Description: The abandoned shrine out in an obscure clearing of Southtown holds many meanings for different people. For one, it is a place of chance meetings with people who helped shape them into who they are. For another, it's where a larcenous bird took their cellphone. For yet another, it's an interesting place to watch as two acquaintances decide to have a friendly spar to pass the time and reflect on its passage.
Who built this little shrine out here?
As Frei crunches across a layer of fall leaves walking through the forest, looking to get out to this remote spot, he considers that question for the first time in years. A lot of big life events for him have happened at this very spot, oddly enough. His delving into Kentou's chi potential. Facing off against his brother in one climactic battle. Fighting against, in fact, a number of people who would come to be influences in his life in some way, shape, or form. Mizuki, Sakura, Hotaru... those are just the ones he can think of off the top of his head. And through it all, this tiny shrine has persisted as a background element. Someone keeps it up; Frei himself has taken his turn, sweeping the steps, replacing paper screens, hanging lanterns.
For a moment, he wonders if the tiny little building is, in fact, just a shrine to chance meetings, and that it enjoys a communal upkeep thanks to the many people who've benefitted from its spiritual largess.
As he walks, a bundle swings at his side, held in his right hand: a long, thin cloth bundle. It doesn't seem particularly heavy; the swing of his arm isn't weighed down by it as ballast, so it's unlikely to be an actual steel weapon. Something like wood, however, is believable, and as he comes to a stop in the leaf-covered clearing outside the shrine, Frei slowly unwraps it to reveal the notched but intact (and amazingly sturdy) wooden blade he has taken to using, of late, in battle.
For a long time, he is still. Then, in a very sudden motion, both hands grip the 'hilt' and he thrusts forward at neck height, with a "HA!" alongside. Colored leaves scatter in his wake at the movement, but after he makes it, he's still again.
There are some parts of Southtown that, even in the face of urban expansion and Americanization, maintain bits and pieces of their mystique. Their original identity. Their original heritage. There are a few places that yet still remain free from the time that continues to march onward, even as the times of some are, perhaps, defined by this very location.
If it is a shrine dedicated to chance meetings, then Frei may yet have another acquaintance showing up by yet more chance circumstances. Particularly bizarre ones, perhaps, but a chance meeting remains... a chance meeting.
A loud popping can be heard from inside the old shrine. A woodland creature disturbed by the kiai? The footsteps that follow are much too heavy to be any mere woodland creature stirring to life after their daily respite. A human-shaped shadow appears from deeper within, another crackling noise as a large hand rests carefully on the side of the door leading further inside. The light, what of it filters through here, highlights what may be a familiar - but not particularly pleasant - strands of hair arranged horizontally over where there isn't much hair left.
"Huh." Comes a gravelly voice that observes the young swordsman with the wooden blade, stretching out his leg with a grunt to relieve a bit more stiffness - it's none other than that Pacific schoolteacher, Howard Rust. What in blazes is he even doing inside this shrine to begin with?
"Uh... Renard-Tsukitomi?" He asks, accidentally mixing up the order of names in his surname. "That you?"
Hopefully Rust isn't offended easily, because for a too-long moment, Frei doesn't respond. In fact he just stands there holding that pose. Eventually, however, the tension in muscles slackens and the green eyes open; the sword-wielding arm comes down, and with a rustle of displaced leaves, he turns around to espy who's just said some variation on his name, looking confused. If Rust perhaps looks more... seasoned than his actual years, Frei is his polar opposite; despite nearing his thirties, he retains an almost childlike expression of curiosity when he finally turns around, eyes wider than normal, lips pursed to something just shy of an ':o'-style expression. This guy looks familiar...
Images of the destroyed YFCC lobby come into his head, as well as a conversation on a park bench shortly after the siege of Southtown. Well, that and a few official televised fights... fights he'd taken care to watch when he saw the name...
"Other way around," the redhead says with a faint smile, gesturing an upraised finger on his free hand in a little circle to illustrate the point... and using the response to give himself extra time to return the courtesy. "But just 'Frei' is sufficient... I've had enough of people using my full name for a while, lately." His eyes dart to the shrine for a moment and, against all logic, he notes a set of windchimes hanging from one of the eaves... the dark silver metal speckled with a faint, orange-red tinge on the edges from oxidation...
"Mr. Rust, right?" he says, stepping toward the second person at the shrine, leaves crunching underfoot. A silly mnemonic clue, but it really does all come back to him. "You work at Pacific... helped us rebuild the Center. A pleasant surprise."
Is it mistaken identity? The form looks kind of like Frei... the hair color, not so much now, more like the original? Maybe it isn't him. Or he didn't hear him? Sometimes his voice doesn't carry too well. He scratches his side with his left hand, grimacing once. It's been sort of a rough day.
That's when eyes lock for a bit. His mouth opens a little... oh, that is him! Thinking about the different hair color (again) absent-mindedly leads the hand scratching his side up towards his head. He wonders just how long it's been since the two last saw one another. He nods at mention about the name being the other way around. He's always been kind of bad with names.
"Yeah... yeah, 's me." He steps further away from the entryway to the shrine, down the path a ways closer to Frei. "Sorry I, uh, hadn't been around much. Been... kinda busy." Digging his left hand into his pocket, he withdraws a scuffed cellphone. "Just today alone... bird just, swoops down, takes my phone," he gestures with his head back towards the shrine, "chase it all the way over here... took a nasty fall." He blinks a few times thinking about the whole ordeal. "Just as I thought... y'know, time to get back to society, I hear you right out here."
Chance meetings, indeed!
The look of distracted curiosity comes back at the American's story, Frei honest to God tilting his head to the side and trying to process what happened. Avian cell phone theft, right. Flew here, right. He fell trying to get it back? "Are you okay?" is the first thing he can think of to say, giving Rust the once over. Doesn't appear to have been too bad off, since Frei can't see any obvious damage. Still, sounds like he had it rough. "And did you get your phone back? What a crazy story," he says with a guileless smile, not even thinking for an instant it might be a bald-faced lie. "I guess it was a magpie? Apparently they love anything shiny. Crows and ravens too, come to that..."
There's a pause, and then he stretches, before making lazy, not-actually-slashes slow swings of the wooden sword through the air. "I mostly came here to do some practicing, clear my head... I can go if I'm disturbing you, though. I didn't expect anyone to be here." There's a pause, and then Frei laughs helplessly, shaking his head. "Which is silly. I think EVERY time I come here to spend some time by myself, someone's already here. I think this place being empty would be a sign of the apocalypse."
"Yeah... yeah." The teacher nods. "Mighta been... birds, they all, they all kinda look the same to me." He grunts yet again, stretching out his back. Him feeling stiff after a good bit of physical trauma - for a given value of 'good' - is nothing new when it comes to dealing with him.
"Training, huh," He looks away for a bit. He's not sure what time it is currently. How much time he can't take back from that bird heist. One of his eyes shut. What does he have left to do in the day? A meeting with some very unpleasant people, again. There's a whole lot of those to spare during this time of year in Pacific, and the number that are enjoyable? Exactly zero.
