Valquist: Spirit

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When you live standing opposite a sword, there's a day when we all fall and feel the sharp slice rip through flesh. We all die in its image.

Death though was only the beginning. A long road of penance and perseverance waits, without the guarantee of rebirth. In defining moments remembered or forgotten when we are tested to our absolute limit, eventually toppling and conceding under the weight of our actions, the trueness of man unveils.

What must be asked is what you see beyond the veil of our buried horizon. The mantle was born to honour the actions of the valiant past, and ultimately, to eclipse and prosper. To see the good in all men, to stay rooted in the right light. Reclamation of the Infinite vision.

A new Valquist rises, and there is only one requirement. No half measures.

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There is no greater unknown than the bleakness of not knowing your next challenger. The itch that you’re forgotten in the shuffle. You and I have been forceful in obtaining what it is we want, Valquist at the summit of VoW. We stray and we linger, with only Patrick Jones standing between you and a place uncharted at Armed and Dangerous. The Valquist, in control of his destiny. Your rodeo at Breakthrough 52, you don’t need a Copycat or a Derrida telling you the boundaries for victory against another good guy made to break. What good is your word and your continued promise of victory if fallen against a man only made to smile?

For once the story is simple. You’re going out there, using the groundwork you’ve laid in your previous 2 victories, and you are going to tell Patrick Jones to do better. He’s got to eclipse your vision for this company, and your fight to attain a level of respect that every bad guy and soured personality has helped crumble over the last 9 months. Patrick Jones doesn’t need to be respected, this quintessential good guy needs to become the martyr, and to echo the equation that there is no sum to your potential.

Chris, sometimes a hero has to do the right thing, and expose the souring pill that faith in man can only stay true if you’re able to make it as such. Don’t tempt the unturning road, conquer it, and everybody afoot your carriage. No half measures.

See you soon,

TCK

Walking amongst the masses in the Zocalo, Mexico City’s centre main square, Chris McCarthy blends in amongst the natives as one. Thousands had gathered in the clear sunshine and dying rainy season had taken a temporary break, with an Infinity Wrestling logo, a redesigned and angered silver eagle hologram belting high into the plaza. 

“This place has come a long way since the colonial days,” Chris references into his earpiece, reminiscing about Mexican history and how the Zocalo was once an Aztec ceremonial site.

“Learn not to take moments like this for granted, Chris. You’re here, in the heart of Luche Libre country,” TCK replies. “The Aztec’s are living proof that you are top of the world one day, then the next when the Spanish are aiming powerful guns at you, that you’re nothing more than their design.”

Surrounding Chris is a beautifully engineered city of vertical concrete, designed to be tall landmarks such as cathedrals, bureaus, and political hubs. The Palacio Nacional with two vertical towers was behind Chris’s eye line. The Zocalo that surrounded Chris took on an imperial look, as red Infinity banners draped off the long and tall buildings. At the centre of a square plaza a wrestling ring was situated, but nobody had taken to the ring in the hour and a half Chris had waited. His expectations were telling him that Valquist would appear in the flesh, but from his research into the Infinity style pop-up events that had reached 3 continents over the course of the last month, the only on-screen personality that had appeared was Donald Osman, president of the Battle Zone Network that was Infinity’s primary owners.

Chris was disguised using the Copycat Tech as a female in her early thirties, an olive tanned skinned woman with petite yet leggy features. With curled black hair, ripped jeans and a white tank top, underneath the vale Chris was wearing a tightened nanosuit, which was a regular and simple attire used when transforming into the skin of other and new people.  

“What can you see, Chris? Our exit strategy needs to be rock solid should your cover be compromised,” TCK asks. “I’ m counting six armed police officers, fifty private security staff, ring crew scattered amongst the public, a few cameramen discreetly placed, but no signs of Infinity wrestlers of staff.”

“There’s only one familiarity with these shows, one wrestler,” Chris announces. “Jīngshén. Infinity’s Purity Champion.”

“Now that’s a belt I’m familiar with,” TCK declares, having been one of the few to once hold the belt.

Infinity Wrestling was giving ninety minutes’ notice before each show, posting the address of a landmark or public area on various social media accounts. The shows would last for an hour, then cascade back into the unknown, giving the audience just enough without giving them the world. Little was known at this time about who and what was truly running it, but Isis Derrida believed the fate of Infinity Wrestling had been resurrected by Valquist.

