DISCLAIMER: Kinnikuman Nisei doesn't belong to me. If it did, the Monsieur Cheeks fight would have lasted an entire season.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: ...Okay, look. I really can't bring myself to bother you with details. I feel terrible for taking like half my life to end this thing, but even then I owed to myself and to you to avoid leaving any loose ends. Finishing this has been nagging me for literally years, so finally taking it to a conclusion fills me with satisfaction. I hope you can enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed finishing it.

A Sonata for The Fallen

Chapter 5: Drive of the Defeated

By MexMarco!

"I can't bloody believe it."

"This is the fourth time you have said this, Kevin."

"-And what else do you want me to say? It's how I feel, so don't expect to hear anything else from me."

Somewhere, in an inconspicuous apartment hidden deep in the bowels of Tokyo, Japan, there persisted the kind of silence only a deep rooted anguish, hatred and shame can call forth. It came from two shadowy figures now sitting in the small, spartan living room that often doubled as a bedroom during nights of heavy drinking. As if the darkness filling the atmosphere wasn't enough, only a couple slivers of light filtered through the curtain right behind the owner of this place, a man whose head seemed to shine with a distinct glint of blue metal, and whose eyes were two suns burning with concealed anger.

He was slumping over his couch, looking at the man standing across him. It was very easy to notice both individuals were of roughly the same height and build. Common street clothes did nothing to hide their incredible, compact built, suited for feats of strength no normal man had ever been capable of.

"You got a lot of nerve showing up here... Warsman."

That name had been spat almost like vicious poison. Warsman only crossed his arms over his chest, revealing that dull gray skin for which he was known for. The Russian superman's chest rose before he released the trademark "koho" of his respiration, in what appeared to be a long and tired sigh.

"I didn't come here to apologize, Kevin."

Trying to appear unphased by what was perhaps the most hurtful words he'd heard from his mentor since his sudden and painful goodbye, Kevin Mask crossed his legs over the coffee table in front of him and tilted his head. His helmet brushed against the lapel of his leather trenchcoat, producing a sudden slicing sound.

Two yellow eyes narrowed like those of a snake.

"Well, then I don't know what the fark it is you want by showing up at my doorstep like this, mate."

"And yet you didn't seem all that surprised to have me show up here, so... out of the blue as you like to say it, da?" Warsman replied, remaining stoic. "You were expecting me."

Kevin tried to keep his eyes locked on Warsman, but the weight of his words humbled him to the point his head became suddenly lowered. His tone was that of whispered pain.

"Yeah. I was."

Warsman knew how hard it was for Kevin to come to this admission, and thus his arms finally hung relaxed at his sides. Still, his fingers remained balled into fists.

"How did you find out?"

"About the Kinniku pig?"

"Da."

The heir of the Mask family made a short and thoughtful noise as he recalled the events that transpired earlier that afternoon, not without wishing they hadn't taken place at all if it meant seeing his mentor again, under these terrible, cold circumstances.

Just like the wrestlers of old, Mantaro Kinniku had called for a press conference at the mecca of professional wrestling in Japan: Korakuen Hall. Everybody had come to expect his usual dim-witted, stupid but goodhearted antics; said expectations had been completely destroyed, however, once they saw the almost spartan solemnity of what they were witnessing. No music, no goofy gimmicks, no childish and lewd behavior. They had come to expect this type of composure out of MMA fighters, boxers and other professional athletes, but not a two-cent buffoon like the young man they called Kid Muscle.

Ironically enough, the lack of flair in this event had everybody talking, although their line of topic was rather grim. The press particularly had come to believe one theory in particular.

"God. Is he retiring?"

"Not at such a young age. I don't think so anyhow, but who knows?"

"The loss to Mask must've gotten him bad."

"Maybe he's taking time off to heal?"

"Well, sources tell me he's stepping down from active duty and competition because of all those fractures he sustained in the finals."