"Actually, uh... hey, tell you what." He turns back to face Frei, holding up a finger from his left hand. "Y'want to get some practice in, ah... I could be game for a round or two." He thinks for a moment. "Ehh... truth be told, already gonna be late for somethin' at work. Somethin' I'm... not lookin' forward to."
He lowers his head a bit more. "Figure they'd... they'd take 'got jumped' rather than 'jackass bird stole my phone.' Y'know?"
For some reason, Rust's tone gives Frei the impression that rather than 'meeting with annoying faculty' his place to go might be 'meeting with support group' or 'pay protection money to Yakuza.' It evokes an expression of genuine concern, but when Rust offers to train instead that moment of genuine worry seems to drain out of his countenance, replaced with one of curiosity again. In his head, he recalls his meetings with Rust before... and a certain degree of reluctance on the Pacific teacher's part to get involved with honest-to-goodness fighting. A rough past in the biggest city in the US led to learning how to fight, but something pulled him out of it. Yet a long time ago, the sword-sage also remembers watching Rust battle someone else he knew... Zach! That was it... in the Neo League. And he MUST have come up on Saturday Night Fights at least once or twice. He made the effort in spite of all the reservations he told Frei so long ago.
Some urge inside makes Frei want to see what the result of that decision was. The only outward indication that he's considering it, though, is a momentary gesture, a silly thing Frei's been known to do from time to time when he's thinking something over: a hand comes up, the tip of his index finger resting against his nose.
But then he's moving a step back or two, the crunching sound of leaves again filling the air. The wooden sword he's holding makes a simple twist before Frei inverts his grip and slides the weapon back into his belt loops in a makeshift horizontal 'scabbard.' "I'd like that, actually," he says with a smile. "Please do. Especially if it keeps you away from people who'd get on your case for getting your phone stolen."
Leaning in with a conspiratorial whisper, Frei says with a smile, "Because those people are *jerks*."
COMBATSYS: Frei has started a fight here.
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Frei 0/-------/-------|
To say there isn't an ulterior motive for training would be a flat out lie unto itself, but... odd casts of the die are leading to other hands being able to be played, and while the sevens may not be lining up betting on red may very well be safe. (It is perhaps best not to push the mixing of gambling metaphors too much further beyond this point.)
Mr. Rust has not shown up on Saturday Night Fight - those four fights right before the invasion hit would be it. And yet, there he is today, one of the few and proud recipients of a King of Fighters 2011 invite. There's no mistaken address, it clearly puts his name on the header. Someone wants him to take place in one of the single most prestigious combat events in the world.
And so, at forty years of age, it's time for that one last good try at an age where many assuredly retire from active competition. The clock's ticking, even though his slow, deliberate movements suggest almost a sort of leisure and comfort to what he asks as his right hand - still withstanding that injury from the invasion - rests upon the makeshift hilt of Ol' Rusty, drawing it with a little more ease than normal from the toolbelt pocket he would call a sheath in awaiting Frei's answer.
"Yeah... sounds like we got a, we got a date then," he cracks the rare smile. He's never really that expressive with his face. There's actually a bit of a laugh when Frei whispers that. Oh yeah, he's not that big a fan of most of his fellow Pacific faculty. The feeling seems to be relatively mutual, but he's still a man who works his job to the best of his ability. Day in, day out. Sometimes into the next day.
Taking a step back with Ol' Rusty drawn, he points the rusty length of pipe towards Frei as he stands straight up, resting it on his left shoulder to tap it a few times, then point it downwards and away as he leans forward. Maybe he just needs another moment to stretch.
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
If you'd asked Frei a long time ago, when he first met Rust, what he would liked to have done to the poor American, the response would have been something like 'shake him until candy falls out.' Either because of or in spite of his age, Rust struck Frei as someone who was sure his opportunities had been expended, and that now all he had to look forward to were memories. For his own sake, Frei knows what it's like to suddenly not know what your dreams are, to feel like you're adrift and all you can do is tread water forever. It's because of that feeling that Frei was happy to see Rust come into the professional circuit. His eyes dart down to the bokken he's begun to use, having reconciled the battou training of his youth with his own personal style. It took 28 years to do, but he found a way to make it work.
You're never too old to try, as far as Frei's concerned. The sword is proof.
"Show me what you've got," he says to Rust encouragingly, standing his ground and not attacking. There's a hesitance there, or the teacher would have already taken the opening and charged. "Don't worry about me. I might look fragile, but I can take a beating."
He flashes back to his long series of near-death experiences in Taizhou, and winces a little at the memories. "Believe me."
COMBATSYS: Frei takes no action.
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Frei 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
In some alternate universe where Rust is a pinata, there is no candy inside him. Only toothbrushes and sugar-free gum. The pinata might be a couple years older than what would be put up, but it's a fine enough pinata.
For his part, he nods his head at what Frei says. That'd make the two of them, even if the scale of their collective experience in the front lines of a desperate battle differ entirely. A branch snaps underneath one of Rust's feet, breaking the quiet tension of the calm before a friendly spar with an old acquaintance.
Taking Ol' Rusty in both hands and leading with his left for whatever reason, he steps forward and tries to hook the tip upward somewhere in Frei's clothing. It's a surprisingly delicate and precise maneuver he's shooting for, the snare without executing so much force it might rip some clothing - in a best case scenario. But that's just the hooking part.
With a grunt, assuming he finds purchase, he tries to swing Frei along on Ol' Rusty off towards another part of the clearing in a toss reminiscent of a wrecking ball flying off its chain.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Frei with Wrecking Ball Swing.
Glancing Blow
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Frei 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Rust
It's a length of lead pipe. But frankly, in the right hands damn near anything can be a weapon when a trained fighter gets their hand on it. In truth, all you really need is sufficient power and leverage, and a knowledge of where to actually place the business end. So on the one hand, Frei takes Rust's attack with Ol' Rusty perfectly seriously. On the other hand, because of the way he's holding it, Frei assumes Rust is going to use it like a sword, aiming for a vital area with a thrust or cut, the basics of that style of combat whether it's Japanese sword-drawing or the graceful motions of European fencing. What he is NOT expecting is that it's basically going to be a fulcrum to haul him up and toss him away. Thus his attempt to sidestep the attack goes more than a little awry.
He does evade the worst of it, that much is clear; Frei shifts his weight forward so that balancing him long enough for the toss isn't plausible. On the other hand, he also makes it so that Rust's stab travels up his torso and ends up smacking into his chin with a painful-sounding but muffled *CLANG!*.
Stepping back and rubbing his jaw, Frei nevertheless has a slight smile on his face as he gets back into his own stance. "Interesting technique," is all he can say. Frei's been at this long enough to know how that would have gone if it'd worked. "I think you said you were self-taught the last time we spoke about it, right?" The message is clear: where'd you get the idea for *that*? However, he doesn't give Rust time to reply. Instead, Frei ducks forward and swings out a high kick for Rust's shoulder... but the kick, travelling in a circular arc, is a ruse. The real attack is the sudden drawing of the wooden sword that comes from below as Frei completes the arc, kick and slash becoming one smooth motion.
COMBATSYS: Rust dodges Frei's Feinting Draw.
