Description: This is it. He's waited for this moment all his life. Howard Rust, shop teacher of Southtown's Pacific High, finally gets to the world scene. His first opponent, the explosively powerful Zach Glen - the one who would set the bar as to whether or not Howard has what it takes at 38 years of age. Set in the very school he teaches at, both carry audiences important and close to them. The debut of a future legend? Another step in the journey of a name already established? Perhaps even... both? (WINNER: Zach)
Tonight was it. Everything Howard Rust had been waiting for, after years of thinking he'd never see his dream out. The one he had tucked away under the guise he can't do the job he has and fight - and his advancing age, at that. Plenty has happened. Unlikely friends, incidental encounters with malcontents, would-be tragedies, small triumphs. Months ago, he signed up for the Neo League. He was a registered fighter in one of the world's most prestigious fighting leagues. Thanks to help from Nataya and so many others, he was able to stand toe to toe against an established name when he was stranded in Spain.
Tonight was it. He issued his first challenge after significant deliberation. He was too under the radar for anyone else to pick his name towards the end of last season. He had to pick a name. He could only think of one - one of the established names he tried his luck against on a beach in a friendly spar. He got his ass knocked out cold. It was good that Zach brought him back to campus. None of what's here tonight is from malice (except for maybe the knee that got blasted, that particular knee holds a very strong grudge). He wants that measuring stick. If he's got what it takes, he needs to match him. He needs to match a young man famed for his destructive power, whom previously overcame his proudest trait in a fight - his tolerance for pain.
Providence had Neo League officials select the main hall of Pacific High. This saves the teacher a few hundred dollars on travel fees - a plus after the very recent time where he was stranded in Spain for a few days. On the downside, it's the very school he teaches at. Almost everyone who goes here will be watching this fight personally. Everyone in his social sphere will be watching it. A significant portion of the world, too, will be watching it. The pressure's on.
The lobby-like area is mostly cleaned out of some of the furniture in case of collateral, a choice on Howard's part to make sure he doesn't end up having to personally replace things that get busted. Most, but not all of the really expensive things are safely tucked away - Neo League and Pacific High higher-ups alike did not want a barren area for battle.
Ol' Rusty is already drawn, resting on his right shoulder as to avoid any potential comical mishaps involving the pipe and the toolbelt that serves as a (rather cheap, culturally out-of-place alternative to) a sheath. Camera crews are all over. The lights cast over the hall makes it even hotter. His heart is beating very quickly. This is really it, you're standing here, right now, he thinks. Too late to back out. He wipes his brow as he waits for Zach to make his appearance, however it is, and for the officials to call the fight.
Man, what would the guys back home in America say if they saw it, especially his... nah, don't worry over it now, this is what you're doing with your life, and so far it's one he's proud of, he reasons to himself in silence.
Zach makes a pretty quiet entrance, accompanied by an older man. The two appear to be having a similarly quiet conversation. The two resemble one another, faintly. Perhaps it is the wildly differing hair colors; Zach's royal purple to the older man's bark brown and hints of grey that inspire the doubts. Perhaps the height difference; the older man has a good half-foot on Zach. Zach looks down the hallway, spotting Rust with a slight grin. The older man also stops, and looks the teacher over. It's the eyes that really tell the perhaps familial resemblance. However, the older man's eyes speak of far more experience in life's trials than Zach's eyes ever have.
The older man turns and places a hand on Zach's shoulder. "Careful, boy," he says in a deep tone of voice. "This is more than just a match for your opponent. This one is important to him, somehow." Zach grins a bit as he starts to stretch out. "I kinda figured, Pops," Zach says lightly. The younger Glen stretches his legs out before hopping onto the balls of his feet. He stares across the way, eyeing Rust with a bit of respect. "Though you might want to get clear, Dad."
Zach's dad chuckles, "Of course. I've seen your fights. Just stay alert." With that Zach and Rust, aside from the referee, are the only two in the "arena." Zach cracks his knuckles as he keeps that grin in place. He had been told he was selected for this match, although the why of it escaped him.
Men of purpose can often easily distinguish one another. The younger of the middle-aged men turns his head at the entrance. With his free hand, he waves briefly, but is too lost in thought about psyching himself up to give any verbal greetings to that effect. He exhales loudly and stretches his legs out every so often, a disruptive popping noise from aching joints. One of his knees is considerably louder than the other.
