Description: Changes big and small resulted from the siege of Southtown. Regardless of how those changes came, however, their effects extend outward, binding some together, breaking some apart. Two men who've lost something important, in their own way, meet by chance, and discuss what one must do when presented with just such a challenge.
Southtown Park, 7 PM.
It didn't take long for the invading forces to make this. It seemed to take even less time for it to come crashing down. This is where many made their final stand... or in the case of some, where they would strike it rich. The city workers, disorganized as they are in the endless wave of investigations into Syndicate activities and who among their management had ties to them, have nonetheless started clearing away a lot of what's left - a lot of it leaving nothing but scorched earth and other scars of war that will not soon heal.
But hell, that invasion base stuff was nasty shit, they're not going to let that wreck stand there as a part of today's Southtown. Even if the desolation left behind by the removed shrapnel paints an uglier picture about the ruin. Nobody would ever believe that this was once a beautiful, opulent park. Where the past tense would be in doubt, some hope to make the present tense - that this /is/ a beautiful, opulent park - a reality once more.
Enter a fraction of Pacific's students, who have spent most of the day laying out the groundwork as to where things will be going. It's not rebuilding a place to live for those who have lost their homes, but it's rebuilding /something/ and the overseeing teacher, Mr. Rust, isn't so sure he can get some of these kids to make a whole friggin' apartment complex within the span of a single semester. Leaving behind half-assed, unfinished work by unskilled people wouldn't be saving the town any faster, now would it.
Hopefully, he thinks, he can impart onto them what it really means to engage in hard work for its own sake instead of stopping at just tossing their parents' money at people. You know, to make sure they don't grow up to be these bored maniacs like the ones who felt threatened enough by a bunch of kids who can throw energy blasts to specifically target the schools. That's his part. He's a teacher, not this wild and crazy vigilante of justice, or... well, that's what he is. He's come to accept that. He's not sure he'd want it any other way, now.
The day has largely ended. Every student on site's headed on back to campus. Mr. Rust has stayed behind to finish work on the foundation for a gazebo. You go 8 to 5, he goes 7 to 6. (Never mind it's 7 PM!)
That this is where, not that long ago, he stumbled in and found a way to that truth he'd been looking for at last - if in the company of people from a walk of life he wants nothing to do with - hasn't slowed him down too much. For the moment, he's sitting on a nearby bench and having himself the lattermost third of some giant sub sandwich full of... well, if we went over what's inside of it, we'd be here for the next week or so, let's just leave it as 'giant sub sandwich.'
Poor Howard Rust isn't the only one who has decided to revisit this spot after his own experiences during the siege of Southtown. That being said, Frei's motivations for visiting the site are far more selfish and far less altruistic, on the whole; part of him needs to know that the remains of the Artemis Engine are gone for good, or at least damaged beyond salvage. Part of him just needs to drink in the emotional memory of the place... take it in, unafraid, and let it build. Use it to your advantage. People like Rust dove right back in, got their hands in the work, and are making Southtown a better place. For the moment, however, Frei needs to be selfish a little bit longer. He knows that soon the YFCC is going to come calling, and he's already trying to figure out a way to tell Alma, Mizuki, and Hotaru that he needs some 'me time' right now. Every instinct tells him he should be helping out, but perhaps that's why he fights it. The whole point of this, he tells himself, is to do things differently.
Now and then, it's okay to do things for yourself.
It's not quite dark yet, thanks to the Earth's seasonal axis tilt (in other words, it's summer). The Pacific students are heading back to to their dorms and their normal lives, moving as a sort of scattered cloud of foreign rich kids who, either by true desire or simple obligation, have helped to make this world a better place. Frei moves against them like a fish swimming upstream, stepping sideways or turning so that they pass right by. A few give him odd looks, and the reason isn't all that surprising. Red hair is unusual in Japan but not to kids from other countries, but white hair on someone who looks in his early 20s... that's not normal. Nor is carrying a sword, either, by modern standards, particularly one in such a decorative scabbard either. They don't say anything, though there's some blinking, some pointing, a few whispered comments between individuals. Frei pays it no mind, in the end.
Eventually, he passes by the gauntlet of students and finds his vantage point. It's not exactly near Rust just yet; though neither is likely aware of it, they were involved in the very same operation in this very same place, though at different prongs of the trident, as it were. True to their word, the people involved in cleaning this place up have all but made it as if the terrible Engine and the people who drove it were never here; some rubble remains, and the park itself is obviously in bad shape, but the machines, the vats, the twisted metal and stone... for the most part, gone. Briefly, Frei wonders if Adelheid had something to do with it; all things considered that's pretty likely, and the white-haired man makes a note to ask him at some future point.
He silently stares at the spot for a while, standing. Unconsciously his left hand drops to grip the hilt of the (apparent) katana at his left side as he does so... and eventually, he simply says: "Don't worry. I'll always remember."
With that, he turns to go, walking back toward the main street... or so he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees someone sitting on one of the last remaining benches, unusual in and of itself. Beyond that, though, there's a faint sense of recognition, and as Rust bites into that gigantic sandwich, he can probably get a glimpse of Frei walking toward him with a curious expression on his face.
How can any man hope to stuff any part of that sandwich into their jaw? Simple. The man is an American, Americans love their huge food portions, and evolution has granted this man such ability to not only take in a bite, but to properly chew the entire mess without all too much complication.
