Description: After their initial scuffle, Marisol asked of Howard Rust a simple request: fight her and show her what he's got. Now, with the proverbial dust settled and her teammate recovered, Marisol makes good of her request, calling out the Pacific shop teacher for a one-on-one spar after school! But what becomes of it..?
The past months have been...eventful for Pacific Resistance. So eventful, in fact, that Marisol O'Connell has yet to get back to the shop teacher of Pacific High she had wanted to spar with since their initial encounter. Nothing violent or cruel; just a good old-fashioned match of skills against someone new. She doesn't know what to really expect from the man, and that's what makes the prospect fun.
So, after some time, the redhead got a chance to send a note Howard Rust's way with a simple but amiable offer: meet her after class at the athletics field. 'I still owe you,' the note added, followed by a friendly little smiley face drawn at the end by a flourish, girly-scribed name. 'Marisol O'Connell.'
That brings us to the now.
Standing with her arms crossed, the half-Spaniard girl stares at the sky above, watching as fluffy white clouds roll across a rich cerulean-blue sky. Clad in her own take on the Pacific High uniform--a pleated gray skirt, short-sleeved white button down blouse and a nice pair of sneakers--the girl waits ever so patiently for the man to arrive.
With a smile, of course. As bad a reputation she may have, she's by no means some bloodthirsty, vicious tyrant out for blood. She's happy to have a spar with the only teacher at the school who had the guts to stand up to her attitude.
And man oh man, later came a tiny handful of regrets in having tried to do so. At its core, it should be a friendly little fight, nothing serious at all. This is a world that is very accepting of street fights as long as it doesn't get out of hand. Even most of the Pacific staff handwave the clearly friendly things.
But adulthood really knows how to take something so beautiful in its simplicity and turn it into a thing of fear or worry when, at its heart, it shouldn't be. Howard Rust, the shop teacher of Pacific High, likes to think of himself as being a decent man. Self control, patience, diligence, perseverance. He has never wanted to have to strike at a child - really, few do. Perhaps his most frightening moment was thinking that he might have accidentally stabbed Ayame - who actually wasn't a student there and had no qualms against potentially killing him in the process - through her dress in a place that could have been fatal.
The principal himself has had a few harsh words with the times he has had to physically restrain students in ways that go just a bit past 'arm grab,' even though much of the staff themselves murmur about what they can do about the Pacific Resistance's love for fighting. It's a hard place to be stuck between when you're an adult. Physically capable, yet emotionally hesitant.
but dammit, that agreement to fight slipped right out of his mouth and enough of the kids that were there to see that exchange months ago kept asking him when! So here, on a weekend, now the two meet.
As if dramatically appropriate, Mr. Rust, who seems to encompass his surname in virtually /every/ way imaginable, treads down the field from the 'visitor' side. Marisol wouldn't have to look to know he's coming, because his knee seems to be fond enough of her to pop in greeting. (Homer Simpson wants to stab his brain with a q-tip, Howard Rust sometimes wants to just hack his leg from the knee down off and be done with it.) Ol' Rusty is still in his ratty toolbelt that he really should look into replacing. His hair... you know what, the less said about how badly he's been trying to fool the populace that the combover is not an ill attempt at convincing people he's not balding, the better. But somehow it flaps in the breeze. Some force of nature must love it enough to animate such a repugnant detail so.
He doesn't look any thinner than when they first met, but yet no fatter. He doesn't seem any more enthusiastic about it. He doesn't pause to check out how nice a day it is besides as he draws closer. He can only hope this will be a relatively quiet venture and that the whole school won't crowd around to see one of the hottest rivalries (or so it is perceived) since Pacific Resistance vs. Guardian Kings, or even Pacific High Southtown Chapter vs. Taiyo High for that matter.
But wishful thinking tends to remain just that.
The worries of an adult far outweigh those of a student here at Pacific High. So, while Rust worries deeply about the repercussions of what this encounter may or may not have, or even the morality of hitting someone half his age, if not more...Marisol is just smiling to herself, content in enjoying the wonderful feel of a crisp March afternoon. Arms stretch high above, fingers splayed as she reaches for the sky...
And then exhales contentedly, hopping a few times in place to warm up. The girl knows nothing of the emotional conflicts having faced the shop teacher since arriving, and likely will never know of them, lest he speak about it. As far as she's concerned, Howard Rust has potential, and it's a potential she wants to test out against her skills. It's an endeavor both can benefit from.
Soon enough, a distant figure breaks the horizon. Gray eyes stir, glancing from the beach adjacent to the athletics field toward the approaching man before she lightly squints and shields her eyes from the sun with a slender hand. Is that..?
It is!
Smiling broadly, the girl rests one hand on her hip, the other reaching up to offer a wide wave in Rust's direction. Fortunately for the elder man, his horrible combover goes unnoticed in favor of just giving him a polite greeting as he draws near. And when he's within a sociable distance, the girl's smile grows twofold.
"Hi again," the half-Spaniard offers, fingers giving him a light wave. "It's been a while, so I'll apologize in advance. I'm glad to see you actually are up for this." Pausing, the girl's lips twitch, a toothy smile offered before her hands rest on her hips.
"How've you been, anyway? Good, I hope?" Marisol pauses again. "And I hope you've been working out or training or...whatever you do to keep yourself sharp. You have, haven't you?"
The girl leans forward from the waist up, hands akimbo on her hips as she eyes him with friendly scrutiny.
Ten years ago he might have been amazing. Time's passed. He's never been in a formal competition thanks to a few things going bad. At his lowest point in his life, he decided to get a college education. It was a combination of good timing and a couple of choices in his life that made him perfectly qualified as being a shop teacher at Pacific High. It's the best job he'd ever hold. That doesn't mean it's the easiest.
But if one has to measure him as a fighter, he's got the whole 'I like one outfit and one outfit only' look down. It's the same one he's seen when he's not teaching, and sometimes when he is. That dirty white shirt, the brown vest, the work gloves, jeans that do Levi Strauss' ingenuity proud this many years later. It's unmistakably him.
