Description: Mike + The Mechanics (1985). As Rust tries to make it to Pacific High, he runs into a barely familiar face and a very familiar vehicle. A long conversation with a long-missing mercenary passes the time and Rust learns that his suspicions may mean that there are far more dire things going on behind the scenes than he may have thought. In the end, Rust gets a ride to his destination. However, his journey might be a lot longer than just a simple drive down the street.
He was feeling pretty good about himself about a good... twenty or so minutes ago, letting Raizo know the score and how he planned to bring in the winning home run. In a figurative sense. He's pretty sure he has most of the truth figured out. Sure, that's great. Good on you, for turning up with it in such a confusing fog of brutality and near tragedy.
Now what, Howard?
There he is, walking along at a sluggish pace through the northwestern forest, sticking by the roads as to actually have what remaining daylight is left light the way. He hasn't seen anyone or anything come by since he started walking. The forces that attacked Justice must have left, lickety split. It would appear that FREAKING SAGAT kept his word. Even a man of the sturdiest resolve would find this route almost foolish to take even in light of that.
It is the only way back into the rest of civilization here in Southtown. Ol' Rusty, the man's only friend in his current travels, remains drawn. It rests on his right shoulder, the respective elbow threatening to go rigid with how long he's held it there as boot-clad feet scrape the dirt with his eyes firmly peeled for whatever lies down the road.
He only ever looks other ways for any sounds in the distance - real or imagined - that suggest this road is exactly as dangerous to go as he knows it is. But this is the only way back to civilization, and eventually, back to Pacific.
He's mentally kicking himself for not thinking to ask for some ride back as his free hand rubs at the top of his head from where Kurenai struck him twice. Crazy kids and their wooden swords and their pastel colored chi and their disregard for human life and their.... grrrerbgbererhebl.
Sure, he has time on this walk to piece the parts of the puzzle he has together. But it's going to be a long walk, a walk his knees are already despising the idea of. Sometimes, though, a man has to go the distance... whatever the cost. The cost, naturally, being the glacial erosion of his sanity even after deciding to put his foot down against this entire mess.
Ask and ye shall receive, Rust. Fate is not kind to those that tempt it, and it's not that easy on Pacific High shop teachers, either.
The sound of the engine is what hits the ears long before it's appearance. The particular rattle and pop of a machine that's just too cantankerous to die and yet too obstinate to stay repaired can't be anything but the vehicle that Rusts calls his own. That should be a reassuring sound, right?
Except for the clear fact that Rust is nowhere near the steering wheel. Not yet, anyway. The rattling truck, more spirit than steel, tosses up a cloud of dust behind it as it approaches Rust with the headlights on, obscuring any veiw of who or what is driving it.
Whomever has control of the machine appears to have learned how to drive somewhere other than Japan: the truck is handled by someone that is well practiced with the gas guzzling clankers. It bears down on Rust, not giving any signs of stopping, or even slowing down.
But who would jack Rust's old bucket? That's an excellent question, but maybe the primary concern is the fact that Rust appears to be in the open, and the truck is clearly headed for him.
At first, he thinks he hears some kind of explosion like he's sworn he's heard about two times down the road already, head nervously turning off to the side. Doesn't see any fire, or smoke... or... hear any yelling, or... that's just your imagination again, right? C'mon. Keep walking. Worrying is going to make this trip take that much longe--.
The noise grows louder. That's just not any set of rattling. He knows that engine! But that can't be, can it?! He brings his left hand up over his eyes and squints at something bright coming by in the distance. Something that gets even brighter because those are the high beams, which blast his sight with their brightness as it comes up over a hill. His eyes shut tight, tearing up as spots invade his vision.
Most sane people at this point dive out of the way or start running like hell. Him? He squeezes his left hand so tight that his fingers threaten to dig through the glove and make them friggin' bleed in what seems to be an imminent collision...!
The rattletrap of a truck bears down on Rust with apparently all the speed it can muster, but the horrible sound of screeching metal and grinding gears emitting from the machine indicates that something inside of it is trying to do otherwise.
With a ferocious clatter, the machine finally manages to downshift and the brakes finally decide to kick in, the high pitched whine of metal on metal seeming like a siren, announcing the truck to anyone that would be passing by as it skids to a halt next to Rust.
Thankfully, that's apparently not the case. For now, the area's empty, and the truck itself may be an indication why.
It's riddled with bulletholes, smoke is pouring out from under the hood, and the windows are cracked and spiderwebbed from where heavy objects have impacted on it's already suffering frame. But that's not half as bad as what's in the back of the truck. Uniform scraps, weapons, ammo crates, all spattered with dried and caked ichor from anyone that put up too much of a fight letting it go. It looks like the truck did a run on a military depot and managed to limp away... barely. Along with the military grade equipment lay a few cheap pistols and other assorted bits of junk, either personal effects from a soldier, or whomever is inside wasn't all that discirminating about the people they took down.
