Description: A devoted weaponsmith and woodsman, having studied his craft extensively atop Mt. Fuji for a good number of years, journeys down to Southtown - the home of one of his parents. His goal, to make use of his finely honed talents to better the lives of the world at large. His first stop, a park where a high school teacher at an international school is finishing up work for the day. (For the rest of you, consider this a rather generalized recap episode for LLK!)
Just another day in post-war Southtown. Even months after the leave of the invaders - a rare collaborative effort between Shadaloo, NESTS, 'R', G Project, and countless other nefarious interests with the intent of destroying the Southtown Syndicate and otherwise removing Geese Howard from the picture - even this many months from their departure a lot of people are picking up the pieces.
Lives have been lost. Homes have been destroyed. Trust has been lost between many people and those figures that led them. A lot of absolutely unsavory elements about the entire town were uprooted and brought to an ugly light, ultimately to be rid of or at least chased out. Even in the underworld, there exists an incredible power vacuum that is still being filled by those with not just the ambition, but the power to take the reins.
The Masters Foundation has acquired the Saturday Night Franchise from the all but dead Howard Enterprises. Anti-monopoly lawsuits over its hold of the world of competitive fighting are still raging even now. It seems even interest at large has dropped off some, what with one of the world's greatest cities for producing top-notch street fighters being all but laid to ruin.
And so, the current day.
Howard Rust, the shop teacher of Pacific High seems to be finishing up work for today out here in the Park - where the very last stronghold of the invading forces laid months ago. The grounds remain scarred and a mere shadow of what they were, although blades of grass are starting to reclaim the almost blackened mud. It used to be in the earlier days he'd bring a bunch of his students out here to rebuild the park and just get rid of the ugly sight. (He wasn't quite sure he could trust them to take on the rebuilding of actual houses in the timeframe allotted - especially with reports of asbestos, seriously, that was a bunch of angry lawsuits from the parents waiting to happen and the contracting alone would have been a gigantic headache.)
Nowadays there are way less of the student kind. It's now more of an after school extra credit thing more than the main assignment. But their work is paying off. Fresh new paths have been laid down. There's a goodly amount of playground equipment. A new fountain is nearly finished, but probably won't be activated for some time due to the somewhat chilly weather. And, of course... benches.
This man loathes benches. Someone, somewhere, finds some way to take some time out of his day with the request that he fix a bench, and despite their simplicity he has become absolutely certain there is some sort of conspiracy going on involving the need to fix these benches.
The man lays down underneath the last of these stupid benches, driving in the last few screws with careful turns of his left hand. It's a good thing this one's near a water fountain, he's gonna need him some rehydration - lead contamination be damned - even in this weather.
for a line break, for an indent."
Any day where, despite the many sins of man, the sun still shines and the wind still blows is a good day. It is not what the vile do that dictates how the environment and the atmopshere ends up - it is how those of upright character respond to the such travesties.
Rikiryou had arrived in Southtown some months ago, but during the most hectic parts had remained in the shadows, so to speak. Such great evil, such wanton destruction warranted no assistance from him, and he had decided to give no effort towards being identified with either side. The great man stood in a clearing not far from Mr. Rust, newcoming onto the scene with all the grace of a silent monk, pondering. The thoughts running through his mind were complex, complentative. The slim, curved Asian sword sheathed along the small of his back seemed too small and too fine for a man of his seven-foot stature, but his hand seemed at home on its pommel, clenching and unclenching it as his mind continued to wander.
Now, though, he could help. People didn't need weapons, but they needed tools, needed materials, need constructive assistance. What weaponsmith worth his salt could not use his abilities for peace as well as conflict? A forge could be used to produce new locks, door hinges, braces, fittings that would last for centuries, just as well as it could be used create blades...
As far as the eye can see, there are definitely some things a man here could help with. A good, strong working man who knows his way around a good set of tools, as opposed to a bunch of rich overseas kids who might only be pitching in largely for the grade (though this ulterior motive seems to have lessened as the time continues to go by).
Most notably, there is indeed a rectangular patch of land marked for something to be constructed, but nothing has been fabricated or laid down there as of yet. There might be plenty space to help with locks, door hinges, braces, fittings, or what have you... once work actually begins on that.
With an unsettling creak of some joint or another, the man under the bench pulls himself out with a grunt and sigh, resting his left hand against the bench to pull himself up. He's got all the workings of a handyman - although he could do well to replace that construction vest, how old is that thing to get so dull?! - though there is a length of rusted pipe that, for whatever reason, this man seems to have seen fit to jam through a now ruined toolbelt pocket. Not to mention... the combover.