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Frei 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Rust
It's kind of easy for that to go awry on /both/ ends as it is, but with the largely connecting strike the teacher draws Ol' Rusty back, releasing his left hand from it to keep it free for catching whatever might be coming his way.
"Yea--" Frei indeed does not give him time to reply, crouching low to avoid what is actually the feint with his right knee popping loudly at the sudden movement. He grunts at this - and further has to lean back to avoid the real part of the attack, that draw, which whizzes just in front of his face. For avoiding the blow, he's in a compromising position. The dirt where he crouches is a bit soft. He can feel himself sink a bit into it.
With no other easy option at his disposal, Howard tries to thrust his right leg out towards Frei's feet in a quick, simple, and otherwise particularly unimpressive short-ranged kick in hopes this will give him a little time to pull himself back up onto his feet.
COMBATSYS: Frei interrupts Light Kick from Rust with Strong Throw.
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Frei 0/-------/-----==|====---\-------\0 Rust
In his quick estimation of Rust's probable talents, it was Frei's estimation that the Pacific teacher was probably not a speed demon as a fighter. Neither, for that matter, is Frei; while his reaction time is good, he never quite got the trick down for foot speed and agility. Thus it's a bit of a surprise when the American makes to evade Frei's strike rather than tough it out or deflect it, tactics that seemed to fit more with his rough and tumble image. Thus as Frei rises, slipping the wooden sword back into place, he tries to meet Rust's gaze with a smile. "Full of surprises, are--"
Then he processes that Rust is about to kick him in the feet, and Frei's own feet are sinking into the dirt just as Rust's are. He has very little time to react, and as he always does in these sorts of situations, lets instinct guide him. Rather than try to get out of the way, he fixes his eyes on Rust's upper body rather than his stomping foot. For a moment, the Pacific teacher's low kick pins Frei's own foot to the ground... and in the moment he strikes, suddenly lunging forward and slipping his arm around the shop teacher's torso and heaving his weight forward, hurling Rust to the ground on his back.
Hopping backward, Frei is ginger on that foot, tapping it on the ground toe-first once or twice before standing on it, getting back into stance. No such throw is going to take out Howard Rust... he's got to be prepared for what follows.
"Ah-" That's about all he has to say when Frei grabs a hold of him and sees him to his back. He tries to shift the force to one side or the other rather than have it evenly spread out in an area. The dirt is a bit soft, but not enough to take the full wind out of a quick catch-and-takedown on Frei's part as he rolls off to the left and pushes himself up with the help of Ol' Rusty.
Frei's smart to put distance between them. Regardless of any particular slowness in movement, it's difficult to go any slower than Mr. Rust. It's almost something someone has to put forth an effort to be... and frankly, it throws off all sorts of dramatic 'run towards the center and clash' scenarios because thanks to his pitiful foot speed one would likely meet him well beyond the center and more towards his side of a battlefield.
Shaking his head once and brushing some mud off of his neck, he sizes up Frei a bit, figuring out how to best approach. The best idea he can come up with on short notice is a short leap after some loud protest from his left knee. His jumps are particularly poor in themselves - hardly worthy of the heights some of the best fighters can aspire to.
It does mean, at least, that there's often just a little less time to react to whatever swings he may make, taking Ol' Rusty in both hands again as he swings the pipe straight down towards the ground in a purely vertical strike, perhaps anticipating that the momentum may overpower Frei's defense if he chooses to hold his ground.
COMBATSYS: Frei endures Rust's Fierce Strike.
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Frei 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Rust
There's a feeling many fighters know, and also come to hate over time, when it is used against them: the feeling that a blow lands too easily, with no resistance. Sometimes it's just the feeling of a clean hit, but now and then it's possible to notice telltale signs that it wasn't a happy accident or puissant skill. Sometimes, the person on the receiving end of your beatdown let it happen, whatever their reason. Some are crazy and like pain, though Frei doesn't quite think of himself as one of those. In his case it just presented a cluster of tactical options that were, in their own way, attractive to him.
For starters, it lets him gauge the sheer force of Rust's blows. The answer to that is: considerable. It's not the most elegant or even aimed of attacks; Frei feels even Rust would say it was mostly a 'clobbering time!' sort of affair. But it still hits really hard, and Frei can appreciate that given time and experience, that level of base power will become quite nasty indeed. However, the pain isn't so great that he can't bear it, and the force isn't so great that he can't resist it for just a moment... long enough to plant his feet and hold his ground. The result is that Rust effectively slams into Frei like a tidal wave onto a breakwater; with crushing force, but unable to knock him down.
There's a moment where he gives Rust a sly grin, hand going to his side, before he simply says "...gotcha." From there, it's a blur of movement; Frei's hand whips out, wooden sword held in it, arm and blade cutting a horizontal parabolic arc in front of him parallel to the ground, trailing a line metallic, silver-gold light in its wake. If the strike hits, it makes a brief ringing tone in the air, like a struck tuning fork. It's the first appearance of Frei's chi-manipulating abilities in the bout so far.
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Frei's Houken.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|=======\=------\1 Rust
It goes a step beyond feeling 'too easy' - Frei's resilience sees Ol' Rusty flip right out of his hands on the way. It's almost more that the teacher himself doesn't account for the force of the connecting blow... and an awkward, if comical moment to go with the 'gotcha' and the grin as his right hand frantically reaches for that pipe on its way towards the ground.
Having to lean forward a little closer just to ensure the catch, Frei's strike runs clean with the beautiful silver-gold light to punctuate it. The older man sucks in his gut with a grimace, teeth chattering with the resounding ringing tone that seems to just go through him - the effect of Frei's advanced handle on chi against a comparatively underdeveloped body in regards to handling it.
This would be a moment to appreciate the handiwork of a gamble that seems to pay off, if that moment instead passes not in silence and reeling, but a sudden fierce uppercut with his left hand to Frei's chin seeking to lift him up a ways into the air that is more a panicking reflex than any sort of calculated risk on the pipe wielder's part.
COMBATSYS: Frei blocks Rust's Crane Launch.
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Frei 0/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Rust
Well, that current runs both ways, it would appear. Frei gets in a clean strike, but that isn't necessarily a good thing; against a lesser opponent that strike could and should have knocked them away like a baseball being hit. Rust, however, is able to power through it and keep his footing, which puts Frei in a disadvantageous position indeed. He has only a fraction of a second to react, and the difference between Frei's moment to protect himself and Rust delivering a crushing blow could quite frankly be measured in luck at this point. The Pacific teacher's fist sails upward for Frei's chin and impacts almost literally fractions of a second before then on the wooden sword, yanked hastily back. How the thing doesn't shatter under the force of it is a good question, especially since even the deflected blow pushes Frei back across the ground a few inches.
A moment or two passes while Frei recovers from that, re-'sheathing' the bokken and appreciating just how that would have gone had he not managed that last desperate defense. He decides not to attack again, just quite yet; instead, he decides to ask Rust a question that's been weighing on his mind... though he does so while watching the older fighter carefully. "Tell me something... why were you so reluctant to try professional fighting again? I mean... you've clearly still got the skills."
COMBATSYS: Frei focuses on his next action.
