Description: It's an ordinary after school afternoon at Pacific High, for the most part. Mr. Rust's truck is giving him grief. Marisol's more than happy to offer help. But, is there even any single remotely interesting thing about this afternoon that justifies it being a log? You tell me.
It's fall. The fall semester - a new school year for many - has been well underway for a while. The shop teacher, Howard Rust, has been around for a good year or so. Hell of a year. Southtown is a hell of a town. Pacific High, at least this particular Pacific High, is a hell of a school. Most of his classes this semester, are not as much of a 'hell of' anything. Fuchi is no longer his problem. Though the job remains demanding on all fronts, things seem to look up a little. If only a little. Many of the new students he has remain so incredibly uncomfortable around tools that he put a little dent in the wall in his classroom from ramming his head into it a good six times in succession. (It's coming out of his paycheck.)
Classes are over for the day. Most students are off to whatever after-school activity they choose to indulge in. Most faculty members are off to whatever after-school activity they choose to indulge in. Most everyone, really, is off to whatever after-school activity they choose to indulge in. Mr. Rust isn't any different. He's out in the parking lot, getting ready to drive off somewhere in his horribly rusted, beat-up truck that is no more than four years away from its scrapyard grave. To identify what sort of truck it is, or who even manufactured it, would be grounds for a libel suit from its manufacturers. Its lifespan may soon be shortening because for some reason his keys refuse to cooperate.
"God DAMMIT!" He hisses hoarsely as he slams a palm into the beat-up car door, which dents just that much further. Modern cellphone technology already infuriates him so, why does all the good ol' yesteryear stuff have to give him so much crap too?
With a new semester brings a whole new semester of classes, homework and stress. Not that some students really stress over high school - Marisol being one of the sorts. While she is by no means an amazing student, she's a decent student when she can be, her fighting hobbies and bad attitude aside. Really, Marisol tries where it counts, and that is what matters most, right..?
Regardless, it's a much-needed change in the girl's daily routine, her usual schedule aside. New classes mean new subject matter to learn and study. And with a bit of change that means she won't get TOO bored around campus, which is likely good news for faculty members; after all, it means she's less likely to start a fight or be as easily provoked.
Classes are over and the last bell has long-since chimed, the students scattered around campus doing their usual after-hours hobbies, or just retreating to their dorms to be lazy. Marisol is of the neither crowd; instead, the girl wanders from the main campus, toward the streets, ambling around with a few bandages here and there beyond her uniform. The sight of the bandages earn her a few odd looks from what students happen to pass her by, but she looks none too fussed about it.
The winding path draws near the adjacent parking lot of the school, and while she would normally keep going without sparing a glance in its general direction, a sudden and loud curse draws the half-Spaniard girl's attentions. Blinking once, her head cranes to the side, gray eyes peering across the gap toward a beat up truck and its frustrated owner; immediately the girl offers a light smirk.
Jogging over, the redhead approaches, keeping friendly distance before she pipes up. "Hey there, mister Rust. Somethin' the matter?" she inquires, tilting her head idly. The fist at the door is noted, gray eyes hooding slightly before she peers up and asks, "Uhh, do you need any help, by chance? I'm no mechanic but I have a cell if you need to call a tower?"
"Ahhhhhhh," the teacher growls at this misfortune. Damn door! Maybe he should really think about stopping by that used car place that Saturday Night Fight was advertising in one of its recent televised matches. Maybe he can get a good deal on, who knows, a door. Maybe invade the local junkyard and see if he can get something.
Eventually he rests a hand up on top of the truck and just lowers his forehead against it. The truck seems to lean ever so slightly away, as though it were afraid to make any physical contact with that abomination among abominations of all proper male mid-life crises - that combover. And it really should be afraid, even as an inanimate object. Nobody wants any of that thing.
