Project: Honor, but that’s never gonna happen. So, yeah, if they wanna give each other group hugs on the entrance ramp and get a laugh out of the crowd, that’s fine by me, but once they step inside that WarGames cage and stare across those rings at the most dominant competitor this side of the brand split, then those smiles are all gonna disappear, whether it happens voluntarily…or by force.
Syndicate: I mean, come on - Noah Hope? Listen, I hate Jason Long and his scraggly beard more than anybody, but let’s be real with ourselves: this guy’s lucky that even survived that match, let alone coming away with the victory. Even when he’s picking on someone…his own size…he can’t wrestle worth shit. You know a single-leg Boston crab, Colt?
Colt: ‘Course I do.
Syndicate: Then you know how easy it is to use the other leg to get your way out of it. It’s a useless maneuver against anyone with even a semblance of amateur experience, and that’s his best move! That’s what he tries to beat people with! What a joke. Noah Hope only succeeds when his opponents decide to let him succeed, and that’s sure as hell not going to happen this time around. He wants to get rich in the wrasslin’ business, that’s fine, but all the money he’ll receive for shortening his life this Sunday at The Crowning is gonna go straight towards the hospital bills he’ll be given after fucking with the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Colt: Then there’s Percival Burque. “The Ratman”.
Syndicate: Jesus Christ, that guy's no better. A sewer-dweller turned professional wrestler, legendary for the fucking RAT he brings to the ring, and the stench that accompanies it? Man, Indy Darling must be more desperate than I realized for warm bodies he can throw out there each week to fill up the card. That being said, Burque's honestly the one I'm most worried about from this KaVengers side, even if that’s an egregiously low bar to cross.
Colt: Why's that?
Syndicate: He’s the sneakiest one of the bunch. I watched that guy back in the Purge escape competitor after competitor, as if he was in one of those old Looney Tunes cartoons with ACME-certified equipment. And although I know he was trained by a magical wrestling rat - or so he says, anyway - he can go in that ring when his back’s against the wall. Take his match against Big Drip this past week on Proving Ground - he was the only guy on that side of the fence that could actually mount some offense. But that’s the thing about a cage match, isn’t it? There’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide - no septic tank to escape into this time around. “The Ratman” can come out and play with True Society all he wants, but he’s gonna learn real quickly that the real world’s a lot tougher to survive in than his own little fantasyland.
Syndicate: Same goes for Serrano Poblano. Chef moonlighting as a wrestler, because that makes all the sense in the world. Listen, if he wants to go do his cooking shit and have fun in the kitchen, that’s all well and good, but this Sunday, Poblano’s not stepping into FlavorTown - he’s walkin’ into my ring and my world, and if I can be honest with you, Colt? I hate spicy food.
Colt: I know you do - you’d always get the mildest buffalo sauce they’d have when we would go out for wings as kids.
Syndicate: Damn straight. Luckily for him, though, the only “spice” he’ll need for his Crowning cookout is the blood that’ll be dripping down from his forehead, courtesy of the Los Angeles Outlaw. And as for his other buddy, Rapture…last time I saw him around, I was knocking him unconscious backstage and stealing his mask to get one over on Ozymandias. That’s all he functions as, these days: a distraction, a jaunt off the beaten path that we’re all traveling down. But anytime something noteworthy happens to him, it’s never him under that mask - it’s always someone else, doing everything he could be doing, but infinitely better. Rapture could be a dominant, anonymous villain, ruling over Fallout with an iron fist…but instead, Redd was the one to take up that mantle, and now, all that poor son of a bitch has got goin’ for him is his ability to get sneak attacked. Pathetic. Swindle Shelldrake made him bleed last week, and I’m gonna make sure the same damn thing happens this time around.
Syndicate: The KaVengers aren't here for any altruistic reasons, Colt - they're not really trying to "change the world" or anything like that. The way I see it, they're just trying to get more TV time and have some “fun”, and that's not enough when you're going against a group of people without boundaries, limits, or anything stopping them from doing whatever the hell they want. All they wanna do is play games, but this isn’t a fuckin’ game, not anymore. This…is…WAR…and it’s about time that they come to terms with that.
Colt: You didn’t mention Julius Fairweather, though…or is he Fineweather? Foulweather?
Syndicate: Eh. I’ve had my fair share of problems with Julius over the past year, but I’ve got no hard-and-fast opinion on him either way. Besides, he’s clearly got his own mental problems to take care of, and if somehow being a part of every team is gonna help him through it, then hey - more power to ‘em.
Colt: You’re not worried about him being on your side one moment, then stabbing you in the back the next?
Syndicate: Listen, I’ve got my own documented problems with multiple-personality disorder, so I think I know what I’m talking about when I say that Julius just needs to do whatever’s best for Julius. He wants to fight for the righteous and help True Society from the disrespect and evil that plague this world? Fine by me - we need all the help we can get in that effort. If he’d rather fall back on the past and oppose me, so be it - I’m not afraid to put him out of his misery in that ring. The choice…is up to him, and him alone.