He forces a smile and a little wave in his left hand back. How many times did he have to smile for a group photograph at that construction firm? Far too many. She's really been looking forward to this. Maybe getting Preston back was a boost to her mood after that attack on Pacific High by her friend's father. His hands were too tied to voice a strong opinion himself to the father's face. What the hell kind of parent does that to their kid or other kids? (Never mind whatever Marisol and Pas were doing that got them struck down - Luc appeared to come out of it without getting hospitalized.)
"I, uh," he scratches the back of his head at the question. "When I have the time... yeah." He's still fat. His joints still sound so very overworked and ready to retire. Those brown eyes, still about as dull and empty as could possibly be. There's no spark of youth that Marisol might be used to seeing looking into the eyes of her friends and rivals alike. He coughs a dry one once for good measure. Agh, grass pollen. How he loathes you so.
There's no way someone such as Howard Rust can hide himself at Pacific. He stands out like a sore thumb, which is particularly odd, considering how dressed down he is in comparison to most. Some may very well call him plain and far from obtrusive. But that's precisely what makes Rust stand out among his peers, as well as his students.
Besides - who can forget that combover?
Forced smile or no, Marisol's lips pull into an amiable smile as she levels her gaze on the Pacific High shop teacher. Whatever happened between Preston's father and Pacific Resistance is behind the girl, and there isn't a worry one on her shoulders. If anything, the time after has been great and good for the Hispanic girl. She got to meet her idol...
"Good to hear," the girl replies, smirking lightly as her hands affix on her hips. As out of shape he may be, the girl doesn't make assumptions. He held his own pretty well against her before, and she's quite sure he'll do just fine even now. But her friendly expression fades ever so slightly, the cough noted and that lack of 'spark' perceived. In fact, the girl lightly frowns.
"Umm, if you aren't up for this," Marisol begins. "You don't have to, mister Rust..."
It is sometimes ironic how the most ordinary somehow manages to poke up above the rest. Maybe this is because he doesn't wear the usual shop class service suit when he's not teaching and thus is perhaps exactly as guilty about dress code violations as some who attend here!
She really is in good spirits for someone who suffered being beaten within an inch of her life and then getting her face beaten in by Shenwoo. But then the two apparently went out or something? He only knows second hand details. She looks pretty good for someone who just went through that. Pretty tough. Might even be tougher than he was when he was her age. He looks her down from head to toe to check for any outstanding wounds he'll want to be very careful about on principle.
"I said I'd do it," he replies with that gravelly voice as always. "I just want to ask one thing - just one," holding up the index finger of his right hand. "You've been through people that don't think anything of hurting you, and, well... doubt you're going to be any worse off here, but, last thing I want to see is you end up in the hospital again. I, uh, meant to see you after that guy's dad wrecked one of the walls of the Boys' Dorm to make sure you were okay."
Then Fuchi happened. Let's leave it at that.
Indeed; despite her rough encounter with her fighting idol, Marisol looks no worse for wear, save for a few light bruises across her face. Her smile isn't the least bit touched as she smiles broadly to the shop teacher, hands on her hips. And if she IS affected by what's happened, she hides it very well beneath her positive demeanor. Odd, considering her usual reputation.
"Yeah, you did," the girl retorts quickly, lifting a hand from her hip to point a finger at the man before her. Her smile returns, eyes friendly as she looks to the man before her. But she finds herself speechless, as he offers an ultimatum of sorts. "One thing?" He gestures with a hand. He must be serious, the girl wonders.
And she listens carefully, as the elder man talks. His concerns voiced, the girl's features falter slightly, gray eyes widening a fraction before they lightly hood, full lips pursed lightly in thought. Slowly but surely her eyes begin to draw shut, arms lifting to fold over her chest as she offers a soft sigh, nostrils flaring lightly.
"What doesn't kill me makes me a better fighter. I can heal and get better, and ultimately stronger." As for the hospital, the girl's brow knits lightly, eyes opening discreetly as she eyes the ground. "Yeah...it was pretty rough...but I made it through. We all did, and we're better off for it, I think." Her eyes open fully, gray eyes peering up at the shop teacher as her smile blossoms.
"Thank you, though. I mean it. 'sides my teammates, you're the first person to really express any worry or concern. But I promise." Lifting a hand up, the half-Spaniard rubs a thumb across her nose. "I don't have any intentions of stopping. I'm going to get better and stronger." Dumb youth? Perhaps. But the redhead seems proud of herself.
"I also have one thing to say, too." What?
Lifting her own finger, the girl holds it out, grinning broadly as she says,
"Don't hold back on me. It's the worst sin any fighter can commit. I want your best, got it??"
You're a goddamn hooligan, O'Connell, that is pretty much going to be what the teacher will call her when she comes up to get her diploma. But she's still a student. What teacher worth their salt wouldn't be at least a little concerned for the welfare of their students? (The ones that aren't keeping their jobs here, that's what.)
He feels a need, no, an itch, to stretch his back and shoulders out. He succumbs to it while Marisol talks back. Usually, pops and cracks and other unpleasant 'i am an overworked joint, take pity on me plz' noises would be loud enough to interrupt most conversations in his general vicinity. This one is oddly clean of such noises. Yay, he rolled a natural 20 on his arthritis check! He rolls his neck. Pop! That was a loud one and gets a wince. That was a 1.
"Well," he was going to say something else about being one of the few people to show concern. Maybe if you stopped beating the crap out of a number of the students here, some of these petty children would... ah, forget it, he decides before he even forms any real sentence. He straightens up his posture after deciding that's enough stretching of any sort, really. He should've done so before stepping onto the field. Hindsight.
There are a number of uncomfortable parallels in these overall statements. Now if Howard Rust was ever a half-Irish, half-Spanish daughter of a vineyard baron at her age that would not just be ironic but also very creepy. So let's not pursue that train of thought any further.