A figure moves behind the cracked glass of the truck, struggling at the door slightly before finally just punching a hole through the driver's side window, the gauntleted fist shattering the glass with enough force to spray it to the ground in tiny crystalline bits.
"Huh," is the first thing from Elle's mouth as she peers down at Rust. "Didn't expect it to really be you. Welcome to the Game, pal. Get in. Let's talk shop."
The shop teacher remains statue-esque for several moments even after the truck screeches to a halt, even as smoke threatens to invade his lungs, even as the truck's appearance speaks entire stories about what it's been through since its original owner parted ways with it following a sound beating out in front of Gedo High.
Twitch. Twitch. An eye opens up to a spot-infested sight, tethering itself slowly to an unlikely surprise that is right before him. His left fist unclenches, falling limp with a pop from elbow and shoulder alike as a voice addresses him. He can't really make out the face too well. Too many spots in his vision. The rest of his body protests as he works his way over to the passenger side, perhaps, too shaken to be livid over the fact that he is now staring down his own truck, and the person who has decided to borrow it.
He exhales loudly as his left hand comes up to the handle in which to open the passenger side door. This is a happy moment, despite everything. He never thought he'd see it again, let alone feel the frustration that comes with having to have gone in the long way around to get in the seat. It is only slightly mitigated by the fact there's bulletholes all over and... what's that smell?! His face goes sour for a moment. Ah. Get in before she changes her mind already, he thinks, pulling himself in with visible strain as his heart continues to race. Lord almighty. Getting hit by a car is one of his least favorite pastimes, believe you me.
Now if he could just put a name to that voice, and that... that face, where was it? Familiar, but. "Uh," he utters, "fancy meeting you, uh... all the way out here, in... in my truck."
What are the odds? He's too shocked to let the natural anger of seeing someone driving your machine really surface.
"So what's the deal?" Elle's dry, rasping voice is, as it always is, devoid of much inflection. She turns the car's engine over, sending it down the street with a causal throw on the gearshift. "I leave town for a while and the place goes straight to hell and a wanna-be fighter's all of a sudden running around dealing with, hold on.."
The truck makes a sudden turn down another road, causing the contents in the back and cab to shift suddenly. "...dealing with international intrigue. To be dead honest with you, I'm less interested in the hows and whys, and more interested in the whats. I'm willing to bet you're kind of new at this whole nonsense, so let me give you a crash course in this, because this isn't like fighting."
"I call it the Game," she says, "But it's really more about just not losing. Everything you do from now on is going to be watched by someone bigger, smarter, and better equipped than you to handle anything you can come up with and a few things that you can't," she says flatly, her eyes never leaving the road as she shifts into another gear both in the car and in her head.
"The best way to deal with all of this is to just not play," Elle indicates, her eyes shifting behind her glasses for a second to Rust before retruning to the road, "but I can tell that's not an option for you. Never thought I'd see a guy your age with that sort of 'I'm going to go off and do really stupid shit' fire in his eyes. Consider this a freebie, since I actually don't hate you. Tell me what's going on, and I'll see what I can do to help make things happen for you.
Yeah, that sounds about right. I live here for a while and the place goes straight to hell and I'm all of a sudden running around dealing with... stuff. That's about how his mind sums it upas he reclines in his seat. It feels really drafty where the back of his head is. An investigating thumb finds yet another bullet hole there. He doesn't even want to think about what he's going to have to do to restore this thing, but you know what, he doesn't feel like tilting his head in Elle's direction just for the off chance there isn't a small circular mark looking to dig into your head if you lean against it hard enough.
He's used to the turbulence that comes with riding this thing across a whole bunch of different rough roads at high speed that he doesn't accidentally lean into the driver. It's second nature. He's had this thing for years. When he's on the wheel, his movements and the car's are one.
Even so, it's probably going to take several weeks to get his groove back with this piece of garbage that is in no way going to survive the next mandatory automobile inspection intact. That no cop has ever pulled him aside concerning this thing is something of a miracle in itself.
The Game gets drilled in his head as he otherwise attempts to make himself comfortable in this unlikely reunion. How he's had to learn those on the fly when the war broke out, how he had to learn those on the fly. The primer comes a little late.
"Uh... thanks, uh... where do I begin," he mutters as he considers the conundrum of where, in fact, he begins. Elle speaks of shadiness. The two met so very long ago, and even then, only about that once. He never came back to the docks since that fight. If it weren't for that one meeting, the two would still be perfect strangers. She likely wouldn't have stopped for him, and hell, he'd have probably never gotten within his truck ever again.
He has a trump card in the current Game - he has information. How much of that does he share? "The short of it... bunch of people have been attacking schools. Other places, too," places he only vaguely recalls through the radio, "but... somebody, somebody... lots of somebodies, have been really driven to burn the schools to the fucking ground. And, uh," he winces as the memory of Igniz's second visit to Pacific rings freshly in the back of his mind. "They started with Gedo. I went there in my truck, and... hell, they shitbeat me and Raizo. Dumped me over in the boardwalk somewhere. Later. It's, uh... well," how does he say this. He has a phone, it is probably bugged. Anything he says and does, Rolento probably knows.
