Description: Megadeth (1986). And Rust's buying. Rust still has questions that nag at the back of his head, but the truth may be a little more than he bargained for. While Elle may have the answers he needs, the mercenary does something that very few people are ever willing to give anyone in this day and age: a choice.
Elle always settles her debts.
Whether it's monetary or otherwise, the mercenary makes sure that everything that ever benefits her that doesn't come directly from her own actions or skill is compensated for. The reasons are myriad, but completely her own. Maybe it's because she doesn't like having people hold things over her head. Maybe it's some twisted code that she follows. Maybe there's still a sense of what is fundamentally fair still haunting her mind in some way, shape, or form. Whatever the case may be, she'll go to great lengths to ensure that her accounts are clean whenever possible.
But that doesn't mean that they take a backseat to things that are more important. Everything gets ranked and pigeonholed, set into a strata of most to least urgent. As a result, when her little strike force plus Rust finally leaves the NESTS facility to the tender care of the attacking forces with prize in hand, the number one priority is the the health and welfare of her wounded men, but securing the goal in a safe location. ARIIA's components are moved offsite to a new storehouse after she drops off her men in the village. She's gone for an almost excruciatingly long time.
But when she does return, she ensures whomever is hurting the most is finally taken care of. While mercenaries have the mixed benefit of being able to be treated by any 'Doc in the Box' in any black or gray market district, Rust is different. Rather than subject the man to any further exposure to the world she lives in, she makes a phone call for a back-room butcher to make a house call, loads up the teacher into a large American-built truck with a cheap motorcycle in the back, and drives him to a legitimate hospice.
Luckily for Rust, the medical facilities here are well versed in caring for fighters and the strange wounds that tend to come in as a result of those fights. Rust might have some explaining to do if they find the cocktail of chemicals in his system that kept him from dying, but then that's the breaks. Otherwise, she remains relatively wordless, only talking to the injured man in terse phrases to get him to move and sit so she can transport him to a hospital.
Otherwise? She remains largely silent for whatever reason, not particularly initiating any conversation unless Rust decides to start asking questions. Whether or not he'll get any answers is really up to him at that point.
Pushing that 'prize' out was not fun. It's somewhere between the whole 'being alive and moving thanks to something uncomfortable moving through the circulation system,' 'fussing with what vertical clearance the pried open blast door gave in moving the creepy Star Trek computer thing out,' 'what it means for people like these to have this thing,' and last but not least, 'Rolento will be pissed I basically went AWOL.' But, just as well, perhaps, that the deadly electrical blast destroyed the thing. Hours after the fact how he even got himself in there is something of a blur. Lord knows, this man does not want to move another thing for a good long while.
"Grnk." The universal response to just about every instruction from straining to lift his legs and otherwise just bend himself into his seat. This was a lot more comfortable than the very ground near an alley he was sitting in for that 'almost excruciatingly long time.' His hair, or what's left of it, still stands out on end. All things considered it is a legitimate improvement over the combover that must not be described for those innocent eyes that may fall upon this writing.
He didn't even really have it in him to say anything to 'Descartes' or the other guy. This includes neglecting to apologize for having given the French(?) guy a concussion off his forearm, but... he can't say he's keen on the idea of ever really seeing any of them again. The odds of that remain unlikely. They all do live in different worlds. He's a schoolteacher for rich kids. They're mercenaries making a living through whatever means necessary. The only thing alike about any of them, they can hold their own in a fight. Even with that likeness, he kind of dreads the thought about meeting any of them in some ring or another... if he is ever to return to it.
The first few minutes of the ride are pleasantly silent with the understanding of where Rust is going. He is motionless, which goes well for preventing any annoying sudden joint cracks or what have you that he's full of. That he hasn't also given off more static shocks since he got out of that NESTS base, also a plus. Now, if he might keep his mouth shut for the entire ride, maybe peacefully drift off until he can be shoved out of the truck...
Nope, this luxury won't be Elle's today... but not from any particular malice on his part. He's too tired to even be angry as the effects of that chemical cocktail running through him starts wearing off, leaving him with his usual achy self times a good... four hundred twenty four, if one must be exceedingly accurate about the exponential pain factor. It's a lot.