"Your dad's watching, huh?" He asks, his face neutral other than the telltale signs of restlessness and stress. Sweat runs down his brow, making that particularly horrible combover of his gleam all the more under the lights. No hair care product company will ever sponsor him. That grin makes him even more nervous under these lights. But he's not here to shrink under pressure. This is the moment in his life he's been waiting for for many, many years. He was shy of giving it up. He may not have lost much in doing so. He has a good paying job and is having a tangible effect on shaping his students for their adult lives. But he couldn't let the dream go. This is where it's taking him. And from here...
The cameras start rolling. A few commentators come in from behind Zach and his dad, setting up shop by some nearby chairs and a table. They're already running late. A referee looks to both of them with the unspoken look of 'are you guys ready?'
The teacher nods his head. He wipes his brow and rolls his left shoulder a few times. This really is it. He keeps thinking it. It is. It really is. The commentators speak to a camera about commentating live for the fight. It's on now.
Way back somewhere in the northwestern parts of the United States, a few construction workers are celebrating some obscure occasion of theirs at a bar. One of them starts channel surfing. Fox News. Basketball. Neo League: Zach Glen vs. Howard Rust. Ancient cartoons. Golf.
"Go back one," one of the construction workers says. "One more... yeah, that!"
"Whoa... hold on there," says one of the older workers. "That Howard?"
"Holy shit, you mean Howard Rust, the guy who worked here... what, nine, ten years ago?" The first one recognizes him. Who wouldn't? The whole firm remembers him. "HEY! EYES ON TV, IT'S HOWARD!"
"That guy with the pipe? Who thought he was some kinda samurai or something? I thought he became some foreign schoolteacher in, uh, Korea or something," One of the other long-time guys looks up from his drink.
"Yeah! It's him! He's on Neo League against the guy with all that... that purple stuff!" The entire bar has their eyes glued to the TV. They can't believe it - they thought the man gave it up for good when he became an overseas schoolteacher.
Back over where the fight is taking place, the teacher leans forward, spreads his legs apart, and points Ol' Rusty down and back away. He's not terribly verbose. There's a lot he'd want to say. So little time. Some things, he's not sure he'd want to say so much on national TV. His first ever sanctioned battle, on national TV.
"He asked," Zach replies as he settles into an odd stance. At first look, it resembles a sort of jujitsu-style, except Zach's fists are closed. "Said he wanted to see it for himself." Zach nods once to the referee. The old man was right, the psyker thinks. Rust is... different this time around from the last time they had met. The young man exhales calmly. Don't go for the flash, is what Zach decides as he starts to slide one foot towards Rust.
The referee signals the start of the match, and with a few rapid steps, Zach closes the gap between the two fighters quickly. Planting both feet, Zach twists slightly as he fires a swift jab straight from the shoulder. A faint haze of violet ripples around the extending left fist, aimed at Rust's shoulder. It's not incredibly strong; Zach doesn't put a lot of weight /or/ energy behind the shot. It's more a reflex test than anything else.
COMBATSYS: Zach has started a fight here.
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Zach 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Zach 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Zach's Jab Punch.
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Zach 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
Zach is swift on his feet and, though his body size is considerably smaller, packs an incredible punch. This is common knowledge among people in these fighting circles, and commentators briefly touch on this being Rust's first battle in the league - or anywhere in sanctioned combat that people are aware of - against an already established name.
The teacher-slash-gladiator-of-fortune turns his left side forward as Zach rushes in, an open hand ready to catch the fist. It's a clean block. It does not /feel/ like one. Even as fist makes contact with the palm, something surges through the pipe wielder's forearm that makes him yelp and, subsequently, clench his teeth as his footing slips from even Zach's simplest blow. Don't lose to the color purple, he resolved that much when he first made the choice to challenge someone whom is able to mop the floor with him at a moment's notice.
He steps up with his right foot in his attempt to keep himself from losing ground, to let himself stay on the offensive and not be caught in a bad position so soon, putting in some of his arm strength to tap the butt end against Zach's chin to try and push him back with better than what he just took.
Back at the bar, many of the men cheer. The only one of them who actually /is/ a Zach fan wisely keeps quiet as they all watch the most interesting thing all night unfold. It may not be on their minds in a week, but for now, maybe even just this once - it is Howard Rust's time to shine, if he is ever going to.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Zach with Weapon Jab.
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Zach 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Rust
Zach has fans? Alert the media! Oh. Wait. Nevermind. Zach eyes the pipe as it comes in. Freaking weapons, he thinks as he starts to pull back, attempting to step out of the reach of the lead pipe, only to take it square in the jaw. Stars flood his vision as Zach hears a pair of hisses, one coming from him and the other in sort of sympathy pain. Zach grits his teeth as he shakes the cobwebs loose. Can't look bad here. Not this match, Zach thinks.