"Noooo," he lets the 'o' trail off. "I'll just... just get in the other side like always." Oh, this is normal, is it? He lifts his head up off the truck with an odd (well, not so odd, being it's /him/) crack of his neck so he can turn and make eye contact. The truck leans back the way it was, now free from threat of contact by that... that thing on his head. He knows that voice anywhere. "So what can I--"
His mouth hangs open a bit. Those extraordinarily, unnaturally, impossibly, overwhelmingly nondescript brown eyes narrow with scrutiny. Scrutiny any adult of proper age can exercise over the youth. It's broken once by a cough, at which point he pats himself once with his other hand to clear up his throat. Argh, so dry. But that's not going to stop him from asking what falls out of his maw next, with the usual tone expected of any adult.
"What happened?"
It would seem that poor Rust can't catch a break for himself. Fortunately, he doesn't have to suffer silently today, as it would appear that in seemingly no time flat he has company. The girl, who studies the man as he leans against his beat up ol' truck, her face locked in an expression of uncertainty. If this is a recurring problem, he should fix it, right? The obvious answer!
To the redhead's surprise, the Pacific shop teacher cuts himself off as he turns to regard her after his lament. She blinks a few times, lips pursed lightly as she just...well, stands there. A moment later she's being peered at with a bit more scrutiny than she'd like, gray eyes hooding discreetly and most uncertainly. Just what did she do wrong now?? She thought she was being a Good Samaritan by stopping by and asking if he wanted help..!
Her confusion is dismissed as he asks the obvious, and naturally Marisol blinks a few times. What happened? What is he talking--
Oh right, the bandages littering her person.
Marisol's response is, perhaps expectedly, a broad grin. "Nothin' too terrible," she replies, hands resting akimbo on her hips, the girl appearing quite comfortable and very confident--proud, even. "They're just a few scrapes from the other night, no worries." Her eyes drift, peering thoughtfully at the autumn sky as she mulls to herself. Should she say..?
"If you're curious," Likely, Rust is. "...remember those weirdoes that attacked a few months ago lookin' for someone?" The half-Spaniard pauses briefly, letting it sink in. SURELY he remembers. "Well, wouldn't you know the crazy blue-haired one tried to run me over so I beat the crap out of him as payback for not only that, but coming here and making a goddamn mess."
Her smile grows double the size. She won't mention how it was a sort of mutual ass-beating though. No need for that minor detail!
"So I'll be fine!"
The teacher does like to think that sometimes it's just the lock mechanism being difficult and that it'll let him in the next time he turns the key. Evidently not. Resigned to this fact, he pulls the key out of the door with the hand he just pat his chest with and pockets it. He might need it like ten seconds later but he doesn't want to absentmindedly walk over to the other side and forget he left his key in the stubborn door!
The smile would be disarming if this were the first time he met Marisol. But no, they're used to the other. Marisol is a goddamn hooligan, she does goddamn hooligan things, all over the goddamn hooligan parts that goddamn hooligans like to go. Not that he's particularly clean about it! He misses those docks. He misses those docks so much. 'They're just a few scrapes from the other night, no worries.' Howard seems satisfied enough with it as he bobs his head in something of a nod and starts to go around the end of the car further away from Marisol, until she spills the beans.
'If you're curious,' he's still movin' along towards the other door, 'remember those weirdoes that attacked a few months ago lookin' for someone?' During that brief pause, the key goes into the other door. It doesn't twist. He leaves it in there, because he damn well remembers what happened a few months ago! One of the scariest days of his life, he wasn't convinced he was going to wake up after he got sucker punched by the man with that... that cloak and the hair, the latter of which he remembers more clearly than anything else. Completing a full loop around the truck, he picks up some speed in his step, the more Zach-addled of his two knees popping in continued protest of having to belong to the aging teacher at which point he's a bit closer to her than he was when she first offered to help with his car door problems!
"You're telling me," he starts as he looks back off towards the roads and points a hand out to it, "that those people are still... still skulking around town, trying to attack kids?" His voice is dry of humor or amusement at the very thought that they're /still at it/.