Chris’s pondering didn’t have to wait long. A spotlight from the National Palace glared down onto the ring with security ushering an unknown identity to the ring. The Mexican audience, most of whom are avid fans, begin cheering without alarm. The presence that was finally guided to the ring was wearing a silk robe covering his head, rolling and spinning to his feet. Beneath the robe was a silver shield with red outline, with the names of a few men including James Jameson and Neal Powers, the old guard of Infinity wrestling, but these names were barely noticeable from a distance. The Shield was tied together with a thick silver strap metal that was laced with red leather. Picking up a microphone, Jingshen lowered the veil, revealing his full identity. Wearing a yellow mask that covered every expression and hair of his body, the mask was a mould of Jingshen’s natural face, which also featured slight red painting to create the illusion of cracks.

“Ladies and gentleman, welcome to Infinity Wrestling, the federation of infinite possibilities. Welcome to the ring the Infinity Purity Champion, Jingshen!”

The cry of an English commentator was repeated by that of a Spanish announcer, which drew a loud cheer from the crowd. Jingshen went to the top rope and lofted high the shield, looking directly in Chris’s direction, but for a moment. The noise of this public wrestling gathering had eclipsed even the loudest of Mexico’s national celebrations, and all for a foreign wrestler whose fame and identity is not only a mystery, but has been greatly fabricated by the IWF. After a minute Chris looked around the plaza, hoping to find anything out of the ordinary, all whilst Jingshen prepared to address the crowd.

“We are more than one person, we are more than a movement, we are a reminder of immortality. We are the living embodiment of the dream, that any desire can be won through one’s want. This shield, it represents more than a myth, it represents a new reality, one which will see Infinity Wrestling scour the earth for the finest, and today, even though I stand here preaching the will of good men, I have found myself a worthy adversary.”

Jingshen drew a massive crowd response. This elusive wrestler

“This guy’s English is impeccable,” TCK alludes, “How do we even know he’s Chinese? The mask is unnerving.”

“The Purity Championship has been at the forefront since our rebirth, and I am bestowed the chance to claim my stake at becoming the second Infinity World Champion, with just one more defense of my title.” Jingshen all of a sudden turned to the top rope again, peering in the direction of Chris and a few thousand other spectators. “It is time to honour what came before, and to pledge my battle against one of the greats, a man who never saw the light of day with Infinity Wrestling.”

Chris’s sinking feeling was far too coincidental, with the masked Jingshen staring directly in his location. Chris sought for comfort.

“TCK, do you copy?”

“Chris, get out of there! Now!” TCK screams. “You’ve been made.”

“How?” Chris asks, disguised as a slender Latino female. “I can’t fight this man.”

“Then leave, now.”

A second spotlight beamed down instantly on Chris’s position, casting a blinding light down to the public.

“A man living in the shadows, and just like this federation, reborn in a new light,” Jingshen says in the ring. “Valquist The Valiant!”

Emerging from the blinding light, Chris did not activate the Valquist override on his Copycat Tech, it was forcefully done against his will. Walking out dressed in full wrestling gear as The Valquist, Chris is met with an enormous reaction amongst the Mexico population. Swarmed by admirers, Chris saw that security was surrounding him.”

“TCK, what’s happening, my system has been overridden,” Chris declares. “They knew we’d be here. Was this the doing of Derrida?”

There is nothing but radio silence, with Val quickly ushered to the ring. Jingshen was naturally taller and built than Chris, but even before getting into the ring, there was only a fear mounting, a fear that enemies were closer than he knew, and for once he felt powerless to control his destiny. Dropping the microphone, Jingshen eyes Valquist all the way into the ring. When Val turned to the audience his face was transmitted onto the giant screens and cameras filming this wrestling spectacular.

“Your name,” Chris speaks, through the mouth of The Valquist. “It cannot be coincidence that you are a Spirit, a faceless revival.”

“And you are mere flesh, Christopher,” the Purity Champion replied, with Chris increasingly pale beneath the exterior.

“The Valquist, where is he?”

“Buried,” Jingshen says, his darkened and short voice reveals. “You have not claimed the name, or deserving of the title to be in your honour.”

“Truth is all I seek. This is not my war, and not your battle,” Chris pleads. “I take faith that you and I both are good men. This does not have to be our fate.”

“I believe myself to be good man, Christopher, but that is today, my first day. This is your tomorrow, your second chance at life.”