"Don't hold back, huh." Is there anything he could hold back? She's perfectly in shape, young, and a very strong fighter in her own right, one of the very best of her age group barring the would-be legends like, say, Athena Asamiya or Rock Howard. Or even the local Roy Bromwell. Maybe even Tiffany Lords, who won a major tournament not that long ago.
Think about how you respond to this. This could mean a lot more than your job if something goes wrong. He nods his head unconsciously while still wondering how to respond to that, one hand to his chin. (Oops.)
The girl can't help but wince slightly as his body pops, an eye twitching softly before she looks up cautiously to Rust once again. The guy is older, obviously. Should she take pity on the man, as he seems to do the student body, and go easy? Or even cancel this engagement altogether? Common sense tells her yes...but...
As he begins to speak the girl listens, but his own thoughts get away with him, and as a result he refrains. Tilting her head lightly, the redhead looks to the shop teacher with a bemused expression, gray eyes wide with thought. "Er...yeah?" He's going to talk, right?
But he doesn't, and instead parrots her request. "Yes, please don't," the girl replies, nodding her head softly in response. "It's an insult to both fighters when they hold back. You gotta hit the other guy as hard as you can." That's what Shenwoo told her, and it's something she's always believe in. "So. ..yeah."
Marisol nods once, briskly.
"Please, show me what you've got, mister Rust!"
With that the girl eases back, distancing herself from the teacher as she shifts her weight, assuming a neutral stance with her arms lifted. One arm twists slightly, her hand turning palm up before she lightly gestures for the older man to take first action.
"I've been curious since that day, after all..!"
Wait, did she just... oh, nice one, Howard. But you knew this was an inevitability even with her polite invitation to drop out of it. He doesn't look off to the stands in case any students have decided to come watch. So far as he knows, it's Marisol, himself, and what would be a pretty nice day to fire up the grill away from the prying eyes of the amazing catering crew available to Pacific High. Because sometimes he wants his cholesterol-filled fatty American food, thank you very much.
"What I've got." What does he still have? Well, he can take a punch kind of well. He used to be very proud of that when he was younger. One supposes he is also decent at hitting things with a rusted length of pipe. These might be the only obvious qualities he has, unless his fighting experience actually rings true for his physical age. His right hand grips what would be the imagined hilt of an actual sword, but it's a pipe. He tries to tug it up.
The toolbelt ends up detaching from his waistline in a jingle of bits of metal and plastic to Ol' Rusty's bid to stay sheathed. Or maybe because he really should replace that toolbelt. A sweep of his hand across the rusted shaft of something that could have come from just about anywhere and appears in no condition /at all/ to be used as a bludgeon for much longer pushes the pocket attached to the toolbelt off, letting it hit the field. It's not a long pipe in comparison to what some kids lug around as weapons - it's not much more than two feet. But it's his, dammit. The sun tries to find some surface to glint off of in cinematic fashion. It fails.
He leans forward a bit, right hand holding Ol' Rusty pointed off towards the side. Kind of what you'd see a swordsman type do. The gloves ensure he'll keep a good grip no matter how sweaty he gets. "I'm serious about what I said," he says seriously. Serious teacher is serious. As is trouble that is also serious if this gets seriously out of hand.
A cloud passes overhead, which one may as well take as the metaphorical equivalent of being told 'final round... FIGHT!' It's quite a distance to cover if Rust is going to make melee range. Why?
His jog. It's exactly as slow as anyone may suspect, taking him longer to close the distance that Marisol herself could have (unless she isn't quite the fastest runner herself). But when the distance is closed, from Marisol's lower left to her upper right, he swings it upward diagonally in what is a textbook swing. Nothing special, nothing fancy. It doesn't need to be fancy. Some things just don't need an added layer of colorful chi.
The sun spites this by finding something to glint off of after all in mid-swing.
COMBATSYS: Rust has started a fight here.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Marisol has joined the fight here.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Rust's Medium Strike.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Rust
"Yes," the girl states, nodding her head once, firmly - assuredly. "What you've got." Because she knows, somewhere down in Rust, there's the spirit of a fighter. Maybe he's lost track of it? Maybe something in his past gave him every reason to just stop and take up the life of a teacher? Who knows? But if there's one thing the girl hopes to gain from this...it's to see what he can do when he wants to.
Easing into her own stance, the girl maintains a neutral posture, patiently waiting for the man to ready himself and make the first move. Eyes drift from the man's face to his side, as a hand clutches to the pipe he often carries with him. A bemused look haunts her tanned face, full lips pulling into a pensive line. So he DOES use it for a weapon?
Interesting.
His struggles earn him no laugh. Instead the girl smiles lightly, still exercising an odd amount of patience for someone with a fiery reputation amongst her peers. When he has finally and properly drawn his weapon and speaks, the girl's grin fades a bit, her expression a touch serious in return.
"So'm I," she replies, brows knitting gently.
And then he charges, brandishing his pipe. With one swift swing the pipe crashes into the girl, who exhales just as the metal impacts, cushioning the blow a bit as Marisol maintains her ground, only stumbling a step or two back shortly after.
"Good...good!" the girl cries, smiling an odd smile, before she lunges forward and seeks to return the favor, driving her clenched fist right for Rust's midsection.
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Rust with Medium Punch.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|==-----\-------\0 Rust
It's about a swing as in earnest as he can muster given the circumstances. Maybe there's still a contender inside of there, even as he is a few years away from hitting forty. He's not even married yet, imagine how much that would likely prevent him from getting much further in the world of fighting! Maybe his horrible combover is all that stands between freedom and being a family man.
The hit seems to connect solidly enough, but Marisol there, she's not an easy one to take out. Really, he might have put a little too much stock into how hard he could swing against her ability to take it, because when she's in position to attack he's still trying to move his arm in a relatively fluid movement to be ready to strike again. Which is to say, a great and open opportunity to strike at him.