It is probably the worst combover to ever grace the seven continents of this young millenium. The sweat glistening off the man's head gives a particularly vile, nauseous sort of luster to it as he wipes it clean with his right forearm and - true to form - leans forward to sip from the drinking fountain.
Or would, if it were running water. Oh yeah, he forgot, they turned off water here for a reason today.
"Goddamnit!" The teacher slaps his palm against the top of the fountain and shakes his head with another incomprehensible series of grunts before going to sit down on the newly fixed bench.
The curse caught Rikiryou's attention, and the man's reaction to the fountain drew comprehension from his intense brown eyes. Rustling around in medium-sized courier-style hip pouch, he produced a one-quart metalic canteen that seemed to have been forged of some sort of silvery metal. He crossed the distance in long, relaxed strides and approached the bench from the front, bowing in traditional Japanese style (although from the looks of him, hew as not Japanese, or at least not fully Japanese). He offered the canteen with both hands, inclining his head slightly.
His voice was calm, strong, rather deep, and seemed to have perhaps a European accent to it. It matched his posture and demeanor, one of obvious respect and humility towards the older man. "Please rest and have a drink, sir." He added with another smile, "It should still be cold, despite not having been refrigerated lately."
This is Southtown! Even those who are native residents seem to have a bunch of really strange natural colorations. It is where a lot of very interesting people come to live, fight... fight and live, something in between those two concepts.
His head turns upward as the very tall, solid man comes to him. He casts a very intimidating shadow of some kind - a very notable presence, if you will - that belies the gentle gesture and this apparent offering to his well-being.
"Thanks a bunch," the man replies with his usual tired, gravelly voice as he takes the canteen in his right hand - albeit not quite as tightly as he probably should - and unscrews the top with his left to take a swig. Not quite as cold as he'd like but it's definitely cooler than 'room temperature.'
That's a lie. The 'swig' part. He takes like two of them. Smacking his lips once as if to try and offset the dryness, he screws the cap back on and hands it back, face a little too tired to put on the greatest of smiles, but generally that's how he's always been.
"Forgot that they, they turned off the water here today," he gestures with his free hand's thumb.
Replacing the silver canteen into the courier pouch hanging across his hip, Rikiryou straightened slightly and placed one fist sternly at his side, clenched in a fashion, though not hostile. The other hand - his right hand - he offered the enbenched man, fully prepared to give a firm handshake. "That is unfortunate. You appeared to be undergoing honest labor, and I am sure you would have thought to bring liquid with you otherwise." His eyes showed understanding of his words a bit deeper than his tone - perhaps the man was a wistful philosopher, or a wise-aleck, but no... "I am called Rikiryou."
Everything about the man seemed to eminate humble professionalism - he was courteous, aware, and comprehensive. There seemed to be little he did not grasp with those piercing eyes, and yet there was no malevolence about him at all.
The older man's head tilts just the slightest bit to the sight at that choice of words, as though there were some sort of novelty to the idea of hard, honest work. But it just might be that he's not a native English speaker - he did do the bowing thing, after all, and given how many people in these parts seem to be native /English/ speakers he might be a little spoiled there - but nonetheless, offers his own right hand.
"I'm Rust." He clears his throat. "'scuse me. Howard Rust." Hands are met, a shake is exchanged. Though, notably, there's something about the grip that may seem... lacking, despite the sitting man's stocky stature. But he makes as good a show of it as he can.
There isn't a whole lot of energy to one Mr. Rust for the moment, but he did seem to just get done working. Those brown eyes are hard to affix any real adjective to aside from the color, perhaps because it has to compete with the more readily noticed (and repulsive) feature on top of his head. He is making fine enough eye contact despite the difference in height, where a seven foot tall man is standing and someone who is just under six feet is sitting.
"Yeah, I had a bottle... one of my students here today needed a drink some ways away from the fountain... told me like five seconds later she was sick." Of all the luck. "So she got to keep it."
She also got to keep a lack of extra credit.
"Just... just one of those days, what can I say."
There's definitely something to Rikiryou's voice. It's not a broken accent or a thick one. It actually seems quite concise and affluent, almost academic. Definitely an educated man - no country bumpkin, this. And yet he neither held claim to nor openly exhibited any of those high airs.
