Description: Drake's stay in Spain has been full of preparation for his Tour fight. Unfortunately, he has no idea where exactly it's supposed to be. Enter Howard Rust, a teacher of Pacific High, and currently stuck in Spain thanks to the school. With the help of modern technology, Mr. Rust sleuths out the answer to Drake's delimma and sets him back on course, meanwhile revealing himself to be an up and coming fighter. The two wind up with a good workout - Rust, getting ready for the Neo League, and Drake, in endurance training for the Tour. (Winner: The Trees. They don't fight fair.)
Ah, Spain. One of many members of the recently emergent European Union. The Euro is, rather handy, able to be spent just about anywhere within the EU - and is holding up rather strong against the dollar, much to his own financial frustration. 'His,' in this case, being one Howard Rust. That high school teacher over at Pacific in Southtown. How long has it been since anybody ever really saw much of anything of him off campus, anyway?
Especially all the way over /here/, dragged along by other Pacific faculty on some international meeting between the various branches that for whatever reason needed to happen here. But that's all behind as of a good four hours ago, and Mr. Rust has pretty much two whole days before he can catch a flight back to Southtown thanks to a ticketing error. 48 hours in a foreign country where he doesn't know the local language! But, it hasn't been a total disaster yet. Maybe it's because of all the time he's spent in Southtown, one of the toughest cities to live in.
It's a nondescript evening in a place all but nondescript to him. It's like first coming to Southtown all over again, in a way, as he sits on a bench somewhere near a park and has himself a giant sandwich that almost seems too big for his mouth to ever take any respectable bites out of. Any physics major out there who looks upon this and claims that this act is physically impossible is forgetting one very important factor: Mr. Rust is a red-blooded American and he loves him some big food portions.
Drake, however, is here with a purpose! To confront the greatest fighter Spain has to offer! And that's precisely what he means to do, too. As soon as he finds out where the heck said mysterious fighter is. Seriously, Drake saw the application sent in, saw the credentials, and for the life of him, can't remember the name. And the location of where it's supposed to be held - in Spanish, naturally - has eluded him! So he's spent most of his time in Barcelona, preparing with vigorous, previously outrageous training exercises. And by 'previously outrageous', I mean training in ways Drake wouldn't have really thought to do before. But hey, push comes to shove, sometimes things need shaken up.
The young fighter is trotting through the park a particular handyman happens to be loitering though. Preferring to draw as little attention to himself as possible while he trains, rather unlike his usual radiant personality, Drake keeps the hood of his hoodie drawn up, and head down. Not that the other American would be recognizable to Drake, per se. Never met the guy. But the fact that he's American would surely be a novelty, now wouldn't it?
Back to the point: jogging. Cardio and stamina training! Some punches are thrown out there as he moves along, too! Only Drake deviates a bit off the path, opting for the softer, albeit slightly more slippery grass. But it's not the grass that's his demise. No, it's the low-hanging branch that his grounded eyes miss - upon which he clotheslines himself.
"Hrrk!"
Legs spin about in the air, gravity taking a backseat for just a second before tugging him comically down to the ground. Thud. A hand sets to his throat, and Drake coughs a couple times. "Piece'a-..!" Cough! Cough!
How much stuff is in this sandwich? It's a dizzying array of colors and shapes and flavors in there. That it can fit in a human hand is mindboggling at minimum, and yet, here he is, a man in a country not his own, enjoying the sort of thing he always does after a hard morning, then a hard afternoon, then a hard night of lounging around, grunting incoherently, and sitting at a desk grading papers and projects (or staring emptily into TV).
Just as he opens his jaw up to its absolute anatomically possible limit without permanently unhinging it from his skull, a gluttony-enhanced trance is broken by the sound of somebody getting struck, a body collapsing onto the soft grass. He lowers his food-bearing hand, the fact he is in an unfamiliar part of the globe having already imprinted on him the fact that he's going to have to look up and around if something sounds off, because hell, he could be mugged, killed, or worse.
Eyes fall upon the fallen man in the hoodie who is having himself a coughing fit. He can't make out some of the things the guy's uttering, and being where he is, there's a fair chance the man doesn't speak his language... and he also has a sandwich. That's two for 'continue enjoying sandwich.'
Mr. Rust does not run his feelings democratically and ignores these two points as he hefts himself off the bench towards the young man, his shoulder crackling loudly as he rolls his left arm. He's dressed as he always is, even if it is a bit chilly. That dirty white shirt, the brown vest, the beaten up jeans, and that toolbelt with one of its perfectly respectable pockets ruined by thrusting a rusty length of pipe through it. Not to mention... that /abomination/ on his head.
"Hey. Hey," a gravelly voice says to the stranger as he stops a couple steps behind him, only hesitating to wonder if this guy here actually understands English. "You okay?"
Cough! "Freakin' trees.." Cough!
And then, there was English.
Drake's head tips back, amethyst eyes peering up at a portly, balding man. With a pipe in his belt. "I'm fine," Drake finally says when he's found his voice, choked as it is for the time being. He rolls over onto his side, then into a crouch where he coughs just one last time. "You're American," he concludes. The eyes then fall to the sandwich. "..And that thing looks dangerous. Will it still attack me if I hold really still?"
That was English, all right. The teacher nods his head a couple times at the mention of being fine, though he draws the sandwich back at the sound of coughs. No coughing on his sandwich! Last thing he wants is to catch something here and come back to his job sick from something he picked up over here, after all.
"Yeah, I a-- what thing?" What's he talking about? Some wild animal? He looks behind himself with curiosity and even a little bit of agitation, because if some woodland critter walks up and decides it wants a bite of that sandwich...!!
Drake doesn't carry exotic diseases! None that he's aware of, anyway!
But the joke is apparently lost, making Drake rather unhappy. Ahwell. -He- thought it was funny. He pulls himself back up to his full height and shakes his head. "Nothin'. Sight-seeing?," he asks conversationally. As he does this, he tugs the edges of his hood forward more.
"Hmm." Howard grunts as he fails to catch sight of any particular wildlife and ultimately shrugs. The joke is lost. Went over his head, like 'whoosh.' "Eh, something... like that. Got a flight out in two days. God damn ticket issue, or something, aaaaaah, what can you do."
As far as the older of the two is concerned, this guy is just some other guy here in Spain who speaks English. Sounds like American English, at least. Another visitor? Heck if he knows. "Doesn't sound like you're from here either," he replies as the sandwich is exchanged to his other hand absent-mindedly.
"You'd be right," Drake admits. Feeling he's not going to draw too much outside attention to himself now, he stuffs his hands into the tube-pocket on the front of his hoodie. "Here for my Tour. Just got no idea where exactly in Spain it's supposed to take place, so.. yeah." Expression and voice a touch more sheepish, "Guess I'm kind'a aimless right now."
And yes, it seems he's taking for granted that this person he's never met before would know him.
"Tour, huh," Tour... tourism? He scratches the back of his head with his free hand. Mr. Rust. The back of his own head. Not Drake's. That would be creepy as all get out. "You mean... like... a tour guide, checkin' out the city?" Damnit, he thought he passed across a place offering tours of the city not long ago, why can't he remember where now?
He looks up towards the sky and, a moment later, off towards civilization. "I, uh... don't think I could help you there. Sorry, don't know the area too well." But yet there he was, once content to eat by himself in a place he didn't know well, where danger surely lurks at every turn.