The duo squared up in the ring, but nobody could hear their exchange, and believed it to be trash talking between two impassioned wrestlers.

“You are a Visionary by name, and if you wish to carry that name with any weight, you must prove to me that you are worth an infinity!”

Chris leaned forward, began to crack his knuckles and whispered very gently into the left ear of Jingshen’s bright yellow mask. Chris could hear Jing’s feet scuffle against the wrestling mat, exposing a temporary weakness.

“Death though was only the beginning. A long road of penance and perseverance waits, without the guarantee of rebirth. In defining moments remembered or forgotten when we are tested to our absolute limit, eventually toppling and conceding under the weight of our actions, the trueness of man unveils. What must be asked is what you see beyond the veil of our buried horizon. The mantle was born to honour the actions of the valiant past, and ultimately, to eclipse and prosper. To see the good in all men, to stay rooted in the right light. Reclamation of the Infinite vision.”

Chris immediately hooked the arm of Jingshen into a hip-toss takeover, then turning to his feet, Chris kicked the Purity Champion in the head. With the live audience screaming in revolt of The Valquist, believing his actions to be villainous, Chris turned, spiking Infinity’s Purity Champion with the running knees of enlightenment. Immediately swivelling to see if security had breached the ringside area, Valquist knelt before Jingshen, looking at the fallen champion, who is coughing beneath his mask. A cough turns into a laugh, which actions Val into pushing his hands against Jingshen’s chest, refusing the wrestler upright gravitational movement.

“Infinity is dead,” Chris proclaims to Jingshen. “This is not your moment in the sun, or a flight is full ascension. This is a half measure. No good man is ever true, nor is any man foolish enough. Stay down, this was never your fight.”

Valquist slides out of the ring to enormous heat from the Infinity crowd, incensed that he was walking away from a championship opportunity, believing that a reborn Valquist had taken a place in Jingshen’s firing line. Turning back, Jingshen crawls to the ropes and begins bellowing beneath the moulded mask.

“He was wrong to believe in you!” Jingshen repeats over and over.

Surrounded by guards, Valquist is ushered away from the ring, and towards the National Palace within the Zocalo plaza. Plotting that he was going to be led into another trap, Chris calls out for his ally again in his earpiece, but TCK’s silence is once again persistent.  

It appears that in my assault to reclaim dignity to the world of professional wrestling, my art of deception will not hold up. Victory against Datura was followed by a long silence. At last, it was the actions of the Valquist that became paramount. Made to wait in a time of absence I recently played my hand at the latest Breakthrough, by carving my own path in this ever twisting tale of enlightenment. I hope, to the credit of my competing name, that I have made this story of a valiant return about what matters, superior competition inside a wrestling ring. The devastation that has seen my boots coated in the blood of Kincaid and Datura, the stain will not be wiped clean until the tale becomes brutally clear. Get better, or get shown better. This path once crumbled because Val would only sympathise with his peers, he submitted his right to take the plunge between being just another Champion, and being the one to remember. 

It’s been a bad week, one which in no way was related to my upcoming bout with Patrick Jones on Breakthrough, but the lesson of my own enlightenment would beg to differ. I recently stood amongst a crowd of thousands, all cheering for what they believed to be good, and honourable, and right, but in truth was just another product of the system that I’ve seen over and over. It is the same limp tail that attempts to bite and poison, but one that just threatens to dull your senses and creativity. I have the upmost respect for Patrick, as a wrestler, and as a decent person, but I truly believe this despite his tenacity and his fighting spirit, he’ll be put down to rest with the others. Sometimes honesty prevails, and even if the mantra of Full Measures isn’t what they’d like to hear, so be it.

I’m here to elevate, to entertain, and to enlightenment. Patrick is a stepping one, one used for greater elevation, to carve an even greater destiny. It’s time to prove myself, not just against those fighting the bottom of the barrel, but against those worth a dime of time and patience. These words are strictly for my own personal reading, yet I believe I have to justify them as if this is being read by a panel of professional wrestling experts and enthusiasts. I’m supposed to believe in what I say and write, and as a journalist at heart, this boy from Brooklyn is supposed to convince you that The Valquist is better than before. Yet despite my optimism for victory, do I truly respect the challenge that awaits me? In secret, and in these most private of words, I can’t wait to get this moment over and done, because it’s not where I want to be, and yes that is my patience telling me that I should accelerate this path I walk.