Only a handful of scrupulous reporters refused to support or follow these claims, and in the event that they tried to bring them into question, they were immediately silenced by claims of evidence proving the contrary. Nonetheless, every man and woman in the front row -all of them from the media- tried to maintain an unbiased, unsullied opinion as Terry Kenyon and Mantaro Kinniku finally walked out of the locker rooms, through the curtains and into the stage the IWF had prepared for them.

Many a jaw dropped. Among those present, an antelopeman and his walrus friend smirked slyly at one another, clearly knowing more than what they were letting on.

"-gosh, dude. I'm kinda scared."

"Why, ain't ya the granddaddy of all worrywarts! Look at you, all sweaty and all. It's like yer oiled up to pose down for the loser contest."

Terry Kenyon and Mantaro Kinniku closed the curtain they were peeking out from and shared a laugh. This type of playful jab would've been unwelcome before, given the circumstances, but ever since the day Kid Muscle had gotten lost in the Kinniku Castle library, he had undergone a great change in his entire self. He made a new habit out of looking people straight in the eyes, shaking their hands firmly and walking not with his chest puffed up, but definitely with his back straight and his chin always properly angled. Even his sense of humor changed, to the point he wouldn't mind shots at his otherwise insecure persona. All of these minute details would've been lost in most people, but for those who knew him closely and dearly, they knew it was a spark of a big fire about to start.

Now it was the whole wide world's turn to know.

Beyond the thick blue curtain, friends of Mantaro from all trades of life -gyuudon cooks, Trixie, Roxeanne and Kiki, servants in the castle and, of course, members of the Muscle League- awaited behind a crowd of journalists and photographers ready to capture this moment. The only thing standing between this crowd and the aforementioned curtain was a small stage, a space where only two common folding chairs and a table covered in a lavish Kinniku family tablecloth stood. The curtain itself beared the logos and names of various sponsors, all of them brands for sports gear, energy drinks and even electronics.

"I dunno. I just wish Meat could be here, y'know? The little guy would've been sobbing his butt off right about now."

"So you just want to see him cry? That's kinna bein' a bully, bud." Terry quirked an eyebrow and jokingly punched Mantaro's shoulder, unexpectedly drawing a small yelp and a squeal out of him.

"Hey! Come on, man! Watch the arms, willya? It still stings a little."

"-oh shit, sorry."

"Nah. Don't mind it." Kid Muscle replied, smiling and rubbing at the shoulder Terry had just hit. "Anyhow, I just figure he's very proud. You saw him when he was pinching himself?"

"Nope. But y'told me it looked like a nervous breakdown almost. Kinna sad considering all that yer doin' is manning up a little, huh?"

Mantaro laughed. "Word. Anyhow, I was kind of wondering..."

The Texan became curious. "Wondering about what? Don't let your mind stray too much from this thing here, alright? Keep yer eyes on the prize."

"Well, I was wondering...If I should ask Roxanne to marry me."

Terry nearly swallowed his own tongue.

"-WHOA-WHOA-WHOA-WHAT? Okay, buddy. Yer kinna takin' this change thing way WAY too fast!"

Terry looked closer at Mantaro during his double take. He was grinning like the usual lovable idiot he was.

"Oh, y'got me ya bastard. I'mma kill you! C'mere!"

Both friends shared another laugh while Terry tried to land some of the body blows his dad had taught him in his childhood days.

"Well," he said after one friendly tap on Mantaro's chest. "Leastways yer cool-headed enough to josh around."

"Yeah." Mantaro smiled, lowering his eyes briefly. "I guess so."

Terry then tugged at the hem of his bomber jacket and looked sternly at his friend. All traces of his former playfulness were erased completely from the brow furrowed right over his blue eyes. Mantaro immediately put on a straight face as well.

"I ain't gonna lie to ya, bud. It's uphill from here, and it ain't even the big time yet. Y'ready?"

Mantaro chuckled, smirking those monkey lips of his as he made sure the tie of his blue suit was on straight.

"Not really, but I'll try to be ready on the way there."

The Texan had a sudden urge to laugh out loud, not out of disapproval of such a deep thought, but quite the contrary. He was getting more and more used to this new, braver, wiser Mantaro; the thought kind of scared him a little.

"There ain't a better answer you coulda given me." he said finally. "Knock 'em dead, pal."

