Post by Syndicate on Jul 22, 2021 23:30:48 GMT -5
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - APTER, TN
JULY 21ST, 2008 - 6:01PM
From darkness, we open within the kitchen of a small Tennessee homestead. Wooden cabinets line the walls around a modest refrigerator and stove, and in the center of the room, around a circular oak table, sit three people enjoying each other's company, along with an fourth - empty - chair. First, we have a middle-aged woman, wearing a pink t-shirt and blue denim jeans, with her hair tied back into a bun. To her left sits the muscled profile of a young Colt Irvine, enjoying the summer before his senior year by putting the finishing touches on a heaping helping of spaghetti. To the woman's right sits the well-known face of Sydney Irvine, the future Syndicate, joining his brother in eating the pasta dinner. Today, July 21st, is Sydney's 16th birthday, and he couldn't be more excited to reach the first milestone of adulthood in his life.
Sydney: Great meal, Mom!
Colt: I couldn't agree more!
Mom: Aww, thanks, boys. You make it real easy on me, Syd - you always ask for the same birthday dinner every year!
Sydney smiles over at his mom, a stay-at-homer that's spent her entire life living on farms and caring for her family.
Sydney: Well, I guess I know what I like.
Mom stands up from the table and opens up the nearby fridge.
Mom: How we feelin' about some dessert?
Sydney: Do we want to wait for Dad to get home?
Mom: Oh, he'll probably be working late again tonight, I'm afraid. The mill just laid off half of their workers due to the recession, so he's there to pick up the slack. He'll have a slice later!
Hearing this, Sydney looks down, seemingly saddened by the absence of his father for his birthday dinner. Colt and his mother, though, don't seem to notice as a marble sheet cake, decorated with the image of the Tennessee high school wrestling championship trophy, is set down in the center of the dinner table. Sydney's mom pops sixteen candles in and around the "trophy", lights them with a pocket lighter, and steps back, allowing Colt to join her in song.
Colt/Mom: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sydney...happy birthday to you!
Smiling up at his partially-assembled family, the future Los Angeles Outlaw blows the candles out, plunging the room into temporary darkness before Mom can reach for the lightswitch.
Mom: Yay! Aww, turning 16 is so much fun. We'll be sure to go in for your driver's test right away tomorrow morning!
Sydney: Ugh, am I gonna have to drive the ol' Pontiac?
Mom: Hey, you're lucky to even HAVE a car at your age! Stop complainin'!
As the Irvine's mother chuckles and begins slicing the cake into pieces, Colt looks over at his younger brother.
Colt: So what'd you wish for, bro?
Sydney: I can't tell you, or it won't come true!
Colt: Oh, come on, that's just to excuse kid that can't come up with anythin'!
Colt playfully punches Sydney in the shoulder as the brothers share a laugh.
Sydney: Fine, fine...I wished to be co-captain of the wrestling team with you, Colt.
The elder Irvine brother doesn't seem to be surprised by Sydney's wish and smirks at him.
Colt: Well, if you want something lofty like that...you're gonna have to earn it.
Sydney: I understand...and I'm ready.
Colt smiles and nods at Sydney's response.
Colt: ...I know.
Sydney: Great meal, Mom!
Colt: I couldn't agree more!
Mom: Aww, thanks, boys. You make it real easy on me, Syd - you always ask for the same birthday dinner every year!
Sydney smiles over at his mom, a stay-at-homer that's spent her entire life living on farms and caring for her family.
Sydney: Well, I guess I know what I like.
Mom stands up from the table and opens up the nearby fridge.
Mom: How we feelin' about some dessert?
Sydney: Do we want to wait for Dad to get home?
Mom: Oh, he'll probably be working late again tonight, I'm afraid. The mill just laid off half of their workers due to the recession, so he's there to pick up the slack. He'll have a slice later!
Hearing this, Sydney looks down, seemingly saddened by the absence of his father for his birthday dinner. Colt and his mother, though, don't seem to notice as a marble sheet cake, decorated with the image of the Tennessee high school wrestling championship trophy, is set down in the center of the dinner table. Sydney's mom pops sixteen candles in and around the "trophy", lights them with a pocket lighter, and steps back, allowing Colt to join her in song.
Colt/Mom: Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Sydney...happy birthday to you!
Smiling up at his partially-assembled family, the future Los Angeles Outlaw blows the candles out, plunging the room into temporary darkness before Mom can reach for the lightswitch.