Like trees. Trees are dangerous. Domino just found out a second ago, and they're woefully numerous.
But the confusion gets a stunned blink from Drake. "O-oh! Sorry!" His right hand lifts in a flash, outturned for a handshake, face overtaken by a bright smile. "Name's Domino! I'm doing a World Tour, meeting and fighting the best each country, nation, and unique part of the world has to offer!"
Domino, Domino, does sound familiar... the face kinda is, but the teacher decides to not worry about it since the guy's gone and introduced himself, extending his right hand to meet the handshake and return it firmly.
"You're a fighter?" He dips his head and raises a brow a bit as if to make sure he hears that bit right, but doesn't actually wait for Drake to answer. "I'm Howard. I, ah, teach at a school back in Japan... Southtown, in fact." He's also hoping they don't get that same whack-ass substitute teacher he's grown to dislike for those days he's gone while waiting for his plane out.
Drake gives the hand a single pump before stuffing his hand back into his pocket. Drake's, not Rust's. Both for the pocket and the hand. He nods his head once with an eager grin. "Yep! I am, indeed!" And naturally, this more than likely means Drake lives in Southtown. Or has at least been there, or the schools. In this case, the former. "Which school's that?"
"Pacific... the international one," he clarifies after pause, coughing into his free hand once before patting his chest, "'scuse me. Yeah, Pacific. I teach shop. When I'm not, uh... stranded." They have a damn helicopter, why can't they just pick him up already, he's groused about earlier.
He straightens up his posture a little, a knee cracking with a short grimace after the fact. "So... when's your fight gonna happen?" If it's soon, maybe he might be able to come and watch. (Fat chance!)
"Soon, I hope." It was the answer he'd hoped for! But with a qualifier. "I'm really in the dark about it, like I said earlier. I like these things to be a lot more structured, but my people couldn't make it to Spain for me. So communication's kind'a screwy. I don't even know if the fight'll be here!"
But then an idea hits him!
"You good with geography, Howard?," he asks with that bright smile again.
Americans have a significant racial penalty to Knowledge: Geography at chargen. Whether this particular one, the nearly 40 year old man has actually overcome that or not, is left up in the air. Until now!
"I, uh," he scratches the back of his head with the same hand he has been, "guess I could be? Why do you ask?"
Drake's spirits seem undeterred by the lack of total confidence his new American tourguide seems to display, smile still dazzling. "Do you know where the Plaza de Toros 'La Glorieta' is?" Geography never was one of Drake's strong suits, to be honest. But that's why God invented Google maps.
"Plaza... de... Toros, Plaza de Toros, uhh," the teacher takes a good look behind him, as if such a gesture would actually help to make him remember. He knows he heard the term from one of the other Pacific Southtown chapter representatives and how they hoped to visit /a/ Plaza de Toros while they were here. He wasn't paying attention. Shows him for not paying attention.
"Wouldn't..." he turns his head back and shakes it, frowning a little, "wouldn't know a damn thing there, but," he stops as he suddenly digs his free hand into one of his toolbelt pockets, "could give someone a call."
"I think 'Plaza de Toros' means bullfighting ring. Something like that," Drake offers helpfully. "I've done some modeling here - think I picked up that much, at least. But the 'La Glorieta', I'm guessin', is a specific one somewhere."
Out comes a phone.
Drake grins. "Hey, a lifeline. Sweet." But he doesn't reach for it or anything. He wouldn't want to just swipe someone's technology! Or he could just expect the older gent' to make a call, himself.
It's a really tiny phone. It doesn't look like a man with fingers his size should be able to successfully manipulate it. Truth is, he struggles with it for the difference in scale between 'thumb' and 'button,' "Okay, I got reception, uh... what was her cell... yeah, this is a new one, hadn't gotten my, my speed dial for everyone yet."
He closes one eye, his tongue visibly pressing against his top lip as he cautiously keys in a phone number from memory. It takes him a short while. "Need one sec."
Drake's supposition seems to pay off! The orcish man starts toying with his phone, and Drake simply begins rocking on his feet anxiously. Yes, like an impatient kid. "Who're ya callin'?," he asks eventually, when he presumes the other line is ringing. "A wife?"
"Huh? No. No. I'm, uh, not married," he replies as he brings the tiny thing to his ear. "Hey. Hey! This is Howard, can you hear me-- huh, who? I said this is Howard. Howard Rust, over at Paci-- oh. Uh. Sorry."
He lowers his arm quickly enough that his elbow pops. He shakes his head. "Nope. Got her number wrong... uh, hey, let's see if I can get my dad." He raises the little phone again and starts to key in the number for his home over in America. He does't key in the numbers any faster, unfortunately for the young man's enthusiasm to finally have a clue as to where to go!
Drake keeps politely silent during the awkward conversation, then offers a consoling smile once he hangs up. And look at that, the guy's dialing another number! What a trooper! "Awesome. Thanks," Drake says appreciatively, mood still perky despite the delay.
Though eventually, his gaze wanders down to that lead pipe. "..Just what is that for, if you don't mind me asking?" Out of the blue, maybe, but that pipe's pretty noteworthy.
"What's wha-- oh, there?" He motions downward with the sandwich bearing hand, which has yet to be eaten (if it is physically possible) but hopefully it shall be soon!
"Friend of mine," he responds as he finishes up dialing the number and holds it up to his ear, waiting for his dad on the other end to pick up. He taps his foot twice. Hopefully he's not asleep!! There is a substantial time zone difference between here and there.
"Friend, huh?," Drake asks, bemused. "Friend looks like he could use some maintenence. What's his job, exactly?" Drake may not be at all handy with tools and repair jobs, but he's pretty sure a length of pipe is useless on its own! Not exactly an all-purpose instrument!
"More like a... a partne-- oh! Hey. Dad? Yeah, it's me, How-- who the hell else is going to call you dad?!" He holds up a finger from the sandwich bearing hand, which is a risky endeavor because even removing one finger's grip could send the whole concoction spraying all over the place. Maybe it is an antimatter sandwich, kept at bay by this man's strong hand, just waiting to make contact with the rest of creation and create a catastrophic explosion.
"Hey. Yeah. Work's good. Hey. Reason I called you... uh, your computer worki-- I mean can you turn it on? Yeah? Thanks." He looks a bit away from the phone. "He's gonna go turn it on."
Drake's gaze lifts back to Rust's face, eagerly awaiting the explanation. When it becomes delayed, he looks mildly disappointed - but the enthusiasm transitions back to the previous topic. Maybe he'll get to make some progress, here! Finish up in Spain, and he can move on to enjoy a nice, relaxing Winter's stay in Russia.
...Err..
"'Kay," Drake says, for no more reason than to confirm that he's paying attention. For as truly thrilling as it sounds to turn all manner of blue and black with frostbite in the Mother Country, knowing where he needs to be is still important.
There's a bit of silence as the older among them waits for the status of their father's computer to come through their lifeline. The teacher's eyes light up.
"You got it on? Great. Hey... okay... so, you can get online, ri-- why else would I ask you to turn the god damn thing on?! Hey. Whoa. Hey... hey. All right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's, uh... really important, okay, just... can you get online with it?"
This is the moment of truth.
