With Every Step

Valiance seeped through his pores, accompanied by droplets of sweat.

Through blue, protective lenses, he bore witness to the lingering crowds; casual followers, enthusiastic spectators. They gazed upon him religiously, celebrating the cause he honourably worked for, watching as his striding legs took him beyond the threshold.

Reluctance could not prevail. He would not allow it to. Not today.

For the first time in weeks, his tenacious spirit had been re-energized, guiding him to this place where physical contributions gave way to enlightening dreams. The purpose was clear, selfless; truly heartfelt in times of need and recognition.

Here he was, out in the open, mask fastened to his desecrated face as if it were a new layer of skin.

His bitter solitude was over, no longer enslaved by chains of guilt, no longer tormented by self-inflicted misery.

The darkness, it seemed, had been overcome by the kind virtues of a man determined to make the future a better place.

And, despite his glaring abnormality and the burdens that held it together, he felt good about his current agenda.

The citizens of Barrie, Ontario continued to stand underneath the partially-exposed sun on fields of lush greenery, cheering on Matt Slater as he completed a run for Cystic Fibrosis Awareness in Heritage Park. The event was taking place across Canada in different cities and towns simultaneously, and even though Toronto was another notable choice, Barrie was much closer to home. Other celebrities were taking part in the run, but Slater was the only celebrity of note in this particular area.

Such was the heart that beat within the body of the Silver Knight. He was born and bred to be respectful, compassionate and noble. Few shared the moral code he upheld; not just for professional wrestling, but for life in general. He seemed to be wise for his young age, having survived many trials and tribulations that fought to tear him apart. The words he spoke were not designed to be strict instructions; moreover, they were influential guidelines that could very well survive the tests of time. Always be true to oneself, never give up your goals and ambitions. Discipline was his master. Integrity was his weapon.

Those who believed in his aspirations; they knew what wrestling could be, how better life could be. Not everything could be sunshine and rainbows, but he could do enough to try and invigorate the frailest soul, taking them from the brink of destruction onto the plane of renewal.

Some would label him a panderer, a sensitive, gentle soul that could bring the sternest stomach to nausea. Slater was none of these things. He was humble and charitable, sure, but he did possess aggressive qualities that could lead certain offenders to perdition. A catalogue of people, wrestlers and others alike, had not only seen this side of him; they had felt his wrath, unrelenting until the justice for their crimes had been rightfully served.

The unpunished would not get away, no matter how long it took to reach them.

Bland, boring, disinteresting; these were other descriptions that had been said of him from days long past. Sometimes true - truer than being a meandering puppet for the masses to blindly follow and advocate - but he could be experimental. He could be playful and interesting. When depression caved, that was when his sense of fun and enjoyment surfaced.

After all, had the impenetrable shadows of his home consumed him and kept him hidden, he would not have chosen to participate in this special run, a run that would help increase the longevity of those who had been sorrowfully stricken by the incurable disease.

And as the public in Barrie knew, he was not the only one who had registered their details and laced up their trainers for a day of selflessness.

Men and women, children and the elderly; all demographics participated in this helpful exercise, and each of them were dressed in matching turquoise-coloured shirts. Some walked at a leisurely pace. Others jogged to their heart's content. Slow or fast, the goal was mutually shared. The donation pots were filled to the brim, packed with assorted notes and coins.

A pleasant feeling of joy swept throughout the area, none more so than from the smiles of the people that supported each runner's voluntary commitment.

The applause, the encouragement; that was what drove Slater onward, using the stamina he had accumulated from months of cardiovascular training. With every step, progress was made. With every step, another smile grew larger.

This was what he lived for. This was what he survived for.

Even through the mask, Slater could detect their appreciation and love, raising his spirit higher with empowering wings.

'Ya can do it, Scuba Steve! Scuba Sam'll be proud!'

And then there was Matt Falcon, humorously mocking Slater's chosen appearance from the sidelines with a Big Daddy reference. Certainly the mask he wore was not a traditional one, but he knew that the solid material would protect his face. Still, at the original sight of the mask, Falcon assumed he was a Deep Sea Diver without a wet suit or an oxygen tank. The jokes had failed to cease ever since, to Slater's unwavering annoyance.

'Least you're wearin' runnin' shoes instead of flippers!' Falcon continued light-heartedly, too blinded by his comedic thoughts to realize that his harmless insults would eventually become stagnant and die horribly. He did know that Slater had suffered greatly, but he could not resist the urge to get as many pop-culture references in as possible before the novelty wore off.

A middle-aged woman shook her head at Falcon's deliberate shouts, jogging alongside Slater and speaking to him indirectly. 'That man should be more considerate on a day like this...'

