Description: When the going gets tough, the tough get baking. Reminded about a man who gave of himself for the sake of the Center, Frei hand-delivers two things to Howard Rust on occasion of his re-entry into professional fighting: some pastry, and -- hopefully -- some encouragement.
Pacific High, Southtown branch. Home of a bunch of mostly rich kids studying overseas in order to be part of an 'international community,' sworn rivals of Taiyo High in pretty much every community event that goes on, and school of famous football player Roy Bromwell, whom has been keeping to himself quite a lot these days.
It's just after school hours have let out. It looks like it's about to rain, but outdoor after-school activities are in full swing despite the threat. The front gate is rather populated at this hour, with gossip between classmates and a few local friends nearly incomprehensible to those over the age of 24 or so. Buses shuttle people to wherever they live or need to go out and about town. After NESTS attacked the school, some burly-looking people tend to keep watch on what goes in or out. They wouldn't amount to much if they were to be attacked again.
Shop teacher Howard Rust sits on the curb, miniscule cellphone in his ear and a bottle of water in his other hand while a very late bag lunch sits on his lap. He's looking as dumpy as usual, grumbling between exchanges with whoever's on the other end of the line. "So what you're saying is... the memo said 'AM' but you meant 'PM'? And... and nobody thought anything was wrong?" He recounts the facts back to the person who just told him this. "So if it's your mistake, why the hell am I paying?! Hey? Hey? Hello? Yeah... yeah. I'm here. Reception's not good today... yeah, I read the god damn contract, so... hello? Hello?"
He growls and shuts the cellphone, cramming it into a pocket. There goes his budget for the rest of the month, he sighs as he rests his right elbow on one thigh and sinks his head into the open raised palm, starting to dig inside the bag with his free hand.
So much to do, lately. Shurui's call, followed by the extremely bizarre visit of the private detective. No sign of Rose or Alma yet, and damned if Frei knows who "the Asamiya woman" is by a long mile. Apparently Strolheim has given the participants some time to train and reflect before the Student-Teacher tournament moves farther on. What this all boils down to is Frei have plenty of time to fret but not enough knowledge or capability to do anything about it at all. There is one clear, undeniable action one can take at this critical juncture:
You can bake.
And so that is what Frei has been doing. The morning started with marshmallow squares, then moved on to pecan tarts, and then finally ended in apple streudel. Interestingly, since school is in session the young sage (of chi or patisserie? either is fine) had nothing to do but watch TV. In particular, as he was kneading the dough for the streudel, he was watching recaps of recent Neo League matches for familiar faces. Completely accidentally, he found one: Howard Rust, a man that the redheaded YFCC instructor has heard of, and seen at a distance, but not actually met.
So some of the finished pastry was wrapped in paper towels, and put into a bag. And seeing the sky dark with the potential for rain, Frei picked up his plaid-patterned umbrella, put on his walking shoes, and headed to Pacific High to find this man and speak with him. If nothing else, he's owed for helping the Center to rebuild for the umpteenth billion time... and something about him piques Frei's interest.
It may work in his benefit that despite being nearly 30, the YFCC instructor looks 19... Pacific students don't give him much more than a second glance or two as the chi sage walks slowly near the gates, skimming the crowd. Seeing Rust actually outside -- and sitting on the curb -- takes him by surprise, but given a destination Frei moves toward the shop teacher at a good clip, stopping in front of him, ducking down a little, and giving a wave. "Afternoon!"
It hasn't been a happy day. On average, the teacher has about two 'bad days' a week, either from some of his more hostile relations with other teachers he doesn't see eye to eye with (Rust vs. Marshall makes /everyone/ keep their distance), or from maybe going a bit too fast with his lectures when it comes to his kids actually putting their hands on something. It's better than last year. There's still plenty of room for improvement. But it's better than last year.
His hand shuffles about the innards of the lunch bag with indecision. What does he want to cram in his mouth first? Usually he's indifferent. If there is food in front of him, he'll eat it. He'll eat a lot of it. He hasn't had a chance to eat all day thanks to oversleeping and later having to give up his lunch break to help with - surprise! - another busted bench.
