Carnelian Virtues

A cautious, comforting hand pressed down on his chest. Life remained inside his heart, beating rapidly amidst exhaustion and fatigue. His face, stained red, exhibited unconscious anguish. Certainly this was the quintessential picture of irreparable ruin. Honor fell before he did, yet only he survived the callous actions of a decadent nemesis; barely, atrociously.

The Tokyo Dome reeled. Mouths remained agape. The spirit of competition and justice crumbled before their hazy eyes, blinded by a catastrophic mixture of rage and despair.

That was not the way it should have been, yet such was the purpose of a man controlled by bitterness and inconsolable envy, now victorious despite the rare abomination he unleashed to achieve a controversial success.

Two falls had been calculated, but only one - the unforgivable climax - beheaded the noble doctrine that was supposed to remain preserved, unyielding, unrelenting. Now it decayed upon a canvas smeared with sweat and gruesome tears, being observed by thousands that mourned the passing of true, justifiable retribution.

Here laid decomposing honor, being expressed by a vengeful individual that burned with unparalleled misery and woe.

Underneath the suffocating weight of defeat, Matt Slater knew the grave ramifications of the tragedy that had suddenly transpired; one far worse than his own.

His quest for justice had failed, and what he had sworn to uphold and protect was now weak, lifeless, in his light-handed grasp.

The referee gestured sympathetically, directing a small group of EMT's toward the ring. Still his hand remained upon Slater's perspiring chest, feeling a steady concoction of emotions beneath the surface. Dampened towels were quickly thrown, raining down from the bright domed ceiling, brought to cleanse and shield his stained face from further torment. The white fabric disguised his swollen features, but nothing could comfort the agony he endured.

Mild applause soon accompanied his hasty departure. No celebrations would occur, but respect lingered all the same. The wheels of the gurney took him beyond the curtained threshold, away from the spotlight, away from the motionless crowd. Obscured from view, his face grimaced, awakening from the nightmare of self-abuse into the reality of sorrow.

Flashing lights from a stationary Ambulance welcomed the beginning of his timely reparation, or so the medical team presumed. Only the skin could be healed properly. The psychological and superficial damages were another subject that required more concentration and care. Operating on optimism, the medics positioned him securely inside the vehicle, ensuring that his safety took major priority. For it was his safety that would channel his strong rejuvenation later on, controlled by an internal protocol that could only be fuelled by determination and desire.

If he possessed those qualities, honor could still be salvaged. But the mist that clouded his passage to renewal would offer a challenging test of mind and soul, forcing him beyond sanity into a realm of self-imposed mediocrity.

His eyes flickered once, twice, blood-shot and ravaged by chemicals.

That was when a sustained roar of distress followed an uncomfortable grunt, emanating throughout the Ambulance as it sped into the neon-coloured night.

---

Shed this layer that clings to my flesh. Discard this layer that reminds ... and torments. Turn it to ash and debris. Let the travelling winds show the burden of my failures.

Consumed by morbidity, Matt Slater walked in painful remembrance. Each step faintly resounded off the dry stone beneath his feet, some cracked and misshapen, some smooth and symmetrical. The Japanese air was cool, brushing his clothing with a softness that refreshed his every movement. A piece of cloth hung by his side, held together by a thin rope wrapped around his fingers.

My eyes ... they sting with irritation and regret.

Passing glances from the locals caught his attention, although his troublesome vision did not stray. The early morning glow gave him a clear path, yet his suffering made the journey almost intolerable, especially due to the reddened haze his eyes formulated.

The Red Mist. All I see is Carnelian shade. It burns. It burns...

Humiliation riddled him. He walked shamefully, bearing the wounds that he could have avoided with a stronger mindset. Eliminating Vincent Moretti from the equation had only given Seth Iser a decent opportunity. Once the Red Mist flowed from Iser's venomous mouth, there was no time to counter. Immediate contact with the skin and eyes resulted in a scolding sensation, as if the Mist consisted of acid or bleach. That was when he knew all was lost. That was when he knew that honor had been struck down, eroding as quickly as the Mist seeped into his pores and sockets, blinding and corroding his face.

The Injection of Poison felt like a natural anaesthetic, at least until Slater awoke from the mastered submission move. Although the contest had been days old, Slater still lived with the consequences of his mistakes. His hospital stay had been short, but he left with the same amount of pain that he entered the premises in.

Resisting the urge to caress his tightly bandaged face, wrapped expertly with Vaseline and antiseptic cream underneath, Slater clenched his fist. A lonesome child rushed towards him, guided by curiosity and fascination. Foreign speech warned the child to retreat from afar, and the child obeyed without argument. Slater did not stop to survey the area. He knew they would look, and many others would do the same once the bandages came off.

Minutes went by until Slater reached his destination; Nijubashi Bridge, leading to the Imperial Palace in Tokyo. The water glistened with specks of light, reflecting the bridge and the surrounding scenery. Once he strolled to the middle, Slater finally stopped, leaning his arms on the stone barrier.

He did not experience anything imperial. Nothing screamed magnificent or majestic. There was nothing to be happy about. He exhibited the qualities of a man that grieved a substantial loss.