'He means well..." Slater responded wearily, momentarily defending his boisterous friend. 'He just doesn't know when to stop.'

The woman fully turned to Slater in dismay. A faint reflection of her shocked face took up the side of his mask. 'You know him?'

'Unfortunately...' Slater replied, failing to emit a chuckle. 'Explaining how we met would take too long.'

The woman smiled curtly. 'Hopefully why you two are friends would be a much shorter one...'

Many people had questioned why Slater continued to tolerate Falcon's behaviour and flamboyant personality. At first, he was a sympathy case, being taken care of by Slater until he could get back on his feet. But then times changed. Whilst he could be insufferable and problematic at times, he did have his positive attributes. They may have been few in number, but he had them nonetheless, the most prominent being his sense of adventure. For some reason, Slater admired Falcon's optimism in depressive, darkened times, always wanting to brighten the mood with fun activities and games. He was like a permanent light that failed to switch off, even as the radiance dimmed through reasonable anger and fear.

Perhaps that was why they were bound so tightly. No matter the situation, Falcon would always have a plan of action, wanting to guide Slater away from the restrictive trap of morbidity and into a world of positive-thinking. His motivational skills had also grown, despite the way he conveyed his points. If only people could recognize that side of him instead of witnessing the crude, obnoxious traits he exhibited on a daily basis.

But that was not their error. The fault remained in Falcon's court, neglected of surveillance and repair.

"If I wanted people to tell me how to act, I would'a gone into makin' porn," was the explanation Falcon had once given. The subject clearly went over his head, just as Slater predicted it would beforehand.

Shuddering at the picture this memorized quotation formed in his mind, Slater glanced at the woman to his right. 'Shortening that answer would be too difficult as well.'

'What's your name?'

Taken aback, Slater hesitated. Not everyone was a wrestling fan, but he assumed that everyone in the general vicinity knew of him here; his celebrity status, his accomplishments, the reason for his involvement. Clearly, his assumption had been wrong, even if the media coverage documenting this event and his inclusion told the audience otherwise.

Slater stared at the woman briefly. Golden strands of hair bounced elegantly off her swinging shoulders. Her lips were pursed, and her hazel eyes were sharp, alert. Those same eyes moved to him directly, expecting an answer, losing patience with every stride she took on the course.

'Matt.'

The woman nodded, repeating his name silently for memory's sake. 'Raquel.'

She extended a hand of formal greeting. Slater took it softly, albeit quickly. Once the handshake concluded, Raquel studied Slater's concealed face more closely.

'So why are you wearing a mask?' Raquel asked, succumbing to the growth of curiosity. 'Is it for show, for the families and kids?'

Behind the veil of the mask, Slater frowned.

'Sore subject...?'

Silence followed her enquiry for a few uncomfortable moments. Only the sound of their feet hitting the track kept their interaction alive.

'Pretend I never asked...' Raquel said, noticeably damning herself for making their conversation awkward.

'An attack...' Slater finally answered, telling her a half-truth. 'My face was burned.'

Raquel's expression soured more so. 'That must have been awful...'

'Pain usually is...' Slater replied sarcastically, yet with a tone that prevented any sort of infuriation coming from the woman at his side. 'But I will recover.'

'How long do you have to wear it for?'

'I wish I knew that...'

Raquel blinked in bewilderment. 'You don't know the length of time?'

'Healing of this magnitude can vary. Hopefully it shouldn't be longer than two months.'

'Will you cope?'

'I don't have a choice...' Slater replied morosely. Raquel understood his feeling and nodded accordingly, continuing to run at the same pace as the man she had only just met.

'So ... this attack ... how did it come about?'

Silence followed once again. Slater's eyes narrowed intently, remembering the mist, remembering the wickedness of the man it spewed forth from, the same man who had recently belittled Reya Serra, calling her a fraud and a sham, before laying waste to her with a Black Magic.

The shame, the disappointment; nothing could amend what happened. The past was the past.

But the future remained unwritten, as did the future of the man he kept in his loathsome thoughts.

'If you don't want to answer the question, then I'll understand completely...'

'It happened during a wrestling match...' Slater explained calmly. 'I was...'

'Calm down, doctor! Now's not the time for fear!' Falcon shouted hoarsely, interrupting the explanation by channelling Bane from The Dark Knight Rises. Slater rolled his eyes, irritated by the sudden distraction and losing his train of thought.

'You were saying...?' Raquel said, hoping to trigger Slater's memory. Instead, Slater shook his head.

'I'm sorry. I don't want to discuss it.'

Moments later, a deafening horn brought the run to a halt. Congratulations and applause followed, commemorating the success of the exercise, and as Slater breathed heavily in rest and looked over his shoulder, he saw that Falcon was also joining in.