"Long story short... after I get sent all over, all I got is a bunch of strong people want a celebrity dead, there's some criminal empire or something they're after, they went after the people who, who fight them or something first, drove them out... and I don't know how the hell it involves the other schools."
If he had the space he'd just throw up his arms. And if he didn't have the stiffness in his shoulders. "One way or the other. One way or the other, though. Got to get back to Pacific."
"Congratulations," Elle says calmly as she changes direction so that the truck is rolling generally in the direction of Pacific High. "Have you considered running for office? Because that's probably the most nonsensical pile of non-information I've ever heard. Either you're censoring yourself or you're just dense. Since I don't think you're as stupid as you want me to beleive, let's clear a few things up, shall we?"
"If I wanted to get the information out of you by force, I would have run you down and beaten you senseless. If I wanted the information out of you by guile, I would have bugged your candy ass already and never asked a damned thing. If I wanted to just outright kill you or cause you eny harm whatsoever, guess what? I'd be shoving a fist up your nose right now. But I'm not," is Elle's very pointblank explanation.
"Look, I don't know you, you don't know me, and that's fine. Being cautious is always really smart, and I'm not getting down on you for that. In fact, bravo. Maybe you're not totally hopeless. But when a woman armed to the teeth rolls up in a shitty pickup truck with enough weapons to take out a small South American country and says 'I want to help', then you /probably/ want to be a little more forthcoming than 'there are these people and they did some stuff'."
"I need whos and whys. If you don't want to share the hows and whats, that's fine and dandy. I need names and targets. Just name the 'bad guys', and who your candy ass is working for right now, so I know where I'm standing, or so help me, you're going to be dealing with someone that beat you up before and is really not opposed to doing it again and driving around for a while looking to collect on a fat bounty, capisch?"
A threat? Not really. Elle's not the sort. She's just laying her cards out on the table because she's pretty much in the dark, has forcibly 'retired' several men for no reason and is carting about in a truck with enough ammunition to choke an elephant, and dammit, she wants to know /why/.
He kinda wants to know why too. Exhaling silently, he considers the roads. Okay. Play this smart. She wants it plain, exactly what you know, because she's apparently just in as much in the dark as he was, originally. He knows. He knows a lot, if not the whole picture, and he needs to communicate this plainly - and in a way that may not get him killed later.
Consider the facts. Pickup truck, shot to hell. Talking about weapons to take out a small South American country... that has to be the invading forces, right? From the invading forces. Hell if he knows who she is with, if she's with anybody. He himself is probably a known malcontent to their advances now, however lack of a threat he may appear. He's shown up and fought against them - with varying degrees of success - thrice. If this were a trap...
She makes some really good points. He's been playing this whole thing entirely by ear since Rolento turned him loose to assist with Justice, after telling fellow forced enlistee Hakuya the score - he's in this ride to find out the truth and with it, do something about it.
What if she can do more with it than he can?
He holds up his left hand, pointing a finger upward. If he knows this road right, okay... let's do this. One shot. She's not going to wait over six minutes for the next chance, if he has this right. And if that speedomoeter isn't broken.
"I got names. Yeah. Shadaloo. NESTS." And that other one Raizo mentioned, what was it, say it fast! "R. They're in it together." C'mon, c'mon, don't have much time before the big moment he can say it. "That's your, your 'bad guys' right there."
There's a turn likely to come up, and based on how Elle's been driving she's probably going to take it as hard as she can, considering in this society people tend to drive a whooooole lot slower than they do in the United States. He leans his hip against the door in hopes this would help drown the phone out with the rattling and screeching, if she does.
"Rolento's," that's the word he's trying to time against the worst noise this ride has to offer, though he transitions smoothly into the rest of the sentnce "trying to get them out."
The mercenary nods. Worked with them, worked with them, worked with them. And that's a new one. Rolento? Unfortunately for Rust, Elle's hearing hasn't been destroyed from her years of listening to extremely loud rock music. But it's with that, she raises a finger and snaps once.
With that motion, every speaker in the car pops as she looses a feedback pulse both sonic and electromagnetic to fry any tracking or bug device. Who knew Rust would get mixed up /that/ deep?
Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Well, well. That's a little shocking, I'll admit. Surprise surprise. Wonders never do cease," Elle intones as she hears the speil. "Okay... first of all, I've killed any listening devices, so breathe deep and relax."
Her lips quirk up into the tiniest of smiles. It's good to be playing the Game again. "Look, I know all three of those parties. They're big spenders. Used to put big cash in my pocket. And before you freak out, no, I'm not on the pay of any of 'em right now. I like all of 'em individually. All at once? No dice."