It would be a lie to say Marisol isn't paying attention to the man's reactions. A distant part of her expects to be scolded and reprimanded by the man for being reckless, so she has to brace herself a bit and stay slightly defensive. After all, she'd want to defend her own honor, if he were to lay into her for picking a fight with a NESTS agent.
But he stops, her words giving him reason to pause in his pursuit to open the car. Again her expression is distantly curious, lips puckering slightly - discreetly - as she watches him. Soon enough he moves around, circling the vehicle and coming back around to the side he'd previously abandoned. All the while, Marisol just stands there, eyeing Rust thoughtfully.
His reaction earns him a lopsided grin from the girl. "Of course they are - well, I wouldn't say they're going around trying to attack kids. I haven't heard anything about 'em attacking any schools lately, at least." Shifting her weight, a hand reaches up, her index finger pressing absently to her chin while her gaze shifts skyward.
"Really, if he hadn't almost run me over I wouldn't have known who it was. As far as I could tell he was picking up somethin' from a bakery in town." Lowering her gaze, the half-Spaniard girl's grin remains. "Or, had I not busted his helmet in half, I wouldn't have known it was him. I guess it was coincidence..?" Shrugging lightly, she exhales. "But, yeah. They're still around and about...so I suppose you ought to be careful - especially if you see that blue-haired freak. He's unstable." But she's sure Rust was already well-aware of that fact.
Southtown is a tough town! Geese Howard paints a pretty picture on it. They say it used to be worse. 'They' being all the travel guides. But even on his first month he picked up pretty quickly that some places were a lot more dangerous than where he grew up - and that place wasn't a walk in the park either.
He doesn't turn back to face Marisol for a couple of seconds, but for being a simple facial gesture it is sometimes as though he can just /hear/ the grin through her teeth. Slowly, he leans back towards the proper direction for actually holding a conversation with someone (i.e. looking at them), bringing a hand down to grip on the back end of the truck and leans up against it, his shoulder creaking nearly silently. Nearly.
Now he sees the grin he thought she was making. He's not smiling back. Neither is Ol' Rusty on his left hip, but guess what, pipes don't smile either. Well, that crease kind of near the present makeshift hilt side of it is bent like a frown. Meaning if he took it out and held it right side up it'd look like a smile! ...Er... maybe. Point is, the one who is the actual person here between man and pipe is not smiling.
"Listen... all right," oh you knew it was coming, "that shit scares me. I'm... I'm really not kidding here, that's... that's scary." He swallows loudly. How is this possible? He's Howard Rust, he's sometimes thirty-seven going on sixty-seven. He brings up the other hand pre-emptively in that upwards shaking fingerpoint he always does. Always. "I know what you're going to say. I know. I know. You... you're strong, able to take care of yourself. That's... that's more than two thirds of the kids here can say. Okay. You don't need to prove it." He coughs twice, as though it were mandatory for him to do so. (Cough quotas are rough.)
"I'm not from some upper-middle gated community, but... but I've seen bad people. Bad people that don't mind doing bad things. That we got people like them running around here, few streets off, running over kids, and... and all that, that's, you know," he pushes himself off the truck, bending down a little to rub at one of his legs gingerly with one arm with a little wince, his voice growing a bit more strained as he continues to speak, "scares me to think either of us could've, could've died that day."
Southtown is indeed rough. But where there are rough elements that have a negative impact on the city, there are a number of good and honest men and women who are just as strong willing to help stand up against the city's negative elements. It's good, and bad. In the end, someone's always going to wind up getting hurt.
When the shop teacher finally turns around and regards the half-Spaniard, his expression is met with a curious look. What did she do wrong now, she wonders? That look can mean only one thing, and one thing only--he's going to give her an earful, isn't he?