"So, Seijyun." He mutters almost inaudibly, more to himself than to Elle as though he could only come to the climax of his brainstorming through mumbling.
It's not that Elle is opposed to talking. It's just that Elle has very little, to her mind, that needs any excessive discussion. As far as she's concerned, everything's been explained and is crystal clear. Sometimes, there's very little rhyme or reason to these sorts of things. After all, she's used to dealing with people that have delusions of grandeur. In effect, sometimes she gets work merely because someone has a random thought. It's good work when you can get it, and better when they actually pay.
Luckily for Elle, her reputation allows her to actually /get/ paid for her assignments. Being more than a fly by night random name that ends up cannon fodder more often than not definitely helps in that department, but she's done a considerable amount to try to keep from getting arrogant over it. In the end, she only makes mention that this is her job, and she's good at it.
But the quiet truck ride was something that she had just assumed was going to happen. Rust is severely injured, even if the wounds aren't horrible to behold like she's used to seeing. And even if the man was angry, she's in considerably better shape than he is. No amount of exhortations from Rust could really pressure her into speaking if she didn't want to, even if he was at full strength anyway. So when he finally does speak and mentions the name of Seijyun, Elle doesn't answer immediately.
She's only really mentioned the school to a few people. People that either needed to know, or people that had information to trade, and Seijyun was a bargaining chip. Whatever the case may be, whatever Seijyun is or isn't has been stated for the record, and only needs mentioning once. As a result, she doesn't reply right away as she navigates the eerily empty streets. Instead, she lets him sit there, thinking about his own statement before she even deigns to reply. And when she does, the only thing he gets is: "What about it?"
Which pretty much sums up her thoughts on the matter entirely.
What about it, she asks. What about it, he thinks to himself, as though what he were thinking about concerning it left him in that gap of time between his thought and her reply in favor of, say, nodding off. His eyes are about fully closed when she pops that question, his left eye opening up at that query. So, uh... what about it?
"What about it," he mutters just as quietly and weakly as the thought from before, mouth hanging open a little as he tries to recall what point he was on. What about it, other than 'everything,' something specific. She told him a lot before - even if it was, at heart, an exchange of information. Could he get a little more? Does she even know anything further about it?
"Uh." He vocalizes that much as he attempts to zero in on that single point in his tired, drug-addled mind. A mind that is hosting the metaphorical company of a rowdy five year old making a mess outside of the apartment while the resident is trying to get some studying done for some exam or another. "Why they... uh. Weren't," weren't what? There is a jarring pause between this and the next word that falls out of his mouth. "Hit."
His head sags a little off to the side window. It gives him a nice view of what toll the war has taken around the city, through places he couldn't see himself due to a lack of, say, a vehicle.
Why weren't they hit? Elle knows why they weren't hit. Exactly why they weren't hit, in fact. But given the way things had turned out, the mercenary is hesitant to divulge the information. A lot more forces are in play here, and the fact of the matter is, the question really becomes whther or not Rust's voluntary contribution, such as it was, is worth that information. Certainly, he nearly scarificed his life to assist her in a goal, but there's a very cold question to answer before she can even respond in any meaningful way:
How much is Rust's life worth?
The woman's quantified others before. After all, that's how she sets employee pay. It's how marks are presented to her for assassination jobs. It's how she calculates hazard pay, insurance premiums... after all, she's essentially in the military contracting business. These are the sort of actuarial duties that she engages in every day. Nevertheless, Rust is hard to quantify because every sign points to him being absolutely worthless. The man should be little more than an afterthought, little more than a footnote that didn't even make it into the final draft. Despite everything stacked against him, however, he's managed to get this far.
Which either makes him foolish, dangerous, or both. And knowing that he works for Rolento? That makes the information that much more valuable, since she's had to cut a few deals involving Seijyun that are advantageous to a lot more parties involved. So the answer forthcoming will likely be tainted with that process.
"Remember what the computer said," she responds, her rasping voice really not much more comfort than the clear, 'Star Trek' voice that had come from the computer. "Schools were targetted for the primary reason that they were a threat. So if Seijyun wasn't targetted, it pretty much answers itself, doesn't it? There's only one of two reasons Seijyun wasn't considered a threat. And knowing what you know about the way schoolkids conduct their business around here... which one do /you/ think is the answer?"