"What's surprising," she says as that turn takes them in view of Pacific, "Is that they're teaming up, and that Rolento's the freedom fighter here. You do know that's the same crazy tinpot despot that tried to take down Metro City, right?" She saves a hand dismissively. "Look. Never worked with him myself. He seems like a second rate hack, but he's not stupid. Crafty motherfucker as all get out, Rolento. Doesn't matter what happens, he keeps popping back up like zits on prom night. I can respect that."
Gears start turning in the woman's head, and she starts to slow down on the approach. "Look, pal. Be careful with Rolento. He's got this whole 'Gonna Make Utopia' thing going on. It's addictive. I've seen what it can do to people. Really easy to get caught up in it. Even if you don't, he gang presses anyone with half a soul into working for him like some kind of intentured servant. Right now, he's probably the best bet to get those big boys out of here, though, because he's the only one with the guts and the firepower to even stand a chance."
But with that said, she swings the truck around the back of the school. "If NESTS, Shadaloo, and R are here, they're moving on on Geese's turf. That means someone's moved Geese's cheese. Those guys couldn't have come in unless someone in Geese's upper eschelons stepped aside and let them in."
OH MY GOD MY EARS, THINKS RUST AS EVERYTHING ECHOES IN HIS HEAD, LEFT HAND ON ONE EAR AND PRESSING THE OTHER SIDE OF HIS HEAD AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE WINDOW. THEY RING FOR ONLY BRIEF MOMENTS, FADiNg As ElLe BeGiNs To SpeAk aBouT whAt tHe hEll That Was fOr.
The first thing he gets out of her mouth is that she's killed any listening devices, so breathe deep, and relax, and... hoo. Breathe out. He slowly removes the side of his head from nearby the side window as to not accidentally cut it against any part of that thing that looks ready to become a handy way of impaling oneself.
"Okay," he adds as the only slight interruption before she talks about how she knows all three of those parties. His blood starts to run cold at mention that she does business with them, his right hand tensing painfully over Ol' Rusty. That reminder that his dominant hand is still in quite the pain releases the tension about as much as the reassurance, which is to say... not very much.
He nods his head at the Metro City bit, who doesn't know that? He's an American, the world probably knows the score on what America seems to think of what Rolento does, especially after the early part of the decade. He blinks a couple of times as he tries his damned hardest to find some way to relax here as notes are, once again, exchanged - this time with someone from the, shall we say, wilder side of all this garbage.
She's the one who definitively marks Geese as being a lot more linked to some of this. Everything else has been speculation from what he's gathered, from not so long ago. A guy who truly made street fighting the thing it is today, on a whole lot of fronts - who is that steeped in shadowy business, which brought these other malcontents together in some unified front to bring him down.
So why the schools? He thinks someone else knows.
"As far as he goes... Rolento." He shakes his head. He can speak candidly freely now, so far as he knows. Or cares. "Yeah. I know he's bad news. Son of a bitch tried to get me to get the kids to vacate, so... so he could throw their bodies at this whole thing." Something that doesn't set well with him.
"I'm a high school teacher, I'm not a, not a secret agent. But he's as close to the truth of it all as I'm going to get, and... one way or another." One way or another? That 'one way' seems plainly outlined. He raises both hands up in front of him. "Alright. I want this shit to be done. So far as I know. It's what you told me. He knows what's going on, he's got the best chance of doing something about it, I'm in it only for as long as it takes for me to get these sons of bitches out of my life, and out of my kids' lives."
They're pulling up around the back of the school. They probably have this man pegged for dead at this point, given his disappearance after NESTS struck. Things seem... pretty okay, from the back. Nobody's shooting at them, this place must not have been taken yet. Good.
"Maybe he's not going to let me go when this is all done, hell, maybe now I'm stuck being some target on their list for the rest of my life, or... I don't know whatever the hell they think of me, or what they'd want to do to me, but soon as all's said and done, that man can kiss my ass." You heard him.
Confident words. Elle's heard them before. Sometimes they work, admittedly. Every so often there's a strong willed, powerful individual that beats the odds and mages to escape unscathed.
Then there's the rest.
But Elle's not here to rain on parades today. Her sole purpose is to gather information, and she's hit the jackpot with Rust. In a short time, she's learned a whole lot about the playing field, moreso than she thought she would. In time, she could learn the rest if any of that needed to be learned.
Which it does, of course. Elle's driven by a primal need to know how things work. It's just the way she's always been since the little accident involving a psychic attack and not enough defense.
"No," she eventually says as Rust finishes off his spiel, turning off the engine of the truck. "You've got more of the answer than you think you do. Think tactically for a second. Geese has... or had... his hand in almost every illicit deal from here to Sing Sing. Nobody likes him. It's not hard to see retrospect that someone finally pulling out the stops on some of Geese's defenses caused this."
She leans back in the seat, the gears in her head spinning faster and faster, and she reaches in her jacket to pull out a small notepad, picking a pen up off the dashboard. "Look. Geese is too entrenched in town. Someone had to step aside. There's got to be someone in Geese's camp letting that happen, either indirectly or deliberately. Doesn't matter. Guy's had to have cut a deal with the three houses in order to get their asses in town."