Her praise is not that great a warning when her clenched fist hits home. Too late to properly guard it, he just tries to take it in that split second thought of 'I know she hits hard but I can take it, right? I can take i--GOOFAH!' That thought being interrupted that way? Really does bring out a 'GOOFAH!' in the real world, a really strange grunt of pain as she pops him a strong enough one to send turf flying around his heels.
But that was him taking it without proper guarding. He exhales once, significantly less chatty when in the zone. Okay, that hurt, he felt it. Take it like a man and keep going. His legs spread apart a little for sake of being able to move away if she continues to press an assault. As much good as that would do given how slowly he appears to be able to maneuver.
But this distance between them, suits him just fine. A glint of silver brings attention to his next idea, largely because it seems to be the place that might get the least amount of flak for the effort. His teeth clench at trying to tough out the throbbing pain his abdomen is screaming at this point, swinging Ol' Rusty upward in some kind of... uppercut? It seems rather slow for something that should be of striking force...
But wait! He tries to wedge it in place between her neck and necklace! With a tug provided it gets in there, he tries to swing her in one single arc like a wrecking ball. It looks like a slam at virtually any angle, but this is the sort that requires a fine control to hook something and hurl the attached opponent without completely breaking off the article of clothing or what have you.
...When it's a good day.
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Rust's Wrecking Ball Swing.
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|===----\-------\0 Rust
The combover is bringing him down! It must be stopped!
But really, it's the last and furthest thing from the half-Spaniard's mind. Instead she's far more focused on the man before her, her curiosity and enthusiasm to finally - finally - see what he's capable of barely contained. The girl loves a good fight, and she's sure that, with the proper sort of encouragement, he can give one.
Stepping forward, the girl's tightly-clenched fist drives right for Rust's stomach, landing the blow solidly and earning her a very-winded sound from the shop teacher. Inwardly she winces a bit, a touch regretful, despite her encouragement to 'give your best no matter what.'
She offers a grin, regardless, hiding her concerns. Hooding her gray eyes, the half-Spaniard nods once, watching as the man eases himself into a stance of his own as he observes the girl. A moment later the teacher and his trusty pipe are on the move, a heavy upwards swing aimed...for her necklace?
Marisol plants a foot and, at the same time, drops both her arms. The pipe is thusly intercepted by her forearms as they cross, one over the other, stopping him from hooking her necklace and ultimately swinging her like a piņata at a children's birthday party. No, she's not filled with chocolaty Skittle goodness..!
Without a word the girl shoves down hard, redirecting his pipe and arms to the side before a fist swings up and attempts to swiftly jab the man in the face once before she recoils a fist and attempts to strike him again in the chest.
COMBATSYS: Rust Toughs Out Marisol's Light Punch!
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Marisol 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Rust
On the flip side of the perception of the other's talent, Howard Rust knows she is very good and that fighting half-assed is more likely to see /him/ get in the hospital on top of potentially losing his job over this. But that's a worst case scenario. One that fails to take priority over getting stopped from what would have been a perfectly clever assault.
He can't really give much of a response to her happy grin from moments before. She's sure enjoying herself! But it becomes harder when she shoves his weapon and attack arm down, and boy does she! He could have prided himself on physical strength. Being beaten out by a psychotic hispanic guy with a baseball bat, well, that's to be expected by some crack member of that Shadaloo organization. Maybe he should've thought of that possibility when fighting Marisol, who clearly seems to beat him out in raw arm strength today.
She pops him in the face hard enough to make his neck recoil. His fist clenches over Ol' Rusty to the point it emits a happy little squeal. (Metal has feelings too!) His teeth grit anew, a loud growling noise as he just hurls himself forward despite the wishes of his knee. His knee does not approve.
He doesn't even realize he's been punched in the chest at all moments later (but his lungs do and they will let him know soon), pipe-bearing arm crossed underneath the striking point and held inwards. Is he going to backhand her? When he lowers his stance to swing, his shoulder protests, stiff from that thing he does when he readies himself to take a hit. His left leg suddenly swings forward instead, thrusting the sole of his boot forward to push her back into slightly more comfortable range. His eyelids over his left eye have squeezed themselves shut from sweat getting into his eye. Of all the times!
COMBATSYS: Marisol interrupts Strong Kick from Rust with Snap Wind.
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Marisol 0/-------/------=|======-\-------\0 Rust
Clearly mister Rust worries far too much. The likes of Marisol, or even the rest of Pacific Resistance - or any other school's fighters - are a dime a dozen, and some teachers are just as capable of holding their own against them. Perhaps not at Pacific High, but surely at the likes of Taiyo, and even Justice. She knows - she's fought Hideo Shizmazu what felt like forever ago, and she'd tell you (reluctantly) that he hit HARD.
Fighting students are commonplace. But teachers..?
The principal of Pacific might actually LIKE having someone such as Rust around to keep the less-respectful kids in line and give them something to worry about.
His trusty pipe shoved aside, the girl delivers a quick, fleeting twofold strike the man's face before striking his chest. A moment after, and perhaps unexpectedly, the teacher is lunging forward with a growl as he moves, regardless of his body's protest. Marisol's gray eyes widen, a hand clenching.
A feint? The pipe does not strike; instead a foot lifts and plants itself into her stomach, the girl letting out a loud 'pwah' sound. A moment later she clenches her teeth and hollers, a fist tense as she drives forward into his leg and pushes, closing the gap and driving a straight punch to his face before she dips slightly and swings a fist up high, delivering an uppercut straight to his jaw.
Howard Rust has read plenty about some of the fighting superstars among the teaching staff of Taiyo and Justice. Maybe it's the fact that they are somehow able to balance careers with fighting supremacy that has inspired him to not entirely hang it up yet? If he hasn't. It's hard to say - few have ever really seen him fought on campus.
Regardless of any moral issues with being able to beat down kids, he is a teacher at a traditionally well-to-do international school and there are some things, some lines, that should not be crossed. Or so the teacher himself thinks. Maybe there's something behind all of it.