Colt: Suit yourself. That’s only one half of the equation, though - you’ve still got Big Drip to deal with.
Syndicate: Ah, yes…Big Drip Worldwide. Now this is competition. Sure, over here on Fallout, there’ve been plenty of individuals that have tried and failed to stand up to True Society - Jason Long and Mr. Wright being chief among them - but this? This is the biggest coordinated effort against our mission that I’ve seen yet…and it really speaks volumes about their solidarity and determination when you see their leader get arrested for manslaughter before the bell even thinks about ringing.
Colt: I don’t know if I’d call Ozy a “leader” in a traditional sense.
Syndicate: Fair enough, but he’s better than that poor sap, Lil’ Petey. Look, I gotta give him at least some amount of credit - sure, he’s in wayyyy over his head, but when push comes to shove, he’s a slippery little bastard, just like Ratman. But…how do I put this…have you heard his raps?
Colt: Ehh, I think I heard one a few months ago, when I decided to take a peek over at what you were doing in P:H, and it was…uh…
Syndicate: Dreadful.
Colt: Pathetic.
Syndicate: Soulless.
Colt: Repulsive.
Syndicate: Gut-wrenching.
Colt: Atrocious.
Syndicate: Most of all, though…it’s just depressing. I mean, this guy was basically forced into professional wrestling because no one else would give him a chance, and sure, that once again speaks for Indy Darling’s talent evaluation skills more than anything, but there’s a small part of ya that just feels bad for him, even just a little bit. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? His heart’s in the wrong place. He’s using pro wrestling as a vehicle to get himself to the top, not as “the top” in and of itself. And although he’s managed to become the “leader” of this crew of castaways…that’s just because they don’t have anywhere else to turn, either. Yet, because Lil’ Petey chose to get into this business, he’s gotta go through all the same shit that the rest of us have to endure, and I promise you - I promise you - that the rest of Big Drip Worldwide doesn’t care enough about him to protect him when things inevitably go south this weekend, and when that happens? Trying to get record execs to listen to his shitty mixtapes will be the least of his worries.
Syndicate: And you know what the worst part is? He’s got people around him that will never help him get any further in life. TJ Thompson is a man that would honestly be better served moving over to the KaVengers side of things, if one of his goals is to survive another year here in Project: Honor. But, of course, all he really wants to do is serve as Lil’ Petey’s roadie and spend every waking moment by his side in a vain attempt to latch on to his nonexistent fame. You see the problem? If the people you surround yourself with can’t take themselves seriously, then how the hell are you ever gonna get ahead?
Colt: Okay, okay, but the rest of their team…you’ve gotta admit, they’re a bit tougher to dissect.
Syndicate: Oh, for sure, but again, they’re unified for the wrong reasons. They came together to coddle Lil’ Petey’s ego and oppose True Society - that’s it. Eventually, that motivation to push the immovable object out of place is gonna run out, and they’ll all go their separate ways, forced to fend for themselves once again. It’s only a matter of time - whether the breakup happens this weekend, or next month, or next year, Big Drip Worldwide won’t last…while True Society is forever.
Syndicate: You don’t need to look any further than Swindle Shelldrake to find confirmation of that. The guy doesn't have an ounce of loyalty in his body - he’s spent his entire career bouncing around from place to place, and although he says he’s found a home here in Project: Honor, I’d bet solid money on him bailing once things start to get real tough - meaning, immediately after The Crowning. The best decision he’s ever made was choosing not to join True Society, because if he had, I’m sure he would indeed have been “caught in the crossfire”, as he put it a few weeks ago. Sure, we’ve got our own individual problems to sort out around here, but at least Slade, Billy, Drago, and I all have the same inner desires that drive us forward. Swindle, on the other hand? He’s just another one of them “I’m just here to compete” types. You know the ones.
Colt: Sure do.
Syndicate: They never have that true “internal motivation”, that “killer instinct”, you know? They say they wanna fight, but eventually, when they run out of people to beat up, they fall by the wayside. Swindle’s no different - sure, he’s a dangerous son of a bitch that can knock you out like a light in several different ways, but deep down, he’s just another “guy” that’s here to fight, but nothing else. And you know what the worst part is? He knows all this just as well as I do. He knows that if he shook Arik Holt’s hand and signed that pact with the devil, he’d be one of Project: Honor’s esteemed champions right now, but instead, he chose to walk right onto the already sinking ship. If he did have that killer instinct, he wouldn’t have made that mistake, but now…now, it’s too late for him to rectify his mistakes. Because while he busied himself with Big Drip, the small window of opportunity that he had to attain success has come and gone…and although I don’t personally have any beef with Mr. Shelldrake, I sure as hell recognize his position as a threat to everything I’ve ever worked for.