"Maybe, and this is dead speculation, someone tossed in your schools to sweeten the pot. When I worked for the 'Loo, I learned pretty damn quick that the man apparently fell asleep listening to a Whitney Houston mix tape, 'cause the man is obsessed with children being our future. He's elbow deep in the ass end of the faculty in Justice High, which creeps half into Seijyun. I used to do business there with some girl that dressed like goldilocks. Uh, Eureka. Something. Name's escaping me. Been a while," she scribbles on the pad, diagraming her dicussion. "Rugal just needs the trading port. Guy runs a hot shit arms and drugs shipping business, and NESTS? Same like Vega. Kids are sweet pickings for them. They lust after DNA like a frat boy lusts after sorority tail. You still with me, Homer?"
The pen scribbles artfully, Elle's handwriting is a technical, clean print like an engineers'. "So let me paint a picture for you. Someone... dunno who... up in Geese's court, decides he's had enough of the old coot and makes contact with the big boys, offering them feifdoms in Oz here. 'Loo and NESTS get pickings of the little girls and boys, and Rugal sucks up the majority of the underworld."
The hand continues to scribble as she talks, her eyes flicking over to Rust as she speaks to ensure he's following her. "Now why do that? Think hard. If he does that, he won't have anything left to himself, right? Wrong. You get three big noises in one room, they're going to start shouting to see who's the loudest. Then they're going to pound on each other, weakening one another long enough for a fourth party to come in and sweep them out of the area, leaving who in charge?"
The pen tip comes down on the big question mark on the pad. "Our mystery man, who called in the fourth party. In orther words, Rolento. Congratulations, Homer. You've just played a pivotal role in overthrowing an old regime and setting up a new one by supporting a sham 'resistance'."
The woman tosses the pad and pen in Rust's lap. "Or, I could be dead wrong." Her lips quirk into a half smile. "It's been known to happen. Just... not often."
Does he really? He stops in mid-vocal train of thought as the engine goes off and Elle brings in her piece. He's got more of the answer than he thinks he does? Think tactically. He's not a war strategist, he's a construction worker turned overseas educator at one of the snootiest schools around (but boy, does it pay well). Better with his hands than with his head... as some people can sometimes attest.
His eyes trail the notepad and the pen, although he can't see what she's writing. Someone's got to have cut a deal with the three houses in order to get them in here... okay, who? He doesn't know much of anything about these guys!
His face goes sour when she mentions the schools and how they fit into this. Geese has dealings with Justice High? Does this mean Raizo has a hand in this?! Into Seijyun, some girl that dressed like goldilocks, uh... You ree kuh. Who was that again? He knows he's heard it before. He's about to start snapping his fingers to jog his memory.
This stops when NESTS comes up, the ones that have been antagonizing his school the most. Once, long ago, and recently this time. Something clicks - Igniz seemed kind of upset with Rolento over something. Uncertain. Rolento was trying to get Rust to get the kids out, and... his mouth hangs open. Oh, shit.
He nods wordlessly after kind of an awkward pause, in case Elle is doubting the gears that are going through his head. He bares his teeth in an exaggerated grimace as she talks about how they would seemingly divide their holdings and the inevitable conflicts of interest between them, and...
He starts rubbing the back of his head on the congratulations. Here he was, thinking he might almost be ready to be playing Rolento for a pawn and hey, now he's likely still being played too. Him and the Gedo kid!
He doesn't flinch when the pad and pen hit his lap as Elle goes into a half-smile. His left eye shuts from a mote of dust getting in his eye. A grunt. "Holy shit," he utters, not looking into the pad other than running over it with his left hand.
"Yeah." He gathers himself, to the extent he can, head dipping a little forward as he massages his forehead with his right hand. This is largely all theory, going by the words of someone who seems all too willing to share what's up. But the pieces, they fit together well - if she's telling the truth.
Is there any alternative at this point? A few knuckles pop as he tries to release the tension running through his system with those theoretical dominoes lining up and coming down. "Yeah, I... I get you." He turns a nervous glance over to the school, left hand now tapping at the pad.
The mercenary woman looks at Rust, removing her glasses to display her face. Her left eye's been damaged considerably, completely white save for a black pinprick in the center. It allows her to see, but does nothing for her cosmetic appearance. The reason she does so is for the sake of confirming her veracity: she looks dead at Rust, unflinchingly.
"There's a lot of things you can still do here. Then again, there's a lot of things you can just sit out of. If you want to let this play to it's logical conclusion? Nothing happens." She points to the pad in his lap. "Nothing. Happens. The regime changes, the world settles down, and lah de dah. In three months all the wounds are healed, except Mystery Man X is in charge, not Geese."
"But, if you want to change things, there's a few things still left to do. I'll be honest with you: I'm an opportunist. I pretty much pick up after everyone else. No matter the mess left behind, I'm going to find a way to thrive. But just in case you're not clear here, there's a few choke points left for you to play with."