But enough about behind. In front, Marisol pushes back and sends him off balance. He comically hops about on one foot a grand total of twice before she strikes him in the face - a cascade of saliva for her efforts that also glitters in the sun that shines past the large cloud as if to highlight how solid a hit it is - which takes him off his feet and into a mid-air backwards flip. Marisol times the uppercut just right and sends him skyward with what might be the sound of a jaw cracking and another arrangement of vocalized noises that are hard to put in writing.
And there he is in the air, about as high as most fighters can jump if not moreso. Whoa, man, the groundskeeper is going to be pissed when he has to clean this up. He didn't realize his heels dug in that deep when he first got punched in the gut. On the other hand, he's in the air, in freefall, with Marisol below him.
This is actually somewhat advantageous! At a certain point in free-fall he thrusts his limbs out with only a relative minimum of joint cracks, his back now facing the ground. Truth of the matter is, falls aren't too scary to him despite being out of shape and somewhat heavy. Normally he does this sort of thing a lot lower to the ground after balancing off Ol' Rusty, but the turf might not have cooperated for that purpose.
Might as well cut the middleman and just drop. The impact may knock some more wind out of him. Or Marisol could catch him with open arms. Right? (...Or closed fists.)
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Rust's Crashing Down.
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Marisol 0/-------/----===|=====--\-------\0 Rust
The girl pulls no punches - quite literally. Closing in on Rust, she drives a fist for his face once, causing the man to reel and recoil as response, lifted off his feet. And then she moves once more, delivering a mean uppercut right to the man's jaw, earning her a strange assortment of noises from the elder man as he flies up high. It earns him a weird look from the girl, who pauses briefly to eye her hand. What?
Gray eyes lift, peering up into the air as she tries to see just what the heck Rust plans on DOING. And what sight beholds her is an odd one: he's falling with his arms outstretched, to fall like some human bomb right for the girl waiting below. Marisol's face lightly blanches in response - there's no real time for her to move.
Rather than roll out of the way, the girl braces her weight on her back heel and brings her arms up swiftly, just as the older man crashes into her. It draws a light grunt from the girl, gray eyes swiftly hooding before her arms sweep out and back inwards, catching the man in an odd grasp before she helps ease him toward the ground.
"Not too shabby," the girl observes, sporting yet another friendly smile. Lifting a hand, the girl wipes along her brow. "I'm actually glad you obliged to meet me. Woulda never known you could do this stuff. So why don't you fight regularly? At least I don't think I've SEEN you fight..."
Despite the casual conversation, the girl moves again, jogging forward as she swings a fist out, to punch him in the chest, followed by a quick uppercut blow. While it seems like a rehash of her previous strike to a certain extent, the girl 'mixes it up' with a rather sudden and unorthodox spin on her sneaker's heel, a leg swinging around and up, to drive the heel of her shoe right into the side of Rust's ribs with a loud cry.
COMBATSYS: Marisol successfully hits Rust with Iron Whip.
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Marisol 0/-------/----===|=======\=------\1 Rust
It's a pretty pleasant landing. More so than he thought it would be. Eased to the ground, though, he loses his step and tumbles onto the ground almost as exaggeratedly as he would have if he just fell the whole way. It's kind of funny seeing a man of his age and shape being able to tumble on the ground. His personal history would suggest otherwise. He has taken some very, very nasty falls when he was just a construction worker. His personal record might scare a few people. Maybe not Marisol so much.
He exhales deeply as he comes to something of a kneel at her observation. That punch to the chest that he just plowed through? Might've been a harder hit than it should have been from throwing himself on top of it. His back remains faced to Marisol for the moment, free hand clutching the top of his head and wiping downwards to remove the sweat and finally address the itch in his eye. You also get a view of his crack. 'nuff said. (Pitch don't got nothin' on this!)
"I don't get," he starts when she rushes at him. She doesn't get the chest but his back is a fair target! That first one doesn't push him forward too much as he tries to pivot up, a pain that shoots through his leg stopping him from completing it to react properly by backing away from whatever would come next... a kick to the ribs.
Let's not mince words here, it's a good hit! A small trickle of blood forms out of the right side of his jaw from that launching uppercut. He nearly crumples against the strike, leaning so heavily to the side where he was struck that something might break. Marisol is clearly able to hit him harder than he can to her - this continues to reiterate the difference in skill levels and physical ability between them.
But he tries to continue his sentence anyway, a heavy breath making the next word difficult to understand, "enough," enough? He had enough? Oh wait, no, he's still speaking as he tries to bring a hand up to the top of Marisol's head, "time for--"
Hyphen break?! The fate of this spoken sentence lies on whether or not he manages to thrust Marisol's head down into the turf in a pretty typical downward slam. It's like stacking a brick. If Marisol had a bunch of palette swaps around her to fight he might stack all of them on top of her one by one!
COMBATSYS: Marisol endures Rust's Brick Stacker.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|=======\==-----\1 Rust
"--this sort of thing!" And so the sentence is finished... and yeah, that's it. All that dramatic build up for that? Complaining about time? What a gyp.
The half-Spaniard girl gives the man time to recuperate from his fall as he kneels and tries to catch a moment. At least she's polite enough to look away when he's sporting a plumber's cleavage; that's something she didn't need to see. What's with older guys and their pants, anyway!?
When he's soon on his feet again the girl runs forward, despite the words coming from his mouth. They don't seem to deter her in the least, as she curls a fist up and drives it forward, followed by an uppercut and, finally, a spinning hook kick aimed for the teacher's ribs. She follows through with the motion, even putting a foot down after she faces him once more, gray eyes gauging the older man's response. He IS okay, isn't he?
"E-enough?" the girl parrots quietly, head tilting to one side as she watches Howard Rust closely. Moments later he makes it clear: he's not out of the game quite yet. Oh no.