He doesn't even notice Frei coming up to him until he leans over and waves at him. The older of the two tilts his head up in his direction. What the hell does this guy wan-- nah, don't take it out on him, he hasn't done anything to you, you're better than that, he reasons on the inside as he clears his throat. He pushes himself up with a labored grunt and some creaky, cracky noises that could very be his trademark.
"Yeah... same to you," he gets out as peacefully as he can muster with the level of aggravation that has been building up inside him throughout the entire day. He does kinda-sorta recognize the face but has trouble putting a name to it. He remembers their surname is kind of long, but not much else. "Y'need anything?"
He hopes it's not another person complaining about Pacific kids vandalizing property, though the young man doesn't seem too upset about anything as far as he can tell.
Frei can never tell if his ground state of being generally in a good mood is either a tonic or a bitter pill, when it comes to people in a bad one. To Tran, for example, who lives in a perpetual twilight of annoyance, Frei's typical easygoing good mood is an incitement to violence. In the young sage's experience, the best way to find out is simply to power on through. After all, if the other person is in a bad mood... nowhere to go but up, yes?
"Hmm... nothing specific," the redhead says, as he stands, turns about, and ducks down to have a seat on the curb next to Rust... at a respectable distance, of course. The plaid umbrella is laid down next to him on the side opposite Rust, and Frei's hands are folded in front of him, gripping the bag of treats he bears. Sitting side by side, Frei's not-so-tall height compared to Rust's robust frame is pretty apparent.
Turning to the side a bit, he smiles at the Pacific instructor and, with somewhat affected ceremony, extends one hand holding the bag. "I don't know if we've properly met or not... my name is Frei. I teach at the Young Fighters' Community Center." Hopefully, Rust reaches out and takes the bag, because the redhead will quite literally sit there holding it like an idiot until the older man does so, though what he says next is certainly a prompt for it if nothing else. "I know you put in time and energy to help us get back into shape lately, so I wanted to thank you... it's ah, apple streudel," he adds, shaking the bag a little bit. It does SMELL good, but Frei gives a sheepish smile anyway. "Baking is sort of a hobby of mine."
It's not about the artistic expression tendencies about some of the kids that go here. That's good. One less worry off the mundane working man's numerous list of things to worry about going wrong. Modern life is a really complex thing.
Frei has his attention throughout, though Rust's face is in a roughly perpetual state of weariness, the sort of face that speaks of am an who'd like to go and crash on a couch somewhere, watch some afternoon TV, and down a whole bowl of chips. He looks down at the offered bag for a while, leaving Frei to hold it out awkwardly through his introduction. At the end of that, he points at the big with one finger while pointing a thumb back at himself as if to inquire that this is meant for him. Oh! That is for him.
"Yeah, uh... it's no big, ah... thanks." He accepts the bag with a nod. It does smell good. "Didn't... didn't have a whole lot. You got the right people for the job well before I got there." The YFCC reconstruction was well on its way by the time he showed up. He doesn't tear open the bag and stuff the strudel in his face right then and there. But it's tempting. Oh, so tempting. He's hungry. He might even eat the bag with it. (Don't think he won't!!)
"I'm Howard. Howard Rust, I teach shop here," he extends a free hand over to Frei as he shuffles the bag over to the opposite side in order to best fight off the temptation. "Never had the chance to say... say 'hi' while I was there, come to think of it."
"It's no big thing," Frei says with a smile, shaking Rust's hand... and probably enacting another iteration of the famous 'guy with not so firm handshake shakes hand of tough guy with firm handshake' gag. He's not exactly a weakling, but Frei's strength of body isn't in his lifting power, though. "To be honest I left for Strolheim not soon after, so even if you'd gone looking I wouldn't have been there." But he did hear about the contributions of Mr. Rust before he left... and Mizuki's mentioning helping to spar with a man Nataya had brought to the center's attention. It certainly gels with what Frei saw on the TV of the man's fights recently.
Not for the first time, the young sage reflects briefly on the word 'Young' in the YFCC's name and charter.