She holds up her hand and raises a pinky. "Rolento. He's the weakest of the big four. Take him on and out? You toss a monkey wrench into the works here. The eventual conclusion is that the big boys clobber each other sensless ad nauseum until they run out of steam. There's no winner there. There's just losers. Overall, you'd be singlehandedly weakening every big underworld noise. The downside is that Southtown stays a war zone for a long time. You'll also be on the hit list of Rolento and Mystery Man X, who's an unknown quantity. "
The ring finger goes up. "You could help Rolento. Not a bad idea, given the situation, but your best bet is to carve a niche for yourself here. Doesn't seem like your bag, but if you're going to go into this, you might as well go in past ankle deep. I could use a man like you: smart enough to go looking into things and get the peices. Installing yourself by IDing Mr. X is probably going to get you points in the long run."
Then the middle. "Or, you can take what's in the back of the truck, which I'll give pro bono and start a resistance against /everyone/. That's the only thing you've got if you want to try to get /all/ the criminal element out of Southtown. It's a suicide mission... but so was Metro, and Thailand, and every other mission you so-called-heroes jump in. Odds don't seem to factor when you get enough rabies-infested kids in one spot, so... why the hell not try?"
The hand lowers. "Choice is yours, Homer. So what do you want to do? I'm still getting my bearings here, and you're my in. You help me, and I'll help you."
Off comes the glasses. Up comes Mr. Rust's eyes, and coincidentally, his right hand. A good look at a bit of discolored skin from past his wrist and out to his forearm shoes that he recently suffered a very bad burn wound. One that has been attended to, if not lovingly, by Rolento. It's cost him a little use of it. He can't clench it so hard any more. And when he does, stings like the dickens. He still tries so it doesn't scar over and cost him even more use of it. It's the sort of injury where sensible doctors might tell him his fighting days could be over, lest he make some miraculous recovery that doesn't seem too likely at this point.
Nothing seems too likely.
The choices are read out. He can't sit it out, leaning back against the side of the door as this thought is brought up - he knows a hell of a lot about what's going on, now. That's the choice he made when he didn't turn in his resignation to Pacific when things started going south. That was the point of no return. He's stuck on this roller coaster whether he likes it or not. (He doesn't like it.)
But if he wants to change things. If he wants to change things...
Rolento. Take him on and out? If this woman's theories are spot on the money... the question is, can he - and everyone else he's come to know in Southtown - hold out against the continued warfare until it all dies down? And will he even be able to live knowing he'd be on a hitlist? He grunts as he considers this.
The second point. Helping him. That was the track he was on, thinking he had a finger on the pulse of the matter up until these ideas came to mind. She wants someone on the inside. She stands to benefit most from this - shady as she might be, she's already gone this far to help him. But could he really install himself that far in? Rolento might not openly trust him to begin with. He's a high school teacher, not a super spy agent. He frowns, scratching the side of his head with his right hand again.
The middle. Take what's in the back of the truck? He turns his head a little to see what it is in there, now that he actually thinks to-- whoa. All this, and that's the idea to get absolutely every last bit of corruption here in Southtown? He visibly shrinks from the idea, yeah... no.
Admittedly, there is not much appeal in these given options. But is that all of the options he has available? She's waiting for an answer. His head lowers. She wants help, he's her in, she stands to benefit whatever way he goes (...even the third?). Another grunt. Tough choices. Tough world. Each one of sorts is a compromise with things he'd have wanted nothing to do with. He had his chance. He really had his chance to just go home and scrape a meager living somehow - his employers at Pacific would be rather colorful to anyone looking to hire him if he deserted the school openly in its time of need.
Make up your mind. He has a tired smirk. Well. You've come this far, you have what is very likely to be all the facts pertaining to this whole mess at your disposal, in a way, you are one of the most dangerous men to this entire war effort by the allied foes now.
A deep breath. Make eye contact. This is the big choice you're going to make. Make eye contact, he does. Tired eye contact. But it's about as sure and steady as it's going to get at this time of night, after such a lively set of days. He points with his right thumb out the window.
"I'm playing Rolento by ear. The other guy... the Gedo kid, he doesn't trust Rolento. I think... I think I can get him to work with me on this. Whenever he and I see one another again." If they do. Howard, here, he was lucky in not being targeted and ultimately flattened by FREAKING SAGAT. Who knows how Hakuya is holding up with whatever his 'mission' is. He wasn't privvy to knowing what the other guy was doing. Maybe it was just to keep Howard from talking about a way to go rogue with him.
He's looking back out to Pacific. Think about all the other schools, here - this approach, he is risking a ton more than just his own life. "Rolent
o... runs a tight ship. Doubt I'm gonna get in too deep. Hell. If he was listening. Bet he already... already suspects something's up. Ehh. What I said now, that might be all I'm gonna get."