Drake's eyes widen at the choice of language. Being a young adult that Drake is (legally speaking, to a degree, by American standards!), he has full privelege to use a wide variety of colorful phrases. But he'd never say anything like that to his father. His father would, in fact, punch him right on the nose. And Drake happens to like his nose.
Still, what appears to have been reprimandation gets a grin from the youth. He maintains his anxious silence, however.
Considering that Howard here is as gruff looking as he is, it may say a fair bit about his upbringing. But he has, somehow, managed to land a job at a prestigious international school. Stroke of luck, or...?
"Google came up? Good. Good. Anyway... no, dad, this isn't a lesson plan, I got stuck in Spai-- I'm not ditching my job!! I got dragged to a meeting and something got fucked up, I'm stuck until-- aaaaaaah, all right, we'll make it... we'll make it quick," he coughs twice briefly.
"I need you to look up a Plaza de Toros, uh, one sec," he looks to Drake, "what was the full name?"
More colorful language! Drake would probably get an ear yanked off for that one! But that's what you get for having a pro wrestler for a dad. Perhaps Rust is fortunate in some ways.
The sudden turn of attention onto Drake causes him to pause. "O-oh," he says. "Ah.." Eyes lift. "La Glorieta?"
The teacher nods again, "Plaza de Toros La Glorieta... yeah, that's what I said... what? Plaza de Toros La Glorieta!" He raises his voice a bit. Maybe the reception is going haywire, or his dad is hard of hearing, or...
"Okay. Plaza, that's... p-l-a-z-a... de, as in... as in day, but spelled d-e... Toros... t-o-r-o-s... La, uh... that's l-a. Glorieta... one sec." He turns again to Drake. "Y'know how to spell that... that last one?"
Drake opens his mouth to recite some letters, but... come to think of it? He hasn't seen it spelled out in a while. "I'm.. not sure. G-L-O-R-I.. uhm.. probably with an E following that. Maybe two T's?," he stumbles. An apologetic smile is now given.
He nods yet again. "Okay. You with me, dad? Okay, so... g-l-o-r-i-e-t-t... wait, wait, Google says it's one 't'?" His face goes sour. "Huh... what?! Hey, don't say that to me, I asked this kid here-- dad, look. Look. He was mis-- /we/ were mistaken, okay, if, if Google spells it right then we don't have a-- just, just look it up already!"
He grumbles, sighs, and looks back over to Drake yet again. "Well, he just chewed me out for not spelling it right... uh, just so you know, my dad really, really got on my case about my education. Actually... didn't start college 'till I was 'round... 30 or so."
Drake cringes a little at the verbal altercation. Then the following confession gets the supermodel to physically droop with guilt. Shoulders hunch inwards, head sags, and large, remorseful eyes peek up at Rust. It is, in fact, the wounded puppy look. "Sorry, man," he says weakly.
"Aaaaah," he swings the sandwich-holding hand down gently. Because if he threw too hard, he'd drop the sandwich all over the ground and that would make this day truly horrible. His brow goes up again. "Says it's a bullring in... Salamanaca, Castile and Leon, Spain? Okay. Thanks. That's goo-- wait, I need one more-- yeah, I know what time it is over there! Need you to call up a, a map. Can you? We're in..."
He looks to Drake once more. "Barcelona, right?"
Drake fidgets with his hands in the tube pocket, despite. But at the sign of results, he perks right up again. "Salamanaca, Castile, and Leon," he repeats under his breath. It's in three different places? How could that be possible? Is he going to have to travel to each one in search of his opponent? Geeze!
The question snaps his attention, though. "Wha? Oh, yeah. We are."
"We're in Barcelona," the cellphone bearer says at Drake's confirmation. "Just need an idea of how far..." His voice trails off. His mouth hangs open a bit. "One sec."
He clears his throat a bit. "According to my dad, Salamanaca's all the way over on the other side of the country. So... if you got something going on there, can't say... can't say I'd be able to watch."
"Dude," sighs Drake. "All the way on the other side of the country..." He shakes his head. "Well, maybe it's warmer there. But what about the other two things you mentioned? Leon and.. Castile, was it?" His head cocks slightly. "Is there a 'La Glorieta' in each of those?"
"Uh, let me check." Back to the father figure across lines. "Dad? You still there? Okay. Yeah. Yeah... what's the Leon and Castile pa-- oh, you read it anyway? Great, so... okay. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks, hold on one sec."
He lifts his head up instead of turning towards Drake this time. "Salamanca," apparently he mispronounced it not long ago, "it's /in/ there, it's a... a province, or some such-- one sec. Yeah? Okay. I'm sorry about the time, you were, you were the only one I could c... I couldn't ask a local, this is the first native English speaker I've come across! Argh, okay. Okay. I'll let you go. Yeah. Love you too."
He closes the phone up, meaning the call's done with. He exhales loudly, pockets the cellphone, and rubs his forehead. "Yep... all the way over on the other side of the country."
Nevermind the novelty of 'love you's' from people Howard's age, Drake's overtaken with the idea of having to go cross-country to get to Salamanca. "Dagg." But the phone's snapped shut, and Drake decides to take the opportunity to distract himself by diverting topic. "Sorry to make you call your old man. That's why I can't call my coordinator people - the time difference is sizable, y'know? But you were telling me about that thing..." His right hand emerges from the pocket to gesture at the pipe.
"Oh... yeah, this thing. 's name is Ol' Rusty." Mr. Rust would tell it to say hi to the young man, but he knows that rusted lengths of pipe don't talk, they shouldn't be talking, and if he does in fact ever hear them talk he should probably start taking some medication. He pats the makeshift hilt, which is to say the side that's currently poking out top, twice gingerly.
"Well, I've gotta tell you, there's a lot to be said in a name." The emerged hand scratches at the side of his head as he examines the pipe. "So.. why do you carry it around? Just in case you find a gap in the sewers?" It's meant as a joke, but Drake's pre-occupied with overwhelming curiousity - too much to grin or anything at Howard.
"Uh, actually..." Is there even any point to dancing around it any more? He's a registered fighter, as legally declared to his health insurance provider at work by having signed up for what he has as he clears his throat and stretches out one of his legs. After all the trouble Nataya and some other people went to help get him back into the ring... guess he shouldn't do them a disservice, even if this is unfamiliar territory he doesn't want to cause trouble in.
A small series of cracks sound as he straightens up his posture a little. "I'm a fighter, too. Signed up for the Neo League, while back... ahh, haven't been in a proper match yet."
Drake's eyebrows raise, and he turns just slightly to give Rust a once-over in a whole new light - the balding, portly man, a fighter! "Well, how do you like that!," Drake says with a grin. "So lemme guess - you just whallop people with that thing?" He nods his head towards the pipe, looking quite entertained by the idea.
This world is enthusiastic about street fighting. Even Mr. Rust, here, is pretty into it, despite however he carries himself given how much his wants are limited by his situation in life. Being a teacher is a full time thing. Thankless, taxing... and usually not great for pay, but being Pacific's payroll is the most generous he'll ever have in his life.
"Yeah, ah, something like that." He moves the sandwich over to his other hand and tugs at the mighty(?) length of pipe that will probably give Drake's eyes tetanus just looking at it. This planet probably needs shots just for hosting a species capable of producing something that could get so /rusty/.