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Frei 0/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Rust
A hardened fist of a working man makes contact with the unrelenting will of Frei's bokken. The sound of the two meeting echoes throughout the forest - and sends a shock down the older man's left forearm with a quiet yelp of surprise, his right hand barely catching hold of Ol' Rusty after that slip from moments before.
While the heat of the moment passes, the Pacific teacher takes a step back to shake out his left hand a bit before pointing Ol' Rusty back towards Frei again - a period of time that gives plenty opening to open some conversation.
"Lotsa things... age," he comments as he starts to circle Frei in his trademark sluggish pace, "work... my hand... insurance costs out, out the wazoo," he grunts at the last one. Even after that mere four appearances in the Neo League, health insurance costs are all but milking him dry in so far as disposable income goes. The individual pay per fight seems like a lot until you factor in plane tickets, medical bills, and occasional damages to surroundings.
"Lemme tell you somethin'," Rust says as he rolls his head around his neck once to get another pop out before holding his ground around where he stands, eyes narrowing as focus meets focus, "'s hell being a grown-up."
COMBATSYS: Rust focuses on his next action.
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Frei 0/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Rust
A dilapidated shrine in the midst of a dense forest is not the place one would typically expect to run into an interloper, but that's just what happens to Frei and Rust, nonetheless. Perhaps drawn by their battle, perhaps by the simple currents of fate and happenstance, a diminutive old Chinese man paces calmly out into the clearing, just in time to catch the resounding impact of fist on bokken. White eyebrows rise slightly, subtly, and the elder master clasps his hands behind his back, his stance poised but relaxed as he strides a few more measures towards the combative pair, unthreatened - but clearly curious.
Howard Rust, he knows. He sensed the man's fighting spirit, even more subdued than it has been, perhaps, in the past. He can certainly sense the strength and chi honed by the sword-monk, as well. It brings the elder assassin to a stop, an uninvited, unannounced, quiet audience to their bout. Though he almost certainly listens, Gen offers no input of his own, just this moment, apparently preferring to study the ongoing battle.
For a moment, Frei blinks in confusion, but despite himself, he repeats a reaction that he once had in a similar discussion with Rust long ago: he hangs his head, bangs falling down into his eyes, and laughs. A helpless sort of laughter, but bright and clear. In his own mind, it reminds Frei of something he's lost; despite attacks by ninjas, crime syndicates blowing up his workspace... friends dying... there are moments of great amusement, simple things that are funny without being tied to something dark and terrible on the horizon. When he brings his face up again, he can't keep a genuine smile off his face. "Depending on your cutoff date," he says, "I might be able to commiserate. Between you and me, I'm not sure I want to consider twenty-eight being a grown up."
But the things Rust mentions seem to fit him. They're not intensely psychological things, certainly not in the traditionally soul-searching kind of way. They are, however, very practical. Frei has a combination of minor independent wealth and five years of savings (well, and being a very quick healer) that makes insurance premiums less of a hit, but on an educator's salary? "That makes sense," he agrees. "And you don't have to answer right away, but... now that you've done it, how do you f--"
Something makes him stop talking for a fraction of a second. It's sort of... well. It's not as if he has the skill to sense a master assassin who doesn't want to be seen. But still, disrupt the environment, and there's... something. A vibe, maybe.
Shaking it off, Frei adopts his fighting stance again, nodding at Rust. "Alright, then... shall we continue?" The question is rhetorical, though; he kicks off the ground and goes for the most basic of drawing attacks: he charges Rust and, when he gets close, makes a horizontal sword-draw across Rust's torso.
COMBATSYS: Frei successfully hits Rust with Fierce Punch.
- Power hit! -
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Frei 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
"Mmgh." The aging Mr. Rust doesn't know what's so funny about it, but this sort of confusion is likely to his own detriment. He nods in concurrence to one thing at least - it's kind of hard to judge a cutoff date, some sort of hard division between 'young,' 'old enough to drink and have fun,' and 'busy work time responsibility forever.' This line is a little blurry to himself, as all his young adult years were spent being a construction worker on very long hours. He is not from a wealthy family - quite the opposite!
The pause is jarring. Something in Frei's throat? He himself gets that all the time! It is still jarring. He shakes out his left arm for good measure as Frei suggests continuing, ready to meet Frei's charge with his left forearm. He holds it vertically up a bit high, completely misreading Frei's shoulder as to which way he's drawing and leaving one of the most prime targets for any swordsman worth their salt open for the taking.
His gut.
"Pffaw!" Goes the older of the two, doubling over with bugged-out eyes and stumbling past Frei to largely complete the scene of an awesome samurai moving past a defeated opponent with but a single stroke, coughing once and sucking in some breath after having a significant portion of his wind just taken out of him.
"Watch it," the only thing he can offer in his defense in the wake of this is to just reach out with his left hand and try to shove Frei back a little.
Where many on Gen's level would all but scream their presence, his is indeed a subtle thing. A ripple, a void of the wind. His own inner chi descends deep, resounding yet quiet, a breeze kicked up through a system of caves and caverns that have no readily apparent beginning or end. It's a profound whisper of wind, echoing and vast, yet so easily overshadowed by the far louder noises most make when crafting a path through the modern world. An old kingdom relic, trained by lords from the past, with little need for the bluster and fanfare of would-be overlords. The chuckle that accompanies Frei and Rust's exchange is also all but silent, a quiet shaking of his chest and shoulders.
Frank amusement at the idea of age being a determining factor... such a common outlook, but not one the elder master ascribes to, it would seem. A moment's quiet applause accompanies the passage of Frei and his weapon, though while Gen is making no special attempt to obfuscate his presence, neither does he shout it to the sky. This is their moment, their battle. He seems content to appreciate it. And consider the natures of those involved, analytically and with a lifelong veteran's intensity.
COMBATSYS: Frei dodges Rust's Quick Throw.
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Frei 1/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
Probably some inner memory of learning forms is responsible for Frei's uncharacteristically flashy way of wielding that wooden blade right now; as he ducks past Rust and then stops his forward momentum, planting a foot and pivoting, the bokken does indeed made a complicated pass in the air before returning to Frei's back belt loops, their makeshift 'scabbard.' In the process, he's usefully reoriented toward his opponent, who while hit clean, is not down for the count by any stretch of the imagination. Though polite, Rust's warning works against him as well, sadly; Frei catches the verbal reminder and hops backwards, Rust's grasping hand swiping through the air in front of him.
"You strike me as a survivor, Mr. Rust," the young sage says carefully, as he recovers from that evasion and brings himself standing again. "I think I understand that because I'm a survivor too, in my own way. Having the willpower to keep going in spite of the things that can hold you back is a good thing. I mean..." And here Frei pauses, the redhead tilting his head to the side a bit. Is someone... clapping? Or is that his imagination? Suddenly the sounds of the forest seem impossibly loud and overpowering in his ears; the crunch of leaves as he and Rust adjust their stances, the rustling of foliage in autumn wind, even the faint, sharp trills of birds. But no clapping.
Shaking his head, Frei continues talking, even as he grips the wooden sword with one hand: a clear sign he's prepared to go back on the offensive. "I guess I mean that your body's only one half of the equation. When I saw you back in the professional arena, I was glad you had the will to go forward after everything you'd been through." The last time he saw Rust, it was in the park... where Rust recalled hurting his hand in the defense of Southtown, and Frei recalls being there for Jiro being buried under a pile of rubble, and facing down and killing a clone of himself. Making your body move forward... well, that's the easy part. Having the will to continue on is much harder.