Mom: Yay! Aww, turning 16 is so much fun. We'll be sure to go in for your driver's test right away tomorrow morning!
Sydney: Ugh, am I gonna have to drive the ol' Pontiac?
Mom: Hey, you're lucky to even HAVE a car at your age! Stop complainin'!
As the Irvine's mother chuckles and begins slicing the cake into pieces, Colt looks over at his younger brother.
Colt: So what'd you wish for, bro?
Sydney: I can't tell you, or it won't come true!
Colt: Oh, come on, that's just to excuse kid that can't come up with anythin'!
Colt playfully punches Sydney in the shoulder as the brothers share a laugh.
Sydney: Fine, fine...I wished to be co-captain of the wrestling team with you, Colt.
The elder Irvine brother doesn't seem to be surprised by Sydney's wish and smirks at him.
Colt: Well, if you want something lofty like that...you're gonna have to earn it.
Sydney: I understand...and I'm ready.
Colt smiles and nods at Sydney's response.
Colt: ...I know.
APPLEBEE'S - LOS ANGELES, CA
JULY 21ST, 2021 - 6:12PM
?: Hi, welcome to Applebee's! My name is Melissa, do we want to get started with any drinks tonight?
We cut to the interior of a Los Angeles-based Applebee's. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant, with a hostess seating a party of four nearby, we see a waitress standing over a table occupied by some familiar faces. On the left sits Sophie Irvine, wearing a bright yellow sundress and allowing her long brunette hair to flow down past her shoulders. Opposite, we see the grizzled, persistently pissed-off face of the present-day Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, who smiles politely at the waitress but clearly doesn't mean it. Sporting a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and blue jeans, his attempt at happiness still betrays his true feeling of obviously not wanting to be in a damn Applebee's.
Sophie: Sure! I'll have a Diet Coke, please
Melissa: Great choice...and for you, sir?
Syndicate: Bud Light.
Melissa: Alright, I'll get those in for you -
Sophie: Actually, there'll be a third joining us as well. Would I be able to order a Sprite for him?
Melissa: Oh, sure! I'll be right back with those drinks!
As the waitress walks away, Syndicate pushes his back his shoulder-length blonde hair with his hand as he glares over at his wife.
Syndicate: ...did we really have to invite him?
Sophie: Oh, come on, it's your birthday! Lighten up. We haven't hung out with him in months!
Syndicate: Look, I don't even like celebrating birthdays, and you KNOW what he's gonna want to talk about -
?: Hey there! Syd, you don't look a day over 29.
In walks the confident JJ Kline, Syndicate's former co-worker at sports agency SportsMax and a family friend of the Irvine's. With a crisp blue suit and his hair slicked back, Kline clearly had just bolted from work in order to be here, a perception aided by his ever-present cell phone still being planted in his right hand. He slides into the booth next to Sophie and smiles at his two friends - meanwhile, Syndicate still looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else but here in this moment.
Sophie: Hey! How's it going?
JJ: Great! Work's going well, traffic was terrible, the usual stuff. But we're not here for me, we're here for this guy! Happy birthday, my man!
Syndicate: Thanks, JJ, good to see ya.
An short bit of uncomfortable silence ensues after Syndicate stops the greeting in its tracks.
Sophie: Umm, we ordered you a Sprite while we were waiting!
JJ: Fantastic, I'm absolutely parched. You know, while we're waiting for those drinks to get here, I've got one liiiiiiiiiiiiittle piece of business to propose to the man of the hour.
Syndicate: Here we go...
JJ: Now, now, I know you probably don't want to talk game on your birthday, Syd, but I'd be a terrible businessman if I didn't state the obvious. Even if you don't come back to work at SportsMax - an offer that, may I add, is most certainly still on the table - you're going to need an agent if you want to stick it out there in the world of professional wrestling.
Syndicate: I've worked on my own for eight years, I don't need someone now.
JJ: Yes, and how did those eight years go? Championships and accolades, sure, but those were just part of a TON of turmoil and upheaval in your life. For a bit there, it seemed like every week you had a new boss or had to deal with a new nagging injury, and now? You somehow got yourself booked in a match that's not even a real match. It's just not sustainable to handle all of that business by yourself, and that's where I come in - to help you focus on what you do best while I take care of the rest.