This week I’ve been without TCK’s influence, after the incident in Mexico. He wrote up a brilliant dossier on Datura, one grand enough to thwart the idea of her as serious competition, but provided only the kindest of words against Patrick, and for the same reasoning. One line of TCK’s in particular, begin to stick out the closer I get to my imminent encounter.

No coin is one-sided, no cube is ever clear. Looks are always deceiving and the destiny, should I chose to grasp it, is only worth the value placed by the beholder. It’s all rhetoric and all theory, written on a red ledger, and as the Valquist it is best I leave these poisonous words where they belong, in the company of no one.

If you’ve got nothing good to say, then say nothing at all. That’s the saying, right? Perhaps these words are veiled with poison because of my uncomfortable nature in the wrestling industry. Chris McCarthy has always been the writer, the journalist first, and never the man to actually make the punches and be responsible for ending another man’s chance at victory, denying them longevity to put food on the table for their children, but the Mantle assumed demands nothing less, and right now in my frame of mind, Patrick Jones is just another one of those stereotypes, simply not good enough and waiting to be destroyed, but this time I won’t do it on the pages of a review, it’ll be shown and broadcast for all every Visionary to witness. The bell has rung, and I will use this day to highlight The Valquist whilst you still know him as that name. Even in the height of success, I will never take the name for granted, as it can be taken away, and earnt.

No man inflamed by vain-glory into enthusiasm, can flatter himself that his single, unsupported, desultory, unsystematic endeavours are of power to defeat the subtle designs and united Wrestlers of ambitious Visionaries. When bad men combine, the good must associate, and perhaps what makes men bad on this occasion is the refusal that they are anything else than a force for good, just a half measure. Fall they will, one by one, an unpitied sacrifice in a contemptible struggle.

Stretching amongst the confines of his private locker-room area, Chris McCarthy, clad in black nano-suit fibres, prepares for his match by focusing on his conditioning. The dingy décor and dim lighting worked in Chris’s favour, with the darkened horizon a reflection of his impatience and frustrations heading into the night. Amongst the quiet of the evening, a lone voice is heard with a louder echoing tone as the door opens. Unfazed by who was entering, Chris knelt, already transformed as The Valquist character, as Isis Derrida slams the door and sits down on a wooden bench in front, bending forward with his hands clasped. Chris, located the opposite side of the boxed room, his back to Isis, didn’t turn over.

“My indulgence can sometimes be a dangerous element,” Isis admits, “but my silence is equally as terrifying.”

Chris stands up, chills down his spine, and a nervous twinkle in his fingertips that Derrida notices almost immediately.

“There is only a fire with you Isis, an ember you refuse to dim,” Chris enlightens. “That is why my hair stands up, as each encounter with you has escalated my cause to becomes Visionaries World Champion.”

“That’s why I’m here, to rectify my wrongdoing,” Isis claims. “I was wrong to distract you on your task tonight. You deserve to be elsewhere, in a brighter light than the darkness covering these horizons, in a federation where I look up and see the light, and not engulfing storm clouds. You deserve something real, and that’s why I’m here.”

“Real? What about this is real?” Chris questions. “I live in a skin of dishonesty, taught by the master of deception and preached prophecies by a fallen great of the wrestling profession.”

Isis is momentarily silent until Chris hears him standing in the background.

“I offer you nothing more than the reality that YOU have preached.”

“Tonight, the world doesn’t deserve Valquist. Patrick Jones doesn’t need the teachings of a buried spirit, he needs the warm embrace of a darker reality.”

Isis slides the red ledger in between Chris’s legs and turns to meet the running knee of enlightenment from Isis. Knocked to the ground, Chris's skull colliding with concreate, Isis knocks on the locker-room door, with TCK swiftly entering. Derrida leaves under the skin of Valquist as TCK aids to Chris in his unconscious state.

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Courageousness will lead us to victory. Courageous people carry integrity, respect, and humbleness, know their strengths and weaknesses, and keep to their vows. For me, the biggest attribution of courage is the ability to speak truthfully and know that all it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

Full Measures is a measure of our own worth. When our worth and value is tested, there is nothing, no odds that will overcome us. No greater value that will topple us. No force strong enough to dethrone us. No gods who can contain us.

My name is Valquist.

His name is Derrida.

Full Measures.