Still, he smiles as Rust takes the bag, even if he doesn't dig in right away, and satisfied that the man is accepting his company, he turns and leans back a little, looking up at the sky. "You shouldn't sell yourself short. We needed all the help we can get, and it says a lot that you offered your time in the first place." That much is true. Much of what is able to keep the center open is the 'in kind' from generous individuals giving time and effort... of course, there's also generous benefactors like the recent influx of money from Howard Enterprises, something that took Frei by surprise the first time he saw it mentioned. Still... money is one thing, but everyday help is another.
The redhead lets that statement fall into the silence for a moment, but just as that silence is about to edge into the uncomfortable void that pushes people to speak, he turns his head back toward Rust with an inquisitive look. "Maybe it's because you're a teacher? After all, that's what teaching is about, yeah? Giving of yourself to benefit others." A brief pause, then a smile. "Of course, you're a fighter as well as a teacher, right?"
The gag is re-enacted as speculated, though after the first shake the older man's grip loosens considerably as to not accidentally crush Frei's hand. It's an odd reversal of roles. Lately, Mr. Rust has been shaking hands with people whom could easily break his. He's not quite as high on the totem pole of hand shaking terror as some may believe.
His gestures are not as varied as Frei's at this point as to where his gaze ends up following. He's pretty bushed. He makes eye contact with Frei as he speaks and sometimes drifts off to the space in front of himself. Strolheim. Man, if only he received an invitation. Maybe he just wasn't at that level yet? He wonders how he'd have reconciled that with his superiors in Pacific. Vince sure has a lot of homework waiting for him when he comes back, make no mistake.
"Yeah? Well... do what I can, when I can." He probably should stop back down there sometime soon-ish anyway. With Neo League, some of his free time's already been spoken for. He doesn't have a whole lot left between lecturing, and grading, and meeting with parents, and Neo League, and staying at the hospital after any particularly dangerous injuries post-League, etc, etc...
It seems to trail off for a while to silence until Frei asks him a question. "Ahhh... somethin' like that," he says as he grabs for the pastry bag and places it on his lap, coughing once. "Excuse me. Yeah... I'm in the League now. Guess you've seen me fight?" He's had a few people come up and be all 'hey, I've seen you on TV.' Even if it's the sort of thing he's always clamored for, the fact he /is/ on TV now and that he is indeed being recognized on the street every so often really hasn't sunk in all the way.
In fact, Frei has been watching quite intently, studying Rust's response to that question. As his encounters with so many people in his life have borne out, the word 'fighter' rarely means 'someone who fights'. For some it means 'seeker of truth', or 'seeking perfection', or even something so simple as 'seeking fame and money'. But it's never JUST about applying your fist to someone else's face. There's always something else. What the green-eyed gaze is trying to pry out of Rust -- with an intensity that may surprise the Pacific teacher, given the otherwise happy-go-lucky expression -- is just what the 'something else' is for him.
'Something like that'. And, when Frei offered his thanks, 'I didn't really do anything'. A humble man, perhaps. Somewhere in his head, the Japanese-raised, half-Brit wonders that he actually knows very little about the typical American, and wonders just how much of this is Rust's background. "The very same," he says with a smile. "I shamefully admit that I saw your recent matches on TV while I was making this stuff," he adds, waving a hand at the bag of streudel. "I'm sorry I didn't take the time to come thank you in person sooner. The senior instructors, well... we're a busy group, usually. Plus our co-founders are..." He pauses, and gives a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose for a second. Where ARE you two? "...elusive."
There's a pause, and then Frei turns away again, looking out at the street as he talks, arms crossed behind his head. "Anyhow. I DID see you on TV. It's... hard to get used to at first, isn't it?" the redhead asks, turning his head somewhat to look at Rust's expression at the question, but then turning to look back at the street again, cars whirring by as people try to get home before the promised rain comes. "It doesn't feel quite real. When you're in the moment there's so much to think about that you don't process how you look, or what you're doing fully." A pause, then he turns his head back and laughs again. "I look at some of the things I used to do in televised fights and just cringe."
This bag of strudel, made while Frei was watching him on TV. Crusty on the outside, gooey and apple-flavored on the inside? A low contemplative hum, barely audible, escapes his list as he looks down at the bag. It really smells good. So does the bag. Tasty bag. He could rip two slices of white bread from the aether and just put this whole bag in between and take a big bite out of it RIGHT NOW.