Syndicate: And then…MYOJIN.
Colt: Y’all have a history, right?
Syndicate: Barely. Back when I was still with the WWX, they were the first person outside of that company that I had faced in over eight years…and yeah, I lost that match, but my mind was more focused on other pursuits back then…and since? Sure, MYO’s been busy beating up the bulk of Proving Ground’s woeful roster as X-Division Champion for a good number of months now, but the thing is…that’s their cap. That’s as high as they’ll ever get in this business: a solid hand in the middle of the pecking order, and no further. Why? Because while they’re certainly a hell of a talent - I’m certainly not stupid enough to ignore that fact by now - their ambitions are far too shallow. X-Factor Champion? Possible Tag title reign with Emmanuelle? Those are both admirable pursuits…but it’s not enough to set them apart from anybody else on the roster.
Syndicate: MYO may have that over-the-top, theatrical persona of theirs, but underneath all those layers lies a normal person that struggled to find their place in the world, no different from anybody else. That’s all well and good, but I’m not interested in playing pretend - I want the real Shouta Kuromiya to come back out into the spotlight and face off against the one man they haven’t been able to touch here in Project: Honor. If they want to defend this company from the hellscape it’s about to become, then simply being “a solid hand” ain’t gonna cut it.
Syndicate: The time for talk is over. The way I see it, Project: Honor has fully come to grips with the danger coming its way…but predictably, they’re fresh out of weapons to fight with. If Big Drip Worldwide and the KaVengers are the best defense that this company has to offer, then it truly deserves to be burnt down to the ground before they can delude anyone else into joining their fruitless cause. And who’s gonna be at the forefront of the impending revolution? Why…the man that held this entire corporation hostage for months as its Legacy Champion…the man that’s put EVERYTHING into ensuring a better world for the next generation to occupy…and the man that’s got absolutely nothing else to lose.
After a solid bit of driving through Los Angeles traffic, Syndicate brings the car to a stop on the side of San Vicente Boulevard. Gesturing towards his brother, he unclips his seatbelt and moves to exit the car.
Colt: …what, you’re not gonna say “Welcome to the Syndicate”, or whatever?
Syndicate: Nah, you don’t deserve that pleasure.
Smirking to himself, Syndicate looks over at a decrepit alleyway that runs perpendicular to where he parked the Cruze.
Syndicate: We're here.
Attendant: They've left the premises, sir.
Ruka, the leader of the Triad, takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts before looking upward at the wall of television monitors standing before him.
Ruka: Where are they headed?
Attendant: Unknown, sir. Sydney's driving down San Vicente now.
Ruka: ...good.
He switches his gaze to a screen to his right, this one showing a CCTV traffic camera facing the aforementioned Los Angeles boulevard. Sure enough, within seconds, Syndicate's crimson Chevy Cruze can be seen darting down the street, with his brother Colt seated on the passenger's side. The footage is grainy, but it's immediately clear to Ruka that both Irvine brothers are a bit shaken by what just went down...as you'd expect for two people that had to fight for their lives.
Taking in a deep breath, Ruka turns around and faces the two men standing behind him. To his left, Ucho - his second-in-command, responsible for the Triad empire's day-to-day operations - and to his right, Oko - head recruiter and trainer of the various Attendants that the group keeps employed. Neither of his subordinates look the least bit thrilled with the day's events.
Ucho: Colt knows too much.
Oko: Far too much. We should never have given Sydney the exact location of our Sanctum - he cannot be trusted.
Ucho: Neither of them can. Sydney’s growing too close to Colt.
Rather than argue, Ruka nods and turns back around, his eyes settling on a live image of Syndicate and Colt, talking to each other while stuck at a traffic light. It's impossible to hear what they're saying, of course, but it seems to Ruka as if they're trying to laugh off the situation.
Ucho's right. The two brothers do seem to be mending their relationship - Ruka's not blind to that.
Ruka: I know, I know…
A sinister smile creeps its way onto the Triad leader's face.
Ruka: …and it’s all going according to plan.
Not only was Syndicate’s beloved beverage left behind on the McDonald’s table - Colt basically pushed him out the door before he had a chance to grab it - but now, he’s stuck with his brother in the middle of bumper-to-bumper midday traffic. Perfect. Fucking perfect.
Syndicate sits in the driver’s seat of his prized 2012 Chevy Cruze, wearing his classic black Aviator sunglasses and with his long blonde hair tied back into a bun. To his right, Colt - with his luscious brunette hair sitting atop the shoulders of his wite t-shirt - stares ahead wistfully…not fully knowing what he’s gotten himself into.
With the tension palpable between the two Irvines, Colt decides to try and lighten the mood by reaching forward towards the center console, attempting to turn on the radio…but Syndicate swats his hand away before he can do so.