Syndicate blankly looks over to his left, watching a sizzling plate of fajitas get delivered to a nearby table, as JJ reaches into his satchel and pulls out a manila folder. Unhooking the clasps, the agent reveals a stapled packet of papers that he quickly slides over to the Los Angeles Outlaw, along with a black pen.
JJ: I've got all the paperwork right here, all you have to do is sign. I'll even give you half off my usual rate!
Syndicate: You give that to all your clients.
JJ: Well, that just means that all of my clients are getting a fantastic deal with the best agent in the business.
The two longtime friends lock eyes, with Syndicate seemingly determined to reject JJ's offer...but JJ seemingly refusing to allow him to do so.
Sophie: Come on, Syd...this is for the best.
Finally, after a few moments of tension, Syndicate sighs and picks up the pen.
Syndicate: Fine. But only if I get my unlimited access to the agency coffee machine back.
JJ: I'll send you an addendum later tonight with that written in.
JJ extends his hand over the table, and Syndicate reluctantly accepts the handshake. He then looks down and signs on the dotted line of the contract, just as the Applebee's waitress reaches their table.
Melissa: Alrighty, I've got those drinks for you all here!
She sets down the drinks in front of each of the group's members - a Sprite for JJ, a Diet Coke for Sophie, and a Bud Light for the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Melissa: And are you three ready to order?
JJ: I'll need a few more minutes with the menu, please.
Melissa: No problem! I'll be back in a bit.
As she leaves, JJ picks up his drink.
JJ: A toast...to the birthday boy!
Both Sophie and Syndicate raise their glasses in response - Sophie's gesture is happy and hopeful, while Syndicate's is...less so.
We cut to the interior of a Los Angeles-based Applebee's. Amidst the hustle and bustle of the busy restaurant, with a hostess seating a party of four nearby, we see a waitress standing over a table occupied by some familiar faces. On the left sits Sophie Irvine, wearing a bright yellow sundress and allowing her long brunette hair to flow down past her shoulders. Opposite, we see the grizzled, persistently pissed-off face of the present-day Los Angeles Outlaw, Syndicate, who smiles politely at the waitress but clearly doesn't mean it. Sporting a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt and blue jeans, his attempt at happiness still betrays his true feeling of obviously not wanting to be in a damn Applebee's.
Sophie: Sure! I'll have a Diet Coke, please
Melissa: Great choice...and for you, sir?
Syndicate: Bud Light.
Melissa: Alright, I'll get those in for you -
Sophie: Actually, there'll be a third joining us as well. Would I be able to order a Sprite for him?
Melissa: Oh, sure! I'll be right back with those drinks!
As the waitress walks away, Syndicate pushes his back his shoulder-length blonde hair with his hand as he glares over at his wife.
Syndicate: ...did we really have to invite him?
Sophie: Oh, come on, it's your birthday! Lighten up. We haven't hung out with him in months!
Syndicate: Look, I don't even like celebrating birthdays, and you KNOW what he's gonna want to talk about -
?: Hey there! Syd, you don't look a day over 29.
In walks the confident JJ Kline, Syndicate's former co-worker at sports agency SportsMax and a family friend of the Irvine's. With a crisp blue suit and his hair slicked back, Kline clearly had just bolted from work in order to be here, a perception aided by his ever-present cell phone still being planted in his right hand. He slides into the booth next to Sophie and smiles at his two friends - meanwhile, Syndicate still looks as though he'd rather be anywhere else but here in this moment.
Sophie: Hey! How's it going?
JJ: Great! Work's going well, traffic was terrible, the usual stuff. But we're not here for me, we're here for this guy! Happy birthday, my man!
Syndicate: Thanks, JJ, good to see ya.
An short bit of uncomfortable silence ensues after Syndicate stops the greeting in its tracks.
Sophie: Umm, we ordered you a Sprite while we were waiting!
JJ: Fantastic, I'm absolutely parched. You know, while we're waiting for those drinks to get here, I've got one liiiiiiiiiiiiittle piece of business to propose to the man of the hour.
Syndicate: Here we go...
JJ: Now, now, I know you probably don't want to talk game on your birthday, Syd, but I'd be a terrible businessman if I didn't state the obvious. Even if you don't come back to work at SportsMax - an offer that, may I add, is most certainly still on the table - you're going to need an agent if you want to stick it out there in the world of professional wrestling.
Syndicate: I've worked on my own for eight years, I don't need someone now.