She doesn't even say what those two reasons could be. It's probably maddening, but it's clear that Elle is either not going to be too revealing at this juncture... or Rust is just going to have to work for the answers. Either way, as far as she can tell, she's fulfilling her duties just by taking the man to the hospital. There's going to have to be more on the table before she starts answering big questions.
A lot of people have asked that question of him since he came to Southtown, if only to themselves. How much is this man's employ in general worth? He doesn't quite have the impressive number of degrees a lot of his co-workers do in their field, he's not from a rich family, he gets into trouble on a somewhat regular basis despite his best efforts, his employer's medical insurance has literally had a heart attack over this man being covered under them. On all fronts, despite what he does bring to the table, he shouldn't be worth the trouble associated with him, real or perceived.
And yet, here he is, trucking on through life the only way he knows how - hard work, taking a whole lot of shit, and sometimes giving back in turn. And now... in the company of a prominent underworld figure, by whatever circumstance brought them together (twice), when the two have literally no reason for any of them to ever meet.
Southtown is a smaller town than it seems, isn't it?
He remembers what the computer said clearly. Schools were targeted because they were a threat. If Seijyun wasn't targeted - despite that whole Ladies' Team thing - they weren't a threat. Gedo was. Pacific was. Justice was, even if FREAKING SAGAT didn't... seem too wholly into it enough that he'd get his forces to leave if Raizo overcame him (and overcome him he did, that Principal does not mess around). Taiyo, no doubt, even if he had no direct interactions with anybody from there through the whole matter. But not Seijyun. Why? Because...
Think. This is the culmination of everything you've strove for, he manages to cognize though his senses, all of them at once, want to shut down to that numb incoherence that comes with complete and total exhaustion. Every little detail, from what you've heard, what you've seen, what you've been told, how that stacks up with everything else... all boiling down to the encounter in that dark, creepy, smelly bunker room, warm with the cold spectre of death. (How does that even make any sense?) The lingering disappointment that there wasn't someone human there he could yell at, beat the utter shit out of, and otherwise completely ruin their day for all they've done to him and the kids back at Pacific and... well, anywhere else.
This is all considered as the truck drives down the road towards the final destination. Small, temporary views of people trying to go about their business. Two guys in a fist fight. The same two guys who get in a fist fight a lot, that blonde-haired caucasian guy in the shirt and the black one without who always seems to get knocked down in that one punch. (Evidently, even war and strife in Southtown does little to quell their eternal one-sided feud.) A barrel fire. A guitarist strumming something out. A bag of something getting thrown out a second story window.
"They weren't a, a.... a threat." Which speaks for itself, doesn't it? But no, there's more to it than that, isn't there? How would a super expensive women's school with a known organized gang not be a threat? The man grunts. This should be obvious, blatantly, yet so much of him doesn't want to cross that bridge. /Why wouldn't Seijyun be a threat?/ (Find out after this commercial break!)
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...(one more, this one is funny and you will discuss it for years to come)...
"Because, uh... they were..." They were what? I-word. C'mon, remember it. Starts with I. I. I. I. I. In... inverte-- no, that's not anywhere close. Involuntary? "Invo--" Wait, that's not the word either but it starts with that. Something like...
"...Involved?"
Give the booby his prize. Even in the most simple of times, back when Elle was a hard knot of contempt and anger, she still couldn't imagine herself as being this slow. Stupid, definitely. Early mistakes are not ones she revisits often. Nevertheless, as Rust's eyes slowly open to the reality of the situation, Elle says nothing. But that silence in and of itself may very well be the answer the man is looking for.
Elle doesn't pay attention to the teaching staff of any of the schools to any great measure. She knows of them, just in case they ever cross paths, but the fact was that the /children/, not the teachers, were in charge in Southtown. Therefore, knowing them in all their details was of the utmost import. But even they had to know that, right? The teachers had to know that they were little more than pawns, despite thier power, in the power plays of thier own students, right? And really, the only thing keeping the children in their place was the dual demons of unwarranted confidence and hormones. The distinct lack of logical thinking. Always so willing to run off into the fray, willing to fight and die for a cause that they barely understood. The lack of the ability to see the big picture really made for an almost sad drama to Elle. In the world of Souttown schools, the blind really did lead the blind.