Go for the sure thing, the money-maker. The old fall-back move, as it were. Zach takes a pair of light hops back, creating a gap between the two fighters. Glen doesn't recall Rust being able to fling chi-bolts, or really having any kind of range game. Zach raises his hands reaching for the cieling as three sheets of shimmering energy ripple into existance. They stay there for a moment, balanced by Zach's force of will. "KASANE ATE!" Zach yells as he takes a lunging step forward. The attack crashes to the floor, hopefully catching Rust with it!
COMBATSYS: Zach successfully hits Rust with Ka-Psi-Ne Ate.
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Zach 0/-------/----===|====---\-------\0 Rust
Though they've only met once - Zach seems to have a good grasp as to how could take the upper hand against the larger, fatter, older guy. He doesn't stay content to stand there and let Zach recover, following him beyond those two hops with a couple heavy steps. One knee once again creaks. The commentators think Zach's already being forced to the defensive, that this new guy might have his number.
The hands go up. The teacher gets blindsided by a purple shine in his eyes - a downside to being taller than your opponent, sometimes - as he brings up his left forearm just above his eyes to try and shut it out. The cry just brings the point home that he's in significant danger in standing so close. He ends up far too slow in which to adopt a more solid defensive posture as the cascading psionic wave crashes down upon him from above, bringing him to a kneel as one of his knees hits the floor hard enough to make something crack underneath the carpet.
It's loud at the bar. It's a solid, powerful hit, and the commentators make that pretty clear that it appears that even someone so solid-looking like one Howard Rust seems to be having problems standing against it! They throw suggestions at the TV screen that Howard wouldn't be able to hear from about a fourth of the way around the world. They don't even have his newest cell number. Not that he'd be in a good place to /answer/ it.
One eye is shut under the pain as he tries to stop himself from doubling over from both the sheer power of that weighty hit and the mighty headache from... from that thing he told himself he wouldn't lose to. Not here on his first fight, what he's waited here so long for. He clutches the pipe in both arms and pushes up vertically at the lingering psionic residue of the fading wave, a mostly useless gesture as he doesn't stand all the way up. He remains crouched over on two feet. Is he reeling?
He suddenly shakes in place as though he were on a turbulent ride, reasserting his grip on the pipe in both hands as he suddenly glides forward across the carpet like he were riding some kind of invisible car. Or perhaps... some kind of invisible bulldozer?
COMBATSYS: Zach blocks Rust's Bulldozer.
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Zach 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rust
Upon colliding with Zach, Howard doesn't stop. He keeps pushing forward, looking to push him over across a distance most fighters typically do not go with their rushing maneuvers. The commentators laugh a bit - the style of attack is familiar sort but this particular expression comes off as odd, funny and entertaining to watch all the same.
At the end of the distance, the teacher flips backwards, looking to scoop up Zach with his feet and push him upwards off the ground... much like a mighty bulldozer scooping up whatever in its wake.
The guys at the bar have a field day with it. Nobody among them ever remembers him using anything like it!
"Didn't he have that uppercut or something? What was it called?"
"Something about... cement? Hell if I know!"
Zach backpedals rapidly as Rust barrels into him, wincing at the impact. He gives up a fair amount of mass against Rust, being the mauch smaller fighter in this matchup. Zach knows that close-fighting is a risky proposition, at best. When Rust goes for the scoop, Zach leaps clear again. He throws a glance over his shoulder, frowning as he does so.
Glen comes to the rapid realization that he is starting to run out of hallway to back up in. He /definitely/ does not want to get cornered by the bigger man. Time to reverse this momentum. Zach charges forward, getting in close with Rust before throwing a huge upward side kick aimed at Rust's jaw...
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Zach's Charged Combo EX.
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Zach 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Rust
The kick sends Rust arcing into the air. Zach recovers quickly, leaping after the shop teacher, reaching for the older man's shirt. Zach spins in the air, hurling Rust down the hallway. Hopefully that will make some space. Zach growls a bit as he spins a second time. He plans some kind of insurance, apparently as he whips both palms towards the flying Rust.
The open hands glow purple briefly as Zach fires of a compact bolt of psychic energy, aiming to buffet Rust more than anything else. Zach lands facing Rust as his dad groans a bit at the flashy move. The YFCC Handyman doesn't waste much time, however, as he takes off at a sprint towards the falling Rust...