Grabbed, the girl falls forward, straight into the turf face-first as she's forcefully shoved. It earns the man a muted 'oof' from Marisol as she impacts, wind escaping her lungs as she's introduced to the fresh cut grass. But there is a rhyme and reason, which doesn't become clear until...
Shooting her arms out and forward, the redhead offers a low grunt as she intends on snaring the man by his ankles. A split-second later, should she snare them, she will pull back, to drop all of Howard Rust's weight out from beneath him!
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Marisol's Medium Throw.
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Marisol 0/-------/--=====|=======\====---\1 Rust
He thinks he has a moment to catch his breath to the extent he is actually able to. His heart is racing. He might've just gotten a rib or two cracked and that's not fun. Isn't he happy he picked a weekend where he wasn't too busy meeting with a parent or building something or having to answer why he was dragging a heavy metal desk across the concrete path in such a way that some of the teachers couldn't grade some papers.
"It's... it's, uh, listen, I--" Dramatic pause hyphens again? Nope. Marisol is so quick to the draw that he only realizes he's being grabbed off his feet and onto his butt just now. He leans forward in an attempt to lift up his legs and shake her off well after it's too late. Instead he just ends up tilting his body weight to land on the side that is not currently facing hospital bills, thrusting Ol' Rusty down into the field as a means of keeping himself steady. Only he does so so hard that it nearly goes all the way through the field into the ground. Oops.
That option quickly proving detrimental, this puts him on the ground very close to her. He shakes his head once, lips pressed together in something of a frown because clenching his teeth alone doesn't take off enough of the edge so now his lips have to suffer too. Poor lips. With his free hand, he tries to lift her head up. A brief glance - c'mon, do you really want to hit that this hard? But she said not to hold back and and and and look at her she's really working you over it won't be terrible if you did get this off on her so what are you waiting for proper punctuation psh you're not an English teacher why do you care stop waiting for punctuation.
This lift turns into a shove upwards. He draws back his hand into a fist and hastily goes for an uppercut that, on a connection, should send her into the sky...
COMBATSYS: Marisol Toughs Out Rust's Crane Launch!
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Marisol 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
...and skyward, he tries to get off a good enough boost from his less achy leg to leap into the air and... he doesn't seem to swing the pipe into anything other than thin air. A miss! "Ah, shit." He really has gotten rusty.
This requires him to try to buck being winded from pain and exertion to chase after her after stumbling from his landing, his knee cracking under the weight he puts down on it. He doesn't get to jump up after her, rather, he catches her by sticking the present business end of Ol' Rusty into... one of her socks. The blouse does not give a lot of places for him to grab something with it. From there, it's a multitude of spins like some kind of Rube Goldberg Giant Swing. "What I was saying," this is not as calm as it appears, he's winded enough to the point it's hard to hear, "I teach, I... I grade, meet with parents... the community, out here in Southtown, and, and..."
Excuses, excuses. Eventually Marisol would fly off, unless she has some other plans about her predicament?!
Marisol will definitely apologize or something after the fight, but for now...she's focused, despite the tiny grin that haunts her full lips. She's having fun, even if poor Rust's old body keeps begging him to tone it down and go easy. He seems to be holding himself up pretty well, all things considered, Marisol wagers.
It draws a broad smile across her lips, even as her head is grabbed and shoved into the grass. Downed, but not out, the girl snaps her arms out and seizes him, pulling his feet out from under his body, to send HIM crashing into the ground in kind. But his, like hers, is a cushioned landing of sorts, supported by the weight of his trusty pipe.
Pulling her face up off the grass, the girl supports the bulk of her weight in her arms, gray eyes lifting and peering toward the man as she shoots him a roguish smile. Hopefully he's enjoying himself to a certain degree. If he's still worried, that makes fighting less fun...and she is having fun, at least!
Her smile only slightly fades when the teacher forms a fist and, in one hearty motion, punches the girl into the air. Is that all, she wonders midflight, gray eyes staring at the sky as she begins to fall. That's when something weird happens: his pipe snakes into...a sock?
Swung numerous times around and around, the girl pinches her eyes shut, fighting off that awful urge to lose her lunch. Instead she braces herself mentally, fighting the dizziness before she's suddenly released and sent flying a good distance...before she hits the ground and lands with a roll. Oof. She'll feel that tomorrow.
"It sounds..." Pulling her body off the ground, Marisol gives her thighs and blouse a dusting off, blades of grass cast aside with a few sweeps of her hands and a tiny grin. "...like you keep finding excuses not to practice, or even fight. And I think you know it!" Lifting a finger, she singles Rust out.
"There's always time for practice. If you don't practice, you'll lose your edge. I know you've got it in you, mister Rust! It's there - but it seems like you keep trying to run away from it, or hide it. And that's just no good." She pouts comically, eyes widening in a doe-like fashion before she casts it off with a shake of her head and a smirk.
"If you're worried about hurting other fighters, students or adults alike - don't! Never hold back, because they won't. And it's good practice for them--" She pauses, thumping her chest. "Makes 'em stronger. Better! Tough. If they can't handle that...they shouldn't FIGHT. Now..."
The girl's stance widens, hands clenching into fierce fists.
"Here I COME!!"
Racing forward, the half-Spaniard girl closes the considerable gap between with an aggressive sprint. Only when she's near do her fists move, four fierce hooks delivered, one after the other, to stun the man. And should that succeed, Marisol will coil back, a fist clenched tightly at shoulder level...before she thrusts forward and unleashes it, a stunning, awful blow aimed for the center of his chest with brute force that belies her girlish appearance.
COMBATSYS: Rust Toughs Out Marisol's Atom Smasher!
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Rust
He's not even forty yet. Not even forty! And his body acts like he's sixty. But one couldn't blame him for wasting his youth too much, not when one considers how much work he did day in, day out. His reward... a bunch of groupies and hanger-ons in swollen joints and sore muscles. Plus a smattering of other markings of past injury that are too generalized and minute to mention that go with the territory. But the bad combover, the bad combover... timelessly horrible. He had the unfortunate genetic disposition to start going bald this young.