He resists the temptation, partially because he has no such capability of breadkinesis. If only. He looks up from the bag while Frei talks about his wish to thank him in person sooner, the plight of the senior instructors, and the obscurity of the co-founders. He nods his head sympathetically at least at the 'busy group' part because damn, busy is his middle name. In fact he probably should go and get his name legally changed to include a middle initial. His mother hated hospitals so much she told the people 'just put Howard on the birth certificate and let's get out of here,' according to his father.
"Yeah..." his voice trails off a little about how hard it is to get used to being on TV. One of those cars that pass by, he was looking to buy. That's not on the table right now. His posture sinks forward a little. "Ten years ago... ten years ago or so, I could think on my feet a lot quicker. The end of that first fight, versus Zach. Towards the end, that kind of stuff was normal."
He leans back, shrugging his shoulders. A very uncomfortable kink in a shoulder makes him rotate it a few times in its socket. "That I pulled something like that again, well, maybe there's not much difference between... between now and then any more. But damn! Hell if I know what happened with that Spider guy."
He sniffs. He missed being able to breathe through his nose. He won't take that for granted ever again.
A slight tilt of the head; he saw more of the Zach fight than the Spider fight, or maybe more accurately, Frei paid more actual attention to the Zach fight than the Spider fight. After all, in the former case the opponent was a known quantity. Frei's had occasion more than once to experience firsthand just how hard to endure Zach's Psycho Powered attacks truly are. Particularly since, in the young sage's experience, fending off such attacks is as much an effort of sheer, stupid willpower as it is of raw physical toughness... and while their acquaintance has been short indeed, Howard Rust does not strike Frei as particularly self-confident as yet. Of course, the redhead reminds himself, could such a thing really be measured in a few moments of conversation?
"So... you used to fight when you were younger, as well?" Frei asks, making a guess based on Rust's assertion that ten years ago, things were different. For a second, he thinks back to where *he* was ten years ago... at 17, in fact. His relationship with his increasingly distant mother souring, his dissatisfaction with the trajectory of his own life increasing. In a scant two years, the would-be chi scholar would be heading to China for a 6 year journey to find something he could believe in. A mere 2 after that, Frei would be at his mother's front door, trying to reconcile his old life with his new one.
Food for thought.
"Ten years is a long time for anyone..." he observes neutrally, wondering what happened to Rust between then and now. True, Mr. Rust does not appear to have aged gracefully; if Frei knew the man was a mere 38 years old, he likely wouldn't be able to disguise his surprise. Deciding he wants to know, however, the YFCC instructor simply forges ahead and asks. "Why did you stop, if you don't mind me asking? Well... that assumes that you used to be a fighter, of course. But something in your tone says that you were."
Zach and Rust are probably complete opposites in terms of fighting style. Zach is incredibly nimble and unfathomably powerful, able to bowl over just about anyone. Rust is none too agile but difficult to actually lay any sort of lasting harm upon, making most people have to make that much more of an effort to outplay him to claim a victory. Both times - first on the beach, later on TV - Zach came out on top. Who knows how it'll go if the two ever fight again down the road, given how close the last one was.
"Yeah." He's been responding a lot with 'yeah,' hasn't he? "I mean... I wasn't ever in any leagues, or anything. But yeah. Looked forward to it a lot. Took the time to learn Japanese so I wouldn't have trouble 'round here if I made it." Look where it got him!
The shop teacher sits back up fully. Hm. It'll probably rain soon. Aaah, who's he to care, it rained a whole lot back where he came from. He scratches the side of his head, compelled to itch away at it almost by habit. It is true that he has aged somewhat poorly. Even after all that practice with Nataya, he hasn't been able to shed so many extra pounds. He's at that age where most people quit competitive fighting, not take part in it for real!
Ten years is a long time for anyone. He nods his head. So much happened since then. Those things that have happened all come to mind as Frei asks him to more or less recount it. Why did he stop? Assuming he used to be a fighter... used to?