JJ: Yes, and how did those eight years go? Championships and accolades, sure, but those were just part of a TON of turmoil and upheaval in your life. For a bit there, it seemed like every week you had a new boss or had to deal with a new nagging injury, and now? You somehow got yourself booked in a match that's not even a real match. It's just not sustainable to handle all of that business by yourself, and that's where I come in - to help you focus on what you do best while I take care of the rest.
Syndicate blankly looks over to his left, watching a sizzling plate of fajitas get delivered to a nearby table, as JJ reaches into his satchel and pulls out a manila folder. Unhooking the clasps, the agent reveals a stapled packet of papers that he quickly slides over to the Los Angeles Outlaw, along with a black pen.
JJ: I've got all the paperwork right here, all you have to do is sign. I'll even give you half off my usual rate!
Syndicate: You give that to all your clients.
JJ: Well, that just means that all of my clients are getting a fantastic deal with the best agent in the business.
The two longtime friends lock eyes, with Syndicate seemingly determined to reject JJ's offer...but JJ seemingly refusing to allow him to do so.
Sophie: Come on, Syd...this is for the best.
Finally, after a few moments of tension, Syndicate sighs and picks up the pen.
Syndicate: Fine. But only if I get my unlimited access to the agency coffee machine back.
JJ: I'll send you an addendum later tonight with that written in.
JJ extends his hand over the table, and Syndicate reluctantly accepts the handshake. He then looks down and signs on the dotted line of the contract, just as the Applebee's waitress reaches their table.
Melissa: Alrighty, I've got those drinks for you all here!
She sets down the drinks in front of each of the group's members - a Sprite for JJ, a Diet Coke for Sophie, and a Bud Light for the Los Angeles Outlaw.
Melissa: And are you three ready to order?
JJ: I'll need a few more minutes with the menu, please.
Melissa: No problem! I'll be back in a bit.
As she leaves, JJ picks up his drink.
JJ: A toast...to the birthday boy!
Both Sophie and Syndicate raise their glasses in response - Sophie's gesture is happy and hopeful, while Syndicate's is...less so.
THE IRVINE HOUSEHOLD - LOS ANGELES, CA
JULY 21ST, 2021 - 11:33PM
JULY 21ST, 2021 - 11:33PM
From the busy dining room of Applebee's, we fade to a much darker scene within the living room of the Irvine family's Los Angeles home. With all the lights turned off, save for one in the open-concept kitchen, we see the silhouette of one Sydney Irvine - Syndicate - sitting on a black leather sofa in the center of the space. As white walls and beautiful décor surround the Los Angeles Outlaw on all sides, he stares blankly forward, his mind clearly preoccupied with something as the house remains silent.
Syndicate: Ever since Guts, Gold, & Glory, I haven't been able to sleep. I haven't been able to focus. I can't get the image of being locked into that damn cage out of my head. The feeling of my head going crashing into the chain link - unable to get up and escape before that lock took hold of my fate - has been inescapable over the past week as I've been left to grapple with my own failure. Sure, I made my mark on my opponents, forcing two of them to gang up on the Los Angeles Outlaw to even have a prayer of success in that cage. Sure, I eliminated that poor sap Pandalike in about five seconds flat while also damn near knocking Levi Kirstein's head off its pedastal. And sure, some weaker-hearted men and women would have cowered at the thought of even stepping foot into the hellscape that I willingly walk through on a nightly basis here at Project: Honor...but none of that matters when I'm the one that's left staring into the mirror, wondering what went wrong.
Syndicate stands up from the leather couch and walks across the room to one of two ten-foot windows that adorn the western wall of the living room. Here, he stares out at the dark abyss that is the Pacific Ocean, and as the moonlight from above glistens upon its waters, Syndicate pushes back his long blonde hair and continues.