She makes a turn, the turn signal makes a clicking noise, gently measuring out the beats between his statement and her answer. In a way, Rust's eyes opening may very well be the first time that a teacher acknowledges the depths of the flat out corruption prevelant in the schools. Again, Elle understands that many teachers may know of it... but to what extent, she has no clue.
The turn signal stops clicking, and now they're on a new road.
"Listen," she says, not looking at Rust, instead concentrating on the road ahead. "You better be sure as hell this is a train of thought you want to follow. Up until now, you've been safe under the covers with the blankets over your head. All those kids you're teaching, dealing with, and talking to with thier petty gang fights are really a part of something a whole lot bigger than you need to be poking at," she explains quietly.
"You've played your part in this Game. You came out ahead, that is, alive. Thank whomever for that. But if you want to start playing this, then you'd better have a contingency plan for beating the beehive with a stick." Deadly serious, as always. Seems silly for Elle to be treating silly schoolyard squabbles like cancer, doesn't it? Even so, the tone of her voice is hardly mirthful. "I will say this. Schools are always involved. /Always/. You know that Whitney Houston song? Well, there's a lot of people with a lot of money and a lot of power that apparently go to bed listening to that every night. So that's your peek out from under the covers."
"You toss that blanket off your head though, and the monsters are gonna see you, and there's nobody out there that's going to protect you unless you know where to look for them."
Even if she was looking at him, what little he cares to look out at is firmly on the streets just outside that little window that would hardly protect him from some knucklehead wanting to throw a flowerpot through there. That silence is not really any more welcoming or encouraging to his thoughts, clouded and strained as they are with that ambient overall feeling of pain, exhaustion, and frustration weighing him down. He's not even sure wants to lift up his head from against the passenger side window, the cool, flat surface almost comforting in comparison to the tension that has settled firmly into his battered, weakened body.
The world of Southtown is a far cry from anything he's ever known, looking so deeply as he could into all of it. The sort of thing that had him seriously considering getting out of his job while he could but, as has been covered countless enough times through the adventure, simply chose not to. That he could find an easy, simple enough answer in spite of the complexity of it all, some finger to point, something to unveil whatever could be happening at the end of it all and maybe turn things over and... in the end, some way or another, still have his god damned job even for all it's put him through. This war, like no other, uprooted a bad tree stump in Geese Howard and let all the ugly-looking maggots and other undesirables run free in the absolute chaos it created. Southtown would never be the same... and nor would anyone else who lived - or plans to stay - within its borders.
He gives no visual indication on his part of listening. He doesn't have much of a say in the matter. If there was a danger of words going in one ear and out the other, the passenger side door's windshield is doing a good job of making sure they stay in. Up until now, safe under the covers with blankets over his head. He used to always sleep with at least like five or six of them because the dark scared the little kid himself shitless. It was worse after his parents divorced, given his mom would sometimes offer to find the monsters, rip them out, and beat the teeth out of them and then sell them to the tooth fairy (despite his father's truthful insistence that neither entities existed). He always wondered where those five teeth actually came from. Just about as much as he wonders, to the extent a mind that wishes not to make difficult thoughts come together can truly wonder about something 'a whole lot bigger than you need to be poking at.'
His part in the Game. No, 'this' Game, he's at least got enough residual mental acuity to pick that difference up, is over. He's alive, thank whomever for that. The deadly serious warning would be bone chilling if he weren't already chilled enough by the pain. 'The schools are always involved.' That's enough to add a little more. He grunts in some sort of acknowledgment weakly. His peek from under the covers. Take off the blanket, they'll see him, and then... you know what, he doesn't feel that lucky.
But he's not actually done here, is he. No, there's something else. Something else that, at this point, only he can do in comparison to the people with money, the people with power, the people with fame that populate Southtown.
That thing that 'one man' can change, which the scary eyed lady there said the last time they were in a car ride together.
