004: Symbolic

"Alright, confession time. Don't wanna be here tonight," the audio comes in before the video and when the image resolves, it shows that same rooftop view. Lex Collins stands on the edge, staring off into the distance, shaking his head. "On a clear day, with an unobstructed view, you can see the CN Tower way off in the distance. Less'n an hour down the road, but it's so big, so impressive, it's still there in the background – quiet as a mouse, photo-bomber style. Maybe some folks don't even notice, don't even care, but the Tower's not in it for recognition. It's there to stand tall as a symbol, no matter what."

He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jean jacket.

"The funny thing about this business: the more you gotta tell people what you are, the less power it's got. Tell people over an' over how you're the hero they never wanted, never even knew they needed an' they get pissy. Maybe it's true. Maybe you're in eight different companies 'cause of a love of this business an' a desire to make sure things're good for the little fellas out there – I don't see it, Mark. I really don't. You talk this big game, sure, but talk's so goddamned cheap you can't even use it to buy yourself a decent win since you came back to Lion's Road."

He rolls his eyes, taking a few steps along the ledge without looking down.

"I usedta fancy myself a rebel, y'know?" His voice comes out coarse, hard and grainy as he spits his words with a certain level of contempt, "usedta go on these righteous little rants 'bout how much I hated them. People like you, Mark. The empty ones, the shells who care so much about fillin' the empty holes with glory an' success an' never really amountin' to a damn thing outside all that glitzy gold – see, you can spray-paint a turd but it's still gonna reek if you get close enough."

That self-deprecating chuckle is back, bringing a rueful smile to his lips.

"I know you think you're the real deal. I can feel that conviction ringin' in your voice – someone labelled you a long time ago an' you were so fuckin' thrilled to have that ball finally tossed your way'at you just took it, ran with it 'til you had no clue where that version began an' the real Mark Storm stopped. I know you see me as a fraud, see me as a guy who came in with a bit of undeserved hype an' ran into a brick wall of battle royal bullshit."

He shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall before holding his arms out to his sides to reveal his threadbare Black Flag tee and the sleeve tattoos on his arms.

"This isn't a brand, Mark. This' me, who I am, an' if the people see fit to rally behind me, to follow my career an' bootleg my matches an' buy the merch with my face an' my slogans on it, well that's on them. I'm not pushin' any agenda here. I'm not some fabricated role model with a Billy Idol sneer, tight pants, an' a bucket of angst. I'm just Lex Collins the fighter."

He's back to staring off in the distance, squinting.

"Once upon a time there was a goal. There was a game I played with myself. Used to call it 'Gettin' Up'," he finger-quotes the words, "started when I was a kid. Got good at it over the years. Maybe I should put that on the resume, huh? Multi-time champion. Professional stunt man slash fall guy slash survivor." His lips twist in a grimace, "just keep breathin'. Even when it hurts, you make your lungs expand. You take in more air. Defiant. Swallow a few pints of blood, knowin' you can always sick it up later when the danger's passed. Stick it and keep movin' an' it's not for them, Mark. Never was. Never really will be – this part's purely personal an' maybe that's why they relate to me more'n you?"

He shrugs.

"When that glittery surface flakes off an' they see you for the greedy shit you really are…" he points, the camera following his finger to pick out the CN Tower lit up red on the horizon. "I'll be watchin' – silent sentinel guardin' this business. Y'know, like a real hero would do."