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Funny how things go.
It'd been ages since he first walked into their base and lost his arm. He'd been interviewed by some Syndicate blokes, something that he'd foolishly assumed was because his feats in the Bonecage had somehow hit Syndi air waves and been impressive enough to make him a bloody ambassador for Salvo. He'd signed an agreement to fly out to Solace and fill out more paperwork, read through a rulebook that he'd sure as never actually read, and charm a whole new crowd with his skills. They'd had him stand proud for a few teaser posters, posters which were half-heartedly tossed around Salvo to try and gin up support for a cause that Walter only half cared about.
Well, alright. He didn't give a shite about it.
It never really mattered to him, in the grand scheme of things. Syndi space was out there, Salvo was in here. Mags was the one that was fiercely loyal to the dust, and Wally was her personal attack dog. A shiny toy to show off when she was doing big important political meetings, muscle to back her up. They'd been equals once, and he reckoned that when that changed he stopped caring.
But when he'd gone in there, she'd clearly been stewing over those posters. He'd made a critical mistake, letting her see that long before they could have a talk. Not that he expected any sort of talk to end well. The few times he'd been stupid enough to ask for anything, she'd shot it down. His own personal wants and needs fell far bloody below the needs of the planet. Didn't matter how big or small, she made it clear that he needed to show up and do his job. If she gained complete control, maybe he'd get a bone thrown his way. Or, maybe she'd shoot him.
It wasn't something he could talk to folks about, really. Definitely not on Salvo. On Solace? Well, he'd opened up a lot to Houndy. Che, too, when she had the time to listen to an old dog waffle on about his troubles. The rest were fair hesitant to lend an ear, though he knew there was plenty of tin earing going around. Folks heard rumors, or drummed them up, and he'd been at the bottom of plenty of bottles in Elliott's bar. That was the funny thing about Syndicate space. You could mention something offhandedly, and folks would cling to it for months at a time. Festering and stewing over word choices. He'd seen articles drafted about him claimin' that he was secretly happy that a lot of civvies had been injured and killed when Mags crashed his landing party.
And he'd turned a blind eye to all the negativity that came from those rumors.
He'd hoped that folks would cheer him on, but it was a hell of a lot different out of the Bonecage. He had a handful of fans, but so did all the other legends. Legends that clawed their way up through the ranks, netting win after win. He'd cut the line. A "diversity hire", was the insult he'd heard more than a few times. Someone folded in to try and make the irate Salvonians feel as if they were being fairly represented in the Syndicate they'd been forced into. He'd been picked not because of his skill, but because he was infamous back home. Mad Maggie's second in command, her loyal attack dog. Syndicate hadn't planned for how much that'd backfire. Maggie obviously rejected it, and it made Salvo dig her heels in. It made him bloody lazy, too. He wasn't the center of attention. More often than not, the Silva kid was drawing the most attention. Young, bombastic, a bloody big risk taker. He had his own pack of loyal fans, streaming everything with tech that Walter only had the faintest idea of. Kairi, too, she knew how to show off to a Syndicate crowd.
Walter's "peacocking about" was far less exciting. He hesitated to launch explosives recklessly, worrying about how the media would report on it. He was bloody sick of being talked about as if he was a doddering codger, but even one burst of flames or fireworks outside of battle got folks acting awful flighty. Forget about getting into brawls, too. His prosthetic made it far too easy to smash some poor bloke's face in, and while his legend status shielded him from any punishment, it made folks leery of spending time with him. So he began to stowaway what he'd loved about Salvo. The freedom of it all. Going on heists was criminal, dangerous work. He'd been told more than once that if they caught him breaking into any banks or taking on illicit jobs, they'd deport his sorry arse back to Salvo. Part of his contract.
On the reverse of it, he'd demanded his own edit to the contract. His prosthetic had made it a challenge to write and sign, but he'd been bloody certain of its necessity. With the smoke still billowing from her attack, he made it clear: if they couldn't keep her out of the games, he had the option to walk away. At the time, he'd thought he'd been a bloody solid negotiator from how quickly they'd agreed, but now? Hell, now he knew that they knew it was an empty gesture at best. If he walked away, where would he go? He couldn't crawl back to Salvo, not when his face and name were infamous for entirely worse reasons than before. Mags had drummed up the planet to see him as a first class traitor, the lowest of the low, the scum that you have to scrape off your boot after wading through the muck. He'd be dead the moment he hit atmo, and if his ship managed to land he'd never know peace. But where else could he go?
He had some money saved up, enough that he could theoretically get himself a small plot of land. Solace wouldn't be the friendliest place. Folks still blamed him for what happened, even though he'd never intended for Maggie to do what she did. Hell, he'd had no idea she would even go so far to try to claw him back. Psamathe was too bloody fancy for him, and he doubted he could afford more than a flat there. Talos was falling apart, Boreas was falling apart. Gaea had so many rules that he'd likely rot in a cell if he went there. Gridiron, he reckoned, could be promising-but it was a long distance away, and he'd be totally stranded if he went there. His best bet was to stay in the games, for better or for worse, and they bloody knew it.
It wasn't enough that they had him good and cornered. Every chance they got, they stuck him with Mags. She'd get hauled off to a prison cell after every match, but that didn't end her control. Reporters would ask probing questions about their relationship. If they'd ever kissed. If they had a kid. If she wore the pants in the relationship. If he felt guilty for his hand in bloody colonizing Salvo, as if the planet wasn't a bloody colony in the first place. Mags knew how to work the media, twisting it around and flipping the script. More and more, folks sided with her. Che still talked to him, but not near as much. He'd hear whispers that she was justified, hell, maybe he'd even deserved to lose his arm for what he did. It made his skin bloody crawl. It was hard to deny it, too, with her spitting acid in his ear every chance she got.
Even off Salvo, his whole life revolved around her.
He'd get back to his flat and every sudden noise would make him jump. She was in prison, but he still half-expected to open his door to an explosive. Hell, maybe she'd drum up enough sympathizers that he'd have to hide out in some abandoned rusty junker and hope no one found him. Maybe the games would be the safest place for him. Houndy at least understood, seeing right through all of Maggie's twisted words. Hell, Mary did, too. At least, he reckoned she did, after she listened to him drunkenly warble through his troubles. He'd mourned the loss of Maggie, back when he'd thought she'd died. But really, he'd been mourning the death she had ages ago. Back when she was a proper friend, the person he'd gladly die for in a heartbeat as long as it was for a good time.
He reckoned it was a bit funny, now that he thought on it. They'd both been chasing freedom, and now they were both caged up. And he knew she'd keep clawing until his cage was as small as hers.
But that one little bit of his contract was calling to him.
What if he quit?