Syndicate: No music.
Colt: Why not?
Syndicate: Because I’m trying to concentrate.
Colt: About what?
Syndicate: About what I’m going to tell Ruka and the rest of the Triad when they see your skinny ass waltzing on into their secret headquarters, that’s what!
Successfully receiving the message, Colt clenches his teeth and nods.
Colt: Got it.
Another few moments of silence pass as Colt begins to shift around in his seat a bit. From Syndicate’s point-of-view, Colt doesn’t like not being in control of a situation…but like it or not, that’s just how it’s gonna be from this point forward.
Colt: So, uh…this WarGames match of yours.
Syndicate: Oh, Jesus Christ, don’t start with that shit.
Colt: Come on, Syd - we’re gonna be stuck in this traffic for a bit, might as well make use of it.
Syndicate: Is this therapy? Are you officially making this a session?
Colt: You bet your ass I am.
Syndicate sighs - well, having control was fun while it lasted.
Syndicate: Fine. Have it your way. You wanna talk, let’s talk. WarGames match - what about it?
“The Maverick” chuckles to himself as he turns back over to his younger brother.
Colt: I knew I’d break you outta that shell eventually. You think you’re ready? Got everyone scouted?
Syndicate: It doesn’t matter what I think. My teammates wanna mess around with my well-being all the time, that’s fine - they can take care of things themselves.
Colt: What, you don’t think the rest of your little group’s gonna need your help?
Syndicate: If they did, they would have treated me with the respect that I deserve. I can understand my opponents hating my guts, that checks out…but my own flesh and blood? That’s different.
Colt: Yeah, I’d hate it if someone close to me wanted me dead.
Syndicate: Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.
The cars in front of Syndicate finally start moving, giving the Los Angeles Outlaw enough room to drive forward…just in time to get stopped at a stoplight. Great.
Colt: Okay, okay, let’s ignore True Society for now - y’all are here to “change the world” or whatever, that’s your own thing moving on. What about these KaVengers fellows? What do you know about them?
Syndicate: Bunch of childish idiots looking for a sliver of the spotlight and meddling in business that doesn't concern them. That's all they are.
Colt: Okayyy, but they still make up half of your opponents. You've gotta take them at least a smidge seriously.
Syndicate: Oh, fuck off, Colt. Have you seen some of those fools? I know you don't ordinarily watch wrestling anymore, probably because you're still upset about your own failed career in the business, but if you did, you'd know exactly what I'm talking about. That bumbling buffoon bitch baby boy, Larry KaChow, got all those guys together because they felt disrespected and ignored by the world around them, and I sure as hell respect that - I mean, that’s the entire reason behind True Society’s existence, too. Problem is, Ka-Chigga’s somehow managed to assemble a collection of talent that even Rachel Phelps from Major League would refuse to touch. Hell, did you see their entrance from last week’s Proving Ground? Those guys were out there playing patty cake! That’s something that second graders wouldn’t be caught dead doing, let alone fully grown men with bills to pay and matches to lose.
Colt: You don’t think it’s all some sort of “mind games” they’re playin’?
Syndicate: Oh, it absolutely is - for all I know, they want me to underestimate them, because that’s the only way any of them end up winning any matches. I’m sure that if Larry got his sorry excuse for a high school Chess Club together and had them really put their minds to it, they could do some damage here in Project: Honor, but that’s never gonna happen. So, yeah, if they wanna give each other group hugs on the entrance ramp and get a laugh out of the crowd, that’s fine by me, but once they step inside that WarGames cage and stare across those rings at the most dominant competitor this side of the brand split, then those smiles are all gonna disappear, whether it happens voluntarily…or by force.
Syndicate: I mean, come on - Noah Hope? Listen, I hate Jason Long and his scraggly beard more than anybody, but let’s be real with ourselves: this guy’s lucky that even survived that match, let alone coming away with the victory. Even when he’s picking on someone…his own size…he can’t wrestle worth shit. You know a single-leg Boston crab, Colt?
Colt: ‘Course I do.
Syndicate: Then you know how easy it is to use the other leg to get your way out of it. It’s a useless maneuver against anyone with even a semblance of amateur experience, and that’s his best move! That’s what he tries to beat people with! What a joke. Noah Hope only succeeds when his opponents decide to let him succeed, and that’s sure as hell not going to happen this time around. He wants to get rich in the wrasslin’ business, that’s fine, but all the money he’ll receive for shortening his life this Sunday at The Crowning is gonna go straight towards the hospital bills he’ll be given after fucking with the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Colt: Then there’s Percival Burque. “The Ratman”.