The commentators are on the ball, quick to point out the older fighter's backwards tumble being a point of vulnerability. One wonders if he's down at the failed scoop. This is, obviously, not the case. Even without Zach's shadow obscuring the bright lights set around the Pacific lobby, Howard gets the idea he's in trouble when his feet scoop up empty air. He kicks his feet up forward to stand back up, in a brief moment belying his age's impact on his flexibility. Those occasional yoga lessons that Nataya hosted for a bunch of other grown-ups at Pacific High after normal classes were over helped quite a lot.
The problem is, now his back is to Zach, and Rust is the one facing the end of the hallway (and some rather expensive pieces Pacific's staff wanted to be kept there for the battle). He freezes up at this sudden notion that he'd have to be cautious and, frankly, just /push back/. He can't stay up against the wall. In their previous fight, he was down on the sand for a significant portion of the battle.
His body goes rigid in having to quickly balance the additional challenge of not getting expensive things broken while fighting off Zach's overwhelming offensive power, which works to his benefit as Zach throws his kick. He manages to hit the jaw only as the man starts to turn around to work out his counter-offensive.
Zach does not kick him up as high as he might hope. Zach reaches for his shirt. A throw? He tries to work out where to shift his weight to give Zach as little distance as possible and to stay very, very close. Zach spins, Howard swings the arm opposite of the direction Zach swings to slow it considerably, fighting the stiffness in his shoulder that encroaches him from that brief moment of panic about property damage /he'd/ have to pay for. He read the fine print for Neo League. That, and he works here. He'd be screwed by both counts. This gives Zach much less space than he anticipates.
He hits the ground in a crouch rather than a tumble or a stumble. The guys at the bar cheer, thinking this could be his chance to get the upper hand. The commentators wonder what this next exchange is going to look like as Zach points his palms outward. Mr. Rust sees the purple. Again - the purple sucks, and if he had a choice in the matter he'd never want to experience it again. But this fight, this fight, is the one that's turning his life around.
He jogs up against the compact bolt of psychic energy. It goes through the chest, like an arrow. Even as resolute as he may be in that moment, the rest of him flinches. His upper body is pushed back a little. The commentators say Zach's taking back the momentum with that wonderful follow-up of the skillful combination. Mr. Rust seems like he's ready to fall onto his back.
He grits his teeth and gets off a loud, growling sort of kiai as he uses the distance his head gets cocked back from the blast as just additional space to get some speed behind said head, terrible combover gleaming under the light. He can't fool the world into thinking he still has hair, no matter how deluded he may be there.
Yet, even as his back protests against moving so quickly enough that his very neck makes an unnatural popping noise, he throws the head forward in a textbook headbutt, Ol' Rusty pointed away from him, left fist clenched, looking for head to meet head. Is this the start of a reversal?
COMBATSYS: Zach dodges Rust's Hardhat Rush.
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Zach 0/-------/--=====|======-\-------\0 Rust
Zach steps to one side, pivoting in the process of the step so that he lines up on Rust's left flank. Glen's eyes are wide, that was closer than he would have liked to admit. However, Zach was looking for the close fight by his own choice. No other option, really, but to see the course of action through.
Zach continues the spinning series of steps so that he gets behind Rust somewhat quickly. Letting loose a kiai of his own, Zach throws a heavy boot towards Rust's lower back. The end of the kick is heralded with a spectacular burst of psycho power that will likely be more damaging than the sneakered foot would ever be!
COMBATSYS: Rust interrupts Strong Kick from Zach with Cement Upper.
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Zach 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
The shouts of the various commentators grow louder as they see the headbutt windup. They are not stock, cheap emcees. These are people who have been in the business for a good long while. They know the score. One of them winces as Zach easily steps aside. They think Howard's maneuver may have overextended himself, that he could be in for some nastiness.
The guys at the bar all the way over in the US let out thunderous yells of disappointment. Some of the newer ones heard he was a local legend, that he might've been one of the greats had he not up and quit his job a good long while back. Nobody was ever that sure of the details. His employer wasn't talking. All they have now is what's in front of them on TV... and a bunch of beer and snacks. Is Howard just not up to snuff any more? After all, he's pushing forty years. Most people retire well before then.
The teacher leans forward post-headbutt, back muscles aching at the sudden movements after he had himself all tensed up. Zach's not in front of him. He exhales sharply. Even if this is his first fight on TV, he's fought for years. He might not be as good as he was back then, but even at what appears to be his clumsiest, he has the experience. He might not be the fastest thinker on his feet, but he's been in a lot of fights. He might not be the brightest bulb, but he's been hit up enough to get a good idea ahead of time.
Zach winds up his kick. Commentators say that Zach's making the hit moments before it actually happens. Howard spins Ol' Rusty in his right hand briefly, a rather cool, flashy gesture. There are reasons for doing this. Even with hands as big as they are, that he can spin it about in such a dextrous fashion speaks of there being something under the dumpy-looking man who is well over the hill for anybody in contact sports.