"Mr. Rust, then. I am honored to meet you. Would I be right to assume, gathered from the repair work you were effecting, that you are here to help rebuild this part of the neighborhood?" In some small way. But he was polite enough not to add that little part. In order to really effect repairs, multiple people would be needed for hands-on labor, as well as to acquire and transport the materials required. There might be a possibility that he could do something a little more unorthodox, though...
There's definitely something to Rikiryou's /approach/. Overly friendly... not a minus, but there is, in spite of the friendly tone and warm gestures of kindness, a sort of distance that exists between them.
"Yeah," he replies concisely as he reclines back on the bench a little, raising his left arm up and stretching it back behind him. There's that popping noise again! "Me and a couple students over at Pacific."
He looks up to the sky. It's probably going to be dark in about... oh, an hour and a half. It's a surprisingly clear night over in these parts too. This is about the time most people start (carefully) making their way back (to whatever's left of) home, usually.
"You wouldn't believe what shit this place was some, some months back." He kinda can't either, especially now that there's grass trying to grow here. Kind of funny what you don't think you'd miss until you lose it.
Rikiryou sat down on the bench beside Rust and folded his hands onto his lap. His gaze swept across the devastation that he could make out. The scars of the land were still there, but it was evident that the damage was none-too recent. He could imagine, though, what it might have looked like during one of the massive all-out conflicts held in the area. People shunted out of their peaceful lives and into new, harsher, more inhospitable ones. Great egos and great talents clashing together - for what? Power? Resources? Control?
"It makes one wonder as one observes. During the World War II, great planes flew across hundreds of miles to level entire cities with their massive payloads. Nearer to the end of it, a massive weapon of unimaginable power was dropped on two Japanese cities, destroying them completely and leaving lingering effects that would make life hazardous there for decades to come. All of this," he motioned at more significant earmarks that indicated past destruction, "was not caused by a bomb, but quite literally by the hands of men."
He mused. "Are we the new weapons of mass destruction? Or can we use our strengths to heal and restore as well as destroy?" There seemed to be a dignified, solid pain in those eyes now. Not a philosopher. A visionary; a romantic; a dreamer.
That guy, Rust thinks, probably could've also spent the day building too, look at the guy, he's huge! Probably could go for longer than he could too, he sounds kind of young. But it seems like today was the day for philosophical musing instead of getting sweaty and dirty.
But that drink was awful nice of him.
"Way I see it," Rust starts after he coughs once, "'scuse me there. Sorry. Way I see it," he gesticulates kind of vaguely with his left arm, "some things... some things you're just better off not, not thinking too much about it. I got caught up in a lot of that shit."
It's putting it very very mildly.
"But you know, I'm just a... just a working man in all this mess." Probably why he's not taking account of the emotion in the spirited younger man's eyes. "World goes 9-5, I go 8-6 just about every day, and... well, what you see. What you see, 's what I'm doing with mine."
He holds up both his hands in a half-hearted gesture, letting them fall limp again soon after, right arm against the back of the bench and the left back over the back.
Rikiryou had noticed that, too. He was a man of hard labor himself, but he applied his mind as much as his hands to a task. When it came to people, or ideas, or just plain work in general, he always had a unique - or at least, more uncommon - approach to the way he dealt with them.
"I assume that you hold a position at Pacific High, then?" The man's demeanor told him that there was more to the whole package than meets the eye, but nobody likes to be probed too deeply.
"Yeah... I teach shop." It's a kind of stock reply, but to be fair the man isn't running around in the Pacific uniform. The uniform is expensive and even costlier to clean and he's a man who works a lot, and as such, soon as he can justify putting on another outfit that can afford to get dirty, the better!
The older man seems content to just lie back where he is without much in the way of added movement. "'s... not always a fun job, let me tell you." Somewhere between the 'mouthy kids with fighting superpowers' and 'occasional nonsensical interest from super-terrorists in bullying kids' probably suggests why he managed to get the job over some other applicants - or at least keep it.
"Shop, you say?" Rikiryou smiled wryly, his eyes glinting at the mention. "You could say that I do the same thing, then." He pulled the silvered canteen from his bag and turned it over in his hands. "I spend much of my time making things - like this canteen. It is actually made entirely from steel, but I daresay it will never rust or mold. It is designed to be airtight and keep beverages cold for an indefinite period of time."
After a moment, he handed the canteen, strap and all, to Rust. "Please, accept it as a gift. Consider it some meager compensation for your selfless labor in this area. And," he reached into the pouch and produced a few strips of jerky, which he also offered wholly. "This will replenish your strength. You look famished." He was actually an outdoorsman of sorts, but this was actually beef jerky he bought from the local mart. But shhhh.