He growls a little as it continues to be stubborn. Some days it just comes out fluidly. Other days... this.
Drake watches in amusement at the epic struggle of man vs. utility belt.
Then, aburptly, "Can you take a hit?"
Wide, impish amethyst eyes lift back to Rust. An equally rueful grin has spread over Drake's lips.
Mr. Rust emits a low, prolonged, nearly silent contemplative grunt. "I know... what you're implying." He takes a break from removing the pipe to carefully wrap back up his beloved, gigantic sandwich that no man should be capable of easily biting into in its wrapper with almost loving detail as he shuffles back over to the bench, setting it down gingerly like a parent letting a child enjoy a playground without much in the way of adult supervision.
He looks up and rolls his right arm around his socket, with another series of obnoxious creaks and pops. "One thing... I don't know this place, I don't speak the language, so... long as I don't have to crawl all over town lookin' while bleeding to death..."
Drake laughs at this and shakes his head. "I don't mean to inconvenience you or anything, if it seems kind'a that way," he offers pleasantly. "I'd just like to get in s'more training before the actual fight takes place. Toughen up, y'know? Make sure I'm ready to take a few hits before going up against the best Spain's got to offer." His left hand sets to his hip, and he tilts his head again. "If you'd prefer, I can keep from throwing any hard shots at you. But I kind'a get the feeling that'd be insulting, and maybe a little pointless for you. I don't wanna be selfish or something."
The best Spain has to offer, Drake says. International level. Come to think of it, the guy is looking and sounding a lot more familiar to him... either way, the young man over there is an established fighter, no two ways about it. He took his own chances against another one a good long while back, Zach Glen. Zach flattened him.
But he's gotten better. He's in better shape, a fair bit fitter, doing things close to how he was ten years ago. Maybe he might stand a better chance now - but this isn't Zach, this is a whole new ball game. The teacher nods his head, and scratches behind his ear briefly. "Aaah, I hear." Even if there is a good reason /not/ to get into it, he just can't resist. After all, he's a registered fighter now, and he's stuck aimlessly wandering and touring around this part of Spain until his plane comes in a scant few days. The possibility that he'd get hurt to the point he'd need to spend enough time in the hospital to miss his flight entirely escapes him.
He stretches his back out, arms outstretched, and it almost sounds like a distant firecracker show. Maybe one day he can be hired to dub a fourth of July firecracker montage. "Naaaah, don't hold back too much." If at all, he means to say, even if he doesn't realize it as he starts to tug away at Ol' Rusty again.
Maybe the pipe is pissed it hasn't been able to do this in so long. If it... actually had feelings?
The encouragement to not hold back earns Howard a grin. "Thought you'd say something like that." Drake lifts both hands to whisk his hood back. Head now free, he tilts it one way, then the other to pop a couple vertabrae.
He doesn't intend to take it -easy-, necessarily. But he doesn't intend to cripple the guy or put him in the hospital, either. Although, incidentally, he figures he'll probably be 'going easy' to some degree - by simple merit of how he plans to use this for training. So in the hopes of keeping the older fella' from feeling cheapened or gipped, he adds, "I'll make sure you get some good training out of this, too. Keep on your toes - I'm gonna come at ya fast."
Just as he warned, the teen suddenly sprints into motion at Howard, quickly covering the distance between the two. On the final in-step, he torques his body aside and thrusts out his right elbow at the man's chest level to get things started.
COMBATSYS: Drake has started a fight here.
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Drake 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Drake 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Drake successfully hits Rust with Quick Punch.
[\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Rust
The older man nods his head yet again. This is just practice, not the big, real deal. Hell, he might learn something. Get a good gauge of where he stands in the world right now, in that big, vast, wide world of people beating the crap out of one another for fun and profit.
The two guys are the same height, but Mr. Rust admittedly doesn't put a lot of stock in Drake's fist as he goes to elbow him in the chest while he's still struggling to draw out Ol' Rusty. It's more where the elbow ends up than the elbow itself, hitting him in the chest with just enough to push some air out of the man's lungs with a slightly exaggerated grimace, his feet shuffling from underneath him to hold his balance as the two go face to face in a jiffy. Came at him fast, all right.
Still struggling to draw Ol' Rusty out, he sucks in air with a wheeze and bows his head, thrusting himself forward into Drake. It's a headbutt. There's... nothing actually all that special about it. No glowy chi aura, no sudden displaced air, nothing except for the fact that an older, balding man is about to attempt to make contact with a younger man who may share this same fate in twenty or thirty years - the reality of hair loss and the desperation of one to continue to attempt to delude the world that he still actually even /has/ hair.
Said desperation of a middle aged crisis does not lend any real physical impact, but... what else is there to say about such a stock headbutt, otherwise?
COMBATSYS: Drake interrupts Hardhat Rush from Rust with Medium Throw.
- Power hit! -
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Drake 0/-------/------=|===----\-------\0 Rust
Strike landing, Drake begins to set back into a more traditional Tae Kwan Do stance. Only Howard is coming at him a little sooner than he'd first anticipated. The head slams first into the youth's shoulder, which he could claim happened due to reflected UV rays from a bald head... but really now. This is the type of training he's attempting to accomplishing. Less moving-the-Hell-out-of-the-way, more conditioning the body for when it does get slammed. And know what to do when it comes.
So the head smashes into a shoulder, and gets a small wince from the considerably lighter male. Though the moment following impact, his body dips a little to hook his arm up around Howard's head. Caught, he yanks back to drive that offending head against the ground behind him in an over the shoulder DDT.
Which, of course, he sets about standing up afterwards.
"Hngh!" A surprised grunt comes when one Howard Rust's headbutt because the butt of the joke, hefted over Drake's shoulder and slammed henceforth onto the ground. A man of his advancing age and girth, usually an easy target for a good, hard slam to take their weight and relative inflexibility against them.
Drake may be surprised to watch that the man doesn't sit there and try to soak in the pain. He lets himself tumble along, albeit with some effort given the 'crack' that seems to come from his neck, and stands up a ways away from that there Drake feller, rotating his head around his neck.
"Hoo... yeah, that woke me up," he says as he finally draws Ol' Rusty from its sheath. It would be a majestic gesture were it not for the fact it was a beaten up, rusted length of pipe. And the fact that his jeans suddenly droop, corrected as he brings his free hand down and clutches them up.
Better here than in front of a crowd... he'd suppose.
He turns back around to face Drake, attempting to brush off the pants drooping bit and motions with one finger holding the pipe.
COMBATSYS: Rust focuses on his next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/------=|===----\-------\0 Rust
Drake starts to set into his stance, only pausing momentarily to ensure he didn't actually cause lasting damage to the gent'. But the old guy's got some staying power in him apparently, and he nods approvingly upon seeing him raise back up to his full height. He's durable - it'll go a long way for him! "Sweet," Drake grins. "Mmkay. I'm gonna come from a different angle now."
The mentions aren't said arrogantly, really, even though they could be misconstrued in this way. Rather, Drake's trying to make good on his assurance of giving Howard good training in return. He said he's not had a real match yet, so hopefully this'll prep him for when it comes!
Though the vague warning given, Drake lunges forward again to close the gap of space between them. Only this time, he does it by jumping through the air. As he draws near to Rust, his body twists over in a spin to launch an aerial hook kick from the right foot, aimed to smash against the man's shoulder or back.