And sure enough, the teacher does precisely that. Perhaps to anyone's surprise, though, is that Marisol actually stands there quietly, hands on her hips as she hears the man out. Gray eyes linger on the aging fighter, her full lips pulled into a thin line across her tanned features as she gives him her undivided attention. And once he's said his piece, the girl lets the thin line on her face blossom into another grin.
"It's scary, yeah," the girl replies as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other. "But I guess what would scare me more is if people just stood around and let those jerkoffs do whatever they wanted to schools in town." She shrugs her shoulders, a half-hearted effort as her gray eyes shift to the side. "So I figure I got two options: I can either turn tail and run anytime I see 'em around, or I can fight and show 'em that yeah, I'm strong and can take care of myself. And so can a lot of people around schools here in town."
Lifting her gaze, the girl's grin broadens a bit as she lets her eyes regard the teacher again. "I don't think you give yourself much credit though," she states. "You did pretty good that day, you know? And hey, y'know what?" Pausing briefly, she lifts a hand and makes a fist at chest level, her eyes hooding as her smile grows even bigger. "I wouldn't have let those jackasses have killed you or Luc."
Exhaling lightly, the girl's eyes draw to a close, her shoulders settling as she lowers her hand.
"I'd have tried, anyway. Thank goodness that K-dash guy showed up. But, hey! There's no sense in dwelling in the past, yeah?" Opening her gray eyes, she smirks. "Instead, we can only just keep trying to get stronger in case those dumbasses com knockin' again. You have been training, yeah?"
Bending down over this part of the parking lot, it reminds Mr. Rust very quickly of that time he got whacked so hard by... whatever it is the blonde hair guy did that he ended up being deeply entrenched into concrete and asphalt. Mostly concrete. But from here he can see where they laid down new pavement and it brings back a bitter memory that makes his ribs tingle. Well, no. That's more the work of Nataya during that spar where she got the best of him with that two-front technique and pounded him down from behind. But he broke more than a few ribs that day too. One doctor thought he wouldn't have ever been able to get out of bed again. After being launched into the concrete, that is. His checkout post-Natayaing was far better. For the most part.
Marisol gets her piece in back largely because the leg he's massaging decides to not feel any better, it wants to feel worse, diverting much of his attention towards coaxing it as gingerly as possible with the hands of a working man that no, it should feel better after he gives it that rundown. Maybe it's good that Marisol approached him. Imagine what would've happened if it started to cramp up while he was driving!
He lifts his head back up regardless of these issues with his physical health somewhere around 'I can fight and show 'em that yeah, I'm strong and can take care of myself.' She's young, she feels invincible. So did he, a good ten years ago or so. Especially after that six story fall. His head tilts a little lower with a quiet sigh, yeah, there's probably no way to communicate his feelings without time itself doing the speaking for him. Simultaneously reassured by the confidence of youth and worried by the arrogance of the inexperienced, he works himself up back to a stand, stretching the leg out and patting the heel against the asphalt while stretching both his arms and shoulders back to a number of disruptive joint pops at the point of his compliment.
He was about to say 'you went out cold first' with a tilt of his head, as if to protest the fact that she might not have been able to that day, straightening his head out again at 'I'd have tried,' which brings him from 'correct her' mode to 'okay that's kind of touching' mode. After all, /he/ took a nasty hit for her. He doesn't do a lot of smiling. No sense dwelling in the past, huh. Well at least she's in a good enough mood, that's good. Hell if he knows what Luc thinks. If Luc thinks about /anything/. He hasn't checked to see if he got held back yet another year yet.
"Actually, uh... about that," he says as he goes back to leaning down against the truck again, "you met Ms. Kovit? New language tutor. Teaches after school classes for grown-ups," motioning back over towards the building. He forgets if she's in today or not, given what plans he had for the afternoon. "Meditation... stretching... that sort of thing, I've, ah, been in a few," idly rolling the other shoulder as a reminder of how he almost locked it up in one of those classes. It pops a lot again. "She's been helping me with that."