Even through the dirt-stained clothes, the man is recognizable even beyond just that deplorable blight upon all that is good about hair in this world. All the way down to Ol' Rusty through one of the pockets of his toolbelt, poking forward into thin air as its master enjoys a well deserved second lunch. Even with dirt-caked gloves he still willingly takes even the imperfect ratio of eight parts flavor to one part filth. Compared to what he's sure got into his lungs today, this is nothing.
Moments later, he sets down the remaining fourth or so of the sandwich to stretch his fingers out, even still in the gloves. He winces a little at the popping as he shakes his right hand up and down a bit. Don't get stiff on me now, I'm not done today, he thinks inwardly. The corner of his eye, itself only able to see out of the corner of its vision over his right hand, falls upon somebody coming along towards him. He lowers that hand down.
Funny thing is, for every other feature about the young man that might be recognizable even if one of them were to be changed, it's that /one/ feature that ends up completely disguising who he is into that frustrating cloak of unfamiliarity, and the warm suggestion of suspicion. To say nothing about the sword, or what have you. Does he want to talk to me?
The middle-aged man thinks it over. Eh, how bad can it be, he thinks, maybe this guy isn't one of the numerous psychos he had to suffer through the last few... months, is it? He hasn't kept great track of the days that have gone by. Wait, maybe he's one of the supervisor guys? He doesn't look the part, but...
In a somewhat uncommitted, tired gesture, he raises his left hand in a little wave. "Hey," he makes a conversational shot in the dark as he motions with his thumb over to the beginnings of the foundation for the gazebo. "I'm a li'l behind," he coughs, "'scuse me, behind schedule. 'm gonna try and finish up the foundation tonight."
It's hard for your mind to wander around Howard Rust. There is something fundamentally solid about the man, to put it one way; he is so down to earth and stolid that it's as if he extends an aura of that into the surroundings. Of course, that's the man's presence. His actual verbiage, however, works at cross purposes with that sometimes. If he were to try and psychoanalyze that out, Frei might argue that the same cultural upbringing that makes Rust able to unhinge his jaw and devour that sandwich is the same that combines practicality with occasional wooden-headed first-thing-that-comes-to-mind speaking into the blend known as 'American'.
As it is, he's merely confused by the statement.
"That's... great?" Frei ventures, tilting his head to the side. Watching the man eat is an education in and of itself. The younger man is no slouch when it comes to eating, himself, but he prefers sweets to sandwiches and is more adept at eating, say, massive ice cream sundaes. There is something about the gusto and, frankly, stubbornness to Rust's eating technique that is truly inspirational to watch. "I'm glad to see you getting out and doing something positive, Mister Rust."
There's another pause, while Frei considers the past few moments, and then says in an almost airy tone, "You... have no idea who I am, do you?"
"I sure hope it is," because I'm behind schedule and frankly I dunno if I want to risk having a bunch of people breathe down my neck about it! There is a certain sort of politics to construction work when you're coordinating between different important people who want to get something done but yet can't decide how they want it done and it's a real mess, especially when you are representing a school and not one of several construction firms going about the reconstruction process. A mess just like the rest of Southtown, with all its ugliness uprooted and decorated all over the city like sprinkles on a frosted doughnut. (mmm, doughnut.)
Glad to be seen getting out and doing something positive, huh... wait, do I know this guy? The man's face sinks from 'tired' to 'confused,' but it's not that big of a jump in facial expression for this guy. The question that comes soon after really does hammer that home. No idea who he is, huh? Wait, that voice.
"Just a sec, uh..." he starts snapping his fingers in his left hand. With work gloves on. He's that good with working gloves. C'mon, jog that memory a little, he's heard that voice. He's not the best when it comes to remembering names, as a lot of his students can attest to. Where's he heard that voice, was it... that guy in the hospital seeing his mo-- no, no, he had blonde hair. The Huntsman kid's brother? No, no, he's never been in his class, he'd have no reason to recognize him, uh...
Something about a snack? Yeah, that sounds about right. "Wasn't it at... Pacific, some... some months back, when..." Yes, yes? He remembers! He points his finger at him as soon as he's sure he has solved this difficult puzzle, further muddled by months of strife and the general layer of physical and mental exhaustion that tends to encrust itself upon him.
"When you brought me that... that snack, from, from the YFCC, right?" Close enough? "I, uh, sorry. Lot's happened since then, I... I, uh, forgot your name."
If he's bothered by not being remembered, it doesn't show on Frei's face; in fact, he laughs a little bit and shifts his posture some, putting his right hand on his hip so his arm makes a > shape against his body, and leans in that direction somewhat. Of all the things to remember, it's got to be *that*. Memories come back to him, of lazy afternoons spent in the YFCC, baking. As a stress reliever, even as a meditative exercise. Of course, the fact that it typically resulted in delicious treats isn't exactly a downside, either. In a way those days seem very far away... perhaps inexplicably to Rust, he finds Frei shaking his head. Who's he saying no to? The answer is: himself. Just because things have changed doesn't mean things can't take on the character of the way they USED to be. Change doesn't have to be total.
"It's Frei," he says, taking his hand off his hip and waving, as if in hello. He processes Rust's apology, and for a second lowers his eyes. Just because he's decided to take some time for himself doesn't mean he should lose his empathy, after all... and just because he's suffered doesn't mean other people haven't either. What has happened to Rust, he wonders, in the time since they last saw each other? All he remembers of their last meeting was Rust's feelings of uncertainty in entering the fighting world again; his feeling that perhaps he was too old, too out of touch. His counterexample was his mother, the swordswoman still in her prime in her 50s, older yet than Rust himself.