Syndicate: Jesus Christ, that guy's no better. A sewer-dweller turned professional wrestler, legendary for the fucking RAT he brings to the ring, and the stench that accompanies it? Man, Indy Darling must be more desperate than I realized for warm bodies he can throw out there each week to fill up the card. That being said, Burque's honestly the one I'm most worried about from this KaVengers side, even if that’s an egregiously low bar to cross.
Colt: Why's that?
Syndicate: He’s the sneakiest one of the bunch. I watched that guy back in the Purge escape competitor after competitor, as if he was in one of those old Looney Tunes cartoons with ACME-certified equipment. And although I know he was trained by a magical wrestling rat - or so he says, anyway - he can go in that ring when his back’s against the wall. Take his match against Big Drip this past week on Proving Ground - he was the only guy on that side of the fence that could actually mount some offense. But that’s the thing about a cage match, isn’t it? There’s nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide - no septic tank to escape into this time around. “The Ratman” can come out and play with True Society all he wants, but he’s gonna learn real quickly that the real world’s a lot tougher to survive in than his own little fantasyland.
Syndicate: Same goes for Serrano Poblano. Chef moonlighting as a wrestler, because that makes all the sense in the world. Listen, if he wants to go do his cooking shit and have fun in the kitchen, that’s all well and good, but this Sunday, Poblano’s not stepping into FlavorTown - he’s walkin’ into my ring and my world, and if I can be honest with you, Colt? I hate spicy food.
Colt: I know you do - you’d always get the mildest buffalo sauce they’d have when we would go out for wings as kids.
Syndicate: Damn straight. Luckily for him, though, the only “spice” he’ll need for his Crowning cookout is the blood that’ll be dripping down from his forehead, courtesy of the Los Angeles Outlaw. And as for his other buddy, Rapture…last time I saw him around, I was knocking him unconscious backstage and stealing his mask to get one over on Ozymandias. That’s all he functions as, these days: a distraction, a jaunt off the beaten path that we’re all traveling down. But anytime something noteworthy happens to him, it’s never him under that mask - it’s always someone else, doing everything he could be doing, but infinitely better. Rapture could be a dominant, anonymous villain, ruling over Fallout with an iron fist…but instead, Redd was the one to take up that mantle, and now, all that poor son of a bitch has got goin’ for him is his ability to get sneak attacked. Pathetic. Swindle Shelldrake made him bleed last week, and I’m gonna make sure the same damn thing happens this time around.
Syndicate: The KaVengers aren't here for any altruistic reasons, Colt - they're not really trying to "change the world" or anything like that. The way I see it, they're just trying to get more TV time and have some “fun”, and that's not enough when you're going against a group of people without boundaries, limits, or anything stopping them from doing whatever the hell they want. All they wanna do is play games, but this isn’t a fuckin’ game, not anymore. This…is…WAR…and it’s about time that they come to terms with that.
Colt: You didn’t mention Julius Fairweather, though…or is he Fineweather? Foulweather?
Syndicate: Eh. I’ve had my fair share of problems with Julius over the past year, but I’ve got no hard-and-fast opinion on him either way. Besides, he’s clearly got his own mental problems to take care of, and if somehow being a part of every team is gonna help him through it, then hey - more power to ‘em.
Colt: You’re not worried about him being on your side one moment, then stabbing you in the back the next?
Syndicate: Listen, I’ve got my own documented problems with multiple-personality disorder, so I think I know what I’m talking about when I say that Julius just needs to do whatever’s best for Julius. He wants to fight for the righteous and help True Society from the disrespect and evil that plague this world? Fine by me - we need all the help we can get in that effort. If he’d rather fall back on the past and oppose me, so be it - I’m not afraid to put him out of his misery in that ring. The choice…is up to him, and him alone.
Colt: Suit yourself. That’s only one half of the equation, though - you’ve still got Big Drip to deal with.
Syndicate: Ah, yes…Big Drip Worldwide. Now this is competition. Sure, over here on Fallout, there’ve been plenty of individuals that have tried and failed to stand up to True Society - Jason Long and Mr. Wright being chief among them - but this? This is the biggest coordinated effort against our mission that I’ve seen yet…and it really speaks volumes about their solidarity and determination when you see their leader get arrested for manslaughter before the bell even thinks about ringing.
Colt: I don’t know if I’d call Ozy a “leader” in a traditional sense.
Syndicate: Fair enough, but he’s better than that poor sap, Lil’ Petey. Look, I gotta give him at least some amount of credit - sure, he’s in wayyyy over his head, but when push comes to shove, he’s a slippery little bastard, just like Ratman. But…how do I put this…have you heard his raps?
Colt: Ehh, I think I heard one a few months ago, when I decided to take a peek over at what you were doing in P:H, and it was…uh…
Syndicate: Dreadful.
Colt: Pathetic.
Syndicate: Soulless.
Colt: Repulsive.
Syndicate: Gut-wrenching.
Colt: Atrocious.