Never mind that he's probably the toughest shop teacher there is, behind the whole thing of being... overweight, balding, almost forty, and coming down with a really bad case of early onset arthritis from overworking in his younger years. But he is what he is.
He turns his head at mention of being more or less a fellow craftsman of some sort, an unspoken 'yeah?' as his eyes fall upon the shiny canteen. It is a nice canteen, but he doesn't really think about what a 'shoddy' canteen is.
But the guy does make some very interesting claims of which he's only slightly dubious about, given a couple of things, but...
"Hey, are you sure about--" Nonetheless, the man seems to insist it's a gift, so he's probably sure. Rather than use his closer right arm, he shifts his body weight to reach out with his left hand to take it, about to say 'thanks' were it not for the mention of the strips of jerky.
"You're spoilin' me." He jokes a little. It is quite a bit of kindness from who he understands to be a complete stranger! He mentally shrugs on the grounds of 'I am thirsty' and 'I am actually getting hungry now that he mentions it.'
"Thanks," he says with a nod, taking the jerky once he sets the canteen on his lap. "I'd... I'd, uh, I'd offer you something in turn, but... ahhh, hell if I know!"
The big man closed his eyes and smiled, waving it off. "Do not worry. The world is, as you can ascertain from simple glance around you, full of trial and tribulation. Anything I can do to make things a little easier, a little better, or a little more enjoyable... Really, it is the least I can do. Do not worry about compensation." It seemed like the man was wholly unable to be anything but eloquent with his speech.
"You could do me a favor, though. Consume that nourishment, and then tell me more about what happened here in Southtown some months back. I was, as they say, 'living under a rock,' and missed most of the activity." His smile faltered slightly as he drew in a breath and sighed. "I would like to make up for things in some way if I could. I feel partly responsible..." In avoiding the fighting, he also limited damage control. Inaction, as it were, is often almost as harmful as harmful action.
The eloquence is something pretty offsetting given what he professes to be! Howard grew up poor out in the US and got where he did through a lot of hard work and a little luck.
Some luck.
A lot of luck.
But just as much hard work.
He's definitely going to have to agree on the 'living under a rock' thing, but he has himself a nice bite of one of those bits of jerky. This one's... a little dry, a bit tough to chew. He nods his head again, pointing a finger out from his left hand as if to say to wait. A couple seconds later, he starts to speak - if a little suspicious of 'feeling responsible.'
"I'll give you, give you the short of it," he says as he clears his throat once more. "Pardon. Okay... core of it. It was a god damn turf battle. You heard about Geese Howard, right?" Who hasn't? But this is recap time! "Big name business man... did a whole lot for organized fighting leagues. Made 'em a lot more accessible... wasn't always that way." Perhaps, the only good thing anyone would say about him in his apparent passing.
"He was deep in, in organized crime. They called it the Syndicate here, last I heard. Pissed a bunch of powerful people off. You had... you heard these names, right? Shadaloo, from that Thailand war. Some crazy-ass corporation or something called NESTS," he can only assume this name is common knowledge because one of his students spoke the name so very casually, which is really something disturbing in itself, "...bunch of other... underworld people."
He waves said left hand around him in some broad gesture or another. "Bombed shit. Ran over shit... you've seen some of the crap they hadn't yet fixed, right? All them. They hit the schools too. Used Gedo as a stronghold to reach out, hit the rest, 'cause they thought the /kids/ were threats."
The kids. Think on that for a moment, Rust would say. He throws his hand up and shakes his head. "Friggin' unbelievable."
"Children." A dark look covered Rikiryou's face. He was a man of honor and nobility (although he didn't lay claim to any particular title), and always followed a sort of code of ethics. Involving the weak and the young in disputes was completely out of the question. "I have heard of some children from this area that are easily able to defeat an average man in combat. Still..." He pulled a strip of jerky from the pouch and began to gnaw on it thoughtfully. "Still. The body and the ability of a child might be well developed, but the mind often must become mature over time. No children should ever have to face such bedlam as this." It was true.
"Technically, I have not been under a rock, but on top of one. I have been... studying on Mt. Fuji for some time." Some time being five years, which would mean that he was barely nineteen or twenty when he started. "My mother was from this area, and I wanted to see the place she called home for my own self. It is a pleasant place... except for all of this, anyway." The somber expression returned as he finished the jerky.
