Description: Passion becomes change. Friends become family. Dreams become destiny. Two revolutions have collapsed in Alma's time, and one of them was his own. The failed savior returns to the castle in which he waged his greatest campaigns, and still, within it, he sees himself. He is not ashamed. He knows it is his home. And the true revolution has been that heaven no longer gazes down upon earth, and earth no longer marvels from afar at heaven. No, in this new world -- heaven and earth are side by side. The pillars of man's ideals still stand, but as forgotten ruins, supporting nothing. In a world such as this, destiny is rewritten every day.
His steps are uncertain.
Though his bare hands are slipped into the pockets of his tailored jacket, he does not brace himself against the winter chill. The sun cuts through a sky of glacial blue. He pauses at the entrance, becoming conscious of his own unease. Eyes flickering, he tilts his chin up toward the heavens, remembering an old prophecy.
The scarred man stands in silence.
~ Am I still fit... to enter here? ~
It is not the thought he expected.
At long last, these uncertain steps of his have taken him to Southtown. Perhaps some men, upon being reborn, would take the opportunity to cast away that which had burdened them: their adversaries, their preoccupations, their debts and mistakes. Their destiny. But this man, though meandering without a destiny, has only been retracing his steps. Only now, seeing his reflection in the wide glass doors, does this seem undeniable.
He has wandered, but mostly, he has remembered.
Remembered what it once was to choose to live unknowing of the consequences. Remembering what a great burden it was, how only a fundamental love turned it to light. Remembering how the color that filled his world took on the force of a covenant. He fought, and remembered. The fragments of his self coalesced, as they had before. Yet having some perspective on the process, he still is uncertain what this means.
That is, to return here.
~ What do I want from this place? ~
Even knowing what he wants to say, still...
~ What does this symbolize for me? ~
The seemingly natural escalation of his heroism in facing his own darkness to that of filling the world with light. The transformation of the personal into the political. The sincere desire to help others; the sincere belief that he knew how. Was it hope? Was it hubris? Is there truly a distinction? Even now, does his soul not yearn for a means to distinguish them? Defiance. It was a kind of defiance, that taking up of this great responsibility; a defiance of the act's own impossibility.
Is there meaning in these scars? Meaning enough?
Enough to come back?
~ But all the while, it's been here... ~
Even if it's led him astray, this faith of his--
~ ...and turning my back... won't change that. ~
--has kept what he loves alive instead his heart.
The Risen Phoenix smiles gently at the sky, and in the elegance of his posture and the sensitivity of his expression, the grotesquerie of his face is itself, somehow, transformed.
Seen in the light, it is a redemption, of a sort.
He is still smiling when he opens the doors, stepping through the glass. As seen through the transparent panels, the main hall, repaired so often, seems empty at this time, no classes being in session. He regards the vacant lobby, his softened smile never shifting.
Alma Towazu pauses briefly.
"I'm home."
He lowers his gaze and, like a confessing lover, grins.
How long ago was their showdown with Rako -- and, perhaps, the very spirit of Seishirou Ryouhara himself -- in the smouldering ruins of the Katsuten gantry? Months, perhaps. Considering everything that's happened in the interim, it might as well have been a lifetime. Things appeared to resolve themselves satisfactorily on all fronts, for better or for worse. No such massive wound can heal itself completely; no people, so moved, can ever be the same afterwards. Yet ultimately for those who survive such trials, there is no such thing as a happy ever after, either. Once the arms are laid down, once the treaties are signed, once the peace has been won, there's always the next morning.
What was waiting for Frei, once he left Taizhou? He came back to Japan, as he knew he must. He found clothes unwashed in his hamper, no food in his pantry or his refridgerator, bills unpaid in the mailbox. The same sheets on his bed as when he left. And though that VERY day what he mostly did was collapse -- sleeping on top of those covers, and even using a discarded jacket as an impromptu pillow, so exhausted was he -- the very next day he got up, and the realities of everyday existence flooded back into his life like a river from a burst dam, filling in the hollows and eddies of the sea of his existence.
He made the bed. He did laundry. He went grocery shopping, and he apologized in person to his landlord, saying in a bright and embarassed tone, "I was helping to save the world, but I suppose I could have cut you a check before I left."
And that was that.
When he came back to the Center, people were glad to see him. A few asked his advice on programming issues and the use of space; others simply waved and said hello. A few asked about Alma, and Frei was actually somewhat relieved to say that he didn't really know where his friend was headed, but that he was sure the Center was in his thoughts. Nobody asked uncomfortable questions about Jiro Kasagi, for which Frei was also secretly thankful. The kids who frequented the YFCC, and the various staff, didn't know he had secretly been alive to begin with, a fact that made his actual death all the more impactful when it happened. And there were things to be signed and books to be managed and the front desk to occasionally be handled, and for better or for worse, Frei smiled and took on the things that he was asked to do and settled back into his routine.