He taps his left hand against the seat. "I'm no crazed vigilante, I mean... maybe, ten years ago, I did some of that. I don't stand a chance if I just... just ran screaming with whoever else felt like doing that." He knows where his limits lie in this world. He's sturdy, sure. The Neo League sure helped put something into perspective, though - he can't take on an elite Isreali militant guy. He doubts he could match... ten, like him. One hundred. One thousand. Ten thousand.
He lifts his head up, his right hand going down to pick up Ol' Rusty. Even that last bit said, the two of them have plenty of work to do between now and the end - be it the end of the strife or the end of his life, whichever comes first. "One way or another, I'm gonna have to deal with Rolento. Even if I end up working part of the way. There's no denying any of that." A pause. "In the end. He still gets to kiss my ass."
A finger is pointed at Rust, and Elle shakes her head. "Knew there was something I liked about you," she says. "Too damn bad you've still got a heart. I could have used someone like you a long time ago. Tried it out with this guy named Sergio, and he disappeared after I sent him on some of the dirt-easiest jobs I could have given him."
Ah memories. But business before remeniscing.
"Listen. You keep saying that you're not this, and you're not that. But guess what? Here you are, sitting in a truck talking about acts of planned terrorism with a mercenary that, guess what, has done stuff that you'd probably consider war atrocities. And don't get me started on that 'It's not terrorism' bullshit, because if someone that doesn't like you wins? Guess what. It's terrorism." Elle's voice grows cold and deadpan again, indicating it's not time to be waffling about and arguing semantics.
"Rolento never trusts anyone. Not even the people that trust him. He's very structured. He likes all his ducks in a row. The man's a machine. Don't forget any of that," Elle intones, shifting in her seat to look out her shattered side window. Fingers drum against the side of the truck in thought.
"Listen close, Homer. 'Cause I don't say this much. I'm a cynic, but it doesn't mean that I don't beleive that a single man can't change the destiny of the world. You've made an important decision to do something. Just make sure that something counts. I can guarantee to you that everyone else is just running in a hamster wheel right now. You've managed to take off the blinders on your own."
She turns to Rust, her stare cold and hard. "I've never had any hope in anyone. Almost everyone I meet is just going through the motions in life. Boring, boring, boring. Their destinies are written in stone, and they'll never change. But you're changing. Here. Now. If you're telling me you're taking a stand, I beleive you. But make sure that your stand counts for something, whatever you do."
She pauses, eyes flicking to the pad she tossed at Rust, then back again. "Just make sure you choose the right side for you. Plan, play it by ear, just make sure you know exactly where you've tossed your chips at the end of the day, because all of that matters when this gets wrapped up. A man has to make his stand."
"But he shouldn't have to fall right afterward, you know?"
The teacher freezes as he's pointed at. What, something going on behind them? He follows it as she talks about what she likes about him. Too bad he's still got a heart, could've used someone like him, huh. He slowly turns his head back, rolling his neck around once for yet another pop.
He's once again stopped at mention of the fact that what's going on here is, indeed... planned terrorism. What it means to be speaking to someone like her. Yeah... funny that. A guy who tries to lead a good, clean-cut life so he doesn't follow a certain someone's footsteps. Here, with a shady lady with a shady past he met one day when he decided behaving badly on the weekends was a great way to spend his time in Southtown.
The terrorist label. That's the sort of thing that strikes fear into pretty much any American, or at least works them up into a frothing frenzy. This instance is more of the former. A lump is trying to decide if it wants to go down the throat or not, unless by doing so the lump would be found an accessory to potential terrorism.
Rolento never trusts anyone, and hell, the teacher here was already pretty sure of that. He's gonna have even less reason to trust the Pacific shop teacher after that bug disarm (if there was even a bug - he never had the time to really check other than assuming the worst). He nods his head. He hadn't forgotten that when having his first taste of the outdoor air in... it could have been weeks, as far as he knows.
His head leans back as she puts on that staring business again. Lady, do you know how creepy that stare is? What with your eye, and all. Makes a cold chill run all through him - if not that, it is the words she says, that of a world-weary person working on a side of society that'd make so many cringe. He, himself, is not an exception from this.
He takes a deep breath yet again. He really missed the kind of air this truck has. This well-worn truck that's been his loyal mechanical chariot for... far longer than it should have been. Make sure he chooses the right side for himself. Plan, play it by ear, just make sure he knows exactly where he's tossed his chips at the end of the day, because all of that's gonna matter when this gets wrapped up. He'll need to make his stand.
"Yeah... he doesn't." He says as he raps the knuckles of his right hand against his window. Some glass falls off, at which point he immediately recoils. Not that... he should have anything at all to fear about mere glass, this is the guy who withstood the mightiest blast of Zach Glen long enough to return in kind - something that, despite his loss, is guaranteed to stick as a highlight in the fighting world for years to come. (To say nothing of one of his old friends back home managing to call him in the middle of the god damn fight, wasn't that a hoot.)