COMBATSYS: Rust interrupts Light Kick from Drake with Cement Upper.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rust
The air. Not a whole lot of people make use of it these days, Howard's seen. But Drake doesn't really give him much time for him to reminisce over that sort of thing. Drake is fast on the ground, fast in the air. He's put on the defensive, kept on the defensive. But, today - maybe even just today - there's something different about this man not apparent from last year.
He's got something of a spark back.
Even with sagging pants and one hand dedicated to keeping them up for the moment, He lowers his stance a little and starts to spin Ol' Rusty about in his hand like a handy little trick. He's always put faith on this trick in a pinch. Maybe it's too soon to call it a pinch? Mini-pinch. Half-pinch? It's part pinch, so, it applies.
The hook kick comes in. The old man sort of moves with it, moving his left side back somewhat with the blow as he then swings the pipe upward in a powerful, air-displacing uppercut with a loud, hearty cry. An advancing grounded uppercut, but an uppercut nonetheless. A fine anti-air among anti-airs, as the pipe makes contact with Drake in a satisfying manner for the feedback that runs through his arm and nearly rattles his shoulder, given the force of it.
That said shoulder's muscles feel a little twisted for moving so suddenly after barely warming up gives him enough pause to prevent him from furthering his offense for a brief moment, at least.
Drake is nothing short of surprised at this tactic. Surprised at the tenacity of the swing, and equally surprised by how much it effing hurts! Even moreso, he's surprised at suddenly finding himself grounded in front of the man. Despite pain now wracking his form, Drake starts to laugh. "Hahah.. ow.. good hit, old-timer!," he lauds. "Keep that up!"
Promptly, he curls and backrolls to his feet again. "Just make sure I don't get a bigger show than just your fighting," he jokes with a gesture to the still-tended pants. Drake sets back into his stance again and inclines his head, staring intently across at Rust. "Okay, then. Gonna get a little more complex on you. Keep that defense sharp and show me how you plan to deal with it."
Drake begins to move in, slower than before, but more methodical. Suddenly, the teen weaves low and to Rust's left, attempting to grab ahold of his wrist. As he does this, Drake's left foot swings out to attempt kicking the older man's legs out from under him, ideally to bring him flat on his face in the grass - but with his arm caught in Drake's hands. Said arm, then, will be given a sharp wrenching in a modified armbar, while he continues standing.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Drake's Combo Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Rust
"Uh... uh, yeah," he grunts as he keeps his pants where they are. He raises his hand a bit... it seems to stick, okay. The embarrassment is pushed aside largely by the satisfaction of knowing the Cement Upper hasn't dulled any. (Why does he call it Cement Upper, anyway? It has nothing to do with cement.)
The park terrain actually isn't terribly even when you jog off the path. He nods his head yet again about doing 'something more complex,' ah, he'll learn, not like he didn't have to navigate tough terrain on the job so long ago...
Drake moves in. He gets Howard's left wrist. He tugs a bit at it. His legs withstand the low kick with only the slightest crouch (and a dip of his knees), which gives Drake maybe a minimal chance of wrenching away at his arm.
The older one fights it pretty well. He's a thick guy, if not super tall in height. If it's a sort of tug of war Drake wants, it's one he gets with panache as he fights getting his off hand twisted about. It's hard to tell who is actually /winning/ in it, as Howard doesn't make any illustrative grunts or other twisted facial expressions to suggest he's desperately fighting against a losing situation as opposed to being merely uncomfortable and tolerating things as they are to this degree.
It's at this point that he sucks in air and tries to throw his would-be barred arm forwards with Drake on it, whether to destabilize his grip or balance, before thrusting it backward in a respectfully quick shove for what it is, excessively simplistic a maneuver it might be.
It could be putting a bit too much stock into physical strength as opposed to the legitimately powerful knowledge and techniques that go into Drake's approaches and holds, but hell - it's kept him alive this long, hasn't it?
COMBATSYS: Drake endures Rust's Medium Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/-======|=====--\-------\0 Rust
The tangle mess didn't go quite as Drake had hoped, obviously. But it's not his grappling technique that he's wanting to focus on so much as other aspects of fighting, so he takes it in pretty good stride. Besides, it's a good testament and measure of Rust's The-Mountain-Does-Not-Move tactics.
But Rust might notice that there's very little resistance provided against his attempt to gain control in the situation. Or at least, much less resistance than one might suspect from a seasoned professional wrestler. Indeed, Drake's going with the blow instead of maneuvering around or manipulating it, allowing his body to take some extra punishment. And that's certainly what it gets. He's thrown back, thumping against the grass with a sound 'oof'.
But the pro to simply going with a blow is the ability to bounce back from it. It's a measure of finesse and control in itself, to be certain, and the short of it is: bounce Drake does. Right off the grass into a back handspring, which lands him in a crouch, lending to a sudden forward burst of movement right back at Rust. Both hands lead the rest of him, driving forth in a strong double palmheel strike.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Drake's Fierce Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Drake 0/-------/-======|======-\-------\0 Rust
The mountain does not move. Neither does a well-constructed building, even if it needs constant maintenance to ensure it doesn't fall apart from the elements or what have you.
He shakes out his arm while working off the last vestiges of that pain from the previous exchange, only to find that Drake is coming at him again, no slower than before. In fact, rather quickly! It's a knee jerk reaction what happens right around here.
He turns his left arm towards the double palmheel strike and flexes his arm until it is extremely tense. It's not like palming flesh. It's like palming a well-designed home. It might even sting the palms just a little on impact as he wills himself to being rigid. Immovable. Which... goes both ways.
Because now the rest of him doesn't feel like moving, the old soreness and stiffness he's been trying to work off through somewhat more regular exercise and stretches returns in full swing, joints popping as he tries to thrust Ol' Rusty forward in a nondescript, hard thrust towards Drake's briefly vulnerable gut, his shoulder and elbow popping in unison in collective protest of him trying to move about so quickly after willing himself to stiffness - his body always wanted him to give it a break after working it to being old before its years when he was young.
A youth well spent? Who knows, but the job experience really helped get him where he is now. Lost in Spain, in a fun spar with a stranger.
COMBATSYS: Drake endures Rust's Fierce Strike.
> Determined Hit! <
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Drake 1/------=/=======|======-\-------\0 Rust
Drake would have expected quite a bit of recoil from that hit - he wasn't holding back with that strike, that's for sure! So the resistance he meets under his palms earns Rust a surprised look. Nevertheless, Drake spies the pipe swinging, and despite being fairly certain he has enough time to go his usual route and either deflect or out-maneuver it, he sticks right in the fray. Chiselled abs are tightened in preparation for impact, and--
"AAOUF!"
It was a harder hit than Drake really expected from the old guy, but hey. He can take more! Slightly doubled from the hit and one eye twitching, narrowed... he remains in close proximity, preparation of toughening up the muscles paying off. He makes a sudden grab for the arm supporting the pipe, reaching for the wrist and shoulder to suddenly attempt slamming him down against the grass. If successful, he goes to mount over that connected shoulder, both hands grabbing the arm to wrench back in a sitting reverse armbar. "Doin' fine..!," Drake says, voice a little ragged from the pain. "But how do you do without the weapon, Lancelot?"