Scarlet flame starts to flow around Frei's form as he advances on Rust; when the two fighters are close again, Frei sweeps out his left hand, the fire roaring out in a short, wide wave in front of him... but the fire itself is as much mirage as it is attack, Frei's sudden drawing slash cutting through it right afterwards.
COMBATSYS: Frei successfully hits Rust with Kagerou.
- Power hit! -
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Frei 1/------=/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
The shove at the air lingers for a bit too long on Rust's part, looking the other way in an absolutely needless gesture to ensure that the lack of contact is indeed from a lack of Frei still being within arm's reach. For the effort, he at least gets to make eye contact as Frei starts to share his piece about the whole matter.
There comes that pause again. He holds up a finger as if to interrupt him for a moment to ask what's wrong. He himself doesn't sense it. He doesn't know that presence is there, someone from a recent night out eating. For all he knows out here in the middle of nowhere... it's the grass, the dirt, the birds, the trees, maybe some other forest woodland critters that may or may not be plotting him further inconvenience like that damn bird from earlier today. (This would not be unwarranted - back in the day he did have a hand in clearing out some natural habitats for construction back in the US of A.)
He changes his mind on asking what's wrong when Frei grips the wooden sword. He, too, tightens his stance - hunkering down a bit, pointing Ol' Rusty down and away and leading with his left arm as Frei continues to speak. "Yeah, uh... me too." Here he is today, looking for a good grounds for an excuse for being late for a meeting that is much more believable than 'phone stolen by bird, took nasty fall getting it back.'
He raises his forearm a bit at the flash of flame sweeping out from Frei's hand, squinting as it draws closer and - once again - repeating the mistake of mere moments ago where he overcompensates a defense for the chi flames washing over him up high as the sudden slash lands yet another clean, definitive blow with just as exaggerated an expression.
"Pffaw!" It's the same exclamation, too, but with far more of a visual effect - the man doesn't stay on his feet. Taking another good, hard shot to the gut is enough to lift him a few inches into the air where he is at mercy of inertia and gravity alike, the seat of his pants skidding into dirt, grass, and a particularly sharp twig he doesn't notice as his body stomachs the sting going through his... well... stomach.
"Grk." He grunts as he pulls himself up. He may not be too bad for a guy being on-and-off with training and fighting, but Frei's strength of character and technique show - the variety in which he can manipulate chi, the speed and confidence of his technique. Frei, there, is world-class stuff. By all accounts, for even a friendly spar this is a mismatch.
Shaking his head once to try and clear out his head, it doesn't mean he can't give it the old college try as he... crouches? No, it looks more like he's seated in midair, taking Ol' Rusty in two hands and holding it in front of him. He shudders a bit in place before suddenly gliding forward at a decent clip as though he's driving some sort of imaginary vehicle, looking to ram into Frei and - assuming he does so - push him along a short ways until suddenly falling back to scoop him up and toss him away with his feet.
COMBATSYS: Frei fails to counter Bulldozer from Rust with Reiki.
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Frei 1/----===/=======|=======\-------\1 Rust
From where Gen's standing, Frei is not so much wielding a weapon, as simply fighting with his all. The blade is not a simple instrument, but an extension of that same, focused will. Its intricate, fluid momentum indicative of the breadth and understanding of the one wielding it. Of course, the stalwart Rust speaks of his own will, despite the apparent weight of life, more than Howard's ever-advancing years. Elements weather stone, battered, not proud, but standing - resilient. Survivors, indeed.
The legendary ghost of the Chinese underworld knows a few things about surviving. Loss and triumph. Pain. Burying friends. A few things about will being the tool with which to strive forward, whether the body is about to give out... or in its very prime. The shadow boss' attention is indeed a niggling in the back of someone like Frei's senses, but still he remains out of the actual conflict, flanking the fight subtle to more or less stay out of direct line of vision. He's cast enough distractions to the pair, thus far. There's no malice, no spike in energy, just that quiet depth, all but hidden by the energy of the forest itself - not to mention the resounding chi that the two fighters bring to the fore in their ongoing conflict.
People vastly underestimate the power of suggestion and psychosomatic gestures.
A long time ago, Frei fought Ayame on a rooftop in this saidsame city. He wielded only this wooden sword, while Ayame held a blade of actual steel... a masterpiece, in fact, one of the better ones. In the end she came out ahead, but her purpose there was to inform Frei that fighting with a 'child's toy' was a dishonor to the idea of swordsmanship in the first place. His response had been to say that the weapon wasn't so much about the object as it was about a state of mind. A weapon without a wielder, without a will, is just an object. So while Rust's method of attack might seem... unusual in execution, Frei takes it seriously. Convincing yourself of something in defiance of the evidence treads a fine line between insanity and genius, after all. It may be that, behind the wheel of this imaginary... something... Rust taps on a well of strength that might be otherwise denied him.
Case in point: for a self-described sluggish old man, he's moving rather quickly. Deciding to trust in his instincts, Frei brings both hands up in front of him in a rapid gesture; from the ground near Rust, link chains of chi-formed ice erupt from the ground, looking to wrap around the Pacific teacher and hold him in place. But at this point, Rust is not to be stopped; the 'links' of the frosty chain snap and scatter into glittering, melting particles of frost in the air as Rust literally plows through them, slamming into Frei and then sending him flying, the sage smacking into the ground with a crunching rustle of displaced leaves and twigs. It takes a second for him to stand again, but stand he does; as he argued before, slight frame aside Frei is pretty tough. "A little weird, I admit," he says to Rust with a rueful smile, "but effective. Almost... shamanistic, in an urban kind of way."
Through rain, through wind, through pretty much every weather condition imaginable, Howard Rust always goes to work. It's not as much a working man's pride other than it was a necessity in his younger years to make ends meet at home. It's tough going in getting through that patch of icy chi on his shins, which he plows through at great discomfort if not so much injury.
The aftermath makes the encounter seem more a draw to the untrained eye, joints popping and otherwise fighting the desire to move as Rust struggles to pull himself up - an offensive application of one of his best personal talents in a fight comes with that sort of cost, another unpleasant popping of a knee in an attempt to fight off the stiffness. His core still stings - it's not unthinkable to believe a rib may have cracked from two incredibly solid shots. It's enough that another good hit on that level may make him consider calling it.
That's the key word. Consider.
"That one, uh... that one's a bit more recent, just... just came to me one day," he admits. That one is a newer addition to the arsenal of movements he's practiced - maybe not mastered, but practiced - over the years. He snaps out his right arm to loosen up his elbow. It sounds painful. (It is!)
The two are once again at a distance. The man tries to suck in some breath to offset the pain running through him to not much additional effect other than the simple reaffirmation he's still largely in the fight. With that note, he takes a forward leap again at his completely unflattering jump height.
There's no pipe swing or extended leg. He raises one knee up while, for whatever reason, he sees it fit to hold Ol' Rusty above his head as he leads in purely with this knee in an attempt to try and come down atop Frei with just that, and only that.