"I practiced a lot," he starts as he looks forward into those passing cars again. "Couple of... y'know, malcontents. Grew up in a kind of rough part of the state. I had a pretty demanding job too. Needed the money. I'd go in every day, nine to five," really more 'eight to six' or possibly even 'six to eight' depending on how badly he wanted/needed overtime pay. "Thing is... maybe I can't say how good I was in comparison to the whole world out there, but. But all I needed was a corporate sponsor. Wasn't as easy back then as it is now to get all signed up. Hell. Can't believe how easy it was to... to join the League." Not including the talks with his employers about his health insurance! He pays out the ass for that stuff now.
He starts waggling the pointer finger on his right hand at pretty much nothing in particular. Force of habit. "You needed a sponsor back then. Well... I never got one."
A second of silence, before Frei responds, in a solemn tone, "...I'm sorry to hear that." It's true, and it explains a lot, in his mind. Something about the teacher's way of speaking, the 'good but not good enough', the 'getting by', the nostalgia. Confidence in yourself is important, and in Frei's experience it's essential for mastering any fighting art. You need to be able to rely on the knowledge that you're capable, that you can do what's required. Certainly in working with chi, a strong sense of self is beyond important. You are, after all, imposing your will on nature itself... and no matter how gently or firmly you do it, it's not for the weak of heart.
But confidence can't always start from within. Somehow, someway, you need to have someone who told you that you could do it. You need the seed, of course... confidence within. But it's when it's mirrored from without that it really comes to pass. No sponsor meant that nobody had faith in him, in Rust's eyes. At least, this is the conclusion Frei reaches.
"I don't know how old you are..." Frei says, continuing his thoughts in a somewhat random direction. Curiously, he picks up his folded umbrella and, with one hand, makes a few passes through the air with it as if it were some sort of blade, well away from himself or Rust so as not to hit either. "You might be around the same age as my mother, maybe a little younger. She's in her 50s now, given I'm 27." The umbrella sweeps around a few times, then comes to a stop again. "And she's still in her prime, I think. One of the sharpest swordsmen in all of Japan, actually. But..."
And here, he puts the umbrella down and turns back to Rust, giving him a questioning stare. "She'll never be on TV, though. I think she'd rather die than do something like Saturday Night Fight. Not because she isn't any good, but because she couldn't handle the... rest. Being seen. Putting yourself out there day after day, for public scrutiny. And you know, if she'd really wanted to do it, even if it were in her personality makeup, I don't think she could get a sponsor." Here, Frei gives a helpless, even embarrassed smile. "She lacks... 'star quality'. But she can throw an orange into the air and slice it in eighths before it hits the ground."
Mr. Rust swallows after he says his piece soon after. Those really weren't good times for him, or for anyone close to him. A dream he held for a good long time, shriveled and all but gone down the drain from that point forward. Until a couple months ago, anyway. But he always does wonder how far he would've gone if he actually did manage to acquire a sponsor and take part on the world stage.
Though the umbrella starts being swinging around away from him, instinctively he starts clenching his left fist. It stings. When Spider lands a solid hit, it lingers. It took Spider a lot of licks to /get/ to anything that could linger, though. Two, specifically. He doesn't clench too hard. The tension doesn't last too long as Frei speaks about how old he is. Around the same age as his mother? His mother must've given birth to him very young, if that's the cas-- 50s?!
He turns his head and looks up at that number, as if startled. Does he really seem that old?! Sure, he got the bad end of the genetic lottery with his early onset baldness (no, he will never cop up to this), as evidenced when the previously clenched hand runs through the top of his head as if to ensure the hair were still there. It... kinda is, kinda isn't, more isn't than is.
That's when he's met with the stare, having only paid the slightest bit of attention about her being an expert swordsman in that sudden panic about how old he looks to the far younger, brighter, colorful man. He exhales somewhat noisily, looking a little away with his left eye suddenly growing itchy enough that he rubs at it.
He doesn't shirk away from that stare for long as he lowers his hand away from his eye and blinks it a couple times. "I dunno... that... thing about slicing oranges into eighths? I've known a few sword guys." He tends to count himself as one of them. Never mind that Ol' Rusty, that length of pipe sticking out of the toolbelt on his left hip could hardly ever be considered one by any stretch of the definition of what is a sword. "Hell. Don't think they could do that. Bet they'd at least give her some kinda... some kinda cooking show. Throwing oranges... veggies... up above some cutting board and then slicing 'em to confetti."