Syndicate: Most of all, though…it’s just depressing. I mean, this guy was basically forced into professional wrestling because no one else would give him a chance, and sure, that once again speaks for Indy Darling’s talent evaluation skills more than anything, but there’s a small part of ya that just feels bad for him, even just a little bit. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? His heart’s in the wrong place. He’s using pro wrestling as a vehicle to get himself to the top, not as “the top” in and of itself. And although he’s managed to become the “leader” of this crew of castaways…that’s just because they don’t have anywhere else to turn, either. Yet, because Lil’ Petey chose to get into this business, he’s gotta go through all the same shit that the rest of us have to endure, and I promise you - I promise you - that the rest of Big Drip Worldwide doesn’t care enough about him to protect him when things inevitably go south this weekend, and when that happens? Trying to get record execs to listen to his shitty mixtapes will be the least of his worries.
Syndicate: And you know what the worst part is? He’s got people around him that will never help him get any further in life. TJ Thompson is a man that would honestly be better served moving over to the KaVengers side of things, if one of his goals is to survive another year here in Project: Honor. But, of course, all he really wants to do is serve as Lil’ Petey’s roadie and spend every waking moment by his side in a vain attempt to latch on to his nonexistent fame. You see the problem? If the people you surround yourself with can’t take themselves seriously, then how the hell are you ever gonna get ahead?
Colt: Okay, okay, but the rest of their team…you’ve gotta admit, they’re a bit tougher to dissect.
Syndicate: Oh, for sure, but again, they’re unified for the wrong reasons. They came together to coddle Lil’ Petey’s ego and oppose True Society - that’s it. Eventually, that motivation to push the immovable object out of place is gonna run out, and they’ll all go their separate ways, forced to fend for themselves once again. It’s only a matter of time - whether the breakup happens this weekend, or next month, or next year, Big Drip Worldwide won’t last…while True Society is forever.
Syndicate: You don’t need to look any further than Swindle Shelldrake to find confirmation of that. The guy doesn't have an ounce of loyalty in his body - he’s spent his entire career bouncing around from place to place, and although he says he’s found a home here in Project: Honor, I’d bet solid money on him bailing once things start to get real tough - meaning, immediately after The Crowning. The best decision he’s ever made was choosing not to join True Society, because if he had, I’m sure he would indeed have been “caught in the crossfire”, as he put it a few weeks ago. Sure, we’ve got our own individual problems to sort out around here, but at least Slade, Billy, Drago, and I all have the same inner desires that drive us forward. Swindle, on the other hand? He’s just another one of them “I’m just here to compete” types. You know the ones.
Colt: Sure do.
Syndicate: They never have that true “internal motivation”, that “killer instinct”, you know? They say they wanna fight, but eventually, when they run out of people to beat up, they fall by the wayside. Swindle’s no different - sure, he’s a dangerous son of a bitch that can knock you out like a light in several different ways, but deep down, he’s just another “guy” that’s here to fight, but nothing else. And you know what the worst part is? He knows all this just as well as I do. He knows that if he shook Arik Holt’s hand and signed that pact with the devil, he’d be one of Project: Honor’s esteemed champions right now, but instead, he chose to walk right onto the already sinking ship. If he did have that killer instinct, he wouldn’t have made that mistake, but now…now, it’s too late for him to rectify his mistakes. Because while he busied himself with Big Drip, the small window of opportunity that he had to attain success has come and gone…and although I don’t personally have any beef with Mr. Shelldrake, I sure as hell recognize his position as a threat to everything I’ve ever worked for.
Syndicate: And then…MYOJIN.
Colt: Y’all have a history, right?
Syndicate: Barely. Back when I was still with the WWX, they were the first person outside of that company that I had faced in over eight years…and yeah, I lost that match, but my mind was more focused on other pursuits back then…and since? Sure, MYO’s been busy beating up the bulk of Proving Ground’s woeful roster as X-Division Champion for a good number of months now, but the thing is…that’s their cap. That’s as high as they’ll ever get in this business: a solid hand in the middle of the pecking order, and no further. Why? Because while they’re certainly a hell of a talent - I’m certainly not stupid enough to ignore that fact by now - their ambitions are far too shallow. X-Factor Champion? Possible Tag title reign with Emmanuelle? Those are both admirable pursuits…but it’s not enough to set them apart from anybody else on the roster.
Syndicate: MYO may have that over-the-top, theatrical persona of theirs, but underneath all those layers lies a normal person that struggled to find their place in the world, no different from anybody else. That’s all well and good, but I’m not interested in playing pretend - I want the real Shouta Kuromiya to come back out into the spotlight and face off against the one man they haven’t been able to touch here in Project: Honor. If they want to defend this company from the hellscape it’s about to become, then simply being “a solid hand” ain’t gonna cut it.