Again, unconsciously, his hand goes to the hilt at his side.
"Yeah... a lot has happened, that is absolutely true," Frei says absently, glancing away, before he turns back to Rust and inclines his head at the bench. "May I?"
So it is that guy! What's with the hair, though... actually, come to think of it, maybe it was dyed or something, eh, who knows. The man sits up a little more straight as he rolls his right shoulder around a bit while Frei laughs. The joint laughs with him. Kind of. Well, no. Popping is by no means a laugh, nor is it a laughing matter. Disregard the thought about a joint laughing with anything.
He nods his head at the name, okay, you're Frei. (Watch him forget this again months down the road.) Hopefully you are also not hungry, Frei, because this sandwich is mine, the teacher thinks on the inside and in fact on the outside too, as he wraps up the remainder of the sandwich and gets it nice and filed away under his left hand. Perhaps he has not yet lived down that time with Drake where they forgot to bring his meal with them to the hotel. Luckily, Frei only desires the seat and not the meal. His fears are unfounded.
"Oh, be my guest." He moves his weight over to one side of the bench so that the young man has room to sit with him. It's not a very large bench. The older man exhales loudly as he stares on over to his work for the moment, which gives Frei the perfect chance to press the offense as they are locked in deadly casual conversational combat!!
He's been offered a seat, which is gracious enough. Rust may not have offered so pleasantly, however, if he knew what was to follow, which is pure vaudeville: nodding his thanks, Frei steps over and turns around, preparing to sit down, and rather than parking himself on the bench, what he gets is a wooden-ish *clnk!* noise. Frowning, he gets up and turns around... then sighs, shakes his head, and reaches down toward his left hip with both hands. That fancy blue scabbard, it appears, is tied onto his belt loops with a length of silver cord in a very complicated looking knot. It takes no small amount of time for Frei to negotiate that knot, and when he does, finally, he holds the entire affair in both hands and has a seat at last, taking a deep breath and then exhaling as he turns to Rust and smiles.
"Not... used to wearing this yet," he admits, and that much is true. In a weird way, it's easy to forget you've got it on when you're supposed to be cultivating the concept that it's an extension of your body. Perhaps that's a simplistic way of looking at things, because Frei's clearly not QUITE at that level just yet, but he is to the point where he's so used to the weight at his side that he forgets it's there now and then. It's little incidents like this that remind him just how far he has to go, if this is going to become a normal part of his everyday life from now on.
For a moment, Frei leans back against the bench and looks out over the construction. It does give him a slightly warm feeling, knowing that the people of Southtown have bounced back relatively quickly from everything that happened. If nothing else, it proves that human beings are resilient indeed. As long as tomorrow follows today, they will survive in some way or another... and knowing that is at least one step toward dealing with all this.
A lot has happened, huh... that doesn't even begin to describe.
"Hopefully this whole thing didn't treat you too badly," he says to Rust, turning his head in the Pacific teacher's direction. It is an unsubtle way of asking 'what happened?', but there you go.
That wooden-ish clink gets the man's attention away from where he's looking and back towards the bench as he leans off a bit further to the side. Enough that it's more than a little surprising the man just doesn't fall off the side while his darting eyes try to size up whether or not this means this damn bench is going to break (and thus condemn him to fixing it, oh, how he loathes fixing benches!!).
...Oh, it's the scabbard there. Upon Frei's concession, he relaxes a bit and slouches forward some. He's had his own incidents from time to time back in the way early days when he found a rusty length of pipe for lack of anything else he could take to a hostile situation and decided that he really liked that rusty length of pipe enough to carry it everywhere.
His slouch might end up breaking Frei's view of the reconstruction thus far, revealing that even if the people of Southtown are bouncing back, they're still tired, dirty, and also have bad hair. Well, better than his.
"Ehh," he grunts as he slowly turns his head over to Frei, shaking his head. Surprised I'm not stuck in some... some god damn looney bin." Somewhere in between numerous close calls with death and also being surrounded by dead bodies when trying to stand his ground that fateful day where Igniz once again tried to strike down Pacific High and the decision that he was sick and tired of being in the dark about the hows and whys, only to hear at the very end by some unfeeling computer (as opposed to some people in uniforms he could beat the crap out of) as to why the schools were attacked... and how one of them wasn't.
"Wouldn't know where to start... let me tell you. I wouldn't know where." That's a lie, he'd have started with all the psychotic kids that didn't seem to give a damn about the goings on, like that skateboard punk or that pink haired girl at Justice, or what have you.
He's not an idiot; Frei knows 'wouldn't know where to start' is often code for 'don't really feel like going into it right now', so when Rust delivers that line, the white-haired fighter simply nods once or twice, slowly, and glances off into the distance at the reconstruction. It occurs to the sword-carrying young man that there's so much about what went down in Southtown during the occupation that he doesn't know about. Was Rust part of the other two teams that went in during the assault Hotaru recruited him for? Was he at Pacific, protecting the students? How hard were the schools hit? His thoughts drift to the YFCC, too, which is how he and Rust were acquainted in the first place, and his expression tightens as he feels a combination of guilt and remorse, but tries not to show it.
"I know how you feel," Frei says at last, his fingers twining in and out of the silver cord intended to secure the scabbard to his belt. It's a clear and obvious displacement activity, this much is obvious, but not to an intense degree. Yeah, so much HAS happened. And perhaps the worst part of it -- for both of these men -- is that the past is so intense, so life-changing, and so very recent, that it threatens to eclipse the present. When every moment provides a reminder of the nightmare from which you just awoke, can it ever truly leave your mind? Can you really move on, or are you doomed to spiral further down and let it engulf you?
