Description: Episode 3:Close Encounters of the Rust Kind OR The Wasn't That Will Be That Was. Nataya meets up with the Pacific High shop teacher, Rust, on her way to a job interview at the school. Even though they only talk for a moment, Nataya tries to spark in Rust the will to take up his dreams again. Will Rust heed the words of the wandering monk? Only time will tell.
Pacific High! It's known for it's foreign students and it's exclusiveness. It's also known for it's excessive blondeness. There's a lot of blonde kids here. Even some of the black kids are blonde, which confuses Nataya no end. Japan is largely a nation of short little people with jet black hair. Walking onto the Pacific High campus is like walking onto the set of big budget Hollywood production, complete with it's stars: the children that mostly look like what Madison Avenue called the 'Beautiful' people.
But here Nataya is, freshened up after yesterday's grueling battle with the razor clawed Choi. She still has gauze wrapped up along her arms and some bandages on her neck, but she looks otherwise no worse for wear in her plain but cheap skirt, penny loafers and white blouse. Amidst the students and faculty that look like a pantheon of minor gods and goddesses, Nataya definitely looks out of place.
If she's uncomfortable with that, however, she doesn't particularly look it. She walks into the building with little issue, looking at the campus with general curiousity and immediately gravitates towards the directory. English is just one of the many languages that she speaks, and she's here to see an acquaintance about a position in the language tutoring department.
She cruises in and out and around groups of people swiftly, like a little tugboat amidst vast luxury liners after finding the room number. Seems that her department is somewhere on the top floor. With a precise motion, she stabs her fingertip on the elevator button and looks up, calmly waiting for the doors to open and take her up.
A big budget Hollywood production where casting is largely billed by how good someone looks all dolled up in makeup or whatever gets caked on people's faces before the productions are shot, anyway. The good news it's, it's not a huge campus. The better news, this campus lends itself to the expectations of convenience and service so well that it's not a big deal for anybody to get on an elevator to bypass the short stair climb to the top. No expense was spared in making sure that the Southtown chapter of Pacific High was as state-of-the-art as possible among the world's educational institutions. The bad news, no expense was spared in licensing some sort of terrible instrumental take of some old popular music for the ride.
...nor did the average student for their appearance, for that matter, whom pass gossip about the most trivial and inane of subjects about each other or some new pop culture thing or another that one may not get too caught up over unless they're part of that age demographic. The room number Nataya seeks has its door swung wide open, where all one needs to do is just poke their head in and say 'hello' as from the vantage point of the hallway she may go down, there aren't any students up at the front row desks - a fair if not absolute indicator that class there isn't currently in session.
The only record scratch that may come of this album of almost plastic-y 'beautiful' people is the presence of an absolutely atrocious combover no man of appropriate financial means would allow to let stand in place of, say, some kind of /wig/, which has been bestowed upon an older man who is doubled over a small shelf facing a window, having a good juicy cough that one can hear more clearly as they approach.
Well, that doesn't sound very good. Despite being barely older than some of the kids that go to school here, Nataya carries herself with the sense that she's a lot older than she is. The side effect of that is the purse she carries. It's more of a small tote than anything else, and it's stocked better than some convenience stores.
Without a single moment of pause, she moves to intervene. In an eyeblink, she's already pushing Rust back, checking his eyes with a penlight to make sure he hasn't blown a blood vessel from such a nasty cough.
The movements are smooth, rapid, almost without thought as she presses a packet of tissues and a lozenge in one of his hands as if she was the older man's mother. The look on her face is as sunny as you can get without being clearly artificial about it.
"If you're asthmatic, I have an over the counter Primatine mister in my bag. I also have some expectorate pills, too," she says in crystal clear Midwestern English, "just in case it's just old fashioned congestion or smoker's hack. Don't worry. I used to work in my mom's clinic." One hand produces thes objects, inserted between her fingers like a ninja would weild shuriken. And in the other hand? "If you have some flu, I have some power for that if you have hot water."
The teacher - assumedly it /is/, given he is unmistakably older than the students here, is in a classroom all by himself in plain day, and people don't seem to think anything of it - expresses surprise with a low 'huh' as his eyes are shined with a light, holding up a hand as if to say 'wait a minute' just to have tissues and a lozenge shoved in his hand, the latter of which he nearly drops given the suddenness of it.