After all is said the girl exhales, gray eyes peering at the teacher with a bit of scrutiny herself. She really hopes he's been trying to get back into what he's otherwise put away, especially after the last time, when she finally got a chance to spar him. It's a shame he'd given up in the first place. But maybe, after all that's happened while he's been here, maybe he'll reconsider..?
Chances are, despite her confessions, the teacher still doesn't think too highly of her decisions. But, hey, them's the breaks. She did her best, despite being utterly out-powered by the NESTS agents - and she'd do it again, should she have to. She may be young, dumb and less-than invincible, but she's got spirit and the determination to get better. Marisol WILL get stronger. Better. Faster. She's decided this a few years ago. And while she's come a good way's since transferring to Pacific, she feels she has some way to go.
When the teacher confesses, the girl lets her hands rest on her hips, a grin on her face as she regards Rust. "Really now? Well, I suppose that sort of stuff will help you get better..." Clearly Marisol's idea of training is anything but calm and relaxing, evident by the way her gaze trails away for a brief moment, a finger absently rubbing at her cheek.
But soon enough she glances back with a grin on her face. "It's good that you're working on it, though. I was really hoping you'd reconsider giving it all up. And, hey!" Her hands fall, resting again on her hips as she lets the brunt of her weight shift from one foot to the other. "If you need any help, I'll do what I can. I can't offer any Yoga or meditation exercises, but..." She shrugs.
Marisol is always going to be a goddamn hooligan to the teacher. But she's not nearly as bad as the faculty made her out to be when he was newly hired. Instinctively he's beginning to fear that grin, because that grin can mean any number of things from as long as he's known her, straightening out his posture again as dictated by the lingering aches of sore muscles, still keeping a hand down against the truck.
He's not sure what he'd do if the NESTS people came knocking again. They did, in smaller numbers - shortly after the big strike, Vince had to deal with the head honcho. The good news is, Vince survived the encounter. It still does make the teacher boil a little - what could they possibly want of this school if they didn't have whatever they were looking for the first time?!
"If you turned out to be some kind of... some kind of mechanical genius or something and built a time machine, that'd be good," a joke! He coughs again, his gravelly voice grasping at some dragging vowel, scratching the side of his head following a sudden, testosterone-driven desire to scratch the side of his face. "Haven't gotten a lot of sleep... since... start of the week or so, been going to the YFCC to help 'em fix up. Y'know who they are, right? Teach kids self defense. Those jackasses hit them too. Ms. Kovit's been dragging me there for sparring too. And, uh..."
He's not sure if he really wants to say this, turning his head away as he decides to mask this hesitance by going back towards the side of the truck he was going to enter, "been trying to work out my insurance premiums with the school over registering with the Neo League."
Yes, he just said it. There is absolutely nothing nearby that could have drowned out those words. Nobody entering any other cars, no alarms, no yelling, no nearby seagulls making calls, no heavy winds, nothing.
His joke earns him a light laugh from the half-Spaniard girl. "I can't help you there, I'm sorry," she replies, shaking her head absently in response. "If I could, I would. Can't say I know anyone either. But, hey." Sagging her shoulders, Marisol keeps a grin on her face. And why not? She's in a decent mood today, her bandages and wounds aside. "If you keep up with that exercising and stretching, I'm sure you'll be in pretty good shape and back to the old Rust in no time!"
She tips her head lightly shortly thereafter, a finger reaching up to absently tap her lips. "I mean, you have the potential as far as I can tell. And you're nowhere near as old as some of the guys on the scene, so..." Looking back, her grin grows. "There's hope. Just don't give up."
When he explains himself, the girl eyes the teacher carefully, nodding her head absently. "Really? Well, you ought to get more sleep then. It won't help you at all if you're going at it half-awake. As for the YFCC, I know of it, yeah. Haven't been there yet, but I heard they'd decided to go there, too. I guess that means they haven't found whoever they're looking for."