And he did grieve, though not openly.

That was the reason he had journeyed to this special location. Whether a tourist attraction or a place to enter for holiday rituals, the Palace formed a sardonic backdrop for the funeral of what Slater had vowed to keep alive.

He peered down towards the water, concentrating on his ominous reflection.

Let the travelling winds show the burden of my failures.

Lifting up the clothed bag by his side, Slater unfastened the chord. A blind search revealed a pair of scissors; small yet effective. With precise cuts, Slater tore away the bandage strips next to his cheek.

Shed this layer that clings to my flesh. Discard this layer that reminds ... and torments.

Seth Iser ... it burns.

Calm hands unravelled the bandaging, gradually exposing his bruised, inflamed, scarred flesh. Turn after turn, the protective layers were pulled away. A gust of wind twisted part of the strands, making them perform some kind of interpretive dance. Moments later, the final strip came away from his damaged face.

Keeping his focus on the bundled bandages, Slater reached a hand into his jacket pocket. He clasped a small, plastic object between his fingers, and as he brought the object out into the world, he rolled his thumb down the metal wheel at the top. The lighter travelled from his waist to his abdomen, steadily held below the black mask. Like a parched tongue, the flame flickered endlessly against the flammable material, gradually scorching the bandages and, in a matter of seconds, setting them aflame.

Narrow eyed, Slater sternly visualized the incineration of what he had once worn. The bandages wilted into charcoal strands, burning away into ash from the intense heat. His hand soon felt the excruciating heat, yet he continued to hold on, knowing it was a form of punishment for his disgusting failure.

As much as some people would criticize him for his defeat, nothing would be more critical than his own evaluation. Self-deprecation would rule him. Internal harshness would discipline him.

Until he could forgive and redeem himself, he would walk and live in battered shame.

Watch the flames. Burning. Burning.

Amidst the orange glow of the flames, Slater gritted his teeth.

Live in disgust as an empty shell.

With a complete release, he cast the fire-smothered bandages to the shimmering waters.



'You look awful. How come you're not wearin' bandages?'

Slater said nothing. The instant silence told Falcon that Slater refused to explain the disappearance of the protective layers. Since departing Japan for Canada, Slater did not attempt to conceal his appearance. Assorted expressions were seen from the public, but none came over to discuss the brevity of his injuries. It was an unpleasant situation, but Slater preferred to be left alone instead of receiving constant attention.

'Brain fart?' Falcon guessed, attempting to fit the pieces together as to why Slater remained quiet. Smoke from his cigarette flowed through the dining area in Slater's home, being inhaled and exhaled on a frequent basis. Falcon stood and paced, whereas Slater sat forward on a chair, facing his companion from a shadowed corner of the room. 'You might get an infection.'

'Then let it be...' Slater depressingly answered. Gulls squawked in the distance, flying across the lake that neighboured the Barrie, Ontario abode.

Falcon raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'Why're blamin' yourself? Get real, mate. He used a cheap tactic to win. You'll give Seth Iser the punishment he deserves sooner than later.'

'No ... I won't. He defeated me. He won the war.'

'The war is far from over.'

Slater murmured, unable to translate speech as he dealt with a sudden lapse of infuriation.

'So you're givin' up? No vengeance, no justice?'

'What remains of them?' Slater questioned rhetorically. 'They perished in Tokyo.'

'That's what you believe, mate,' Falcon said, trying to sound reassuring. 'Look what happened to me. I was attacked by Iser and Moretti and hung by chains in a boiler room. I bounced back, didn't I? My chest still hurts every now and then, but it'll pass. But what I would do just to punch Moretti in his cocaine-filled nose. I'd do anythin'!'

'Good for you...' Slater mumbled. Temptation directed his fingers towards his scarred cheek until he forced the urge away. 'I don't even know if I want to continue wrestling ... now that I'm unemployed.'

'Fuck that company,' Falcon bitterly snapped, referring to a federation that he could not bring himself to properly name. 'It was running on dead legs for months. Guys like you were abused whilst the idiots were given rewarding benefits. It's a good thing your contract expired without renewal.'

'I could have saved it...'

'Was it worth saving?'

The distinct sound of Slater grinding his teeth occurred. A golden remedy was the purpose, but no sure remedy could be concocted for the state the company ended up in. 'Probably not.'

'So set your sights elsewhere! I'm sure you'll get some decent offers. Ya might wrestle for less money but eh, you were never about the money to begin with. Ya want to wrestle because ya love it ... and I can tell that love still exists inside ya, mate.'

'It used to...' Slater countered. 'I'm not so sure what my heart is telling me anymore.'

'You just need rest up and heal.'

'Or maybe I should pack it in entirely.'

Falcon grunted. 'As stubborn as a mule.'

Slater shrugged his shoulders dismissively. Smoke drifted throughout the room.

'Then what do you propose?' Slater enquired.

'Wear a mask when you compete again. It'll protect your face and eyes from further damage.'

Irony came to the forefront of Slater's stressful mind. 'You do realize...'

'Better than bein' exposed and injured more,' Falcon argued. 'Wouldn't you say so?'