"Uh," and he can't get a word in because of expedient, sound medical advice that comes after. He's agape from the suddenness of all of it, but really, who wouldn't? "I, uh... thanks, it's... I was out all morning in the fields," he motions with a thumb as he blows his nose into the tissues before continuing, "allergies got to me." His voice is gravelly enough that smoking isn't entirely out of the question, although there is no scent of nicotine in the air. If the man is a smoker, he doesn't do it in this classroom.
One sniffle later, he stuffs the used tissue(s) in one of his pockets as the trash can is several steps away and he'd rather just get the tissue out of play, idly patting at his chest with a closed fist in the other hand as his eyes center on who it is that has assailed him with such helpful aid out of nowhere, but even kindness without condition, for something that should be common by the teachings of many cultures, can't help but be viewed with the slightest suspicion or discomfort.
"So... can I help you any?" Mr. Rust asks, clearing his throat after the question is presented.
"Not really," is the immediate reply. "I'm just here for the tutor orientation that starts in a half hour." The medical supplies disappear in the old beat up leather tote and she raises her wrist to tap at the decidedly cheap plastic Casio watch strapped to her wrist between a series of beads that ring her arms as she pulls down her sleeve.
"A friend of a friend of mine knows the person that's running the program. They suggested I come by and see if I can't pick up a few extra yen coming and going," she explains, reshouldering her bag absently. "Are you a teacher here, or a parent?"
It's easy enough conversation. In a world of weirdness like Southtown, it isn't unusual to see children that fire lasers from their hands or are capable of leaping forty feet in the air. What's unusual is really that Nataya isn't all that unusual. Aside from the strange passive serenity overlayed by cheerfulness, there's nothing that really suggests her to be anything more than what she is: a woman with a very stocked tote and a samaritan streak.
Then again, maybe that's even more strange than immortal crimelords in this town.
The man in question nods his head a little as she talks as a way of saying 'I'm listening, go on, ah, I see.' She doesn't come off suspicious or threatening at all. In fact, what's 'unusual' is the sort of thing the man here almost craves. He's a guy with a job he'd like to be able to do in relative peace despite that a good seven or eight or maybe even more kids that attend here could beat the ever-living stuffing out of him. It's... almost refreshing, despite being caught completely off-guard with the sudden medical aid to his coughing fits.
"I'm a teacher here... shop, this'd be my classroom," gesturing broadly to chairs and seats that proudly display things like monitors or what-have-you as a modern convenience. "At least... when it's paperwork, I mean." As this classroom in itself is totally not the sort of place you do any sort of actual 'shop' work in. Not without a workbench you don't!! And this classroom is lacking. "And my name's Howard. Howard Rust," he opens his right hand but then realizing that he just recently blew his nose into it, he settles with the local cultural equivalent of a bow of his head. He's only hoping it's an appropriate enough substitute for the situation at hand! "It's... it's good to meet you," the voice trailing off because of a cough that wants to sneak up on him again that he fights off at the nearly pyrrhic cost of volume!
"Nataya," she replies. "Sawasdee ka," her hands go into the traditional Thai woman's greeting as she bows her head slightly. As long as everyone's being traditional about things, right? "Pleasure to meet you, too." Her calm face only chances slightly as Rust seems to be fighting off a cough again, and her lips press into a line.
"Are you alright? You seem a little under the weather." The concern is measured, however. She's helpful, but not doting, which hopefully makes the busybody nature she seems to exude a little more tolerable.
Without consulting the man, her hand grabs him by the arm and drags him to one of his own desks. For her size, the woman is surprisingly strong and she's apparently not going to take any resistance at all. Firmly but gently, she deposits him at his classroom desk before absently scratching at the bandages on her hands as she starts rummaging through her bag again. "Seriously, I have Robutussin or something in here for that cough."
"Yeah! Yeah, j--" he tries to reassure her of this despite the blanket appearance of being a man frequently under the weather at which point he is grabbed by the arm and dragged to a desk, one of his knees popping - twice in close succession - as he moves. There is token resistance that dispels quickly, and that popping knee may very well have something to do with it as he ends up clumsily depositing himself (with a little help) in his (comfortable, nice, modern, free) chair.