Exchanging one last gesture of friendship before coming out from behind the curtain, both young men bumped fists and came out of the curtain to a round of whispers, camera flashes and modest applause.

"That's right, fellas! Y'heard the man. Clear as a whistle." Terry Kenyon exclaimed, leaning back on his chair and panning the looks of the press. He was taking in the expression on their faces, and liking it very much at that, enough to snap his fingers as if it could help them recover from the shock.

"Was this really Kid Muscle?" is what they all thought. The question remain unanswered.

Surely that silly mask was his, and that tuft of hair poking out of it was immediately recognizable, but something in the wrestler's demeanor had taken a complete turn. He addressed everyone politely, but never resorting to pointless flattery. Whenever he had to speak, he made his point brief and clear, enough to maintain his audience's attention. After thanking the press for coming on such short notice, and giving a succinct but well put account of what had happened after the match at the Chojin Olympic finals, his statement was crystal clear.

"After careful consideration, paying mind to the fans and what my gut has been yelling at me ever since the finals, I think a rematch with Kevin-I mean Kevin Mask, should be in the works." is what he had said just moments ago, not stuttering a single time, nor losing his composure.

The silence continued. Mantaro himself broke it.

"Those of you I hear sniffing... I didn't pee my pants, folks. That's how serious this is."

Mantaro showed a glimpse of his former self with his piggish, clownish giggle. What started as an awkward, polite laugh from the crowd turned into something sincere in the blink of an eye.

"I'm not sending any papers. I'm not contacting any lawyers or promoters." he continued after holding out his palm to the people still laughing. "I'm conducting myself with all the seriousness I can muster here. I think Kevin deserves about that much without, you know, bordering on brown-nosing him or anything. ...He-he got me pretty good when we faced each other," Mantaro looked away briefly, his eyes appearing full of emotion. "and I have no one but myself to blame for what happened. He was the better man there, and he totally deserves that trophy he took home."

Still, thinking about that really got me down, you know? I mean, I'm the son of Kinnikuman. I'm the prince of Planet Kinniku. Even if people take me for an idiot most of the time, I got expectations to live up to, and those got the best of me." Mantaro shrugged. "I'm not trying to make excuses or weasel my way out of what was clearly a loss, but there were numerous times where I came very close to winning that match, and all of you know that. I was so close on putting an end to that match that it just left me hungry, you know?"

Mantaro grinned again, shocking the reporters and the rest of the audience with his boldness. He was being watched across the galaxy, a fact he had almost come to forget after issuing the first and perhaps most important line of his statement. The red blinking lights of the TV cameras had somehow become no different from any other set of eyes to him.

"-So let me see if this is really what you're getting across." a voice interrupted.

A hand was raised among the people watching. A short, balding man rose shortly afterwards, holding a small notepad and ballpoint pen.

"Go on."

"You're calling out Kevin Mask?"

The question immediately silenced the entire locker room area.

It would've been impossible to tell if there were any signs of life in Korakuen Hall at that point. Such was the kind of silence and impact this line of inquiry invoked. Behind that mask, Mantaro Kinniku had lost some of the color on his face; only Terry, his closest friend, was close enough to notice this, since the Kinniku Prince had turned to him perhaps looking for advice or an approving nod. Anything.

"Aim for the big time, brother." is all he needed to tell him. "Aim for it."

Mantaro thus momentarily rested his chin on his fist, that pig nose of his mask wriggling to demonstrate the gears inside his head were turning. He exhaled and rose from his seat, nodding to himself to prepare for his big moment.

"You know what? Yeah."

Mantaro smirked, looking no different than a monkey that had just become the alpha male.

"Yeah! I am calling him out!"

Korakuen Hall suddenly burst back to life.

Kid Muscle openly challenged none other than Kevin Mask to a rematch. The news had reached all corners of the galaxy thru all mediums, from newspapers to internet websites and radio shows. Rumors even indicated that Terry Kenyon would be his personal training partner, which along with the experience of Alexandria Meat would prove to become a game-changing factor this time around. Now, whenever somebody mentioned Mantaro Kinniku's name, it had finally begun to mean something. The expectations which the boy had blamed for his post-match depression and disappearance had been two more things to take a complete turn for the best, becoming instead a buzz for a challenger that people started to talk about, even if it was still with a hint of reluctance.