Frei tilts his head, then grips the scabbard sideways with one hand and then holds it out in front of him, looking at it, before he turns back to Rust.
"I was thinking about you, actually, on my way back from... home," he says, turning to look at Rust again before looking back at the sword, as if he were reading something off the side. "The last time we saw each other you were worried if it was too late for you... fighting-wise, I mean." Rust's survival in the face of impossible odds should tell anyone who'd bother to ask that he is more than capable or surviving and overcoming odds he once thought beyond his reach. But that's a challenge that Frei finds in front of him now, as well. The sword comes back into his lap and Frei once again looks at Rust. "I lost... I lost something very important during all this. This is my attempt to get it back, but... I wonder if it's too late."
Knows how he feels, huh. Suffering, as a whole, is not a competitive sport no matter how much the blogging community tries to make it go mainstream. It's not a point the man's willing to debate. So far as he can see from where his feet can carry him, he himself is probably one of the luckiest ones here. He, himself, is at least still recognizable when he looks in the mirror every day when he brushes his teeth. With a sniff, he rubs his forearm underneath his nose while Frei's tilting his head.
...Thinking about me? Why about me? He turns his head towards Frei a little more as the younger man looks at the sword and, in turn, so does the older man. When he was afraid it was too late for him... up until the attacks started, he had some mild success. Supposedly a lot of people had high hopes for him among the crowds after his match with Zach. Someone he hasn't seen in a good long time, either.
"Yeah?" He asks quietly in a tone that seems undeserving of that question mark, spoken more as a statement than a question despite his intent for it to be a question. A little more fiddling about with the sword on Frei's part later, he clarifies.
Losing something very important during all this. Attempting to get something back, but yet it might be too late...?
It almost falls right out of the man's mouth if he means going for a certain brand of hair dye they can't make any more because the factory that made it here blew up or something, but no, the way he's been fiddling with that sword... well, he can't put two and two together here.
The man starts scratching the side of his head with his right hand. "I, er, uh... what'd you lose?"
How to explain this? The scholar in him (well, and partially the pedant in him, an unavoidable outgrowth of the former) wants to give a nice long, detailed explanation. Thankfully, the pragmatist in him realizes that this would be a completely stupid idea; even if he had a nice big wall screen and an expensive multimedia presentation it's very likely that Rust -- a man who strikes Frei as being the very height of practical pragmatism himself -- would simply say: 'so, no more shiny lights when you punch things?' And the truth is that explanation might be a little reductionist, avoiding some key philosophical and life trajcetory things involved, it's probably serviceable for this purpose.
So that's what he says.
"What did Acacia call them..." he asks, mostly of himself, before shrugging. "Pretty lights. I don't really have the po--" he starts, then stops and shakes his head, as if forcing himself not to say the word 'power'. It's not a power, not in Frei's eyes; that, somehow, implies an X-Men-style mutant ability, something he and he alone possessed. And that's not what it was... it was a skill, perhaps building on a talent if you need to put an essentialist spin on it. A learned thing. "...ability. I don't really have the capability to do that. I may never again."
So he turns to Rust and holds up the scabbard, then draws the blade within partway with a distinctive *shng!* metallic sound. It's... well, it's seen some years. And there's no edge on it; the cutting edge is clearly blunted down so that even butter would be a challenge and the chisel point is rounded off, but it IS a katana in terms of shape and weight, if not killing ability. "Now it's me and this thing and that's about it."
"Pretty lights? You mean, like..." The man who is balding but would never cop up to it starts waving his sandwich-bearing left hand around a little as if to illustrate this, which is impossible since he can't make those pretty lights and just may be instead going through the motions to try and remember whatever equivalent it is on the tip of his tongue.
He doesn't get to say it as Frei goes on to the 'ability.' That he doesn't have the capability to do that, that he may never again... and that's when the blade is drawn, at which point all subtle, idle gestures seize and he leans forward to take a good look at it.
He can't call himself a master when it comes to appraising swords, but the man has quite the huge collection of foreign films involving samurai. One may say that, deep down, that little act is like making the little kid in him take notice and press their face up against a favored store window for as close a look as possible to what's inside.
Even if it may not be in great shape, that it shows such use says it's for real and that it's really cool, man, this guy must have loved this thing up for years, wow. "You don't say," as his voice drifts off to an imagined subject that goes far from the point Frei is trying to convey.
The man leans back and clears his throat. "'scuse me. You were talking about... about, uh, chi, right?" He knows the word. He knows the term. He's been around the block long enough to know bits and pieces about it. Before long comes that sobering thought right there. Something that might've been at the very core of your talent, gone.
That's when he starts looking to his right hand and, without much prompt, takes said glove by the teeth and slips the thing off, a wince as it is once more reintroduced to fresh air that caresses the bare palm.
The glove falls out of his mouth and into his lap as he turns the palm upward. It's ugly. Not quite as ugly as his scalp (what is?), but it's ugly all the same - lots of stitching in the palm, along with discolored flesh going a ways up into his forearm indicative of some very nasty burns in the recent past.
"Tore it up grabbing for... for that, that long blonde-haired guy's chain... whip, thing. Minute later, same hand... grabbed onto molten metal." He lets that sink in for a minute. "I lost some use of it, someone said something like... fifteen, twenty percent." He doesn't care to remember Rolento's exact calculated percentage of loss, or for any further loss of use that may have come from use, disuse, and abuse since.