"Hey, whoa, I'm--" he points a finger up in his usual 'hey pay attention to me I need to say something' gestures that he unconsciously makes a lot right as she offers one of many easily obtained OTC medications for things like this. His face softens from almost understanding confusion to eventual defeat as he sniffles his nose once. "Aaaahh, all right, sure, I... I appreciate it." She's not going to take 'no' for an answer if she's willing to drag him, not exactly a light-set man, all the way to his desk to take something.
Or maybe she's really a door-to-door medicine saleswoman and this is how she plans to make some extra yen! Who knows. If it is she's making a good pitch for it.
"If you're sick, stay home," Nataya says as if it was a mantra as she drops a bottle of cough syrup on the desk. "There we go, Mr. Howard. You can keep the bottle. I have plenty." Living on your own and constantly beating up people or getting beaten up usually means you have to take care of a lot of minor first aid on your own. When you're not part of a big budget stable of fighters or independantly wealthy, you do what you can do to make sure that you're always in decent health. Or at least, that's Nataya's take on the matter.
Having finished her onslaught of medical work for the moment, she clasps her bag shut, switching topics almost immediately. "You know, I just came from submitting an application at Justice High. I heard that some of their teachers also fight professionally. I guess thats's not all that surprising, considering that almost all the children here seems to have some kind of fighting ability."
Nataya slips the bag over her shoulder again. "I hear there's one in Taiyo High, too. A gym teacher, no less. Are any of the teachers fighters here, too? I'm kind of curious as to exactly how that kind of dynamic works, considering kids that fight look like they're ranked over their teachers. I'd imagine it makes the issue of respect a little bit of a problem?" She smiles, as if pleasantly amused by the thought.
Debating her on health advice is probably an exercise in futility at this point, but it's true - when you're sick, you should stay home. But so far as he's aware, nothing that he has is contagious nor too disruptive outside of a coughing fit every now and then. It was just one of those mornings that said, 'Hi, Howard, I brought you your favorite breakfast! Allergies! Also, bacon.' Except without the bacon. He had to get the bacon himself.
rather than repeating the word thanks, he nods his head again at keeping the bottle. He doubtlessly has one in his living space but it doesn't hurt to have another. The mention of professional fighters as teachers gets a slower overall nod... yeah, there's a few of those, he knows a couple from Justice, one from Taiyo... wasn't there one from Gedo with a harpoon?
"Professional fighters? Ah... can't say I know any, uh, yet." If Nataya looks closely at the desk he was recently escorted to, there is a thick stack of papers stapled together. The one on top is the unmistakable form one signs to partake in Saturday Night Fight! "I had a few run-ins with the Pacific Resistance... you heard of them, right? Part of one of the bigger kid rivalries in the ring nowadays, I hear." And have seen. He is lucky to not have been there in person. "The one that's their leader, Marisol, ah... she's spirited." Putting it lightly!! "Tries to find a bunch of other strong people to beat the crap out of. She doesn't outright bully the student body, no. Hell, one of them cleaned up their act after... what's-his-name," snapping his fingers, "a Duke, their father, had his disagreements with the school."
Nataya smiles, but even though the smile is still calm and unassuming, there's something a little different about it. "So parents and students often use the school as a battleground? Interesting." She reaches over without so much as a how do you do and picks up the SNF form, something that she's now fairly familiar with.
"I haven't been here that long, so I'm not really up to date on all the fighter activity, but I do know what this is," she says, looking it over idly. "I don't mean to pry, but there's something about you that I can't exactly put my finger on." Again, despite being twenty, Nataya acts and sounds like someone much, much older than she appears, and her brown eyes positively speak of training that comes from the wisdom that only comes through advanced age and learning. Still, as opposed to being filled with arrogance and self-absorbance, she emits a sense of reassurance.
She sits on the desk. "Why isn't this turned in? The deadline was yesterday," she indicates the form, putting it back on the pile. There's something about the man's words and the way he acts, thinks... her eyes don't look at him too long, but they don't have to. While others may ignore Rust, she can recognize something about him immediately.
"How long have you been running away from it?" She asks conversationally, as if she was asking him about if the cafeteria had any cheese danish left. Her hand smacks the form.
It's a sign of the times, it sure wasn't like this a good decade or two ago, the teacher would say. Street fighting is such a hot thing these days that it is literally everywhere. Omnipresent. All the way down to the very foundations of which a future for children is established. He'd have replied as such. His face reads this before it is even said.