Syndicate: The time for talk is over. The way I see it, Project: Honor has fully come to grips with the danger coming its way…but predictably, they’re fresh out of weapons to fight with. If Big Drip Worldwide and the KaVengers are the best defense that this company has to offer, then it truly deserves to be burnt down to the ground before they can delude anyone else into joining their fruitless cause. And who’s gonna be at the forefront of the impending revolution? Why…the man that held this entire corporation hostage for months as its Legacy Champion…the man that’s put EVERYTHING into ensuring a better world for the next generation to occupy…and the man that’s got absolutely nothing else to lose.
After a solid bit of driving through Los Angeles traffic, Syndicate brings the car to a stop on the side of San Vicente Boulevard. Gesturing towards his brother, he unclips his seatbelt and moves to exit the car.
Colt: …what, you’re not gonna say “Welcome to the Syndicate”, or whatever?
Syndicate: Nah, you don’t deserve that pleasure.
Smirking to himself, Syndicate looks over at a decrepit alleyway that runs perpendicular to where he parked the Cruze.
Syndicate: We're here.
THE SANCTUM - UNKNOWN LOCATION
FEBRUARY 15TH, 2022 - 2:42PM
OFF-CAMERA
FEBRUARY 15TH, 2022 - 2:42PM
OFF-CAMERA
The very moment that Syndicate first lays eyes on the ominous tribal design etched into the cobblestone floor, he finds himself getting violently slammed into the wall to his right.
Syndicate: THE HELL IS THI-
He tries to fight back, but it’s no use. Two hooded Triad members, each with the top half of their face completely hidden from view in the soft overhead light of the Sanctum, press his exposed shoulders into the rough edges of the brick wall, and as he looks across the room, he sees his brother, Colt, in the same predicament.
Colt: LET US GO!
?: Not a chance in hell.
As the Irvines continue to struggle against their captors, the Triad’s leader, Ruka, steps out from the shadows with a gritty scowl plastered across his face. Dressed in a black-and-gold robe that obscures his face similarly to the “attendants” that serve under him, Ruka is usually at least a small bit amused by Syndicate’s antics…but this time around, this intrusion on Triad property seems to be no laughing matter. Ruka stares furiously into the face of his “client”, if you can call Syndicate that, before reaching into the inside of his robe…and pulling out a black 9mm pistol.
Ruka: Tell me, Mr. Irvine…
Taking his sweet time, the Triad leader places his right index finger on the Glock’s pistol…and slowly points its barrel towards the face of Colt “the Maverick” Irvine.
Ruka: …tell me why I shouldn’t shoot this motherfucker in the head right now for trespassing on my property.
Horrified at how this situation is unfolding, Colt shoots a desperate glance over at his brother as he stands completely still against the wall.
Syndicate: What the hell are you doing, Ruka?
Ruka: I could ask you the same damn question. You know why we’d always knock you out with chloroform before bringing you here, Mr. Irvine? Because we don’t need snitches knowing where we do our business. You think we want idiots like you and your brother, waltzing your way into our Sanctum whenever you please?
Syndicate: Put…the gun…down.
Ruka: We may be in your employ, Mr. Irvine, but that doesn’t make you our boss. I don’t trust you, and I sure as hell don’t trust your brother, so why should I let either of you walk out of here alive?
Taking a few steps forward, Ruka presses the end of the pistol squarely into Colt’s forehead.
Ruka: Actions have consequences, gentlemen…say your prayers, while you still have the chance.
Syndicate: …NO.
Just as Ruka’s finger begins to tighten around the trigger, an enraged and desperate Syndicate - quite literally with his back against the wall - roars to life. Pushing forward, he uses his raw strength to send both of his anonymous imprisoners flying to the floor. Before they can possibly get back to their feet, the Los Angeles Outlaw charges forward and tackles Ruka to the ground…
…just in time for the gun to go off…
***BANG***
…and sending the bullet flying into the wall, right over Colt’s left shoulder.
Ruka: GET OFF OF ME!
Before Ruka can react to the attack, Syndicate grabs the gun out of his hand and throws it across the room, well out of the reach of its owner.
Syndicate: FUCKIN’ MAKE ME.
Using one hand to grab Ruka by the throat, and with the other ready to rain down punches at a moments notice, Syndicate speaks down to the fallen Triad leader.
Syndicate: You may have the manpower and the connections and whatever the fuck else you do, but the only reason why your entire operation hasn’t been shut down is because I’ve chosen to grant you a bit of mercy. I could have turned you into the police months ago, but I didn’t, and you wanna know why, Ruka? Because you have what I want. You have the ability to turn me into the best version of myself, someone that will FINALLY earn the respect that I do desperately deserve…and I can’t let that opportunity fall by the wayside.
Breathing heavily as he leans over Ruka’s terrified body, he continues.