There is quite a difference between summoning pretty lights and a a grievous injury, but all the same, it boils down to roughly the same effect between the two. "Hurts like a bitch if I try and squeeze it. That's my main hand, too."
There's plenty of reasons to grimace in response to Rust's statements. The hand, certainly, is the most pressing thing and Frei doesn't bother to disguise his concern and wince at it; especially for a craftsman like Rust, whose hands are his livelihood, such an injury is pretty brutal. And of course, this is likely why the Pacific teacher decided to share his injury with the white-haired man in the first place; 'this is me potentially losing my major skill', is what it says. 'And I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it.' The difference isn't metaphoric, nor is it an issue of scale. Rust's hand injury has just as significant an impact on the shop teacher's life as Frei's sudden chi blindness is to him.
The other thing, though, is the realization that for the second time recently, he's insulted someone by accident by trying to save them the hassle of dealing with his issues. Why *wouldn't* Rust know about chi by name? He's a fighter, after all... and he just survived a conflict where people who use chi with no small amount of expertise as well. His own voice, joking that his mother would be painting dogs playing cards on velvet, bounces around in his head, and fades away, making him sigh and shake his head, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "I, uh... sorry," he explains, glancing away and scratching his forehead with the hand that was just gripping his nose. "I didn't mean to imply you wouldn't know about it, but I can get long-winded when I'm talking about something that interests me..." He shakes his head, then looks back at Rust with a rueful smile. 'Rueful' seems to be a word attached to a lot of Frei's expressions lately. "I didn't want to spill my life story AND talk your ear off about chi at the same time."
A long, blond-haired guy's chain whip, and being involved in this conflict... Frei's mind goes back to, of all things, Strolheim. He and Chizuru faced off against Alma and a man known only as Igniz... a man that, it became clear, was behind so much of the suffering of the people at the YFCC. Someone connected to the shadowy organization known as NESTS, of which Frei knows so very little despite, interestingly enough, the level of impact their actions has had on his life. It COULD be someone else; a psychotic armed blond fits the description of Balrog, for example, who Frei has also met. But something in his gut tells him that Rust was fighting against Igniz.
"I hope it heals properly," he says quietly, glancing up at the sky. Somewhere up there is the Sky Noah... and Ichiro Oe, who came out of all of this sans one eye and with a huge amount of emotional problems and doubts, just like Rust. Yeah... times are tough everywhere. "Mizuki might look at it, if you ask... with all the help you've given the Center it would be the least one of us can do."
Some things that in retrospect were flagrant violations of common sense seemed to make perfect sense at the time when faced with the potential of him losing absolutely everything he worked for - no matter how reasonable Rolento's requests at the time and, perhaps, the long run. ("Rolento" and "reasonable" in the same sentence, perish the thought.) Even Marisol, the somewhat reckless fighting enthusiast balked and wondered what the hell he was thinking.
"Ahh," he grunts the apology in dismissal. Friendly enough dismissal, but, dismissal as he gets the work glove back on when Frei explains what he's actually sorry for, which, in the end, doesn't make a huge difference. Hell, swapping life stories... you know, maybe he's got some good ones he could share over a beer or something. If Frei drinks beer. Thinking about that, he's pretty sure Frei is probably some kind of wino. Maybe not, then. He's sick of the stuff because that's all his co-workers really ever drink, he wants bitter, not fruity! Bitter! And smooth.
He nods his head about hoping it heals properly, while wrestling to get the glove back on. It's easier when you can wiggle your fingers about easily. "Yeah... thanks." He takes in deep breath as he makes one last, hard tug to get the thing nicely fit. "Might... might take you up on that. I dunno. My health insurance 's just... just giving me a lot of shit. I should've been in bed like... a month. Only covered five days." Why? Because drugs are bad, especially illegal black market fighting enhancement drugs whose damages his insurance provider doesn't cover a dime for. "I've been using a," he coughs once and pats his chest yet again, "excuse me, been using a stress ball." More like several, he keeps misplacing them. (More accurately, Pacific faculty has been notoriously bad about knick-knack theft lately, and Mr. Rust himself isn't so innocent!!)
"I can still hold a hammer... lift things." Please don't ask him to dead lift a god damn blast door, he's never doing that again. "I don't go as fast, but... all things considered, hey, guess I'm happy that, that I still got my job," he cracks something of a smile there.
Those last words ring out in Frei's mind, all things considered. 'I can still hold a hammer'. Despite the damage done to him -- despite the looming possibility of long-term damage, and the possibility of losing even the more limited capacity he has right now to do so, Rust's thoughts are centered on capability rather than incapability. 'I still got my job.' There is both an admirable optimism and a foolish recklessness to such an outlook, Frei thinks to himself. The sort of optimism and recklessness that would lead one to throw himself in front of a friend to keep him from doing something he might regret, to a foe, for example. Perhaps Rust may notice it, perhaps not, but the more he lets that thought sink in the more a rueful sort of smile spreads across his face.
"It's hard to draw that line, isn't it?" he says at last, looking down into his lap rather than at the Pacific teacher, at first. "Between when you should care about other people and when you should care about yourself." He pauses for a second, then looks back up at Rust. "A bit like... well. You know when you're on a plane, and... on the little card. It says that if the cabin pressure drops, and the little masks drop down..." Here, Frei brings his hands up to gesture, describing in the air vaguely the motion of something falling down from the ceiling and landing in front of his face. "You're supposed to put one on yourself first, and then on children or the infirm. To save others you have to save yourself first, you know? It's a... practical way of looking at things. It's probably saved a lot of lives, too."