"...Yeah." At least, that is the closest likeness to an actual word that comes out of his throat, for lack of anything else to say within his debilitating haze.
The mercenary shakes her head. This man isn't for this. This isn't his world, and yet, here he is. What to make of it? Nothing is really his, as far as she's concerned. Whatever strength he has and courage he displays only seems to be just so. Just enough to get him into trouble. Just enough intelligence to figure enough information out to get him noticed.
Just enough rope to hang himself.
So really, what do you do? Elle doesn't particularly care about Rust. In a different time, in a different place, the man would have made an excellent foot soldier. If the man had come to her earlier, or had less of a moral compass, Elle could have made Rust into a name to dread. 'Ol Rusty wouldn't be a gimmick, and the red color that tinges the pipe would hardly be 'rust'. But that's not Rust anymore than Elle could be a bright eyed girl with dreams of making it on her own in the city with a good job and a life all her own. Somewhere paths diverged, and have only crossed yet again to see the what weres, and what could have beens.
"What good would any of that knowledge get you?" She asks bluntly, finally looking at Rust as she reaches to shake him, trying to rattle the last iota of focus out of him before he passes out completely. "Seriously. I've opened this door for more than a few people, but it's because they knew what they were knocking on. They wanted the power that comes with knowledge. That's fine and dandy to me. The more, the merrier. After all, the more people that trickle in, the more people make mistakes. I make a living off of cleaning those mistakes."
She releases Rust's collar as the hospice's lights eventually glitter into view. It won't be father to go, but it's still a distance away. "If this is what you want out of life, then I can lead you there and I won't blink. But the question is: will you? I've already introduced you to this, and you've tasted exactly what this life has to offer. Like I said, if you want to get, you have to give. And some people give up their morality, and life becomes a lot easier. But if morals, values, and ideals are things you want to keep... it's a heavy load going on the way in. Carrying that in the life that you're asking me to show you is going to hurt."
She takes a breath, wishing once again that she still had her old two pack a day habit. "Normally, I'd say you couldn't take it... but there you are, not dead. So it's really your choice. You can say 'Right' all you want. But before this night is done, you're going to have to make that choice, because this is the only opportunity you'll get that won't come with a lot of pain."
"Everyone else will preach at you. A lot of people will want your support. It's a rough position to be in, and more than a few people are going to lie to you, plead with you, and appeal to every last bit of sympathy you have. Some people will try to break you... I'm sure that you've already met a few. They'll scream at you, want you to be their soldier, want you to beleive in them, believe in their morals and values because they can't support them on their own. It's a disgusting display of insecurity, hate, fear, and warmongering the likes you wouldn't want to beleive," Elle explains, the vaguest hint of contempt in her otherwise hollow voice. "And it doesn't matter what badge they wear. NESTS. Shadaloo. Even the Ikari Warriors and even your own mewling little slobs. You'll get to see exactly what all of it looks like, stripped bare."
Then silence. Elle's voice quiets as she really gives him time to let it sink in, as opposed to a simple pause.
"So, do you /really/ want to know? Because like I said, when you give things up, you get something in return. Knowledge is power, and for people strong enough to do something about it, things can change. So that's your choice. Your trial period with the Game is up. Fish or cut bait, my friend."
What good would any of that knowledge get him? He's not keen to answer. At least, for that small period of time between the question as she starts to shake him. If he had any strength to fight back, she'd have a hell of a time tugging him much of anywhere. She'd be more keen to rip the collar right off of him. But, like a marionette, he shakes, grunting something more appropriate for someone who may have had a little too much to drink than a man facing a difficult decision at a gateway between two worlds, two lifestyles, that just happen to occupy the same reality. A ragdoll of someone who for all intents and purposes is an invalid to the torrid landscape of the underworld on the edge. Somewhere in the shaking, his head finally turns somewhere in the direction of the driver's face.
She's opened this door for more than a few people, for they knew what they were knocking on - the power that comes with knowing. The more, the merrier... and making a living off of cleaning those mistakes.
Has he already made plenty of mistakes going in? Is he willing to go in with morals, values, and ideals intact in the face of what she'd be willing to show him?