He's nearly bent over in two after the swing. He hasn't been able to go the distance like he used to. The fact he's still standing at all after taking a few solid hits from the raging half-Spaniard may say volumes in comparison to anyone else in his relative weight class. Even then he feels, oddly, inadequate where he's typically strongest.
He reaches out with a hand to say something when she pulls herself up with apparent tiredness. If she's had enough, it's OK, maybe he has too, he'd say. But then the grin. The words that come after.
Excuses? His expression darkens a good four tints. (Can you give tints to moods?) He absent-mindedly spits out a blade of grass that somehow got in his mouth. Day in, day out! Classes, Fuchi, a bunch of kids not used to having to work with their hands on anything, Fuchi, doing side jobs while the custodian sits on his ass, Fuchi, psychotic teenage girls seemingly jumping at him with intent to pwn, Fuchi, his dad calling and wondering if he's settled down with someone yet, Fuchi, all the furniture dollies coming up missing mysteriously, Fuchi, the whole remaining business with Mr. Wellington's way of dealing with students, and also Fuchi.
He's a working man, dammit! All those things he'd like to say that don't make it to the surface because his lungs feel ready to collapse on himself. And all these kids, running around, making a killing even before they graduate high school... it's a lot to feel upset over. Marisol's challenge is heard loud and clear.
She races forward. He closes his mouth and grinds his teeth together to try and meet her head on. Then, it just so happens that he slips on that toolbelt he discarded right at the beginning. You know, this sort of thing just keeps happening. Little objects the fighters were carrying end up finding their way under his feet at some point. Rather than show any discontent in this situation, he just leans forward into her, shoulder first. Mentally he's just decided he might as well take it all, this body of his, old as it may become, he worked for it all right. It takes two hooks to swing his torso to the point it appears open to MArisol, where the last two seem to strike head on with only little ill effect (...if you count 'taking bone-crushing hooks to your body' to not be considered ill effect). In fact, it helps him regain his balance.
Then the finishing blow! He crouches slightly, coughing twice. Okay, maybe that wasn't... perfectly taken in stride. By no means should he have taken this next blow as well as he does, thrusting that same shoulder forward again in the direction that seems counter-intuitive to trying to minimize any damage. Flesh caves under her fist. The impact will echo throughout the athletic field.
And the teacher is still standing there. Ol' Rusty is pointed out to the ground and the side like seen right when the fight began. "It's," he starts, nearly all but spitting blood and that's not good, he is going to have to see a doctor, "not that easy," is that all he has to say in his defense?
Ol' Rusty spins in his right hand with a certain flourish not seen in much of any of his other movements. This is because this is his very favored technique in a pinch (of which he has been in many), the twist in his body simply for the proper distance between pipe and chin.
What follows next is a swing so quick, it's a blur unto itself - a grounded uppercut swing with wide forward coverage developed to help against nearly all frontal assaults. At least a few students have seen him do this when in the defense of the school against malcontents. There's just one thing about it.
He calls it the Cement Upper. But anybody would be damned if they knew why it was named that. It has absolutely nothing at all to do with cement! (Maybe it hits like a cement brick? But this is grasping straws.)
COMBATSYS: Marisol blocks Rust's Cement Upper.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Rust
When Rust's face darkens, the girl sees it plain as day. Perhaps her words were a bit insulting to a man twice her age, and maybe she hit a sore spot of sorts. But, damn it all...someone had to say it to the man, right? If there's one thing that gets to the half-Spaniard, it's when people hold back, or deny themselves the chance to flourish. And as far as the redhead can tell, this guy has potential.
But...he's killing it with his excuses! He's not the only older man in the circuits!
With a yell the girl charges forward, closing the gap with four swings. His body reacts in kind, swaying with the force as he just takes it head on. In the back of her mind, Marisol wonders what he has planned. Something feels amiss, but...
Regardless, Marisol coils back and ultimately releases, a heavy punch striking the man in his chest. But where she anticipates him falling...he's still standing. Gray eyes slowly lift, peering the man in his eye as he speaks. Not easy? Not easy??
"What?! Why do you--!?"
The girl is cut off, eyes distracted as he rips the pipe up and spins it with surprising grace. There's precious little time for Marisol to properly react by getting entirely out of harm's way, so she does what's next best: she shields herself. Drawing her arms tightly together, the length of pipe lands with a loud, ringing pop against her arms, sending a shockwave down her arms that makes them go briefly numb.
"Why do you insist on making excuses?" Marisol wonders, looking genuinely perplexed. "If you've trained yourself to do all this, why do you keep hindering yourself?" Exhaling loudly, Marisol takes a few steps back, her defenses dropped utterly as she looks the teacher in the eye.
"I mean, it's not every day we have a teacher 'round here who can stand up to punk asses like myself. The way you handled that attack was great. Jerks like the Guardian Kings would've probably exploded or something." Naturally she's greatly exaggerating her skill and theirs, but...
COMBATSYS: Marisol takes no action.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Rust
The shoulder cracks at the apex of the uppercut like it should, because it's not the sort that's ready to pivot around in its socket so much any more. He swings his arm down to his side by sheer grit alone. Grit of which he might not have a lot of left by all appearances. No man should be able to take that many punches to the chest and still draw breath.
"I'm not!!" Yes he is. Oh hey, two exclamation marks, how the hell does he manage that when he's on the verge of a medical emergency? His heart reminds him when he finds his knee locking him, bringing him down to a humbling kneel. (Kneel before the Pacific Resistance Queeeeeeeeeen!!)
But he maintains eye contact. With one eye, at least. The other is squeezed shut because it itches again, something his free hand tries to address as he rubs his sweaty head up and down and nearly does so in a way that requires giving further spotlight to his hair, so let's just sidestep that and pretend it is irrelevant to the location of the sweat on his head. Yes.