Of course, it had its disruptions. A misunderstanding, which became a reunion and an arrest, followed by a massively unconventional jailbreak. A handful of official fights here and there, and a few unofficial ones. The only time he really had to himself, Frei went to India to scratch a philosophical itch, to find someone who might be able to train him in skills that he knows his current style wouldn't be able to answer. And while he found an interesting challenge in the form of Sagat, he ultimately didn't find the person or the answer he was looking for. And so he came back to Southtown.
And did his laundry, and made his bed.
As it is right now, approximately eight minutes after Alma declares his return to a room bereft of people, that there's the little jingling of... something that always seems to be attached to such doors, and a few sounds like the rustling of paper, and if he turns around, the Phoenix will find, after all his wanderings, that Frei is walking in the doors of the YFCC holding shopping bags full of the incidental supplies that seem to be involved in running this place. Coffee creamer, packages of cookies, those disinfectant disposable wipes that come in the cylindrical containers... that sort of deal.
Alma Towazu stands in silence.
Approximately seven minutes after he declares his room to a room bereft of people, he reaches up and calmly wipes his eyes with his jacket's sleeve.
Approximately one minute later, the Scarred Angel turns his head to look over his shoulder. Approximately five seconds later, a quiet jingling can be heard, and the front doors open.
"Hey, Frei."
His bangs have grown out again, at long last, streaked with a deeper, richer red than before. Between them, his hazel eyes, and the statuesque features of a man who was once truly beautiful. He smiles and, hands slipping out of the pockets of his earth-toned jacket, slowly turns to face his friend.
"Sorry I'm late."
There's a truly cartoonish moment where the two bags he's carrying are lowered a bit, so that some of Frei's gaze can see over them; half of two green eyes appear over the ragged tips of the grocery bags to process that the voice he heard matches the person that it belongs to, before the bags come back up and Frei twists one leg behind him, tapping the door shut. Then he starts walking inside, but his voice carries in the empty foyer as he says to his friend, airily, "If you feel bad about it, then come take one of these, I can't see where I'm going."
Whether Alma takes a bag or not -- though Frei is confident he would -- the redhead starts shuttling his cargo into the office, where the cupboard and fridge that holds such things reside, and begins to unload them after setting the bag (or bags) on the desk. And such is his confidence that Alma will at least FOLLOW him, if not take a bag, that he just starts talking the whole time. "Glad to see nothing too awful has happened to you since China," is what he says, and it sounds like such a prosaic thing coming out of his mouth, but it's the sort of earthy rapport for which the plain-speaking sage is known.
He puts the container of cleaning wipes in a cabinet, then shuts it and turns around, giving Alma the once over before getting back to work. When he speaks, it's with a faint smile. "You still look human, too." A short, simple statement, but it's rich with... approval, for lack of a better word.
Alma listens in silence, his warm smile never failing. As Frei speaks, he feels his heart swell within him, choking off any possible words. With methodical patience he sorts the items from the bag he has relieved Frei of, placing the creamer and a box of coffee filters next to the pot, where they've always belonged. He pauses, though, when he can feel Frei's gaze upon him again, and looks up to meet his friend's eyes, his own gaze clear and expression receptive, in a mild and restrained sort of way -- like that of a respected artist receiving the critique of an admired member of his craft.
A craft that only incidentally has anything to do with martial arts.
"Thank you."
On the surface, anyway.
Alma's smile has widened, and his gaze upon Frei lingers as the sage returns to his tasks, the steady psychic still paused in his own labors. Soon he returns to them as well, but his smile does not fade much.
"You know," he begins, his rich voice unfeignedly conversational, "Croatia has become quite the European tourist destination. Have you visited the beaches of Dubrovnik? The old city has been roofed in vibrant brick red for centuries, and the vista of the houses between the sea and the sky seems almost to cut the world in three."
His eyes soften again, just for a moment.
"I never knew, myself."
His sorting does not slow as he continues. "I sparred with Rock Howard on the sand. We'd briefly encountered one another in Paris, several weeks previously, where I challenged Ash Crimson." He peers into the bottom of the bag, spying one last item. "I managed to best Crimson, though it took everything I had, but I couldn't overcome Howard. I met a remarkable woman, too, seeking Crimson out."
The crinkle of paper, as he folds the shopping bag up for later reuse.
"I'd almost forgotten what a fascinating variety of people our world holds."
His tone is far from clinical, despite his remote phrasing. True to form, Alma, though speaking of the broad and abstract, sounds as sincere -- and, through the natural mildness and considerable restraint, enthused -- as though he were speaking of his own life's purpose.
"Never truly forgotten, but..."