Considering the shamanic traditions tendencies to attribute spirit, energy to many things living and inanimate, the urban analogy is a fitting one, a perception shared by Gen as he studies the motions of the Pacific teacher's unhesitating renewal of the battle. Yes, willful indeed - the both of them. Gen smiles, slightly, an introspective sort of light in his expression as he remenisces and analyzes, comparing what he sees, to what he knows, to what he might learn from either. There's a murmur of approval at the exchange, at the ice that Frei summons - and another soft chuckle as Rust takes to the air.
Silent applause is a thought, more than a motion, this time. Gen nods thoughtfully, and continues to circle the bout along the edge of the woods, examining the breakneck exchange from every angle that he can. It's a studying effort, as much as anything - the master who believes he has nothing to learn from those not as well-accomplished has already been surpassed. No, this fight is not over, not for either of them. Not yet. Fingertips rap against opposite hand, Gen's arms now folded in front of his chest, his short little legs unerringly graceful as he circles the battleground.
COMBATSYS: Frei interrupts Strong Kick from Rust with Intercepting Draw.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|=======\====---\1 Rust
For whoever the hidden audience is out there, what might end up being the final clash of Frei vs. Rust is, at least, appropriately dramatic. At the Pacific teacher's insistence that the technique is new, Frei laughs a little bit. "I like it. It's creative." The popping of joints does seem a little... worrisome. Not so much in the sense that he expects there to be something wrong with Rust -- as far as Frei can tell, the only thing that might definitively cause Rust long-term damage would be some sort of direct meteorite strike -- but because the sounds and facial expressions are... a little dramatic. In the end, though, Rust takes to the air and keeps the assault going, so Frei doesn't think much of it.
Those low-angle jumps are harder to deal with than they sound; in fact, speaking from the defender's point of view, a nice high jump is actually a blessing, since the attacker has very little control on their descent once they're airborne, whereas the defender has time, mobility, and options. Rust's attack, conversely, doesn't afford that opportunity. Thus Frei is forced to react on instinct; one hand drops to his side, and the redhead actually surges forward, heading INTO Rust's attempted(?) flying knee. The blow makes some degree of connection, the extended proto-kick smacking into Frei's shoulder... but in that same moment, drawing on all the speed he can muster, the sword-wielding sage draws the wooden blade in an upward diagonal arc, effectively knocking Rust off him before the full leaping weight of the kick can strike home. It still hurts... almost as much as the previous strike did, meaning Frei stumbles backwards, 'sword' in hand, wincing and clutching his shoulder with his free hand.
Knee meets swordsman in one final, titanic clash of wills, flesh meeting wooden blade in one last strike that resounds through the clearing. The shot to the chin is, in itself, powerful - the man's head snaps upwards and, from there, gravity takes care of the rest.
It's not the shot to the face alone that takes the wind completely out of his sails. It's when he hits the ground on his back a bit harder than he usually allows himself to in a moment of weakness that the man doesn't do much more than grunt another weird syllable and groan.
An effort is made to sit up. It takes a fair bit of it while he tries to replenish the air in his lungs, lifting his right knee up and setting Ol' Rusty down like a support to try and sit up. He finds enough flexibility to lean forward, placing his left forearm on the respective knee as it to raises, resting his head on said forearm for a couple more moments before he mumbles out something unintelligible.
He repeats it with a bit more clarity. "Yeah, callin'... callin' it there." Dizzy and a little short of breath, it's enough of a pause that any leftover adrenaline and any semblance of fight and defiance just ebbs away for the time being.
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
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Frei 0/-------/--=====|
It's a well-executed final assault, on both their parts. That Gen may see this end coming dulls not its impact, or the importance of the efforts of both fighters. This time, the applause is more audible. Slow, measured, strong strikes of palm to palm. It's just fast enough not to be a sarcastic slow clapping moment, just soft enough not to speak of overenthusiasm, awe, or fervent intrigue. It's approval, satisfaction expressed. Nothing more, nothing less. A bow is offered to the pair of combatants, mostly in an inclination of Gen's head, before he straightens, sighs quietly, and strokes his long, white beard pensively.
"Well fought, with honor and skill." He offers simply, deep voice even. "Both of you... are learning well." It's more telling for Rust, perhaps, than Frei. Gen doesn't see the other elder fighter as at the end of his road, not unless he chooses - once more - to be. "I see there is more to you than judgemental coworkers would like to project, Howard Rust." Frei, well. He doesn't recall the sword-monk, eyeing the stranger a moment, head canted slightly to the side. "You draw nature itself through you with the strokes of your sword, tempered by the trials of will." The observation comes with a respectful nod, "I hope I am not intruding."
Once no counterattack makes itself immediately apparent, Frei's upper torso slumps forward, the redhead taking deep breaths for a moment or two. That took a lot out of him. In truth, that battle was a little different from normal; Frei is used to letting chi do the 'heavy lifting' when he fights, knowing full well that physical strength isn't his forte. In this case he was making a concerted effort not to, for the most part. Not out of a misplaced notion of 'taking it easy' on Rust -- his use of a few spiritual attacks should put the lie to that -- but out of knowing that mastering the use of a weapon *as a weapon* wouldn't get accomplished without doing that. Rust wanted to train... so did Frei. And in the process he learned quite a bit about the Pacific instructor.
Slowly, he walks over and plunks himself down on the ground near Rust, turning to him with a friendly smile. "Better than a meeting... right?" is all he asks, slowly breathing out through his nose a bit before looking around a bit. "Thank you for indulging me, Mr. Rust," he says quietly, not actually meeting the teacher's gaze, just looking into the middle distance. "I, uh... were you in Taiz--"
Now he can't hide it. There IS someone here. But thankfully, before he has to make another disclaimer to Rust, Gen actually appears and speaks. His words to Rust make it clear that he's been watching for some time... and they are complimentary, which means more to the redhead than any compliment paid to Frei himself. And he apparently knows Rust, which is interesting, if only because... well.
He's not like his friend Alma; Frei can't read auras or minds or hearts. But he has a... sense about people.
"I, ah..." Frei WANTS to respond, but somehow, he's more interested in what Rust is going to say.
"Yeah." It doesn't sound enthusiastic in response to Frei, but the word hopefully carries itself as such. Even in sparring, though, hits are hits... he's going to need a couple moments to stomach the lot of them together. He will be sufficiently plenty late for a meeting he does not want a part of - this, ultimately, feels like time better spent. Even if the responsible adult inside of him is all 'they are so going to dock my pay' which, in the long run, might cost him more than the price of buying a new cellphone.
He looks up a bit from his forearm when Frei seems to make the beginnings of an awkward question. Those few pauses before were a bit weird. The only thing that clues him in on the odd bits of Frei's behavior is the (willing) sight of a familiar white beard - and that voice.
"Uh... well," he clears his throat, the awkward sudden reappearance of the master chef in /this/ place robs him of most questions and commentary to begin with, "'s a hobby."
Even today he'd still say he's a shop teacher first and a fighter second, even if the fateful coming of the King of Fighters 2011 invite in the mail sees otherwise. He starts trying to work himself up to a stand with another grunt, having an unsteady time of it.