The sword-wearing man's entire posture radiates a 'but yet', however, and it's not long after that he delivers it. "Before the... you know. Before the Center, and my working there, and all sorts of other things... I was just a philosopher. You know?" He has a hopeful tone to his voice, though something in Frei's mind tells him that a practical, earthy individual like Rust might find the idea of a full-time philosopher to be incredibly alien, all told. "Well, and a fighter, since one paid the bills. But I... thought about things. Chi in specific, but life in general. The center gave me focus. I was *helping* people. I wasn't leading a fundamentally selfish existence."
Looking up to the sky, Frei shrugs his shoulders. "I guess I'm saying I know how you feel... how it feels to want to stay useful when you're not sure that you can do that anymore."
"Hn." A non-committal low grunt of sorts is the unobtrusive answer to drawing that line, wiggling the fingers on his right hand as best as he is able to make sure that glove is nice and refitted. Between when he should care about other people and when he should care about himself, huh... he lowers that hand down by his side when Frei looks back at him, his right elbow creaking a bit. He's following so far, little nod of the head here and there, bringing up his left hand around his face the same time Frei does. Yeah... he's seen that happen before back when he was... jeez, how long ago was it now? It's a bit fuzzy.
The subject goes on to the Center - actually come to think of it he hasn't really checked over there as of late! All this bull about... ahh. He lowers his head a little. Little details. A philosopher? A part of him would have, in worse times, up and called the man a slacker. The kind of slacker that gets numerous books published about gobbledygook. One of his cousins would have probably bought a lot of those books by Frei, truth be told. If he wrote them. And then they'd have been shoved down his neck when he quit his old job and then now he'd have probably punched the man in the face for these annoying books his crazy-ass hippie cousin keeps trying to get him to read. Or would have. That's a completely alternate timeline with no relevance to the actual present of how events for either of them are unfolding.
At least he is not daydreaming about anything of the sort, here in the now, while Frei talks about the sort of stuff he thought about. The Chi stuff, living... getting a focus for helping people. The teacher leans back a little. Not to follow where Frei's looking, but there's this knot in his upper back that's trying to settle into him and boy does he hate it.
"Ehh. Only one thing you can, you can really do." The man clears his throat yet again. "Sorry. Dry throat. Uh. Only one thing you can really do... you just... you just go in, do what you do with what you've got." He's got the skills and tools, the students have the youth if... uh... anything. But many of them are trying especially hard now. Partially because it's gonna be for their grade, if nothing else!
"That's... what I keep telling myself, it's true," Frei responds with a nod. As he's noted before, those are the words that came to him from many angles. Shurui telling him he can still do something others can't. Hotaru saying she was glad he'd be coming along, even if he wasn't able to do things he once could. Alma and Jiro not demanding he stay behind, treating him without difference. Do what you can with what you have. A practical, logical, useful way of looking at things. You can't magically give yourself what you don't have, and doing *nothing* simply because you've lost an ability you used to have... those are both terrible ways to be.
But...
And it is at this point in his thinking that the green-eyed fighter turns to Rust, expression a strange mix of earnestness and curiosity. "But is that *really* the best approach?" Instinctively, he feels his hand tighten on the smooth, cool lacquer of the saya at his side, as if clutching the sheathed sword will give Frei some degree of confidence. "I mean... yes, you shouldn't just give up because you've been set back. I get that part. But it seems like 'I'll just do what I can' is as limiting as it is liberating, you know? It keeps you from trying to move forward aggressively."
After a moment, Frei glances sidelong off into the distance, then chuckles faintly, even a little helplessly. "Nataya... if she were here she'd remind me of the damage desire can do to the soul. And... truthfully, she might have a point in doing so." Although his grip loosens, Frei brings the blue scabbard up, holding it parallel to the ground between himself and Rust. "Desire sent me back for this, after all. A... 'want' to get back the strength I used to have. In the long run it may do me more harm than good, you know?" The katana comes back down, and Frei shrugs. "But I couldn't be content with being... less than who I know I once was. Even if my chi sense never comes back, I can't just shrug my shoulders and go 'oh well', you know? I have to do *something*."
The teacher nods with Frei. That's common sense! The way of the working man. The sort of thinking that gets a man like him to go to work on Monday mornings even if he's had a bit too much to drink the night before and couldn't sleep because a certain somebody keeps finding his phone number and is all 'hey wanna go out drinking' and can't take 'no I've already been drinking at home' 'so come drink some more with me' 'ahh shut up.' A... rather common happening, before the war.
Then green eyes interrupt Consensus with Counterpoint. It's enough to get the older man to turn his head a little bit more towards Frei. 'But is that really the best approach' what? With words like that, the teacher thinks as Frei continues on about how it is as limiting as it is liberating, you sound a lot like...
...Her?! It's almost as though Frei were reading his mind at that point. An eyebrow gets raised as he presses his left hand against the bench. What prevents him from being able to interject right at the mention of the name is that knot in his back tying him down! He winces a bit around the 'do me more harm than good' part. The man takes in a deep breath as he challenges joints that wanted to remain settled for the evening. Namely... his knees.
His knees can shove it. One of them pops in protest as the man gets up off the bench. "You know Ms. Kovit? Nataya. The Thai lady. About, uh... maybe your height." Where has she been, anyway? It's been so long, but yet a lot of the things they did and discussed feel like it happened some day not that long before. "She... she'd tell me stuff like that when I was all..." He grunts, shaking his head. "Ah. Long while back... last year. She, she helped me out a whole ton, uh... not to change the subject."