Released, he leans back to where he was - though his tired, unfocused eyes do not fall upon the lights of the hospital, unaware of how close they are to his final destination. For all he knows, there's going to be some traffic jam and he'll be stuck with her for maybe some hour or two or more and there's going to be no slack cut. Difficult questions, weighty answers, hurtful facts. The truth, at least. That is what he wanted in the end, isn't it?
Everyone else will preach at him. A lot of people will want his support. A rough position to be in, and more than a few people are going to lie to him, plead to him, and appeal to every last bit of sympathy he had... and some will try to break him (and how!). The reason he stuck with Rolento for the most part - willing to string along with him, to figure out the truth. Rolento offered plenty to say. Spilled out maybe more of himself than he would have been willing to give a peon, if it even was. It would have been a hell of a fabrication with all he saw leading up to that.
If nothing else, he got the satisfaction of being able to land a solid strike - maybe by fluke - against one well beyond his ability, yet able to hold their own against the one who threw him and some of his students around like ragdolls. Those few seconds before it was brought up that his sparring partner was significantly injured by a knife (wasn't it a baton? He's pretty sure moments before it was a baton but his memory is kind of failing him there) were some of the best he felt about the whole ordeal. That he at least had the strength to /do/ something about it all. To say nothing about what he did, for better or for ill, in allowing himself, the scary-eyed lady, and her cohorts inside that bunker earlier this day.
The sad thing is near the end of all that, he believes. He almost musters up a nod before giving examples. NESTS. Shadaloo. Even the something warriors and his own... okay that would've stopped the nod if there was one. What all of it looks like, stripped bare.
Does he really want to know? How much more is he willing to give up? He doesn't look down to his hand. Got things in return so far... so what more does he want? What more could he do with what he knows? Find who's responsible for all this, super powerful as they must be in influence, if not at least in fighting strength, and then...
Well, what am I? Not who I am, what I intend to do, what am I? That little shake jars that much thought through him as his eyes start to track towards the upcoming destination. Not much time to decide. This isn't 'yes' or 'no' at its core. The question is, 'what am I.' Is what he is now something he's willing to risk giving up, a gamble, for something even greater in this here crusade?
It's hard to communicate when every part of you just doesn't want to be. There are a wealth of simple gestures he could make if he felt like moving his arm, all of them plainly communicative. This is not an option. His jaw hangs open, like a fish almost begging to choke on a hook in being reeled towards a surface that not only that he would not be able to breathe in, but soon be taken home and eaten - his remains thrown to the garbage with every other bit of used refuse of that world above. A scary analogy. So, what is he?
He gurgles as he clears his throat best he can with those weak muscles of his now. He closes up his mouth, thinks about what he wants to say in as few words as possible. This lady wants it direct, no bullshit. He wants to say it direct, no bullshit.
That's when he remembers something else someone said at the very start of this. Something that, at the heart of it all, is disturbing and bleak for those who cling to the present. Those who treasure it, in the face of something that threatens to remove it.
It is from there, he finally works up the confidence - and words - to make his choice with as clear and sound a mind as any can be in his physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional situation all at once.
"I'm done." He says this with a bit more vigor and strength than his previous utterings. "You're... you're right. This... this isn't, isn't... isn't for me." His voice trails off. Fatigue. A sign that he's done speaking, made up his mind, done and done, get out of--
"Yeah, we... we live in different worlds. But this one. This one I, I live in... I still got something I can do. I already gave up, uh..." He can't think of a condensed, coherent way to list it other than the following two words, "a lot. What I got... what I got. That's... that'll be enough." The pause in his words is merely from strain, weakness of the body - not from indecision.
"I'm not going to... to say, what I have, that's going to be enough for... change. But I got the chance, now. Got the chance to do something that, that I should've done... uh, a long time back."
"And... you know, soon as we get there, maybe this time, we won't have to see each other again." And you know what, he doesn't! He's done with all this crazy shit that's thrown itself at him. "I don't know if I ought to say... say, like, thank you, or, the... the rhyme, or what. But... I'm done."
His right eye lazily gazes down to Ol' Rusty, poking out the side of the seat towards the dashboard as though it were eagerly be waiting to let out of the sheath and maybe go on a night on the town. His body leans in such a way his gloved left hand falls upon it. Not to draw, just lay there. "Far as this shit goes... I'm done."