He'd watch that!
There's a pause, and then an uproarious amount of laughter from Frei at that. The mental image is far too good, because Isis Tsukitomi could not be farther from her son in personality (for the most part) if she worked at it. Frei with a cooking show might just be awesome... his mother with a cooking show would quickly become the 'Vitameatavegemin' episode of 'I Love Lucy'. But the laughter that Rust's statement elicits is pure rather than mocking, sharp and uncontrolled... it takes a second for the redhead to gather himself, wiping at his eye with one hand a bit as little aftershock chuckles ring through the air.
"Sorry... sorry! I tried to envision my mother hosting a cooking show and sort of moved into an immediate instinctive response to that image." Another pause; a sniffle as Frei wipes his hand across his watering eyes a second time, but he is smiling nonetheless. Eventually he opens his green eyes and sets them on Rust, giving the man a second glance. "She still has a hard time imagining her eldest son fighting on TV like it's some sort of game show, but... she's a very traditional Japanese woman. I don't hold it against her." Well, he adds mentally, I don't hold it against her *anymore*.
Lacing his fingers together, the YFCC instructor stretches his arms out and upward, making an arc above his head, squinting his eyes shut and giving a little "ngh!" of effort as he does so, before turning back to look at Rust. "Anyhow." Bringing his arms down, Frei pushes off the ground and gets to his feet, the plaid umbrella dragging along the pavement noisily for a moment as he picks it up and then slings it over his shoulder. "I'm glad you came back to it. It isn't an easy thing you're trying to do, and I don't necessarily mean the fighting." There's a pause, before he adds, with perhaps a little hesitation in his voice: "The Center is always open to you, too. I'm a big believer in subjective definitions for things... especially the word 'young'."
The laughter, that uproarious amount of laughter is fairly disarming. What's so funny? In that second of Frei being occupied with laughter, though, he brings his gaze back on that apple strudel bag. Maybe he could consume the whole thing before Frei finished laughing? His stomach rumbles. It'd be a hell of a speed eating record. He contemplates this rather seriously as he holds the bag closer to his mouth. He starts to open it...
He lowers it again as Frei starts to speak again. Damn, too slow! He grunts. Oh well, there'll be plenty of time to enjoy it, for how long it may last on this mortal coil as an uneaten good. To say little about the rest of his late lunch! Americans sure love their gigantic food portions.
"I could, uh, understand that." To think of what someone else in his life would say if they've heard about what he's been up to. If they are, they haven't yet called. The bag lowered, his right hand goes to his left shoulder as he massages it. This is a bad time for his shoulder to start locking up on him, he thinks. Maybe it's just the weather. His body has always been very good about telling him when the weather's going to change. Years of work-related injuries, a few of them particularly nasty, can attest to that.
He goes back to rather generic nodding as Frei speaks again post-stretch. Glad he came back to it, huh. Quite a few people are, if those guys back home who, managed to somehow call him in the middle of a freakin' Neo League match are any indication. He starts to mouth yet another 'yeah' as Frei gets to the part about how he doesn't necessarily mean the fighting. He looks up in the sage's direction. What does he mean?
"Thanks," he brushes off the vague comment with the invitation, partially motivated by hunger, partially by a need to be at least somewhat polite, because he represents Pacific High pretty much full time when he's interacting with the local community and its people and he gets drilled a lot about his foul language. He was a construction worker for quite a few years, that sort of thing... doesn't leave you easily.
"I'll stop by sometime. Sometime when I got some, some more free time." Free time. He sure doesn't get a lot of it. Most of it will probably end up being spent with him staring blankly at the boob tube for yet another completely stupid variety show, one of the few things that can pass for entertainment on local TV when there isn't some Neo League or Saturday Night Fight on. He raises the studel bag. "Thanks for the strudel." This is actually so he can also sneak another whiff. Smell is as close to taste as one gets without actually tasting anything and it smells sooooooo good, mm. His lunch is jealous.
...why would lunches have emotions?
Log created on 15:08:03 02/09/2009 by Frei, and last modified on 20:03:52 02/09/2009.