'Something about you I can't exactly put my finger on.' His left hand drops down and pats at a detail that would have been obvious to anybody passing by, but one he sometimes seems to forget the presence of more and more as life in his chosen career path continues - Ol' Rusty, that beat-up length of pipe he's thrust through one of the pockets in the toolbelt in a makeshit sheath, something he continues to carry around regardless of its decreasing relevance in day to day life nowadays... outside of a few choice times where it is called for, at least. 'Does she mean this,' he wonders? Because not everyone carries around a weapon on campus! Several years ago the thought would be unthinkable, but with a world sometimes guided by fear, maybe it's not that uncommon any more.
She then sits on the desk. "What deadl--" Oh great, did he miss submitting his funding requests for the coming fall semester?! The hand smacks down on the form with that pressing question, at which point his attention is brought towards what she really means - that Saturday Night Fight signup sheet. He didn't mean to leave it out on the desk in plain view!! Blame the allergies that got him out of his seat and before a window before she arrived. Just before she arrived. Fancy that.
"Running from what?" He knows what she's talking about, it's plain on his face even through those brown eyes that are so unremarkable to only just be considered 'brown' and nothing else. "That? What am I running from?" He tries to withdraw it from under the palm that seems to know and tell all so that he can flip over the application for some other related documentation to it, but will she give him the chance to do that before he says much of anything else?
"Look, I'm not a seer, and I'm not pretentious enough to wax poetic on you," Nataya says, and she allows Rust to take the application and hide it. She stands up, straightening her outfit with a brush of her hands.
"Fight."
That's what she says. It's a simple word. There's not a whole lot of different ways to interpret it, either. "It doesn't matter why. You might have a million reasons you want to, and you might have a million reasons to keep yourself from doing it. Maybe you're married. Maybe you think you're a has been, or a never was. But you know what? Who cares?"
She steps away from Rust, turning for the door. "Do you really understand the concept of equlibrium, Mr. Howard? It's a center. You're never going to reach yours at this rate if you keep looking at what never was. Nobody ever got through life running up the downward escalator. You still have now. Please make the most of it."
Her penny loafters start for the door so she can make her meeting on time. "I'll be starting here next week. I'm going to be staying after school to use the training facilities. If you want, you can join in the meditation class I'm teaching for the adult education clinics that I'm doing for the local community college."
"Just remember, Mr. Howard, a never was never means a never gonna be."
An opportunity given is an opportunity taken! ...In this specific instance, involving a piece of paper as opposed to several larger, choicer decisions in life, nearly defensively drawing the rest of it closer. It's this time she delivers that one word.
'Fight.'
'You might have a million reasons you want to.' Because ten years ago for certain, he was probably on the fast track to stardom - if it weren't for a few things beyond his control. He liked it, he was good at it, he had what it took. It came naturally, maybe from certain aspects of his very early home life he wasn't too fond of in retrospect. 'You might have a million reasons to keep yourself from doing it.' He's getting older. He overworked himself enough to create a walking physician's nightmare, the countless joints that creak and pop at random intervals are a sign of this. His job is extremely demanding of his attention and his presence. Somehow many others his age in the exact same field pull it off, why can't he? He's not sure.
He sinks a bit into his chair. The topic is a little embarrassing, and the slump is his way of speaking it while he once again loses control of the conversation, his left shoulder making a quiet 'pop' as he holds the papers closer, borderline cuddling like a security blanket. Maybe he'll start sucking his thumb next. (He won't, but fun fact, he did that up until he was seven.)
He's relatively motionless through the query over equilibrium up until the 'I'll be starting here next week.' Any other tone, any other delivery, would have incensed him into a near tirade about the demands of his life but something about it cuts in deeper than most knives ever have had a chance to against flesh forged in hard work day in, day out.
"I'll... I'll keep in touch," he manages sheepishly at the end of the advice-o-rama. Damn, put in place by someone a bit over half his age! Almost everyone he's bothered to be open about his desires with have given similar takes on it - 'c'mon, do it.' But can he really still compare? That spar out on the beach ended with him unconscious and without a great indicator as to how he stacked up against Zach Glen, an established name.
He has another cough. This cough was waiting for the right moment to interrupt the dramatic tension and silence and soul-searching because allergies are, on the whole, a bitch.
Log created on 21:27:55 08/28/2008 by Nataya, and last modified on 01:18:58 08/29/2008.