"Years ago. That, that, that," he stutters a bit as he brings that wiping hand forward, shaking it up and down as if to try and put a fine point on it, "that was years ago. You know... I just get, I just get a lot, for my plate that needs, well, finishing." It's an odd choice of words when strung together, but with a racing heart and the need to somehow explain himself over finishing the fight before he all but blacks out, it's surprisingly more coherent than it could have been.
"I work. It's a good job," sweeping that hand out towards the main building, "I feel I'm making, you know, a difference here. But god damn, all this shit," shit like any of the above mentioned earlier, he just shakes his head. "Wears me out. Lucky if I even /get/ an hour to do, to do well anything! Hell if I know how what's-his-name, uh, that, that," fingers snapping (and joints snapping in tandem too, it's a finger snapping duet with one hand!), "aaah, the one with the wooden sword... ah..."
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Marisol 0/-------/-------|=======\-------\1 Rust
When Rust goes about explaining himself, Marisol listens. Her posture is far from offensive, or even defensive; instead, the girl maintains an air of utterly passiveness, and all threat from the redhead is dissolved. The girl doesn't look to intend on pressing the idea of sparring or fighting any further with the poor guy. He's had his fill, she supposes.
Hands make purchase on her hips, and with an eye of scrutiny the girl peers down at the teacher. "Years ago? What are you talking about?" Pursing her lips, the girl's brow knits slightly, eyes hooding gently before she continues.
"It's still there with you. I mean, seriously--" Pausing, the half-Spaniard girl throws a hand about, waving it absently. "You held your own against me, which is pretty damn good, considering the age difference and exposure." Shifting her weight from one sneakered foot to the other, Marisol's posture stiffens, hands perching on her hips once more.
"Some people read. Some people draw. Some people play an instrument, and some people like to build shit, y'know?" An eye snaps shut, her arms breaking from her hips as she folds them across her chest, half-turning her back to the poor, winded guy. "And some people fight!"
She glances back to Rust then, lips pulling into a broad grin.
"So you gotta find time to do it, you know? You're busy? So what! You'll find time. You found time to come out today, didn't you?" Uh oh, caught red-handed. "So why is any other day different?"
The smile fades a bit, her eye fixed on the man as she considers his words. "I never accused you of doing a bad job or anything," she replies. "Your students seem to like you, after all. And what's-his-name? Do you mean Hayato Nekketsu? Over at Taiyo?" A laugh escapes her.
"If you're talking about that guy, he's pretty crazy. He probably finds the time because he trains WITH his students. I heard he's some gym class nazi." She shrugs, Marisol's lips curling into a playful smirk before she exhales. A moment later she offers the teacher a hand.
"I guess, in the end, if you don't like fighting, or want to, that's your prerogative, y'know? I just think it's a real shame."
COMBATSYS: Marisol has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\ <
Rust 1/-------/=======|
Had his fill of violence, maybe. He's not completely out of fight. Anybody with the heroic resolve to want to push for a win against overwhelming odds, no matter the cost to themselves... they might have been able to strike one last decisive blow in any circumstance.
He can't push himself as far as that heroic ideal that the stuff of legends are made of. His heart feels like going on the attack in a much different fashion, enough that it allows Marisol to say much of her piece without interruption. Well, successful interruption. Imagine what the CSYS would say if conversations were coded!
Caught red-handed indeed?! Somewhere along the line he gets the strength to push himself up with the help of Ol' Rusty. Kind of. It sinks into the ground and he ends up bending onto the side he doesn't want to, ow, ow, ow! He'd have to go with a half-kneel instead for now. "Yeah, uh, that... ah. Forget it."
...And Hayato Nekketsu is his actual name? He always assumed 'Hot Blood Hayato' was his stage name or something of the sort. It's a weird surname. (Look who's thinking, Mr. Rust!) He coughs again, as if though enlightenment brings dry throats and fluids that should not be in your throat for coughing up. When the hand is offered, he clumsily reaches out to grab it. He misses it twice largely because for some reason Marisol appears closer than she really is. He temporarily forgets that she also has superior arm strength and rather tries to pull himself up on his own as to not accidentally draw her on top of him. It's kind of an awkward moment if you're looking from the outside.
"It's not... it's not, uh, y'know," cough, "talk about this when... when I'm not, uh, you know, not.. not, not feeling like, uh..." His voice trails off. Fill the damn blank yourself, you goddamn hooligan. A lot rushes through his head that is probably things other than blood, like a rude reminder of the generation gap and her talents in comparison to him now. Ten years ago, Marisol, ten years ago...
...ten years ago was a long time ago.
COMBATSYS: Rust has ended the fight here.
Noting his troubles, the girl is distantly concerned, her thoughts well-hidden beneath the smile that lingers on her sun-kissed features. Truth be told, she figures showing sympathy or pity would be the last thing he'd want from a girl half his age. And if she's trying to encourage him to be more active as a fighter, she needs to show support that way. Or...something.
When he dismisses her observations, the girl offers a light laugh. "Caught ya," she chimes, pointing a finger at the elder man knelt on the ground. "See? If you were really against all of this, you would've stayed home, right?" She doesn't push it any more than that. Instead, the half-Spaniard just chuckles and offers forth a hand.
"C'mon, mister Rust," the girl says, as he paws in an attempt to get a hold of her hand. "I think we should wander to the infirmary. You seem a little out of sorts, so..." And all that coughing? It seems bad, and maybe she's a bit worried she was pushing him a little too hard. It takes a bit of effort, but eventually their efforts pan out.
"And uh, sure?" the girl adds, as he offers they talk about it some other time. Goddamn hooligan or not, the redhead isn't going to just up and ditch the teacher on the field after punching him up a bit. "If that's what you want. So c'mon let's get to the nurse's office. If you're polite she'll give you a popsicle?" A laugh follows, as she begins to lead the poor man off the field.
"It was a joke! Let's go, let's go..."
Log created on 19:03:59 03/22/2008 by Marisol, and last modified on 13:48:38 03/29/2008.