"Much better." At least, that's Gen's take on fighting vs. staff meeting. Then again, the Chinese shadow boss has never quite been one for being under the yoke of another, or beholden to a pre-determined schedule. "If they try to give you a hard time, I suggest breaking the first objector's hand and telling him to stop being jealous and strengthen his -own- body and spirit instead of trying to stifle yours." There's a vague chuckle at that, though it's sort of hard to tell if the aged master is /actually/ joking... or not. "A hobby indeed." Gen scoffs slightly, "Once one pursues a path far enough, it stops being hobby, and becomes a /passion/, Howard Rust. Do not let your apprehension at being unable to see where the path is leading prevent you from taking the journey. Too many of us stall for too long, until our purpose - our passion - is faded so far in the past we scarcely recall it."
The sage advice is offered quietly, but audibly, Gen's voice clearly projected. Dark eyes, not presently faded from the channeling of his own inner chi, scan from Rust to Frei, "Taizhou..." Gen's eyes narrow, "Great conflict, yes. Great loss, much risked... more gained. A device of an engineer, an inventor, trying to do better than nature. Or perhaps that is precisely what nature intended from them." There's a rather gleeful little chortle at that, unabashedly amused. "The events of that place... bursting forth like ten thousand butterfly sneezes. Only time will tell us its true nature."
For the time being, Frei simply listens to Gen speak. Really, everything he says makes a degree of sense... even the finger-breaking part, in some reptilian hindbrain portion of Frei's consciousness, so he lets that particular comment slide when in other situations it might give him at least a second or two of pause. He's not being spoken to directly, per se, so his gaze wanders, from looking back to the shrine to tilting upward, watching grey clouds flow across a steadily darkening autumn sky. 'Once one pursues a path far enough, it stops being a hobby and becomes a passion,' huh... for a moment, Frei's thoughts go back years and years, running into Mimiru Kasagi on the streets of Southtown. Back when fighting was just a... a thing. Back before Thailand, before the siege, before Taizhou.
Before a lot of loss... and a little death.
Gen's words remind Frei of what he said to Alma as they stood over the broken body of Rako, amidst the remains of the Katsuten gantry. History has no will... but might we all, in our own ways, be manifestations of some cosmic will on a grand scale? Each life a synaptic burst, a notion or a thought? "I don't claim to know the grand scale of it all," he says at last, turning to Gen and Rust both. "There are others more qualified." Something about this situation... Frei's real thoughts stay unspoken for now, suppressed. To him, the cost was too great for any benefit. It may be 20 years from now, that will prove wrong, but for better or worse, the chi sage doesn't play the long game. He deals with things as he sees them, here and now.
Case in point: as an abrupt change of subject, he tilts his head at Rust. "That's some good advice, though. Do you two... know each other?"
Oh my god how many times have I wanted to just punch some peoples' faces in and be done with it, the Pacific teacher thinks at Gen's suggestion, though the humor never reaches his face. If he could do that without worrying about losing his job or spending a couple years in jail over the matter... well, he probably wouldn't be here in the first place.
Gen's wisdom is the latest in a long line of likewise suggestions given to him - fighting's a dream, sure, it's one he's about to live again the moment King of Fighters 2011 rolls around, but life... just has a funny way of getting in the way of things every so often.
Though quiet through the lecture, he looks a bit lost when Gen starts to go on about Taizhou. Something he himself had no involvement in and - to his own knowledge - nothing his students got into themselves (and thank God for that). The very specifics of what went on there is a mystery to him. He's not some sort of superhero commando or anything of the sort. That's not the sort of life he leads.
He looks over to Frei as Frei looks to him about 'others more qualified' to know the grand scale of it all. He lowers his head and shrugs to the unfortunate timing of Frei asking him about whether or not he knows him.
"Him? Me and a couple fellow teachers... went out to eat at his place, eh, some nights ago?" Time's been flying lately. He looks back over to Gen. "'s good food, uh... I'm sorry, wasn't clear among us who was gonna leave the tip."
He hopes he's not here over the tip!!
Of course, the rub of it is that everything in the 'now' effects the 'then' which never comes, meaning that the 'now' is ever shifting, and entirely relevant to the past and future in ways that only esoteric concepts of perception like the passage of time can be. It's all quite daunting to turn into an equation, so riding the waves - and watching their currents - simply has to suffice. Naturally, though, Gen's primary concern is his gratuity, "That's actually why I tracked you down." Gen deadpans a bit dangerously, "Parties that don't properly express their appreciation for services rendered..." He shakes his head sadly, then promptly moves on to the actual issues at hand.
"The Genhanten." He explains to Frei. "In Shanghai, Hong Kong, Taipei... and now Southtown." Each is locally renowned for various reasons, one constant among them being Gen's exceptional record both as a cook and as an instructor. Those who don't scrub out of his training, well... they almost inevitably learn something. More than a few somethings. "Any who claim to know the grand scale of it all are fools." Gen notes to Frei with a dismissive wave of one old, but deceptively powerful hand. "Much of the larger picture comes from what we make of the smaller ones.. what we take forward. Or don't." The elder assassin shrugs. It's just one of those things, a constant of the universe. Some thrive despite it all, some fail with every benefit and fortune. "In truth, I simply wished to get away from the city. That it brought me here is an added boon. Each of you should stop by my restaurant - or the school that has opened beside it." Which had a rather profoundly impressive demonstration at the YFCC, not long ago. Without even exploding the place.
Genhanten... the place exists on the edge of Frei's perception. The last time he heard of it was during the 6 years he lived in China, rather than the comparatively fewer number he's lived in Southtown. Sadly, Frei lived in the north and never had reason to visit one. The combination of food and martial arts isn't so surprising; though Frei has yet to fight him, he's heard of the popular luchadore El Fuerte, and local club owner and restauranteur Duck King often organized fights in Southtown. Still, there is something different about Gen, and Frei makes no effort to hide his scrutiny of the assassin. To him, it's a bit like having something appear and disappear in the corner of your eye... the ghost of a feeling that, when examined head-on, seems to disappear altogether. In that sense, the image of Rust and his fellow teachers sharing a meal as this man tossed a wok in a nearby kitchen is a little bizarre, for lack of a better word.
The YFCC demonstration, on the other hand... that he remembers. Why? Because it was Gen, Sagat, and Takuma Sakazaki all in one room. The kids who were watching aren't good with names but they're bang up with descriptions. Connecting 'old Chinese guy who opened a school nearby' with 'watching from the shadows' causes Frei to suddenly raise an eyebrow, both at Rust and at Gen. "...I see," he says guardedly, before adding -- wholeheartedly -- "Thank you for not breaking anything, coincidentally."
An invitation to train. He doesn't know much about Gen, but it could be interesting. More importantly, the elderly martial artist took an interest in Rust. That in and of itself actually makes Frei quite well-disposed to Gen for the time being. "I'm actually about to leave for training..." he says, thoughtfully. "To, ah, India. I hear there's a yogi there who might be able to help me. There's a very... well." Here, he glances away, frowning. "Taizhou taught me there's an important gap in my repertoire I'd like to address. But..." And here, he turns back to Rust. "There's no reason why you should pass it up, Mr. Rust."