But the man looks away, his seemingly-coy gesture drawing an odd look from the redhead. What's wrong, she wonders. Does he have some terrible confession to make..?
It would seem so.
But it earns him a rather animated response from Marisol, a hand drawing up to her mouth as she widens her eyes. "Are you serious??" the girl nearly gasps, stunned by his admission. "You joined up in the League?" Pausing briefly, she lets her smile grow twofold. "That's great! It's a perfect way to travel the world at the League's expense and meet people and, of course, get training."
Exhaling lightly, she lets her shoulders settle, a smirk edging its way across her tanned features. "I never would've imagined you finally joining up somethin' like that. Don't get me wrong though. I think it's great news."
Everyone says the guy has potential! But a lot of them, he thinks, like to say it without thinking about his circumstances very much. He's not violently ill nor haunted by a terrible past nor full of lingering issues of lack of self worth. Well... okay, maybe the third, but that's a story unto itself.
"Yeah," he says as he twists the keys into the car door lock. Jingle. Jingle. His face suddenly sours. Oh no you're not. You're not doing this to me now, you overpriced necessity of society! He pauses when another detail comes to mind. Oh, no, this lock's not busted, it's just already unlocked. Huh, fancy that. Now the issue becomes whether or not someone else noticed this and decided to break into his truck, but, more on that in a few minutes.
"Yeah, well," he starts as he wrestles with the handle to open the door, sheesh, this truck is full of issues, isn't it, "they don't cover travel. That comes outta my pocket." He corrects Marisol there, although without much in the way of colorful gestures as he's too busy wrestling with his truck and its many hints of continued deterioration. She might luck out because she has rich parents to foot the bill. He doesn't! He has to pay for tickets and insurance and everything. "I, uh... I did some figuring out, y'know... on days the stuff I'm teaching are just... handouts and paperwork," he absolutely hates those assignments because he's a hands-on man who teaches a hands-on subject but this may have very well been his time management savior, "I could teleconference. Don't know about every week. But that's gonna eat my weekends... yeah, listen, you can say 'sleep more' but," jiggle jiggle, stupid door, "still got a job, still got... got lots to do after class. Time's all but spoken for."
With one mighty flex of his arm, the truck door flies open, at which point he loses his balance and stumbles into Mr. Marshall's car. The alarm goes off. Pushing himself up against the asphalt with hardly any injury nor discomfort other than an elbow going 'crack' as it is flexed, he clears up his throat again. "Would've been Saturday Night Fight if I didn't catch some clauses... clauses I didn't like."
Marisol simply watches, peering at the man as he goes about his business while explaining his situation and circumstance. Inwardly she figures whatever she offers, encouraging or not, he'll take it with a grain of salt. The curse of youth, of course, is that no one believes you're experienced enough! But, hey. She's long-since learned to roll with the punches, figuratively and quite literally. He's a grown man, he can manage.
Fortunately, his lock struggles go unnoticed, as the redhead's gaze wanders toward the distant street beyond the lavish school gates. When he finally speaks back up, the redhead squints lightly, lips pursing before she shrugs. "Maybe," she replies. "But you'll get reimbursed. It's not like it's all just done without you getting any sort of payment." Sure, the girl has money to her name - a considerable amount, like many students at the school - but she doesn't rely entirely on her parents. And so far, the League and SNF have been kind to her.
Still, Marisol keeps a grin on her face, nodding lightly. "Well, it's not as if you have to do the League every week. It's not the same as the Saturday Night Fights, so..." Rolling her shoulders, she lightly shrugs. "You'll figure somethin' out, I'm sure." As for the comment about sleep, the girl's grin falters slightly, as he 'enlightens' her on his situation. She just says nothing; it's none of her business, after all. He's a grownup, and as far as he's likely concerned, she's just a kid.