It's a satisfying answer. Elle didn't need Rust bumbling around in her neck of the woods. Frankly, there are enough professional crazies where she is. No need to bring on the ameture acts. Were it all that simple, Elle would be perfectly happy to beleive that Rust was done and would disappear off into the ether from whence he came, never to be seen or heard from again. In a perfect world, Rust would go to some small town in California and live out his days teaching snotty, ingrateful brats in a place where he could control and handle the kids. Where he wouldn't have to get lectured on the nature of courage by little mutant jackanapes whose moral codes are defined by however they woke up that morning because they simply haven't lifed long enough to determine if what they're doing is right or wrong.
But Elle knows better.
For all she's told him, she knows that Rust's words, however heartfelt, are words. And words are cheap. A man that has given up simply replies yes. But a man that conditions his words with 'I have more yet to do in my world' is a man that still defines that there's a /difference/ in worlds. Having recognized that somewhere out there is a Universe where people casually toss lives at problems like rice at a wedding, it's hard to live normally.
And having survived this sortie, the only rationalization from here on out is that he's lived. And when the next crisis arrived, that will be the justification. Elle knows all too well the fact that people emerge into that light with the idea that just because they lived through it before, they'll get through it again. But then names disappear off the map. Heroes, villians, even her own mercs, slowly let the world eat them alive. They can't cope, can't hold on. The high energy, high risk stakes chew them up and spit them out.
But then again, Rust said he was done... and for now, just for this instance, Elle will put her faith in the honesty of one man's words and beleive that for now, Rust is done.
But woe be unto him the next time, should Elle be on the opposing team.
"Alright," she replies. It's one word, but it sums up the feeling succinctly. Elle will gladly talk volumes when necessary, but rarely goes past barely laconic when talk is uncessary. She does, however, follow up with one more word: "Good."
And the rest of the ride to the hospital is largely in silence. The truck pulls into the parking lot, and Elle pulls the man out, bringing him to the door. She can't and won't stay long. After all, she's not welcome anywhere legitimate for any extended period of time, and nobody needs to ask questions. The mercenary ensures he makes it to the front desk, and in the commotion, drops keys to the truck in his pocket.
She can get out easily. The second set in her pocket gives her the motorcycle to leave in, which conveniently leaves Rust to little more than his thoughts and a new truck to play with.
The man lets himself be led to the door. He can't put any resistance into it. It's something of an act to get him to stand on his own feet, let alone drag along towards the hospital door. Like an indifferent designated driver taking her drunkard uncle home and making sure he's not her problem as soon as possible. Making sure he doesn't choke on his vomit in his sleep would be someone else's responsibility. An analogy perhaps apt if the two were uncle and niece.
They aren't. Though they speak the same language and come from the same country, the two are as good as foreigners to one another. Or a border patrol to an alien that should not have stumbled out of their boundaries. You can draw as many parallels about the play between the two throughout their encounters during the war. An aging schoolteacher stuck in the middle of something over his head, and a young opportunist who makes her living in this sort of world.
As he is led to that final destination, he doubles over the front desk like a limp noodle, promptly vomiting on the receptionist's shoes as his body works out the stress the only way it knows how - emptying the (meager, yet acidic) contents of his stomach. Plenty enough commotion for Elle to slip something into his pocket.
Not more than a minute later, the man is on a stretcher to an emergency room, idly counting the blurry lights above him as he realizes, inwardly, that he never actually got to yell at her about his truck. Right after that epiphany that finally put his life and priorities into order, comes that numbing, self-slapping foil to an otherwise fine enough way to end an evening and, if luck has it out for him, this whole conflict.
He should really put his priorities straight when it comes to when his shit is stolen!! But, what can he do about that now? It drifts away from being his furthest concern as he at long last passes out, his body having reached its absolute (if rather heightened) limit of pain tolerance.
Little does he know what sorts of discoveries he might wake up to. (Something other than insurance policy conflicts, a little piece of America that Southtown has gladly adopted.)
Log created on 22:11:37 05/30/2009 by Elle, and last modified on 22:59:24 06/09/2009.