Slater's shoulders remained hunched. A hesitant breath escaped his lungs.

'It'll only be for a short time. Not like you have to keep one on permanently.'

'I'd rather show the world what materialized from my failures...' Slater replied. 'They'll all see what I've become.'

Falcon abruptly stopped taking another drag of his cigarette. 'Gordon Bennett, you are stubborn. Is that how much you hate yourself right now?'

Fury trembled forthwith from Slater's lips, generated by Falcon's final words. Falcon merely shook his head, although it was not a proclamation of denial. Rather, it was a reaction of uncertainty.

'Ya know what? I'm not gonna force it on you. It's your decision. Do what ya feel is right. But know this, mate. With or without the mask, you'll still be beloved and appreciated. Remember that.'

After checking his watch, Falcon walked away to discard his cigarette outside. Captivated by the sudden loneliness, Slater interlocked his fingers, recounting and contemplating the recent conversation in his head.

Perhaps Falcon was right, as much as Slater thought otherwise. In order to prevail, he needed to maintain his health; no matter if he felt it was an indignity to shield the scars, no matter how much he wanted to expose the aftermath with a defiant approach.

Slater remembered the message he had recorded for Seth Iser after being spiked on his head by the Black Magic, adorned in a black, featureless mask that established his change in character. This he had worn once, and only once, to authenticate his resurrection, becoming a man of vengeance against another man that had pushed him over the edge. The mask symbolised his fiercer, darker attitude, manifested in order to truly survive the methodical actions of one Sebastian Iser.

But that was still not enough to vanquish his latest nemesis, a man that seemed to be impervious to whatever Slater did.

His face burned again, reminding him of Tokyo. He witnessed Seth Iser opposing him, ugly and wicked. Then his mind went further into the past, bringing up Iser in a grey, haunting mask that he brutally condemned.

How the roles had ended up on opposite sides of the same sinister circle.

The gulls squawked again. Looking over his shoulder, Slater eyed the knightly sword and shield ornaments he cherished on a wall in the adjacent room.

"With or without the mask, you'll still be beloved and appreciated."

The sacrifice for the revival of honor and sportsmanship surfaced in his mind, although the world in which he would fight to preserve these values remained unknown.

Perhaps greener pastures would await him there.

He hoped.



The confirmation letter descended onto the polished table, verifying Matt Slater's wrestling career in Visionaries of Wrestling, otherwise known as the initialized VOW. The company was new, but they were already being filled with talented wrestlers, some that Slater had known personally and professionally elsewhere.

That included Seth Iser, someone that Slater would have to tolerate in austere defeat.

Vanessa, Ryan Omega and Reya Serra were also a part of this new company, so Slater would certainly have a few friends around. Dawn Ashby also remained in contact, but they had not spoken since the incident that was Two Falls of Honor. Unfortunately, Slater was more inclined to remain alone at this point, just so he could avoid causing other people problems. That was the extent of his depressive mindset, keeping him subdued and isolated for the preservation of others.

But there was something he would do, something he felt in his heart he needed to do; this after several days of careful consideration, weighing the positives and negatives before deciding what was best for the future.

He would continue to wrestle to the best of his ability, hoping that he could salvage hope through the lingering mist.

The company wanted to focus on actual wrestling more than violent spectacles that defied common courtesy and logic, a point that piqued Slater's interest. Yet there were those that were bound to abuse and bend the rules, aspiring to become supreme at the expense of turning a promising company into a grotesque wasteland.

Would things really be different, or would they remain the same? Only time would tell.

Moving upstairs to the bathroom, Slater studied himself in the mirror. His face resembled a mosaic, depicting an assortment of bruises and shades, and his eyes were still reddened from immense irritation. After what seemed like an eternity, Slater turned away from the mirror and eyed a package on the floor.

Should I continue to punish ... or should I atone and strengthen my virtues?

Frozen in deep thought for a few moments, Slater made his decision. Leaning down painfully - his neck was still sore and bothersome at times - he delved his hand into the cardboard box, moving aside the packing paper and carefully taking out a customized accessory.

It was light - astonishingly light - despite the materials that were used.

Sacrifice for the betterment of the future.

With an exhalation of readiness, Slater located the strap at the back of the mask and positioned it carefully on his face. The blue, plastic lenses that covered his eyes were easy to see out of, although there was still a red tint in his peripheral vision.

From a poetic standpoint, he was on the verge of presenting carnelian virtues. The shade of red lingered in his sights, but the color was also from a gemstone. Not just any gemstone, but the birthstone of Aries; Slater's zodiac sign. The birthstone was a symbol of "the sacrificial lamb" that was accompanied by courage and a tenacious spirit, an appropriate description of Slater and what he had vowed to do.

And even if he was on the cusp of a strong depressive relapse, he would attempt to persevere and bring back the honor he once lost. And if he failed, recovering from the calamity was an impossible task.

In other words, a second failure was unacceptable, if not despicable.

Turning towards the mirror, Slater properly visualized himself wearing the mask for the first time; without a smile, without a frown.

One despairing layer had been shed. Now another layer had taken its place; representing courage, representing hope.