Syndicate: It's not the first failure in my life, I suppose. I once dropped a burger patty on the ground while working the grill at an ice cream drive-in. There's that one time that I got an A- instead of an A in pre-calc. Oh, and there was that unfortunate incident where I accidentally bought gray bedsheets instead of blue. Look, the point is, I'm used to having to deal with tough times like these, and I'm used to rebounding to new heights each fuckin' time. Take, for instance, the situation that I currently find myself in. On one hand, I lost at GGG - as much as I'd like to avoid it, there it is. But on the other...Elena. What a tangled web we shall weave. I may have been most looking forward to a potential face off with Ms. Savannah for the Noble title, sure, but don't think that I haven't been watching you from afar as well. Now, I understand that there's a bit of...shall we say, power imbalance here. After all, I'm just a poor new singing here on the Fallout roster looking to secure an extended contract by smashing people's skulls in, week after week - oh, woe is me! Meanwhile, look at you. Top of the mountain. Two-time Legacy Champion. You've got your title, you've got your precious little group of buddies, and what has that gotten you? Everything that you've ever wanted. I envy you, Elena. You watched as Mark Hunter turned to places that he's never gone before in order to even have a chance of defeating you, and in response, you promptly put his ass to sleep. I like that about you - even in the face of absolute adversity, you stuck through and came out the winner. But I'm afraid that all heart-warming stories such as yours must eventually come to their brutal, devastating conclusions, and if this were a normal match between the two of us, Elena, we'd already find ourselves in the last chapter of your tale.
Syndicate: But that's the great irony in this, isn't it? Per Mr. DeMarco's "decree," I'm not allowed to attack you. I can't hit you with the same No Signal that damn near killed Pandalike this past week, and has fatefully injured numerous wrestlers throughout my past. I can't squeeze all the blood out of your brain with The Vault, just like I did when I won all nine of my World Championships across this Earth. I can't do what I normally do when I come face-to-face with problems like you. But the best part is...I don't need to. I don't need to lay a fuckin' finger on you, Elena, to defeat you and get what I want, and that's just the way I like it. You know, you can look at the ruleset of this "trial" and interpret the situation as you, Elena DeDraca, as the one with power. After all, you can come up to me, look me dead in the eye, and hit me upside the head with your barbed-wire bat, and I can't do anything but take it in stride. And I'm sure that when you look at this smiling face, and hear the words that I'm speaking to you right now, you'd like nothing more than to put me in a hospital bed for the rest of time. But you may not even get that chance, Elena, because at Fallout, it's gonna be four versus one, and all one of us has to do is unlock a few chests and get the hell out of Dodge. You may think that you have power in this scenario, Elena, but in reality? Well...I'm the one that holds all the cards. Because you can knock me down, you can take me out, you can even pin me twice, and that STILL won't be enough for you to get over the hurdle that is the Los...Angeles...Outlaw. Don't you see? The game's rigged against you from the start!
The Los Angeles Outlaw finally turns his full attention away from the Pacific and on to the camera lens. As he speaks with immeasurable passion in his voice, the light from the kitchen catches his right cheek, revealing a patch of scarring from being thrown into an enflamed cage wall many moons ago.
Syndicate: And I'm sure that's just how you like it. I'm sure you revel in the fact that you get to go up against three young'un's and beat them senseless. And I'm sure, even if I do manage to escape your clutches, that your own personal Goon Squad - with half the talent and charisma of their Space Jam equivalents - will be standing at the door, ready to strike. I'm prepared for that inevitability, and I'm ready to survive it, because that's what I do, Elena. Look at me: I've now lost more matches than I've won here at Project: Honor, and yet, I'm still here. I've been tossed into a cage the way that garbage is tossed into a dumpster, and I'm still here. I've woken up each and every day, having to face the world saying that I'm not good enough, that I'm a waste of space on the Fallout roster, and I'm still here. I've been damn near beaten to death, night after night after night, and I'm still here! So trust me when I say that when you and your group o' bitches come knocking on my door, I won't be an easy out. No, I will come at you not with strength, but with cunning, and I will undoubtedly walk out of Fallout as the victor of the fourth trial. And do you know the best part about all of this, Elena? I'm telling you, right now, EXACTLY what's gonna happen - I'm literally SPOILING the results of a live show for you - and there's not a damn thing you're going to be able to do about it. I don't care if you're the Legacy Champion, I don't care if you're a fourteen-year vet, I don't care if you're Giannis goddamn Antetokounmpo in Game 6 of the NBA Finals, you are gonna have a tough fuckin' time putting down the Los Angeles Outlaw on your BEST day. I may respect the hell out of you, Elena, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna lie down for you, because I am the best professional wrestler on God's green earth, and if you don't know that yet, I promise that you'll know it soon enough.