The Pacific teacher's face goes from apologetic to more than a little worried at the somewhat dark tone of voice Gen's revelation - whether in jest or in truth - about the lack of tip. There's no way around it - they split the bill but not one of them covered the tip. Each man from that party had different thoughts on who was going to cover that. Looks like it gets to be him, from the sound of things, digging out the wallet from one of his pockets with his right hand after sheathing Ol' Rusty (to the extent that sticking it through a busted toolbelt socket counts as a sheath).
He digs through it while Gen speaks philosophy with Frei, nodding absentmindedly for his part when Gen invites the two of them to stop by his restaurant or school or whatever or... he looks a little more worried as he checks the funds he has on hand. He counts numbers in his head from what he remembers of the bill to the usual tipping rates... another grunt. Ahh, he's sure the truck has enough gas to make another trip to the bank and get some more cash. (He doesn't trust the pumps with his cards, the first time something eats a card you become shy with that option!)
He nods again through what Frei's talking about when he decides on a proper amount of cash to present for a belated tip, even though he misses about half of what's been said, though he looks up a bit further with a start when he is directly addressed by Frei.
"Pass up what? Uh... sorry 'bout that, uh... Mr. Gen," he steps up to him with a bowed head, holding out some cash between his two hands, "I apologize for our, our negligence and hope this here's a good tip for that night."
"In the YFCC?" Gen confirms, arching a brow towards Frei, "Oh, I wouldn't say I didn't break /anything/. But the building itself is more or less intact." Sagat, Quon, and Takuma may have other opinions on just how gentle and merciful the elder master is, however! But yes, he whipped up a meal for Rust, and other teachers at Pacific. A fine one, at that! With much fanfare and aplomb, at least as much as Gen ever tends to muster. His breed of showmanship is a delicate line, and tends to infiltrate cooking more than his fighting. It's not unlike Kung Fu, in the end. Ingredients, proper synergy, a great amount of instinct, trial, and error. Eventually, mastery is yielded. Of course, there's always a new dish to learn, and subsequently perfect.
A hand forestalls the tip, not accepting it, "I cook for reasons besides the proper payment, Howard Rust. That you bear the burden for your... contemporaries is not justice, in my analysis." That, as they say, is that. At least for Gen. "India, hmm? Their mystics are quite impressive, indeed. My Sifu sent me there to study when I was a youth, for a time. To perfect some of the less... kinetic aspects of my art. A long, long time ago." The man known as Gen may actually be a bit /older/ than he looks - if that's actually possible. Then again, the man isn't precisely amply wrinkled, and his skin and muscle tone - what's visible in those baggy kung-fu garments he wears - is actually that of a notably younger man. Not that his face is /smooth/, but hey. When his age you reach, look as good you will not.
"Pass up training. Pass up your potential, whether late to tap it or not." Gen patiently, after a fashion, informs Rust. There's a serious intensity to the issue, but that's how he sees the martial arts. "Unless you lose yourself overseas..." this accompanied by a glance to Frei, "I am sure I will see both of you, again." Gen quirks a little half-smirk out of a corner of his mouth, the kind of smile one darkly amused at an unspoken joke might crack, before beginning to step away from the pair.
"Yes, well..." Frei says, suddenly turning to the side and scratching a finger against his cheek, a displacement activity more than anything else. Well, that and a mental replay of the various situations in which the YFCC's lobby, lobby furniture, or frankly just the whole damn building ended up in some kind of hot water. In fact, he also seems to process that except for one time he was busy being kidnapped, he's been there for all of them. Vice and Mature dropping in... Diana delivering a 'message'... Remy kicking the desk into his face. "We just seem to have this problem with people breaking the space, so if the damage was confined to a couple fighters and wasn't lethal, that's a major improvement..."
And of course it's all circled back. Where did Frei really meet Rust? He volunteered to help restore the YFCC after one such attack all but leveled it. Closing his eyes for a second, he gives a little helpless laugh, breathing out slowly afterwards.
He then turns to look at Rust, a stark contrast to Gen by comparison; one is elderly, the other nearly childlike in appearance; one has eyes nearly blank, the other with bright green ones. But once Frei opens his mouth, the message is relatively the same. "I don't want to seem pushy," he says at last, knowing how harried Rust must feel, "but I think you'll be sorry later if you don't pursue this. Honest. To be truthful..." And here he turns back to Gen with a curious expression, "I'd like to take you up on that offer at some point, sir." There is something... interesting about Gen. It's hard to say what, but it makes Frei want to see, at the very least, what he can do... particularly if he's going to make a repeat appearance at the Center.
It's at this point his watch beeps, and the redhead looks down at it. "Oh... tai chi class. I'm supposed to be teaching today..." With that, he bows from the waist and turns to go. He gets a few steps away before he turns back to the pair and smiles, hands clasped behind his back. "Let's do this again after you've trained some more, Mr. Rust. And... nice to meet you, sir," he says to Gen, waving his hands as he does so. In the next moment, he turns and jogs out of the clearing.
The man with the exceptionally bad hair looks up at Gen's dismissal, a raised brow as if to ask 'are you sure,' but nonetheless wonders if his karmic punishment is going to be actually getting all that spare money back in his wallet given how difficult it is to manipulate really small things with his dominant hand nowadays. He decides to just stick the cash in his left hand and stuff it back in his pocket, hopefully none of it falls out on the ground or... worse, buries itself somewhere in the driver's seat. It is never fun getting spare change out of vehicle seats.
Now that the burden of dealing with a lack of tip is off his mind, he's a bit back more in the wind of conversation - stuff breaking at the YFCC again? He knows the stories all too well. Where Frei laughs off the scenario as to how it ties to their first meeting, he's just scratching his head thinking about some of the damages in the past.
Both other sets of eyes fall upon him all of a sudden, both talking about training, passing up the potential to train. He has a brochure from the Kyokugen school somewhere in that truck after volunteering a demonstration with one Yuri Sakazaki, who still disturbs him after just happily bouncing up and having a bottle of water with a smile after thinking he accidentally brutalized her with a series of repeated kicks. People like that are dangerous!!
"Well," one supposes he /is/ in the market for formal instruction. He is almost entirely self-taught, a few things here and there aside from stuff via casual meetings and friendships. He lets that single word hang for a bit as Frei excuses himself to tai chi class. "Ah, didn't, uh, didn't mean to keep you, Frei." This guy knows all too well what happens when you're late for class, oh man does he ever. He steps aside to let Frei jog off, nodding at the idea to train again later when he's had a bit more practice... and maybe a bit more time to stretch. Especially not after a nasty fall. God damn that wasn't the six story fall from years and years ago but that was scary.
"Well, ah, I'll... I'll take ya up on that, sure." He clears his throat as it gets a bit raw, probably from whatever dust is lingering in the air post-Frei maintenance of the old place. "'scuse me. I also really... liked that food, sir." He bows his head again, maybe an uneeded gesture in the big picture between the two men. "Next time I'll be sure to, to remember the tip."
COMBATSYS: Frei has ended the fight here.
Log created on 22:18:20 10/22/2010 by Rust, and last modified on 22:32:35 10/24/2010.