He shouts loudly - with /spirit/, even - and turns with a low sweep into a backhanding uppercut with the end of Ol' Rusty doing business. Zach's kick strikes into his right elbow solidly, another loud, terrible 'crack'. It does not stop it. The swing goes all the way, whacking Zach along the chin or somewhere around there as Mr. Rust turns all the way around to face him, shaking out his assailed arm with one eye shut, wincing from that... that uncomfortable, tingly, hurty feeling from once again making contact with it. It's almost overwhelming, between the pumping of blood, the headache, and the breath leaving his lungs. But he stands.
The commentators yell out again. They sold Howard short on that one and they aren't afraid to admit it. One of them mentions that this is what Howard himself called the 'Cement Upper' in an interview with a Neo League recruiter. They start wondering about what the hell it has to do with cement.
The guys at the bar go into a block-rattling cheer. /That's/ their Howard Rust! Right down to the trademark technique. They start chanting his name. All except the Zach fan, who keeps quiet and just continues to drink his beer.
One of them gets an idea. "Hey, think I'm gonna call him--"
"What the hell? In the middle of a fight?! This shit is live!"
"Pff, naw, they just say that, I got a buddy who works in the biz, he says they're never live..."
"He's all the way over in Japan... hell, he said he had to change his number recently, how the hell are you going to--"
"Aw, c'mon, how many cellphones are there in Japan? Haha. Least I know what I gotta dial first to get there!" He starts dialing on his own cellphone, powered by stereotypical American failure at geography and cultural ignorance, as though written by a Japanese game designer. All the way down to the blonde hair and blue eyes, too.
The cement part may be descriptive of just how solid the impact is. The crack of Zach's kick is overshadowed by the sound of that pipe impacting Zach's jaw. Glen flies in a high arc, before crashing to the floor. Zach tumbles back a short distance before flopping, rather undignified, onto his stomach. His eyes are wide. That stung more than just a little. A thin line of blood traces its way from the corner of the young man's mouth as Zach slowly pulls himself to his feet.
Zach swipes the back of his left hand across the dribbling blood, wiping the fluid off of his face. He looks down at the red substance with a trace of concern on his face. Then he looks at Rust for a moment. Perhaps going to him wasn't the best route. Time to force a reaction. Zach raises his left fist towards the older fighter while bringing his right fist down close to his own ribcage. A growl starts in the back of his throat which turns into a loud roar. As if obeying the call, more of that freakish purple energy boils out of Zach's frame. Zach's father rubs his palm across his forehead, as if trying to ward off an oncoming headache.
COMBATSYS: Zach gathers his will.
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Zach 1/--=====/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
Zach's on the ground! The commentators have a field day, to put it simply. Most of them figured Zach was going to lay him down pretty flat, given their view of his inexperience and great disadvantage going up against someone who can outright demolish just about anybody in but a scant few hits if they don't put him down for the count as fast as possible.
Howard jogs along the length of the carpet, huffing and puffing along as his right arm hangs a little limp. He hasn't fully soaked that last blow. He's looking to pursue, keep up the pressure, despite himself. The pain, the fatigue, the /fear/. He already knows what Zach is capable of, and quite frankly anything that can make him feel about ready to let out a (manly?) tear from pain is very scary.
Zach pulls up to his feet before Rust can enter melee range. The pipe wielder may be able to hit people pretty far. He's nowhere near as good at closing the distance, a point the commentators bring up. He might have one of the slowest paces among the league they've seen. They chalk it up to age.
Zach points a fist forward. Howard freezes in his tracks, like his heart were about to seize up. He misinterprets the gesture and blows his chance to lay it on him as the purple energy erupts. Things rattle. Papers fly off counters. A teacup falls over, spilling its contents on the ground. It's coming. The commentators make this plain as day. Mr. Rust's eyes widen. His left hand raises, leaning back as though just /being/ in its proximity is painful and threatening.
"C'MON!!" The overwhelming sentiment is from over at the bar. Why is he stopping, they wonder. Beat his face in! Beat him down like that arrogant all-talk white haired guy with the two swords colored white and black who used to annoy the shit out of their town while Howard was still around. Fists pound the bar counter rhythmically.
One of them still fools with phone numbers. "Howard? Hey, this is... uh..." He looks up towards another one of them. "The hell is a 'mochi mochi?' This is the fourth one!" Anybody who is even remotely paying attention to this futile effort in trying to call a guy without knowing his new cell number just shrug, they want to watch.