Syndicate: You know, today was my birthday. I used to enjoy birthdays, spending time with family and friends and all that. But then, as I grew older, moved to LA, got into wrestling...birthdays kinda faded into the background while my mind was elsewhere, and it took me until now to realize why. Each and every week, I wake up, put on my jeans, and go to work as a professional wrestler. Each and every week, I'm put on a poster alongside people like you, people that don't respect me, people that don't deserve to exist within my vicinity. And each and every week, I get to face off against those people and ruin their lives. Why get excited for one day a year of receiving presents...when I get gifts like that all the time? That's what this is to me, Elena...it's not a match, it's not a trial, it's a gift. A chance to outwit, outplay, and outlast the Legacy Champion, for the entire world to see. And while this may just be another match, another encounter in a whole list of encounters to you, Elena...to me, this is my livelihood. And I'm not gonna let my livelihood be taken away by someone like you...not by a long shot. Welcome...to the Syndicate.
As Syndicate's fiery speech comes to a close, a light flicks on behind the Los Angeles Outlaw. He turns and sees his wife, Sophie, standing in the stairwell, wearing a white t-shirt and blue volleyball shorts. She rubs her eyes, looking as though she's just been woken up from sleep, and squints over at her husband.
Sophie: You alright, honey?
Syndicate: Yeah, I'm fine...just a bit worked up.
Sophie: You're always worked up. Come on, let's go to bed.
Taking one last glance out the tall window at the beautiful moon outside, Syndicate reluctantly walks over to Sophie. The two share a tender kiss at the bottom of the stairs as the shot is eaten up by black-and-white television static.
Syndicate: Ever since Guts, Gold, & Glory, I haven't been able to sleep. I haven't been able to focus. I can't get the image of being locked into that damn cage out of my head. The feeling of my head going crashing into the chain link - unable to get up and escape before that lock took hold of my fate - has been inescapable over the past week as I've been left to grapple with my own failure. Sure, I made my mark on my opponents, forcing two of them to gang up on the Los Angeles Outlaw to even have a prayer of success in that cage. Sure, I eliminated that poor sap Pandalike in about five seconds flat while also damn near knocking Levi Kirstein's head off its pedastal. And sure, some weaker-hearted men and women would have cowered at the thought of even stepping foot into the hellscape that I willingly walk through on a nightly basis here at Project: Honor...but none of that matters when I'm the one that's left staring into the mirror, wondering what went wrong.
Syndicate stands up from the leather couch and walks across the room to one of two ten-foot windows that adorn the western wall of the living room. Here, he stares out at the dark abyss that is the Pacific Ocean, and as the moonlight from above glistens upon its waters, Syndicate pushes back his long blonde hair and continues.
Syndicate: It's not the first failure in my life, I suppose. I once dropped a burger patty on the ground while working the grill at an ice cream drive-in. There's that one time that I got an A- instead of an A in pre-calc. Oh, and there was that unfortunate incident where I accidentally bought gray bedsheets instead of blue. Look, the point is, I'm used to having to deal with tough times like these, and I'm used to rebounding to new heights each fuckin' time. Take, for instance, the situation that I currently find myself in. On one hand, I lost at GGG - as much as I'd like to avoid it, there it is. But on the other...Elena. What a tangled web we shall weave. I may have been most looking forward to a potential face off with Ms. Savannah for the Noble title, sure, but don't think that I haven't been watching you from afar as well. Now, I understand that there's a bit of...shall we say, power imbalance here. After all, I'm just a poor new singing here on the Fallout roster looking to secure an extended contract by smashing people's skulls in, week after week - oh, woe is me! Meanwhile, look at you. Top of the mountain. Two-time Legacy Champion. You've got your title, you've got your precious little group of buddies, and what has that gotten you? Everything that you've ever wanted. I envy you, Elena. You watched as Mark Hunter turned to places that he's never gone before in order to even have a chance of defeating you, and in response, you promptly put his ass to sleep. I like that about you - even in the face of absolute adversity, you stuck through and came out the winner. But I'm afraid that all heart-warming stories such as yours must eventually come to their brutal, devastating conclusions, and if this were a normal match between the two of us, Elena, we'd already find ourselves in the last chapter of your tale.