If only they could see... he thought sombrely, straightening his mask and wiping the lenses clean shortly thereafter.

'Thanks for taking part,' Raquel said towards Slater, a comment of gratitude that caused him to focus on her again. 'This feels pretty good. Everyone is so happy.'

'And so they should be. They know there are plenty of people in this world who care for others.'

'Such as yourself,' Raquel smiled. 'I'm sure your wrestling fans feel the same way.'

The ones that care enough to believe... Slater pondered. 'What is it that you do?'

'I'm a Fitness Instructor. Yoga is my speciality.'

'I can't say I've ever attempted that routine...' Slater pleasantly replied. Looking around, he noticed that the runners were congregating near a Barbeque banquet, filling their plates with char-grilled meats and salads. Several people waved him over, but he remained frozen in place.

'You should give it a go. It works the mind and body simultaneously.'

'Maybe another time...' Slater courteously said, knowing that there was a slim chance he could complete a single session without straining a muscle.

'I also specialize in modelling when I'm not running classes...' Raquel continued. The instant she revealed this secondary venture, Slater looked downward. 'Is that a pro ... oh ... I didn't mean to offend...'

'You haven't,' Slater assured her through his mask. 'I just so happen to be competing against a former model on Tuesday night. His name is Alexander Oliver.'

Raquel shook her head, drawing a blank. 'Can't say I've ever heard of him...'

'That's because he's known in wrestling by that name. You might know his real name. Thiago Oscar Luiz?'

Once again, Raquel looked dumbly at Slater. 'Nope.'

'He modelled for fashion designers across Europe, starting in Portugal. But to be perfectly honest, I don't care about what he did before wrestling. I'm more concerned with how he thinks he will handle the deadliness and stress of the wrestling business with little experience in the sport.'

'Is he a soft type?'

Slater shrugged, glancing upward to see how thick the clouds had gotten. 'I wouldn't know. I've never met him personally. Publicity photos have been my only guide, along with a few short details about his upbringing. But several reports have said that he treats those he deems below him with disdain ... the legendary superiority complex. It's more of a detriment than a blessing, if you ask me. He can gain confidence from it ... but it's bound to cost him dearly sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who possesses that poisonous quality...'

Slater's voice trailed off, fading into a sinister murmur that his mask softened in execution.

'I know that wrestling isn't the prettiest of sports...' Raquel commented.

'It never was, to be accurate...' Slater replied. 'That's why Oliver needs to build his tolerance for pain ... both physically and mentally. The road will drain him. The ring will punish him. The crowds will heckle him. And that's before you bring his actual opposition into the equation...'

Raquel shrugged her shoulders and smirked. 'I'm sure he'll be in for a pleasant evening then.'

Detecting Raquel's sarcasm, Slater smirked behind his mask, albeit painfully. 'I'll make sure of it. He needs to know what wrestling will be like in the company I work for, a company that prides itself on true competition and sportsmanship. He needs to know how tough it can be ... and how tough I will be. I've earned everything I've worked for. Nothing was handed to me. Oliver was given riches and golden paths. He was given easy escapes and various luxuries. He abused his spoils ... whereas I saved them wisely. If he believes he will be handed anything as a fellow Visionary ... then reality will crush that foolish misconception.'

The more Slater analysed Oliver, the more he realized how much they contrasted each other. Perhaps Oliver was talented between the ropes. Perhaps he was resilient and resourceful. However, Slater predicted that Oliver would come into the fold with an inflated ego worthy of being shrunk and modified by the harshness of reality. If he persisted, it would all end in tears, slowly but surely.

With Raquel studying him intently, Slater exhaled strongly. 'He may ridicule me for this...'

Slater pointed towards his mask.

'But he won't be able to conquer this...'

He then pointed towards his heart, keeping his finger steady as the realization of Oliver's uphill battle set in.

'As long as this continues to beat, I will not give up on what I fight for. Honor will live through me, and through the people that believe in me.'

'That's good to...' Raquel began to say, until she was abruptly cut short by a familiar presence.

'Bloody hell, mate, you look famished!' Falcon rudely interrupted, slapping Slater across the back with a congratulatory hand. With the other, he swung Slater's sports bag into his chest, forcing Slater to take hold of his personal belongings. 'You should get some food, pronto! I hear Scuba Sam loves steak!'

Without a word, Slater unzipped his bag and produced a bottle of water, consuming the liquid underneath his mask wisely as Falcon looked at Raquel.

'Oh, never mind. It looks like you've found somethin' else that'll ease your appetite!'

'Excuse me?' Raquel responded, noticeably offended by Falcon's sexual insinuation.