Kovit? He doesn't know her last name, but that they're talking about the same person doesn't really seem in doubt. Nataya's fighting style, as Frei recalled, had elements of kickboxing to it, for example... and she has the sort of easygoing, philosophical manner that Frei would associate with someone 'helping' Rust, given the teacher's previous situation. For a moment he recalls fighting Nataya atop Mount Rushmoore, and conversing with her about the nature of desire... the very topic at hand, in fact. "We've met," Frei says with a faint smile, "a couple times. We have our points of contention, but in fact we agree on a number of points, too."
Blinking a few times, Frei clears his throat, and looks sidelong at Rust. "She's a Buddhist, if you didn't know... one of the central beliefs of Buddhism is that our earthly desires create self-destructive behavior. If you can purge yourself of earthly desire -- live in harmony with nature -- then you will reap spiritual rewards." He pauses, then shrugs and leans back, folding his arms behind his head, elbows sticking out. "It's not a bad philosophy. I mean, it teaches us not to be controlled by our desires and our emotions, right? If you get lost in your desires then you lose perspective, ignore context... it's an extremely useful thing to learn."
For a second, Frei closes his eyes, thinking about that. Would Buddhists approve of, say, his mother? A woman who is not only aware of her desires but is defined by them, in reality. Isis Tsukitomi, a woman who has spent her life in pursuit of puissant skill. And in her son's eyes, her desire has certainly... caused her problems. It's led her to be estranged from at least one of her children due to the sheer difference in their personalities. But would he say that she's led a less full life as a result? Is it his place to make that judgment? Well, yes and no... but by taking up the sword at his side, he muses, he's made a decision about its worthiness, regardless.
"She would probably disagree with me on wanting something you don't -- or can't -- have. And I don't necessarily think she'd be wrong, either. But I chose this path because I can't be content with where I am. And..." Here, he gives Rust a smile. "I don't think you should be, either."
A couple times, huh... now that Frei mentions it, he probably did see parts of that Saturday Night Fight a good long while back. There's almost nothing else ever good on TV these days other than people he's able to meet in person going all over the world and kicking in peoples' teeth. Or was, as the case may be. Who knows how things are going to be here from now on, in what's left of Southtown to scrape.
The man stretches out his arms at the mention of Buddhism - not specifically at Buddhism, it's coincidental timing. He's heard plenty of pitches about it. One of his fellow teachers at Pacific tends to get the better of him through little anecdotal exchanges. Nonetheless, the older man of the two proceeds to scratch the base of his neck as his eyes go back over to that foundation he was working on. All this 'controlled by our desires and our emotions' stuff... without them, do you ever really want to do anything at all? Just about anybody who knows this man now, knows exactly what he's about. What he wanted, what he was finally getting - until the war up and took a lot of it away.
The man looks back over to Frei when he speaks again. Why he chose this path because of how he can't be content with where he is, and... he can't be with this, either? There is a telling grunt as the man stops scratching at his neck long enough to speak. Not that the two actions are, in the least, mutually exclusive.
"Yeah... you know, I always wanted to, to fight pro. I got the chance... and through the last few months..." Time's really been a blur. He's not even sure when it truly began or ended, at this point. "I don't know, but... but now." He gestures with the injured hand, a wide sweeping gesture towards these mounds of upturned dirt and half-finished ideas for restoration. "Still got my job... still, still got my life. I don't... ah," he coughs twice, "sorry. Where wa-- yeah. I'm teaching a bunch of kids, who... who'd never have had a reason to do... ANY, of this themselves." Which counts for double when he's molding a part of the future generation that the combined invading forces outright feared enough to want to make into /targets./ A truly scary thought for anybody - but doubly so, for a guy like him who's really come to realize how important his role may very well be in their upbringing some years shy of becoming adults themselves.
"Far as I care... far as I care, Frei, I got the better end of, of the trade." His nose wrinkles at the thought of what sorts of crap he himself must be breathing in now that they upturned just about damned near everything, hopefully that's not gonna turn into lung disease 10 years from now, as he looks back over to his work. His feet, for lack of things to see themselves, are more content to bring their owner along back to where he was shortly before Frei stopped by to say 'hi.'
It's the most direct statement Frei's ever heard Rust make, and something about it silences him for a moment. The white-haired man's inner voice is playing back the things Rust has said to him... in this conversation, in the past. The uncertainty he can feel in the older man's words, the tendency to subtly imply he might be wrong, that he's not as important as other people think he is... this is, in Frei's memory, the first time those things have disappeared and a true sense of his dedication and strength comes through. And in reality, Frei finds a certain degree of beauty in that moment. Despite himself, he smiles, though the tone of Rust's statment has, to his ears, overtones of reproach.
"The important thing," Frei says quietly, pressing his hands onto his knees and then pulling himself standing, "is that you came to that conclusion after exploring the alternative." He walks a few steps away, blue saya on his belt bobbing a little bit with each step before he stops and turns around, looking at Rust evenly. "You know? If Nataya -- if I, for that matter -- tried to tell you not to give up on your dream, I expect it's because we felt that you were deciding it couldn't be possible ahead of time."
A lull in the conversation forms as Frei's left hand drops down, fingertips drifting over the sword at his side, the object he called 'proof' of the decision he's made and the path he's going to follow. Logically, he follows his gaze to Rust's bandaged, wounded hand, which is much the same for him. As symbols go they're as different as can be. One is a weapon, crafted to take lives (even if this one is unlikely to do so), a tool for destroying. One is in-born, and in the service of its owner is used to create a new future. But really, are they that different? Can't the sword, wielded properly, create a new future? Can't the wounded hand still show the strength to destroy to protect others?