The sudden stumble and bump into another teacher's car draws a wince from the girl, as a sudden and shrill alarm sounds. Letting him pick himself up, the girl opens one eye wider as the other remains slightly hooded, shoulders going lax as she asks, "You okay there?"
But he mentions SNFs, to which the girl furrows her brows. "Clauses? I dunno, I've never come across anything too bad - er, unless you're talking about some of the really weird shit they occasionally throw in for hilarity's sake." Like them forcing her onto the Alps. Or that room with nerve gas. Or the time she fought on rickshaws...
"Er, so okay, yeah," she corrects herself. "You're probably better off in the Leagues for now." For now.
Reimbursing, of course, but there's always going to be stuff like emergency medical treatment, possible damages to the venues... and Howard Rust is still paying for lots of things. You know how America is really feeling that credit squeeze right now? Look no further than him, a red-blooded American who will certainly be paying a whooooole lot back. He's of the capacity to do so, provided he's not fired or killed on the job over the next, oh, twenty years or so. Twenty five is probably a more realistic number to gun for.
"Yeah, uh, about clauses... ten years ago, wouldn't have given it a read." He doesn't disregard Mr. Marshall's car alarm as any sort of environmental factor as to whether or not his gravelly, sometimes fading voice can be heard clearly as he grasps the side of the now open truck door, running down the edge before withdrawing the key that turned out to not even be necessary to begin with.
Then it's back to eye contact. "I hear people go sometimes, 'oh, you're so good' and sometimes... ahh, y'know what, it's like this. I needed proof what I got... what I got ain't flukes. Chance. Luck. That what I still had was real, and Ms. Kovit showed me that. She really showed me that." Is he treading over an earlier subject he just left? Or maybe he's just struggling to put how he feels about things into words, coughing once again. Damn, today was really bad for allergies.
He takes the toolbelt off, Ol' Rusty and all, and stashes it under the passenger-side seat. But he keeps talking. "Between pyscho people invading Pacific, and... and everything else," is there anything else, "guess it's now or never. Now or never. Hell if I know when my first match'll be. Where it'll be," he shrugs, face still blank with the unmistakable marks of fatigue. "Guess we'll see how I do in a clean, straight fight... clean straight fight on TV. National." His voice trails off to the point that nervousness bleeds through as it comes to mind what he's going to be doing in the near future - something he's been wanting to do for many, many years, yet as those years started to pile on, had slowly come to dread in the instance it turns out he can't perform.
"Well, if you don't mind that sort of thing, the Saturday Night Fights really aren't so bad," the girl replies, shrugging lightly before she exhales. "I find they're kind of exciting. They really push you to give your best under some pretty extreme conditions. I like that sort of thing, though." She figures he'll reply that he's too old for that sort of thing - but she's used to that sort of thing!
Still, what's said is said, the girl's expression still a little amused as he glances back. "Well, as I recall you gave things up about ten years ago, yeah? Well, it won't come over night, obviously. It's good you're getting some help along the way - that's the important thing."
Furrowing her brows a bit, Marisol lets her grin grow a touch as she eyes the teacher. "So you've found a little confidence in yourself, then?" That's definitely important, and it's good news to hear, evident by the way her grin broadens a little more.
"Dunno why it took someone to show you. The fact you've put up with me a few times and helped punch those NESTS idiots, as well as the time you beat up some random goon that wandered on campus...hell, I dunno why you didn't see it before." Again she shrugs, eyes glancing toward the truck as things are squared away.
"I think you'll do fine. It's a bit intimidating but you get used to it. You don't really even remember the cameras are there when you really get into the fight." Exhaling lightly, the girl takes a step back, letting her posterior rest against the other teacher's vehicle as the alarm dies - finally. Folding her arms, she peers at the man closely. "Win or lose, it's about the experience, yeah? I'm sure you'll find time! You worry too much."