COMBATSYS: Rust dodges Drake's Strong Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Drake 1/------=/=======|======-\-------\0 Rust
The striking arm swings down and back, not following the same path in which he struck with as he leans forward and coughs once. Is he letting down his guard? He probably shouldn't, what with Drake still being close by. One of his eyes shut from sweat that suddenly gets into it, peering out at Drake's next move with that one single open eye.
He draws his right arm away from the grab, though two of Drake's fingers brush up against his forearm in a near miss. Whether or not Drake actually goes through with asking if he can do without the weapon, that he intends to demonstrate this really comes naturally after this close together, leaning in towards Drake so that his armpit is dangerously close to Drake's face. It's sweaty. It smells bad. Yuck.
It's at this point he thrusts his right elbow down onto Drake's cranium, making sure to tense his arm just right to ensure it has that right amount of 'oomph,' something like bringing down a wall on top of someone. A wall of elbow, and stinky armpit. Mostly the former. Maybe. (One would hope!)
COMBATSYS: Drake dodges Rust's Random Strike.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////// ]
Drake 1/------=/=======|======-\-------\0 Rust
Drake's fingers whiff by the arm, and he's honestly a little surprised with himself. He actually had a good shot of grabbing that arm, and he had every intention to work it over! But now he has a new problem - an elbow is kareening down towards his noggin. And insistent on training his toughness and durability as he might be, Drake can't afford to have his precious face marred, or risk blood being drawn from his head. He -is- a model, after all.
So without a second thought, Drake suddenly skirts to the side, clearing the blow completely. "Kudos for keeping outt'a my grasp," he says. "Keep it up! I'm gonna make things a little bit harder on you now, too."
Even though Drake's in a lot of pain, and knows the training will have to end soon, he can still give this guy a good workout. It's what he promised, after all!
Drake suddenly comes in again, with yet another grapple attempt. This time, however, he attempts to just sweep Mr. Rust up into a cradled position in his arms - right arm behind his shoulders, left arm under his legs. If caught, he promptly drops to a knelt position to smash his back across an upturned knee. Following this, his right hand goes to set under his chin, and the left hand sets to his right leg, both pushing downwards in a bridged submission hold.
COMBATSYS: Drake successfully hits Rust with Star Breaker.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////// ]
Drake 1/----===/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
The teacher (or maybe more student, in this instance? He's the less experienced in terms of organized fighting by far) stumbles forward a bit with the whiff, and also because of how the terrain dips a bit under his foot. The ground was just an inch or two away from where he expected it to be, leaving him leaning forward and a bit forward while Drake moves off to his side and compliments him.
"YEah, uh... thanks," he says through a heavy breath. He is getting worked over a bit, it's also cold and he's kinda hungry. He hopes nobody took his sandwich. If anybody takes his sandwich they are in for hell. Esepcially if they're big Russian minigun fanatics. It'd make him angry enough to invent portable easily constructed minigun- and rocket launcher-armed sentry guns, make no mistake.
He gets swept up before he can pick himself up this time though. Tough and strong as he is, he is pretty sluggish. Drake lifts him up, at which point in an attempt to lighten the impact he tries to guess which direction Drake is going to toss him. HE doesn't get any cues as to where to lean or what to tense up as he gets kneed in the back, which bugs his eyes out a bit. He focuses a bit too much on the back as he is then grabbed by the chin and then put in a pretty solid submission hold. It's kind of tricky to think of a good way out of any of this--
He lets out a prolonged utterance of something like 'auurrrgbkk,' as he is worked over like a deck add-on to the backyard. The only boon he has is that his right hand - the one with the pipe - is the one closest to Drake and he'd have to make due with not having a lot of room to wind up a swing or what have you.
He has to settle with trying to nudge Drake under the armpit for a very, very important question with Ol' Rusty to try and get his attention on something other how to keep a thicker, stronger man pinned down in a clean success after all those other times today.
"Hey... hey... ah... you counting to... to three, or?"
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Drake with Weapon Jab.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////// ]
Drake 1/---====/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
"Huh?," Drake asks, neck craning to peer at the man's face. Or, well, neck, since his face would be turned a bit away, thanks to Drake's hand pushing on the chin. "Nah, not on a submission hold! Those call for a tap-out! And-"
WHUNK.
Okay, lesson learned. Drake's collar is beaned with the lead pipe, and he lets Howard out of the hold. His left hand rubs over his struck collar, now duly sore, but with a mirthful look on Drake's face. "Sneaky, sneaky..."
Suddenly, Drake dives at Howard from that position, aiming to grab him tight by the shoulders to yank him up to his full height...
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Drake's Total Eclipse.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////// ]
Drake 0/-------/-------|=======\====---\1 Rust
With the shoulders grabbed and Howard up and at'em again, Drake.. doubles him over! Why? To force Howard's neck between his legs. His arms then hook around Howard's midsection, and in an instant, the man is hoisted into a piledriver position.
So begins phase one of the Total Eclipse. The arms begin to pump repeatedly, tightening around the man's midsection in an inverted bearhug. Allowing the blood to rush to his prey's head, Drake's arms continuously grip until they've grown as tight as possible. Once they've reached that mark, they lock down. And stay there.
Thus, phase two starts. Drake leaps into the air with Howard still in tow, ascending in a series of forward flips. As the two rise a considerable distance, the speed of the flips increase - right up until the two are on a descent, blazing down towards the earth again in a single opaque swirl of motion.
Finally, the culmination of the Total Eclipse. Howard's head is driven against the ground. With his body locked in a terrible bearhug, and the elevation, built-up momentum, and combined bodyweights driving the piledriver.
"Uhuh," he replies to this newfound knowledge about what constitutes a submission hold or a tap-out, although he would really, truly, genuinely like to not be held like this for over three seconds because... well, ow. It's the knee that did it in, it knocked some breath out of him that otherwise would've been well spent in breaking out of those arms /instead/.
When released, he rolls onto the ground into a crouch, coughing as he catches some more breath and rubs gingerly at his back. "Sneaky, sneaky... what?" He looks up as Drake dives for him, a bit too dazed after that particularly nasty hold as he's grabbed by the shoulders and stood all the way up, to the complaint of his knees that don't feel like rising so fast. They don't ever feel like doing what he wants to. They don't feel like doing what /Drake/ wants to either, they are cantankerous knees.
And then his back joins in on the complaint parade as Drake bends him back over, grabbed around the midsection, ready to be piledriven. He sucks in his breath. His gut feels smaller wherever Drake reaches for him. Is this a good idea if it's all gonna be knocked out of him?
The blood rushes to his head. His face is a long-lasting contortion of pain and maybe a bit of fear as he is thrown into the air - is he going to be thrown at the ground? He tries to make sense of how far the ground is from the air but he's going too fast and the terrain is too even for him to really get a feel for it, plus the aforementioned head rush. They spin, and spin, and spin, and in fact he pukes somewhere from motion sickness. It ends up coating a trash can, just missing the place where one would... typically puke if they had to.
He fights very very hard to break out of the hold. The halting spin actually makes this possible - but does it happen? For the most part... no, but he makes a very good show of it in his attempt to swing his legs out a few times with the spiraling descent. He knows the ground is coming down fast, it's really a matter of timing as he clenches his eyes shut and tries to ready himself for the impact.