In Japanese, Frei observes, the word 'ken' can refer to both a fist, and a sword.
"There's nothing wrong with giving up a dream when you find out where you are is what really fulfills you," Frei says quietly. "The important thing is that you took the time to move beyond where you were, even if what you found out is that you'd like to be where you are."
Overtones of reproach... overtones of having something to do. He's behind on this foundation. There's only so much time in the day to get anything done when one's not yelling, or talking with people who have a say in things they aren't doing with their own two hands... it's not quite as simple as getting up and doing it, sometimes. But damned if that would stop the man now, these days. Damned if it would.
He stops in his tracks as Frei speaks again, partly because it's a bit quiet and thus hard for him to hear at the distance between the two of them, leading the man to look back over his right shoulder, and with it some of his upper body. Ol' Rusty, that length of pipe that is shoved through that poor toolbelt pocket around his left hip, tilts a bit away from Frei's view in turn. All the better for attention to be brought to the hand in question.
The man's head lowers a bit at mention of Nataya, again. Wonder what she's say to all this. Knowing her as well as he does (which is to say... hardly), she'd probably be overjoyed about finding his balance or some such. Who knows. Giving up dreams... fighting as a professional was his dream. A dream he got to taste at long last, even right as tragedy and strife would engulf Southtown and, literally, everything the man ever knew.
He turns back the way he was going, his right hand disappearing behind a barrier of perspective as his left hand pats the top of the loyal inanimate object. (Inanimate objects have loyalty?) A sight that is largely synonymous with the man these days, regardless of however the man spends his time.
"Still..." Still? His tone suggests a sort of... doubt? "This go around... this go around. I'm gonna, gonna keep in shape this time. You know that gym teacher at Taiyo? He, uh, lent me some weights... been meaning to, to go jogging with 'em more." He kicks his left foot out behind him as he tries to stretch that poor leg out that doesn't want to bend and straighten and bend and straighten too much more tonight. "Not gonna let... gonna let any son of a bitch catch me off my game again. I'll tell you that."
For a moment, Frei blinks, then brings his hands together and presses the tips of his fingers up against his lips, looking off into the distance. Why? Because he's mentally envisioning Rust training under Hayato Nekketsu, as the YFCC instructor is quite familiar with Hayato-sensei's fighting style and training techniques. Regardless of the gravitas of the situation, the idea of a flush-faced Rust doing pushups while Hayato swings around a shinai, demanding he do 200 more "for the kiddies!", remains amusing enough so that the prayer-like posture of Frei's hands hides his struggle not to actually laugh out loud, especially given that Rust is quite serious... and that there are few trainers better than Hayato.
Eventually, he brings his hand down and smiles. "I hope that works out," is all he chooses to say.
After that, silence. Tilting his head, Frei glances at Rust and lets his mind wander. According to his own memories, and Isis' stories of the past, Frei is for the most part a perfect match for his father: shorter than average, with the red hair and green eyes of Irish ancestry, more emotional than logical, a dreamer. But Frei's memories of his own father are actually quite sparse, Dana having died when Frei was quite young, due to a frail constitution. That Frei himself is hardy even by fighter standards is, amusingly, an ironic twist.
There is nothing so cliche as Frei wondering if his father would have been anything like Rust, because there is no question they'd be as different as night and day. But, he does wonder not for the first time if Rust has a wife and children, because what he feels from this man, now, is a father's vibe. Someone who's had what he cares about seriously threatened for the first time and feels the stirrings of a need to defend it, conflicting with a desire to be his own self.
He wants to say something, but lacking any way to vocalize it, Frei keeps silent.
"I'll... see you later, Mr. Rust," he says at last, giving a wave. "And... think about taking care of that hand. If all you've said is true -- and I think it is -- then... you should put the mask on, before helping a child. You know?"
The good news is, so far, it's just been lent weights. Very good news. It is uncertain if the poor man could survive Hayato's particular brand of training at his current age. Then again, despite everything he's had a clean bill of health in so far as his heart is concerned. In comparison to just about anything /else/...
Another quiet grunt of acknowledgement of some sort comes as the man crouches down over his work again, going over what's left to do tonight with an expert's eye. Maybe he'll just end up napping here at this rate, he figures. Only common sense dictates he shouldn't let that particular temptation win him over! He managed to go the entire war without getting his wallet stolen and now's not a great time for that streak to be broken!
Some do wonder why the man hasn't already settled down and started a family. The truth of the matter is darkly hilarious on more than a few fronts... fronts, of which, the man otherwise elects not to take much notice of as he picks up the hammer with that injured hand. He can still hold a hammer, he says. He can still hold a hammer, he can. He can still hold a hammer, he does.
He raises his free hand up to Frei in a brief wave at the 'see you later' part, placing it back down on a board. The hammer rises just as Frei gives further advice about the hand, he's heard it already, and... put the mask on, what?
He turns his head over to Frei as if to ask him what he means by that, but there's something about this nail all of a sudden that seems a little too stubborn to go down into the board. Maybe a little too big? Before he can get something out of his mouth, he turns back to his work and grunts at a joke that ends up being at his expense.
He was hammering his thumb. Lovely! One long sigh later... it's back off to work.
Log created on 15:10:56 07/04/2009 by Frei, and last modified on 00:27:45 07/29/2009.