Apparently, the hip bag was a veritable picnic basket, as he produced not only four more strips of jerky wrapped in wax paper (these he HAD actually caught and cured himself), a small block of sharp cheddar, and a small loaf of dark wheat bread, and set the items on the bench between them. He also produced a small culinary knife in a leather sheath - a beautiful, razor-sharp work of art that he designed specifically for use with food - and placed it on the pile. "Please, share the rest of my lunch with me. Do be cautious of the knife, though - you will lose a finger if you touch that edge carelessly." Razor sharp meant razor sharp.
You bet your ass it's true, Rust would say, despite the enthusiasm certain students have among Pacific to fling themselves into what should be certain doom head on. Then again, a lot of kids feel like they're ultimately invincible. It really is frightening that it seems even the most dangerous people agree they are the most threatening things about the world, enough they'd raze an entire city over it.
He mostly eats and nods through the background thing about being on Mt. Fuji for some years, well... hey, maybe if this jerky here is that good he must've learned something pretty cool (never mind it's actually store bought, shhh).
Then there is offer of more food, which is the real head turner! "What? Nah, nah! You gave me plenty, thanks." Lies, he's American, he would probably eat all of that without a second thought and still want more. "I got something... something marinating at home. Rest's all yours."
He ultimately declines comment about the knife even after eyeing it for a good second or so. Does look sharp, sure, but it's not like people haven't tried to put even sharper through him.
His insurance payments as they /are/, though...
"'s good jerky," he comments after taking another chew, raising the (store bought) jerky-bearing hand upward a little.
Fair enough. It didn't take long for Rikiryou to put a solid dent in the lunch himself. The knife parted (not cut) cleanly the bread and cheese, and slapping the tender, moist jerky and cheese slices between the fresh wheat bread, he had himself a sammich! "Your loss, my friend. My time spent alone these past years has caused me to develop my skills in the kitchen as well as the forge." Nomnomnom.
"Enough of me asking questions, though. I am not yet familiar with this area. Please tell me what I can do to assist you here - even tonight, if need be. I am in the mindset to acquire contacts, and if possible, friends."
Sammiches are good eatin's. All you need are two pieces of bread and then whatever the hell you feel like putting in between. Its culinary simplicity cannot be faulted!
Although Riki there draws a momentary shifty glance at what is almost perceived as a slight against his cooking. Sure, Howard here loves his barbecue and maybe he's not inventive or has the best grasp on the perfect blends of sauces and spices or how to really go about picking the absolute best quality meet for what he desires, but...
Actually that does smell kind of good. His nostrils flare once. Maybe he should ask for a good half of-- ah, dammit, the subject changes too quickly for him to change his mind.
"Hrm," this is not thinking out loud, this is him grunting through some jerky he's chewing. "Tonight... tonight, eh, not much to do. Tomorrow, getting in some stuff to lay down a foundation right... rightabout there," he gestures with his left arm. "They wanted a new rest area there, so... that's what I'm doin' with this park next."
Him and a number of other people who have been building (or re-building) places of the park, anyway.
Having finished the lunch - or supper, or maybe dinner, given the time of night - Rikiryou stretched and yawned a mighty yawn. It was getting to be that time. As he rose from the bench and brushed the crumbs off of his tunic, he turned to Rust and extended his hand once again. "Sir, it has been a pleasure. I will most certainly assist you in this endeavor, as well as anything else that might help this neighborhood recover." Another yawn. "For now, though. Bedtime. I've got a walk ahead of me before I get there, too."
Bedtime, this soon? Actually, that sounds kinda good, but he's got that thing marinating. Mr. Rust here almost never really gets as much sleep as he ought to these days, but, he's a busy working man trying to keep on top of several demanding things.
The other guy puts his hand forward, is it the right one ag-- yeah, seems to be. He offers his right hand again, but even after having a drink and a snack the grip doesn't seem that much stronger... if even at all! But there's no signs of flinching or discomfort in the shake regardless, it's just a curious point given how solid Rust looks.
"Then, uh, tomorrow then." If the crap they need comes in! He waves Rikiryou off whenever he decides to go, perhaps giving Mr. Rust there a good look at the thing he's got strapped on his back. It perhaps suggests a lot more about this guy than he lets on.
His left hand falls upon that rusted length of pipe he himself has resting by his left hip. Well, maybe when he's got a spare day.
...When the hell does he ever have a spare day? Who knows.
Log created on 17:07:07 10/25/2009 by Rust, and last modified on 23:56:45 10/25/2009.