Impact happens. Grass and dirt flies all over the place. His head is partially buried. The lock breaks quickly with a good synchronized kick of his legs to hit the dirt to the point it's more a surprise he doesn't snap his neck doing it. Dirty jeans hit ground that, for once, may not actually be as dirty as those jeans. He's face-flat, ass up, top bent over from a kneel - but there's another detail. Ol' Rusty, which managed to stay within his grip, is thrust against the ground as a means to power himself up where his back does not want to bend again so soon, lifting him up a bit out of the dirt as he hastily throws an uppercut with his left hand to Drake /somewhere/ in the mess, hoping he swung himself out of it fast enough in impact before Drake could ready himself up, or something of that sort. Would it stop at the uppercut?
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Drake with Crane Launch.
[ \\\\\\ < > //////// ]
Drake 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rust
The uppercut strikes somewhere at which point that it should launch Drake straight up. His upper body makes another series of creaks and cracks as he has to get on to the other part of the whole shebang before gravity decides it's too late, cursing as he pushes himself up against the wishes of everything. It's kind of tough to move. He's so stiff! Sore. His head is still swimming. He gives his knees another (reluctant) bend and powers up off the ground.
His jumping height is not terribly impressive among the various fighters out there. He'd have a hell of a time jumping over a Hadouken. Nonetheless, as he and Drake cross paths, he manages to catch Drake through his shirt, keeping him dangling off of Ol' Rusty as he struggles to swing his arm and then go into a spin. He's too stiff after stomaching the Total Eclipse. It's a wonder he'd be able to get much of any rotation at all and, in fact, hits the ground before he can even manage to spin Drake around fast enough for a proper launch. He'd get tossed a short ways away.
Back on his knees, the elder of the two coughs and wheezes as his knees shoot pain up his thighs and blood runs down his left nostril, wiping it with his free hand. "How're you... how're you holding up?" He asks between breaths.
"..Did you.. just lurch?," Drake asks, staring at a freshly decorated garbage can. Eeww.
But really, when he looks back to Rust, he's already moving again. Which makes no sense to Drake. Apparently, he's underestimated this guy! And he pays for it on the chin, unfortunately. Drake launches into the air with a yelp, and by the time his mind has caught back up to him, his shirt's been hooked. He's spun around, then thrown a ways away from the balding man, hitting the ground with a solid THUNK on his shoulder.
The young 'rassler tumbles over and over until ending in a heap.
Howard's question, however, is answered by some twitching. Then hands setting firmly to the grass, and a body rising up once more. His head lifts, gaze evening on the balding man.. and he grins. "Should be proud of yourself, Howie. Not just anyone can get up from the Total Eclipse.. let alone do -that- afterwards. Survived better'en some of the more seasoned fighters I've faced. But c'mon. Let's keep goin' a little more." If the body isn't pushed to extremes, then nothing is gained.
"Gonna give you something a little different..."
Drake raises to his full height again, and he suddenly dashes forth. Suddenly, a shadow image of Drake separates into existance, sparkling white in color and trailing behind by a second's lag. The actual Drake attempts to weave suddenly around behind Rust's back to hook his arms around the man's torso to bridge back into a German suplex, driving his head against the grass. Then Drake rolls over the man, still keeping ahold, for a second, and finally a third! The 'shadow' Drake chases after the movements until it catches up on the final impact, where Drake attempts to hold Rust just long enough...
...The white image loses its shape and pools into the earth and slides beneath Rust, upside-down as he would hopefully be. It then promptly explodes into a radiant, but hopefully painful geyser of considerable size, just as Drake releases the man to let him launch through the air.
COMBATSYS: Drake keeps on fighting!
[ \\\\\\\ < > //////// ]
Drake 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rust interrupts Whiteout from Drake with Rusty Nail.
[ \ < > / ]
Drake 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Rust
Mr. Rust's back is already facing Drake when he wants to move again. He kind of wants to say he's done in between feeling faint from all the blood rushing through his head and that really rough landing on his knees. His body doesn't want to move around so much.
"Yeah?" He asks about the confirmation. He's having a hard time forming coherent sentences in between breaths as Drake compliments him on his survivability. Did he really survive that? After all, he's not... not /completely/ standing, in most rings that counts as a 'down.' Maybe 'conscious' is a better indicator, given how Zach tore him open. His knee doesn't forget.
"I, uh," he doesn't manage to protest in time as Drake dashes at him. Drake doesn't manage to catch him in the back, as he rises up and turns around at a rather timely manner. Drake may not hold him long or even get much of a chance to reorient himself to get the middle-aged man in the proper position. Said man can feel that tingly feeling of chi, which is ticklish.
His right arm points down and outward. It feels like time slows. Like the area is getting darker. A little light travels down Ol' Rusty and, despite there being no surface to reflect anything off of ever, ever again, a glint leaves the tip of the pipe. Something like a super-spark. A little spark of youth, more than any physical representation of chi. More like... burning vigor. Without the burning. But plenty of the vigor.
The first swing is awkward in getting Drake off of him with a close-range swing down low to the legs, and crush syndrome comes into play as his lungs breathe again. But he advances forward with a rather repetitive series of swipes, which is rather appropriate for anybody who fights within the boundaries of the various rival schools of Southtown, advancing with each strike no more potent or weaker than the last, letting the hits add up on their own as he keeps pushing Drake back, various parts of the older one's anatomy protesting with these quick, repeated swings with various creaks and aches and all sorts of aging-related pains as he runs every little bit of potential left in his body to the limit. He gets maybe a little carried away.
He ends it with clenched teeth, drawing back his arm and giving Ol' Rusty one last good spin before topping it off with one last Cement Upper, ending a relationship not unlike someone who has a hammer and a badly eroded nail that doesn't want to go down very easily with something explosive.
He falls to a kneel after the fact, another series of coughs as he has trouble sucking in air. Exhaustion out here is no fun. Exhaustion and hunger. He's too exhausted to properly mention how much he'd like to call it a day there and get back to his sandwich. His coughs are not very expressive of anything other than a desire for oxygen.
Chi isn't supposed to tickle! Hell, this chi is supposed to 'splode with an unbound rage! It's.. it.. does him no good whatsoever, here! For as worn down as Rust would seem to be, he's reacted in time with the attack by clearing his defenses with a hard offensive swing. It works, really, and Drake is battered back severely from the man. And boy, does that torso ever take a beating. With the final uppercut, Drake is knocked well away, landing in the grass in a heap again.
But he sits up, despite, with a grin on his face. Without any further warning, he suddenly pushes himself up to his feet and lunges through the air again. Only this time, the kick comes in a pair of strikes. His right knee swings over to strike Howard's cheek, while the left foot, as Drake spins, launches up under his chin to knock him into the air. The movement and momentum draws Drake up as well, trailing just after him - where he then pivots into a second butterfly kick. This time, after the knee strikes cheek, the foot launches out horizontally to blast Rust a distance away from him to let him land in an exhausted crouch.
COMBATSYS: Drake can no longer fight.
[ \ <
Rust 0/-------/--=====|
COMBATSYS: Rust fails to interrupt Lunar Eclipse from Drake with Crashing Down.