Syndicate: But that's the great irony in this, isn't it? Per Mr. DeMarco's "decree," I'm not allowed to attack you. I can't hit you with the same No Signal that damn near killed Pandalike this past week, and has fatefully injured numerous wrestlers throughout my past. I can't squeeze all the blood out of your brain with The Vault, just like I did when I won all nine of my World Championships across this Earth. I can't do what I normally do when I come face-to-face with problems like you. But the best part is...I don't need to. I don't need to lay a fuckin' finger on you, Elena, to defeat you and get what I want, and that's just the way I like it. You know, you can look at the ruleset of this "trial" and interpret the situation as you, Elena DeDraca, as the one with power. After all, you can come up to me, look me dead in the eye, and hit me upside the head with your barbed-wire bat, and I can't do anything but take it in stride. And I'm sure that when you look at this smiling face, and hear the words that I'm speaking to you right now, you'd like nothing more than to put me in a hospital bed for the rest of time. But you may not even get that chance, Elena, because at Fallout, it's gonna be four versus one, and all one of us has to do is unlock a few chests and get the hell out of Dodge. You may think that you have power in this scenario, Elena, but in reality? Well...I'm the one that holds all the cards. Because you can knock me down, you can take me out, you can even pin me twice, and that STILL won't be enough for you to get over the hurdle that is the Los...Angeles...Outlaw. Don't you see? The game's rigged against you from the start!
The Los Angeles Outlaw finally turns his full attention away from the Pacific and on to the camera lens. As he speaks with immeasurable passion in his voice, the light from the kitchen catches his right cheek, revealing a patch of scarring from being thrown into an enflamed cage wall many moons ago.
Syndicate: And I'm sure that's just how you like it. I'm sure you revel in the fact that you get to go up against three young'un's and beat them senseless. And I'm sure, even if I do manage to escape your clutches, that your own personal Goon Squad - with half the talent and charisma of their Space Jam equivalents - will be standing at the door, ready to strike. I'm prepared for that inevitability, and I'm ready to survive it, because that's what I do, Elena. Look at me: I've now lost more matches than I've won here at Project: Honor, and yet, I'm still here. I've been tossed into a cage the way that garbage is tossed into a dumpster, and I'm still here. I've woken up each and every day, having to face the world saying that I'm not good enough, that I'm a waste of space on the Fallout roster, and I'm still here. I've been damn near beaten to death, night after night after night, and I'm still here! So trust me when I say that when you and your group o' bitches come knocking on my door, I won't be an easy out. No, I will come at you not with strength, but with cunning, and I will undoubtedly walk out of Fallout as the victor of the fourth trial. And do you know the best part about all of this, Elena? I'm telling you, right now, EXACTLY what's gonna happen - I'm literally SPOILING the results of a live show for you - and there's not a damn thing you're going to be able to do about it. I don't care if you're the Legacy Champion, I don't care if you're a fourteen-year vet, I don't care if you're Giannis goddamn Antetokounmpo in Game 6 of the NBA Finals, you are gonna have a tough fuckin' time putting down the Los Angeles Outlaw on your BEST day. I may respect the hell out of you, Elena, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna lie down for you, because I am the best professional wrestler on God's green earth, and if you don't know that yet, I promise that you'll know it soon enough.
Syndicate: You know, today was my birthday. I used to enjoy birthdays, spending time with family and friends and all that. But then, as I grew older, moved to LA, got into wrestling...birthdays kinda faded into the background while my mind was elsewhere, and it took me until now to realize why. Each and every week, I wake up, put on my jeans, and go to work as a professional wrestler. Each and every week, I'm put on a poster alongside people like you, people that don't respect me, people that don't deserve to exist within my vicinity. And each and every week, I get to face off against those people and ruin their lives. Why get excited for one day a year of receiving presents...when I get gifts like that all the time? That's what this is to me, Elena...it's not a match, it's not a trial, it's a gift. A chance to outwit, outplay, and outlast the Legacy Champion, for the entire world to see. And while this may just be another match, another encounter in a whole list of encounters to you, Elena...to me, this is my livelihood. And I'm not gonna let my livelihood be taken away by someone like you...not by a long shot. Welcome...to the Syndicate.
As Syndicate's fiery speech comes to a close, a light flicks on behind the Los Angeles Outlaw. He turns and sees his wife, Sophie, standing in the stairwell, wearing a white t-shirt and blue volleyball shorts. She rubs her eyes, looking as though she's just been woken up from sleep, and squints over at her husband.
Sophie: You alright, honey?
Syndicate: Yeah, I'm fine...just a bit worked up.
Sophie: You're always worked up. Come on, let's go to bed.
Taking one last glance out the tall window at the beautiful moon outside, Syndicate reluctantly walks over to Sophie. The two share a tender kiss at the bottom of the stairs as the shot is eaten up by black-and-white television static.