The teacher's eyes dart around. Stand or back off, stand or back off... wait, over to his right! A bench. His hated enemy! Busted benches, always grabbing his free time. Breaking expensive art pieces is one thing, but... but something he's routinely asked to fix with his free time? He nods his head, presses lips together, and furrows his brow as he steps off towards a counter and, with just his left arm, hefts up a bench. Leverage should make this very difficult. It is. His knees complain under this, cracking as he puts a lot of weight on them.
Commentators think this man's looking desperate. He is. They wonder if he's really going to be able to chuck it, especially with one arm. It's a bulky bench. It is not aerodynamic by any means. The old man's about to tip over onto the floor just from trying to shoulder it. He strengthens his grip on Ol' Rusty, the rusting metal squealing under it. It's the only free outlet he has for working out the overall stress and pain as he works up enough of a damn to heft it.
Heft it he does, sending it into the air where it tumbles along towards Zach like a rolling log with a series of clumsy, but truly purposeful steps towards certain doom. Can this toss overcome the amazing amounts of Psycho Power forcing itself outward? It wouldn't be a stretch if Zach managed to push it back just by continuing to do what he's doing now.
COMBATSYS: Zach blocks Rust's Large Thrown Object.
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Zach 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|=======\=------\1 Rust
Zach's eyes go wide as Rust does something completely unexpected. The bench comes tumbling towards him, but Zach is commited to his course. It will be a moment before Zach can really bring his speed back into play. There is only one course of action left to him...
Zach brings his fists up, covering his head with his forearms even as the bench comes crashing down on him with a thunderous impact. It appears, almost, as if the bench simply flattens the psychic knight. A moment passes, as Zach's dad pops a pair of what are likely asprin down his throat. Mister Glen is looking a little peaked for some reason.
Then the bench shudders a bit, before simply crashing to one side as Zach shoves it off. Zach is looking a little worn around the edges, but is still grinning a bit. "You," he says, "Are one crazy guy, Rust." With that said, Zach is back in close, right inside Rust's reach. It's a gamble, but Zach is feeling pretty pumped up right now for some reason. Adrenaline sings in Zach's ears as the youth fires two quick left jabs at Rust's face. The commentators, familiar with boxing, are expecting the right straight for a follow up.
It never comes, not physically, anyway. A purple blur, almost resembling an arm, lashes out at Rust's torso. It moves like a right straight as well but there is no mass behind it, no matter to give it momentum. It's still going to sting something fierce.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Zach's Fierce Punch.
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Zach 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|=======\==-----\1 Rust
This close, no matter what he tells himself that he has to overpower Zach and keep the pace of the match, his entire being is on edge. Habitually on the defensive, even after he makes that big lead in with the bench. Even if Zach isn't actively channeling it, that... that purple stuff, Rust can just feel it through every pore, waiting to dig in and get him pinned for the three count.
The bench is tossed aside, rattling across the hallway like it's typhoon season. That it doesn't splinter into a million pieces in the process makes it much less likely for his superiors to raise a stink about it. He can't really care much about it as Zach puts on the /grin/ again. It's offputting - regardless of Zach's intent, the smile reads as 'oh, nice try, that's not going to help' as he calls him crazy.
He holds his ground as opposed to moving back, on the thought that he should be able to take it. Too early to give up. The commentators think Zach has it in the bag at this moment. He probably does, if Rust can't will himself to just throw himself on top of him. Zach is a blur. The two jabs hit Rust's face. They individually don't do a whole lot, he just twists his face a little with the blows. He can still take a punch. He can take two punches, his head yells at him as he reels back.
Zach moves in and throws a purple punch for the torso. There's not much wind to knock out of him as the one with the eerily fitting surname exhales quickly and tightens up his stomach muscles. With no wind to knock out... there's no physical presence behind the blow, but somehow, it just works, even as a tingly feeling makes his heart race all the faster. He starts falling back anyway, feeling faint, stumbling in the direction of a countertop.
"WHAT THE HELL, HOWARD?!" One of the guys at the bar calls. It's dangerous in that there bar. This is a local on the world stage, being slapped around on the world stage as he looks to be on his very last legs. It's not looking good, especially when the commentators are pretty much calling it over.
"Do that uppercut again!" One calls.
"The handstand!" Another does.
"Hammer that wind right out of him!" Yet another cheers. None can actually reach him.
Meanwhile, the guy who is still trying to call him, of all things, hasn't given up. /One/ of these numbers has to be him, out of how many? Two guys try to tell him to get his attention to the screen and cheer for him. He's too absorbed in cycling through wrong numbers to get to him.