Kevin Mask's account of these events had been told with a strange, foreign tone in his voice. He had come to respect his rival in the finals after such a close call, but even then he made no attempts to stop thinking of him as nothing more than a simpleton and an idiot with a lot of heart and great genes.

Warsman listened, aware of this tinge of uneasiness in the voice of his pupil.

"So what's on your mind now, Kevin?"

The masked wrestler shrugged.

"I'm cornered. I can't decline his challenge now that he's made it open like this."

This raised a point the Russian chojin immediately tried to attack, but rather than being blunt, he chose a more passive route.

"Would it have made a difference if he'd done otherwise? If he had been quiet and reserved?"

Kevin's eyes widened briefly, trying to hide it by looking away. Warsman pressed further with the hum of his ominous breathing.

"No. It wouldn't." the Brit finally admitted.

"So it's settled."

"What is?"

"Kinniku will bring his best to the ring next time." Warsman pointed straight at Kevin, his breathing becoming louder. "So will you."

"-w-what? You better believe you can't order me around anymore. ...Hey! Warsman! Come back here!"

At this point, the Russian Chojin had begun to take his leave, unceremoniously heading towards the door with the pained words of his student ringing behind him. Kevin jumped off the couch and ran towards him, immediately grabbing a hold of his former trainer's and friend's arm as it was reaching for the doorknob.

"Now you listen to me and you listen to me clear, you no good-"

"-Tomorrow. Six o'clock sharp."

"-wha...?"

"Tomorrow. Six o'clock sharp. Pack only what's really necessary. We're traveling light."

Kevin wasn't sure if he should feel toyed with or offended.

"No! Wait a minute!"

"Save it. Training camp's going to need every ounce of energy you can pour into it." Warsman explained, rudely pulling his arm away from Kevin's grasp. "If this Kinniku pig, as you call him, is as serious as he looks, he's going to maim you the next time you meet him in the ring. You'd last five minutes tops. Mark my words. Koho."

"You're... Oh God." Kevin was the one pointing at Warsman. "You're being ridiculous! Listen to this drivel you're saying! Please. There's no way he could have gotten stronger just from... whatever it is happened to him."

"Trust me, Kevin." If Warsman's mask had an expression, it would've shown concern, and perhaps fear. "I wrestled his father, remember? I know those eyes very well, those Kinniku eyes. The kind of determination that comes with them is the kind that would drag you to hell, and then some."

"What?"

"The stare Suguru Kinniku had in the last minutes of our match... Kid has it now."

Kevin Mask, somehow understanding the gravity of Warsman's words in an unspoken, almost mystical level, remained speechless.

"Six o'clock. Koho."

Moments later, the door was closed shut, leaving inside a Kevin Mask that was alone, thoughtful and definitely shocked. The man that had become a father figure to him after so many years of loneliness and pain had abandoned him in what should have been a moment of elation, his Chojin Crown victory. Now he was back, and his mission, as much as it hurt for the wrestler to admit, was clear. Even if he had won that tournament, the situation was quite clear: both men were about to meet once again in the ring, assuming the role of challengers.

"Yessir." he muttered belatedly to himself.

Thus began the burning pursuit of one Kinniku Mantarou, a fallen warrior who, exalted not by the glory of victory but by the bitterness of defeat, found a new light to pursue. All this time, he had only known the power of the Burning Inner Strength within him, the power that only the bonds of friendship can ignite... but now there existed something else. Depending on who you may have asked, this something else may have been pride, bravery, confidence, and yet, regardless of how it may have been branded, no man or woman disagreed when it came time to admit that, through the trials and tribulations of his shocking first defeat, a chojin who was thought down for the count had stood up to the bewilderment of those who saw him: through defeat, he became a champion.

As for those close to him? Somehow, they all agreed Mantaro looked just a little bit taller.

THE END