'Hey, he's a good man!' Falcon said enthusiastically, massaging Slater's shoulder with his hands as a gesture of endorsement. 'But if you piss him off, he'll use his Sith powers to punish you! Isn't that right...?'

Falcon suddenly inhaled strongly, blowing the air out from his lungs with a very-recognizable sound. 'Darth ... Vader...?'

Raquel shook her head, having taken as much as she could of Falcon's behaviour after only just meeting him. 'I've changed my mind.' She then gazed deep into Falcon's eyes, casting a cold glare that put him on notice. 'You should make him do Yoga instead...'

Establishing a cruel smirk after her suggestion, Raquel turned away from the pair and joined the other runners, communicating with them on a mature level that Falcon would have corrupted the moment he broke into the center of the gathering.

'Yoga? Doesn't she mean Yoda? Explain, you will!'

With his hands now placed firmly at his sides, one holding a semi-cold bottle and the other holding his bag, Slater lowered his head and sighed.

'Hey, cheer up. There's still more fish in the sea.'

'That's not the point...'

'Meeting a woman and becomin' intimate with her isn't the point? I think you've forgotten how life works, mate.'

Rotating sharply, Slater concentrated fully on Falcon and grasped the air; a well-known gesture that defined impatience and frustration. 'Just ... stop...'

'Okay, okay. I'll be good. Let's get somethin' to eat.'

'I'm not hungry...' Slater revealed, brushing past Falcon and walking weakly off the track onto the colourful fields. A selection of donation tables stood in his path, guarded by representatives for the charity run. Once there, Slater produced a cheque book and a pen from his bag, writing a reasonable amount of money onto the paper before passing it to a truly-elated male.

'Thank you so much for this!' he squealed in delight, hardly containing his excitement at not only being handed a suitable cheque, but also having taken it from the hands of a celebrity that matched the calibre of Slater. 'We'll process it right away!'

'As long as it gets there,' Slater commanded lightly. 'Those people deserve happier, more fulfilling lives.'

'Absolutely!' he agreed, beginning his assignment with an energetic salute. Falcon, meanwhile, stared slack-jawed at the man as he jogged off to a nearby booth, surrounded by cameras and reporters on each side.

'That ... was one very happy man...' Falcon estimated. A long, uninterrupted pause followed. 'I'm pretty sure he was gay.'

'His sexual orientation is of no importance...' Slater replied, checking the contents of his bag as he did so. 'All that matters is every step counts between now and when those people who have Cystic Fibrosis receive the luxuries they yearn for.'

'How do you feel about handing them that privilege though?' Falcon asked, accidentally sounding inconsiderate. Slater noticed the error, but he responded as though there had been no mistake at all.

'There's a difference between those who cannot physically or mentally earn what they desire ... and those who can. I can ... and because I completed my run, I have earned them that privilege. And that is exactly what Alexander Oliver will learn on Tuesday night in St Paul, Minnesota. He has never suffered like they have. He has never felt as worthless and helpless as they have. But if he crosses the line ... if he pushes the envelope ... then I will introduce him to that world...'

Much like you, Seth Iser... Slater declared internally, gritting his teeth as his face ached. His knuckles turned white in remembrance, but as he calmed down, digesting the scenery of Heritage Park, he relaxed his hands and breathed in.

'In fact ... that is what a lot of people will learn in due time.'

'They'll know about sufferin'?' Falcon guessed. Slater merely stared at Falcon through the blue lenses of his mask.

'Every step counts ... no matter how long it takes to reach your goal.'

Positioning the bag on his shoulder, Slater found the path that lead to the exit of Heritage Park, not even turning back as applause increased in volume behind him.

The first Breakthrough event for VOW had been a monumental success. Slater had watched the wrestlers closely, paying attention to the skills of Scott Knight, Mugen Mushaboom, Carlton Grace IV and Brett Carson in particular. Soon he would know them more than what he had gathered from his television screen, but if they could uphold the spirit of true wrestling was another story. Unfortunately, Joka had spurned conflicting feelings inside of him in regards to Cera; he was not sure whether to be sympathetic or numb to the experience of her torture. She hated him - so much that she would murder him with her bare hands if she was given the chance - but he did not hate her. It was strange, but at the same time, life had always been mysterious. He did feel more concerned about Reya Serra though, and that only added fuel to the simmering fire that was Slater's lingering hatred towards Seth Iser.

In time, justice would come to pass, whether Iser was ready or not.

Now it was time for the second event, and Slater was prepared to show the fans that even with the mask, he was still the same man he had always been. Alexander Oliver would meet his first challenge in a new environment, an environment that Slater vowed to maintain with purity and class.

And as he walked, he could feel his feet telling the story he was passionately ready to tell.

With every step, honor would be restored.

With every step, a brighter vision would lead the way to a better tomorrow.