"Can't... keep up," the teacher exhales quietly as he tries to take in deep breaths, coughing several times. He tries to suck in air. It is not a moment of respite. It's more like half a moment. Has he given up? His grip on Ol' Rusty begins to loosen as he rubs his forehead.
COMBATSYS: Rust gains composure.
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Zach 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|=======\=------\1 Rust
Zach follows the momentum of his punches in, staying close to Rust even as the younger man seems to fold in on himself. The thrill of the fight has Zach tightly in its grip at this point. The energy, so eager to reach out and smack something, surges back into the frame of the psyker. Zach growls, trying to keep it in. The big finish is not what he is going for, not initially, anyway. Small bits of debris from the fight are simply blown away from the pair of combatants even as the last of that odd purple energy seems to vacate the arena...
Not much of a calm before the storm, really. What happens next is fairly typical of Zach. A gross display of raw psychic talent that washes down both ends of the hallway, smashing through just about anything in its path before billowing out the emergency doors leading outside of the building. Zach slumps to the ground a moment later, gasping for air even as the last of the energy vanishes into the ether...
COMBATSYS: Rust Toughs Out Zach's Storm Flare!
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Zach 0/-------/---====|>>>>>>>\>>>>>>>\2 Rust
At the bar, the guys are still chanting. The one trying to make a call covers his other hand over his ear on this last number. C'mon, let this be Howard or something. He's already got hell to pay on the cellphone bill after trying to make so many phone calls. He waits for a pick-up.
Meanwhile, back over at the battle, Rust is staring down almost certain defeat. Zach's too strong for him even after all that effort. Maybe he really wasn't cut out for this after all, he resigns as he takes a few steps backward from trying to stay standing.
He is interrupted by an obnoxious ringtone from some obscure late 80's band. Something shakes at his hip. Shit! He forgot to turn off his cellphone. He bumps into the countertop with a surprised gasp, recoiling off of it as the pressure, by some odd stroke of luck, manages to both accept the call and turn the volume up as loud as possible.
"Hey! HEY! Howard, is that you?" The voice says. Howard's face turns from pain and tension to being completely nonplussed. The commentators share an anecdotal moment about a guy bringing his cellphone into a fight. "...Mark?"
"HEY! HEY! I GOT HIM ON THE LINE!" 'Mark' calls out to the rest at the bar. Everyone's heads lift up and away from the TV for a moment. This is live, right? Some guys watching the TV actually /hear/ the guy's voice on the other hand. Look what just happened! He actually reached him!
"Howard! Howard! How'd it go? Wait-- how's it going? Never thought I'd ever see you on TV!" Mark speaks enthusiastically. A bunch of the guys crowd around him, yelling various mixes of obscenities, cheers, and other such things that are picked up all the way on the other end. They called him in the middle of his goddamn first sanctioned TV fight!
The teacher is about ready to tell them to just call back. But the cheers just keep getting louder. It touches at his very core - he really is here. This is what he's been looking for, for so many years. He finally has that chance. He can't throw it away. Especially with all the old guys watching him from his former workplace at home. Wow... they've gone through just for him. He doesn't even recall giving them his new cell number just yet, even. How'd they figure it out?!
Zach seems tense. Rust's blasted knee from the beach alerts him to what's going to happen next. There is a complete change of character at a speed of zero to awesome as Mr. Rust tenses up his left fist and raises it, nose sniffing once. Eyes narrow. He spits out some saliva onto the carpet. Bring all the purple, Zach. He's Howard Rust, the long-awaited toughest son of a bitch from the humble town of...
He doesn't get to complete the thought as the purple blasts out and about like a supernova. It encompasses him. His left arm is tensed, rigid like a statue immediately from contact as he starts to get pushed back. His heels dig into the fabrics of the carpet, rending them. His body goes statue-esque. He doesn't intend to stay as the psychic energy washes down both ends of the hallway, sending /everything/ flying. It's going to be a wreck when it clears.
His right arm draws Ol' Rusty back, as though ready to strike, as his left forearm and once injured knee stand at the forefront. The commentators are yelling and diving for cover. He doesn't care for what the commentators have to say about him. They'll watch.
He feels weightless. His conscience goes empty, for a moment. It's all the way down to his best, last technique that is like second nature. He can be a one-man wrecking ball, all this inspired both by his hard labors and a particular love of samurai films. He dips a little lower as the blast starts losing ground in pushing him back.