Her hand moves, breaking from her chest as she points to the car. "Though, I think what you need to find time for now is a bit of R&R. I didn't mean to keep you 'round this late, and don't let me keep you if you need to go."
No doubt that Saturday Night Fights are easily arranged, exciting, and crazy for the viewers. But it was between that or Neo League. Like hell he'd be able to find the time for frequent showings in both! Life demands a lot out of him. Nataya has more than encouraged for him to be what he wants to be. He wants to fight, sure. He also wants to have this very steady paying job. It's a tough balancing act that a lot of other teachers in other schools pull off very well, at least to the public eye! Who knows if there's a sordid truth to the compromises.
The random goon may have been driven off but Mr. Rust was half-buried in the pavement. The NESTS idiots, well, that encounter is already pretty well storied between themselves and the school by now, now isn't it. Just recently there was that shirtless guy with the white-ish hair and dreadlocks that demanded to see Tiffany but ended up dragging the poor teacher off to a bar. Among other such instances of panty thieves and angry teenage girls.
"Thanks, I'll, uh, I'll remember that," he says, grunting as he starts himself into the truck. Gravity dictates when he puts a foot into the passenger side of the truck, it should lean a bit the way he's going in. Yet, just as it would appear that combover is to touch the inner roof, it seems to lean the other way. No rational explanation is given. None will ever be given. The teacher himself doesn't notice this.
Win or lose. It's not quite time to worry about that. Closing the door behind him, he grunts as he moves himself across the passenger seat in cramped quarters above the stick and situates himself at the driver's seat. He's getting old, and has arthritis of the everywhere, but by the end of the day, he's still the master of his own body despite the rigidness of his joints. Manually winding the driver's side window down (damn, that's an old truck), he leans out and looks back over to Marisol.
"Nah, no R&R yet," head shake. "Gotta get over to YFCC. Fifteen minutes late... hell, surprised they haven't... haven't called yet." You know why? Your cellphone ran out of battery power during the day, Mr. Rust, they probably called you like five times already but no, you didn't bother to check the battery today. Ducking back inside the driver's seat, he waves off a hand before he turns off the ignition.
Holy crap is that engine loud, is this thing even street legal at this point?! Everything shows signs of it being ready to just fall apart right then and there, but the ol' truck is ready to truck on to wherever its owner needs it to go.
Soon as Marisol steps away, anyway.
"Good, you should," is the half-Spaniard's response, her grin edging just a bit more across her face. Whether he means it or is simply brushing the girl off - she doesn't know, but she doesn't worry herself over it too terribly. What he does is what he does, whatever it is he does; she'll just wait and see where he winds up. Hopefully for the better.
As he settles into his car - but not without shimmying over from the passenger side to the driver's - the girl's head lifts, a slight cant to one side before she smirks. The combover goes unnoticed for the most part; it would be rude to stare, after all! Instead she just offers the teacher a slight nod as he speaks, arms folding over her chest as she reclines on the teacher's automobile behind her.
"Well, do what you gotta. Just don't let work be the death of you," she offers with a sly grin. "I'm sure they appreciate your hard work, at least. It's nice of you to give your time like that."
Lightly 'oofing,' Marisol peels herself off the car finally, but not without jumping as the loud engine roars and barks to life. It's a damn miracle it didn't explode or something! But, hey, if it's reliable, well. "Good luck out there, mister Rust," the half-Spaniard offers, giving the teacher a brief wave as she turns her back. The longer that thing idles, the more worried she becomes; best to let the man get on his way.
Though, as she walks away she pauses, glancing over a shoulder with an mildly odd expression on her sun-kissed features. "You might wanna get that looked at," she 'kindly' suggests, following the remark with a slight grin. "Take care!"
A hand waves over her shoulder as she walks back the way she came, still seeming a bit cheerful and pleased with the way the day has gone. Good news all around!
Log created on 20:57:07 09/18/2008 by Rust, and last modified on 14:05:54 09/20/2008.