[ <
Rust 0/-------/--=====|
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
Really doesn't wanna. Really doesn't wanna. He's spent. Hard to suck in breath, but there comes in Drake and he really... really... really does not like that smile, it's the same one Zach wore when he was blasting the crap out of him and that doesn't reflect well on how well he's doing if someone can smile at him like that and he puts his pipe in front of him, trying to use it as a means to stand up as Drake's coming at him. It takes too much effort to do this for him to bring up the idea that now's a good place to stop.
Drake's in the air again, which means he really can't. His lips press together tightly as sweat goes under his brow. He's bigger, heavier, if he emphasized the weight difference /maybe/ he can halt it. He strives. His body locks up on its own from fatigue rather than will, which is more a challenge than a boon unless he were confident he could take whatever Drake wants to do.
Some way or another, he manages to push himself into a handstand on Ol' Rusty. It slowly sinks into the dirt from his weight and the soft-ish soil, his legs flailing a bit as he loses valuable altitude in which to really do any flopping. No flopping!
Drake knees him in a cheek, all right. A butt cheek, nearly doubling him over on the spot were it not for his left foot managing to get under the belt and heft him up (while also, simultaneously, lifting his pants to his ankles. He's got boxers under there, club pattern boxers, because he's too manly for heart boxers but not enough of a balla for spades, not rolling enough bling for diamonds!).
He takes the butterfly kick to his back, knocking out the rest of his air and blasting him, indeed, fairly far away where he is caught by a tree. He rolls off a branch and hits the dirt in a still somewhat overweight husk, on his back with his legs kicked up against the tree. His pants decide to defy gravity and not gracefully fall back down to come close enough to cover the club boxers.
"Grrrrbgrgjble," is the only way to put his groaning in written word.
Drake's own landing isn't quite graceful, but it's not a total disaster. He lands in a crouched heap, just managing to hold himself steady with his hands on the grass. "Nice try to work around it.. but gotta be ready for the other guy to come right back at'cha..," Drake replies, weak-voiced.
And down tumbles Rust. Legs in the air, boxers on display.
"Oh, Gawd." Drake's expression cringes back a little, eyes diverting. "Uh.. you, uh.. you okay, Howie?," Drake calls, pushing his voice enough to be heard.
In the meantime, you can bet their antics have attracts some attention in the park. Here's to hoping there aren't tourists with cameras.
"Uhhhhhhhh," there could be two paragraphs' worth of 'uhh'-ing but a few coughs prevents one from having to suffer that as his left hand reaches up for his pants and pulls them down. Where down is up, where he is. Pulling down in this instance is an act of decency!
Ol' Rusty remains half-pressed into the dirt. It is enjoying a mud bath. Pipes don't really... enjoy anything but if they did, this one would enjoy the mud bath. It'll probably be there for as long as it takes for Howard Rust, whose family name strikes for an odd parallel to how he /is/, to actually bother to get up and walk. He's completely out of breath and all in all spent.
"Yeah, uh... uh... say... sandwich." He tries to point over to the bench with his hand. "I'll, uh... split. We can, can... split." He coughs again. He's sure he could turn a screwdriver into a decent enough makeshift sandwich-dividing tool - if Drake is willing to take a bite into the thing and figure out what /isn't/ in that godawful bloated thing.
Drake turns his attention gradually to the sandwich, then back to Rust. Rust, who puked just moments before. "I, uh.. thanks, but I'll pass on that! Do you need help or anything? I guess I should'a stopped, but-" Drake pauses to cough a couple times, himself. "..But you were doing well. Wanted to give ya as much a workout as I could!"
After a few more moments of effort, Drake finally manages to pull himself up to his feet. And stagger about a bit.
Howard here isn't really in great shape to do much. It's a combination of a beating /and/ putting way too much into one of the last exchanges between the two. It'd be amazing if he could get up under his own power. At least he can flop, his legs falling to the side as he has himself another cough. He really strongly hopes that he's not going to have to hit up the hospital for more than a night at worst, but he's not coughing up blood or bleeding to death or anything.
"Yeah, uh... uh... that was... that was a workout," he points a finger on his right hand and shakes it up at the air towards nothing in particular, left hand still trying to pull his pants in whatever direction necessary to cover up the boxers.
It's hard to be very eloquent after a workout like that.
Drake finally just staggers over to the bench to plop down - mercifully right beside the sandwich, instead of atop it. "Good..," Drake calls back. He then falls silent. He has his own pains to suss out right now, and that's exactly what he's trying to do. Mentally push the pain back, while letting his body tend to the rejuvenation process. It'll take a while, but he'll be better for it in the end. He's sure of it.
But finally, Drake opts to speak up again, just to make sure. "You need help..?"
If Drake sat on that sandwich there is a very good chance that Barcelona's news teams would be running a special report about the freak explosion of sandwich fixin's all over an entire block. There really is... that much in there. And there is only one man who loves sandwiches enough to even bother trying to eat it. There are many fighters that love food and have bigger stomachs, but that field, that field alone, is one Howard Rust's.
But more importantly, about him and his injuries and being flopped over on the ground. "Uh... yeah... uh, please. Could find a... a hotel, or, or something." He coughs again. "Shit, I feel... feel spent."
He manages to roll over onto his gut. The only real improvement this situation brings is 'he can roll a little.'
"Means it was a good workout," Drake assesses. He raises to his full height and begins in Rust's direction - but with a stagger. He's certainly not in optimal condition, but he's pretty sure he'll manage. Be that as it may, when he reaches down for Rust, he doesn't look terribly balanced. Still, a hand is offered to help him up. "I'll take ya to the one I've been staying in. Decent rates."
The older man just grunts and otherwise makes a bunch of other appropriate noises for a guy his age exerting himself when there isn't much left of him to exert, made all the worse when one of his knees and a shoulder pop as he bends to get himself up. He's not young any more. Tough, but when he's out, he's out.
"Thanks," he says as he points with a hand towards that relaxed pipe half-buried in the ground, then back towards the bench where deliciousness awaits. "And... and, uh... we could get... some, some, some kind of... map or something there, for... for when you go out west, or, or something," he tries to helpfully suggest something to do in turn but struggles to think of much. He's not gonna be able to follow Drake to watch his match there, if it happens, because he doubts he could get all the way to the other end of the country and back within the span of two days to catch his plane.
"Map would be a good idea..," Drake agrees sagely. "So.. hey. You're good. Got a lott'a potential. So don't let it go to waste," he adds, less mirthfully (strain from fatigue and pain aside), more sincerely. He starts towards the pipe with a sluggish walk, with every intention to yank it out and hand it over to Rust. "There you go. Thanks for the workout, by the way."
A lot of people say that. He wasn't conscious enough after Zach blasted him the last time to catch his thoughts on it, but he was thoughtful enough to take him to Pacific High. So he's done okay by the standards of a regular competitor. He nods his head yet again, finding that somewhat less unpleasant than talking at this point. He has another good cough or two... wait, no, three. Three coughs. He's polite enough to cough away from Drake.
His head starts to turn as Drake goes for the pipe. What about his sammich?! Throat too dry and weak to speak up to his desire, he points out towards it to possibly no avail. The question is, what does he value more - his best friend in the whole wide world (of fighting) or lunch?
The answer would surprise a lot of people.
Log created on 22:14:45 01/15/2009 by Drake, and last modified on 18:31:48 01/17/2009.