Syndicate: But let me make something painfully clear to you, Ruka. Colt and I may not see eye-to-eye on most things, and he may be responsible for sending me down this path in the place -
Colt: Hey, come on, I thought we were past that!
Syndicate: SHUT UP, COLT.
Noting the heated tone present in his brother’s voice, “the Maverick” quickly obliges.
Syndicate: …but if you ever - EVER - think about laying a hand on my brother ever again, I will personally see to it that your empire, everything you’ve ever worked for, all your hopes and dreams for the world that you constantly take advantage of…are burnt to smithereens. Because even though you may think otherwise, you’re not in control anymore, Ruka - I AM. I’m the one in control. I’m the one that calls the shots around here now, and I’ll be DAMNED IF SOME PRETENTIOUS IDIOT THAT’S TOO SCARED TO EVEN SHOW HIS FACE TRIES TO TELL ME HOW TO LIVE MY FUCKIN’ LIFE - FUCK!
Syndicate looks as though he was ready to continue his tirade, but instead, he lets go of Ruka’s throat and reaches for his forehead - another instantaneous splitting headache, just like the others he’s periodically endured over the past number of weeks. This gives Ruka just enough time to regain his composure, push Syndicate to the side, and slide out from under the Los Angeles Outlaw, escaping his grasp. Using both hands, the kingpin pushes himself up against the wall, violently coughing as he stares over Syndicate’s face, contorted in pure pain.
Attendant: GET HIM!
The two Triad attendants that Syndicate bowled over earlier are now back on their feet. They begin to rush over to re-restrain the Outlaw, but before they can…
Ruka: No. Stop.
…their leader holds up his right hand, demanding that they stay back.
Ruka: Give him space.
Slowly, Syndicate seems to regain control of his mind, and with the headache subsiding, he leans his head back against the cobblestone wall of the Sanctum, staring up at the overhead window as beads of sweat pour down his brow.
Ruka: ...what was that just now?
It takes Syndicate a few seconds to collect himself before he’s able to get a response out.
Syndicate: Just…just a headache, I don’t know…
Oddly enough, Ruka begins to smile upon hearing this.
Ruka: Hmm…interesting…
Taking one last moment to look over at the gassed Los Angeles Outlaw, Ruka uses the wall to push himself up to his feet.
Ruka: You can let go of Colt now - he poses no threat.
On command, the two attendants restraining Colt Irvine against the wall let go of their grip.
Ruka: Leave - both of you. Before I decide otherwise.
Syndicate and Colt glance over at each other, stunned. What happened? Just a few moments ago, Ruka was about to kill Colt in cold blood - why, after all that, would you let the Irvines go?
Ruka: Now.
Not willing to waste time figuring it out, Colt rushes over to his brother and pulls him up by the right arm. Syndicate takes one last glance over at the enigma known as Ruka, takes a deep breath, and joins his older brother in running back out of the Sanctum…but not without one last ill-advised comment.
Syndicate: You know, if you didn’t want us here, you should’ve locked the door.
Ruka: NOW.
Syndicate: Alright, alright, got it.
The Irvines depart, leaving behind a stunned room of Triad attendants and a wounded…yet somehow, smiling…Ruka.
A FEW MOMENTS LATER...
Attendant: They've left the premises, sir.
Ruka, the leader of the Triad, takes a deep breath and collects his thoughts before looking upward at the wall of television monitors standing before him.
Ruka: Where are they headed?
Attendant: Unknown, sir. Sydney's driving down San Vicente now.
Ruka: ...good.
He switches his gaze to a screen to his right, this one showing a CCTV traffic camera facing the aforementioned Los Angeles boulevard. Sure enough, within seconds, Syndicate's crimson Chevy Cruze can be seen darting down the street, with his brother Colt seated on the passenger's side. The footage is grainy, but it's immediately clear to Ruka that both Irvine brothers are a bit shaken by what just went down...as you'd expect for two people that had to fight for their lives.
Taking in a deep breath, Ruka turns around and faces the two men standing behind him. To his left, Ucho - his second-in-command, responsible for the Triad empire's day-to-day operations - and to his right, Oko - head recruiter and trainer of the various Attendants that the group keeps employed. Neither of his subordinates look the least bit thrilled with the day's events.
Ucho: Colt knows too much.
Oko: Far too much. We should never have given Sydney the exact location of our Sanctum - he cannot be trusted.
Ucho: Neither of them can. Sydney’s growing too close to Colt.
Rather than argue, Ruka nods and turns back around, his eyes settling on a live image of Syndicate and Colt, talking to each other while stuck at a traffic light. It's impossible to hear what they're saying, of course, but it seems to Ruka as if they're trying to laugh off the situation.
Ucho's right. The two brothers do seem to be mending their relationship - Ruka's not blind to that.
Ruka: I know, I know…
A sinister smile creeps its way onto the Triad leader's face.
Ruka: …and it’s all going according to plan.