He rushes. The psychic energy disperses around him at all angles, rattling the chandelier above ominously as he thrusts Ol' Rusty forward. His body is numb. He doesn't feel it. He chooses not to. He can't throw any more added weight behind it. His body is resisting. He is resisting his body.
He attempts to land one, powerful strike on Zach's person as he
He attempts to land one, powerful strike on Zach's person as he passes by in a typical dash-slash maneuver seen in a samurai. Except it's by a balding, overweight middle-aged man whom is fighting the good fight at long last. Nothing will stop him from making the strike.
Howard Rust and Ol' Rusty are reborn.
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
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Zach 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Zach with Condemned.
- Power hit! -
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Zach 1/-----==/=======|
The hit is powerful. It is like the perfect embodiment of a wrecking ball taking out a condemned building. Yet, it's not the sort of force meant to sent Zach flying. It is incredibly precise, perfectly executed as the smoke clears to knock him down where he stands. The commentators look up from the aftermath. From behind Zach, Mr. Rust is knelt. Shakily, Ol' Rusty is held up by the makeshift hilt (always determined by which end he's holding rather than any particular designation of which end is which), pointed downwards as he thrusts it through the pocket of his toolbelt that makes up the sheath at expense to a perfectly fine toolbelt pocket. It is clean. A perfect sheathing. Practically like a samurai.
The entire bar is silent. Mr. Rust's body catches up with the rest of him. He slumps over at last from the collective pain and exertion taking over his conscience. He's down. The commentators do not call this immediately as they try to make sense of what exactly just happened. Typically, super duper energy blasts are not terribly transparent. The Neo League would be hard pressed to figure out what happened, save for one camera stationed at the end of one hall - spared from damage by the extremely powerful Storm Flare by Howard Rust doing exactly what he was renowned for when he had stars in his eyes a decade or so ago.
The bar sees he's down. They cheer anyway. Live TV got to see the best angle that showed him powering through the wave like a runaway construction vehicle. Holy crap, he really had it! The cheering is carried through the cellphone, which has somehow survived the storm intact and functional.
Zach does not make a sound, although his right arm is hanging loose at an odd angle. He wobbles for a moment, before slumping to one knee with a slight yelp. The referee runs up to Zach. Looking more than a bit shaken, Zach nods in response to the whispered questions even as he tries to get back on his feet. The pain is obvious in Zach's movements and on his face, but still he stands.
Zach looks around for a moment, slightly dumbfounded. He didn't even see the attack coming, didn't even recognize it until it busted up his shoulder. He seems slightly surprised to be standing, really. Zach staggers over to Rust, slightly worried even as his father heads for Zach in a less-staggering manner. The referee declares victory.
The commentators have a field day about the overall explosive finish between the two. They talk about needing to see a replay of whatever just happened. It's moments like this that get the Neo League its revenue. Howard Rust's first battle comes out a loss, but after the last half of the fight where they seemed to have written him off, they think he might be someone worth watching in future Neo League matches if he can keep his focus through these fights and pull out that... that thing he did at the end when it counts most. Maybe he's not too old for this yet!
The referee stands next to Rust and tries to stand him up. He groans a little, one eye half-open. He's awake this time! The problem is that there's almost nowhere to get him seated, as the Storm Flare pretty much blew almost all the furniture over. His vision is unfocused, completely blurry. His stomach rumbles noisily. He can only identify Zach being nearby from his distinctive colors.
"See... purple." He utters out two nonsensical words, unable to distinguish anything between thought and speech. He's completely exhausted.
Zach lets out a breathy chuckle even as medics rush to try and treat him. "Yeah," he croaks. "You keep fighting like that. You'll do fine." Zach's father takes his good shoulder, and herds the psycho powered fighter off to get that shoulder looked at. Not, however, before Zach can give one last grin over his shoulder.
He can't see too well. But he can hear just fine, even with the ringing in his ears as his body's senses catch up with... well... everything. Medics hoist him up after going through the usual on-the-spot checks for any serious bleeding or other problems easily seen on the surface. He looks up a bit as Zach speaks, neck cracking. He'll do fine, huh. His head bobs. Yeah. He thinks he will.
His vision focuses just enough for Zach to give him that one last grin, that facial expression that's haunted him for quite some time. Aaaah. He tilts his head back. He means it. He means it. It's okay. His left hand rises up and flops down in a labored wave. It may be accidentally thought of as a dismissal gesture.
He'll do fine. It's not the first loss that's going to get him when he's back in sorts. He's going to have to answer for a lot of the damages. Boy, is he.
His knee, however, does not yet forgive him.
Log created on 20:14:23 01/22/2009 by Rust, and last modified on 21:57:10 01/25/2009.