He starts to let his eyes wander back to Pacific. As far as anything goes now, this is home. He's here, he's got to let the rest inside know that he's alive. "I gotta... I gotta get out. Big day tomorrow. It's gonna be a big day tomorrow." Depending on how the dice are rolled, it could be one of his last days.
He takes the notepad in his left hand, pocketing it clumsily in one of his toolbelt pockets as his elbow complains through yet another pop. "Hell if I know where I'll be at the end of it all, but... it ain't going to be sitting on my ass. You got my word there."
The mercenary lets out a short laugh as she slides the glasses back onto her face.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry. You'll live."
There's a cold surety to her voice. It's not really comforting despire being an extremely confident. Almost like living may not be worth it. Is that what she's saying? Elle's tone doesn't leave a lot of subtext to read, and even psis are hard pressed to guess her true intent mostly because the woman's just brutally straightforward with everything she says.
"One last thing," she says as she starts the truck's engine again, her hand crackling by the steering column to trigger the car's mechanisms rather than going through the cumbersome use of a key.
"This world doesn't need more bad people. People like them, people like Rolento. People like me. This world doesn't /need/ people that do what we do. You get out of the Game as soon as you can. The longer you stay in, the more it takes from you."
She gestures to his hand with a motion of her head. "And it'll keep taking until there's nothing left. You'll start to contemplate things you never thought about just to stay in it. Just to say 'one more round, and then I'll quit.'"
The engine finally roars to life, the truck clattering badly as Elle places both hands on the steering wheel. "But if you decide that you like it, I've always got room for another hired hand. I know a guy that can fix that hand for you right up if you want to stay in the Game."
She laughs again. It's not a pleasant sound. It's not bitter either. Just a laugh, devoid of the emotion necessary to produce one. "I hope once this is over that I never have to see you ever again. That being said, if I do see you again? I hope it's because you're looking for work. Good luck, Homer. If you need anything else... well."
She smiles. "I'll find you."
Where her voice is cold, his is gravelly. Tired. Even if there is confidence in his words, there is fatigue in his voice. He is ready to help bring this entire war business to the end, one way or another, in almost any way he's able. That doesn't change the fact he is exhausted. A certain friend of his from Thailand would tell him, if he's tired, he needs to take the day off. After that long absence of who knows how long when he blacked out in the front yard, he's pretty sure he's technically expended all his sick days and then some, even if classes are canceled.
The engine starts up loudly as the man steps out the passenger side door of his piece of shit truck, his feet once again now on what may well be the closest he'll find to safe ground. The one true moment of respite he'll find for a good long time to come. Hopefully not too long a time to come. Maybe there's a patch of dirt that'll be comfy if push comes to shove.
One last thing, she says. He looks back. This world doesn't need more bad people. People like them, people like Rolento. People like her. The world doesn't /need/ people that do what they do, and you know what, amen to that. Get out of the Game as soon as he can. His eyes follow where she's pointing - his right hand up against the door, as he transposed Ol' Rusty over to his left for whatever reason. The more it'll keep taking as long as he's in there, keep taking until there's nothing left... yeah. He almost fell to that once, long ago. Not again. That's why he got this job, after going through college at last. A job where he could really make a difference, no matter how much the results differentiate from his expectations as to whether or not he is teaching the kids anything.
She knows a guy who can fix his hand, huh. He gives it a wistful look as he gives it another little squeeze and winces. There's that temptation there. But she's telling him, no. He's telling himself, no. His hand is saying 'do it, please.' Screw you, hand, you're not me. Except you are. I guess. But I'm the one in charge.
He shakes his head, raising his left arm - and Ol' Rusty - up and down dismissively at the laughter as he closes it up and starts to walk away. Once this is over, he... he really hopes he never has to see any one of these people again. Rolento. Blonde haired floaty guy. FREAKING SAGAT. That R guy... Rugal, Rugal, right, he hasn't seen him in person yet (God willing, he never will). And you know, he wouldn't miss Ojike no Oni either. Or that... pink haired punk.
Her laughter above that cruddy old engine and the following statement shows her feelings kind of echo his. He looks back one last time, though his right leg threatens to cramp up. Good luck, Homer. If he needs anything else...
She'll find him, huh. Good luck finding me.
He walks away from the truck, allowing her to drive away free whenever she chooses to. Though, something seems wrong with this entire picture. He frowns, head lowering as he thinks about this. Was it something she said? Something about the whole picture as presented...? Wait.
Wait.
Wait!
WAIT!!!
Oh god dammit, he just let her run off with his truck! He throws a frustrated punch in thin air with his right hand, slouches... then straightens out and shrugs, shaking his head. HE's back at Pacific. The lack of a vehicle, that's still going to be a problem now.
But first, he needs to work out his next approach about it all. Rolento. The politics of the underworld. Whether or not his school, or any others, will be safe... come this morning, he's going to be in for a surprise when the news comes on.
Some have already played the ace up their sleeve.
Log created on 16:51:00 04/18/2009 by Elle, and last modified on 01:39:05 04/19/2009.