He pauses, leaning upon the desk, his task finished. Momentarily, his gaze drifts back to Frei, his smile slight but nevertheless remaining.
"You seem well."
"Do I?" The question, amazingly, isn't sarcastic; Frei actually turns and searches Alma's expression for some note that this is an actual statement and not just perfunctory small talk. Considering that other than 'hello' Alma's first conversational topic is the epic battles he had while he was away, it doesn't seem like 'small talk' is currently on the table. And at least, for something to Alma read in return, Frei seems genuinely curious as to if he actually seems to be doing well or not. "I suppose I should feel alright," he says carefully, half-lifting a container of shortbread cookies from the table and holding it there for a moment, frozen, while he considers things before he turns and puts it in place on the coffee cart.
"A woman named Shermie came looking for a job -- and for you -- and some woman named Angel followed suit. The next day I ran into Sakura on the street and... things happened and I got arrested, for some reason, but I got released the next day when some thugs and a trained Siberian fighting bear that rode in on their armored car tried to break someone out and I stopped them." He pauses, taking a breath. For one, he STILL hasn't figured out that was Zangief, and for two, he experienced all of that for real and still doesn't quite believe that it all happened. This may be why he turns back to Alma and says, in a slow and careful voice, "Yes, that all really happened."
And then he's walking back to the bags and looking through them, then stopping when he realized he's put everything in its place, and thus busies his hands by folding the bags and stuffing them in the recycling container. "Then I lost a fight to that... jerkwad Adon, and when I went to India to try and find a yogi named Dhalsim I ran into Adon's former teacher Sagat, and we had a bout. And there was... Howard Rust, that handyman from Pacific, and meeting him at the Kyokugen dojo and..." Here he pauses, brow furrowed. Once Takuma enters the picture, everything starts to be a little bit of a blur, even if it was a blur that ended in a $150 dry cleaning bill.
Not actually getting the response out of his memory he wanted, he shrugs again and glances at Alma, seeming to process at last how much he just said. "Well, that was what I did on my summer vacation. But it could be worse, I suppose. So I guess I am doing okay, after all." He doesn't sound 100% convinced, and something is clearly still bugging him, but his expression clearly says: not important at the moment.
"I'd never doubt you."
Alma's tone is perhaps in this case /overly/ mild.
When Frei turns back from sorting the bags, Alma is in the midst of extracting tea bags from a recently opened box, and the water heater is beginning to burble to life. His brow lifts slightly, adding a slightly amused cast to his otherwise consistent smile. "I'm glad to hear it. You continue to, of course, lead an interesting life." Perhaps that's what he meant. Everything about Alma's expression suggests he's well aware that, obviously, Frei has been busying himself with menial tasks, has slipped into his usual routine, and not merely because, well, someone has to. Yet even so, at a certain point men such as them draw antics and surprises to them like moths to a flame. Were they more narcissistic, they might think the world revolved around them. As it is, enough of them spend their lives trying to remold it.
Alma knows that well enough.
"I'm glad you were the first one I saw, here."
The faint hiss of water just beginning to steam.
"I..."
Alma's smile flickers, for the first time.
"...I can't stay here. Not yet."
He reaches up, to run a hand through his newly regrown hair.
"When I got back home... I went through some of my parents' old possession for the first time since their passing. My mother's address book contained some references to the Amavela family in Portugal. I'm the last of the Towazu line, but-- it occurred to me, for the first time in years, that I might have some family in Europe."
Alma's brow furrows; his gaze is intense, almost the point of being pained. He is uncertain. Deeply uncertain. Yet in spite of this, also obvious is his conviction. His is the face of a man fighting desperately, clawing out toward the truth that lurks in his heart.
"This world is full of meandering paths," he continues, as though trying a different route. "And I-- being so confident that the best of them traveled in the same direction, I sought simply to move toward the light. I thought that embracing those other routes was enough; but I couldn't embrace what I didn't understand, and my vision was limited. I haven't lost any faith," he continues, and he does not sound as though he merely trying to justify himself. "I don't feel as though I've lost anything. It's rather that the direction remains obvious, but the path itself has become unclear. The faith is there, but the ritual has become uncertain. And it's precisely because my conviction seems to remain intact that I... I wonder..."
At last, he lowers his gaze, too lost to continue that train of thought.
"I don't have a destiny."
These words are murmured.
"As a child, I learned that life's meaning depends first and foremost on a faith that unflinchingly defies the darkness; based on that foundation, I became an adult. But faith implies the uncertainty that requires it, the uncertainty as to whether the darkness whispers truth, and life's meaning is the shadow is can seem in the worst of times. The tension between my faith and my uncertainty, sheerly because of the /power/ I associated with my beliefs -- and not altogether wrongly, I remain convinced, given its nature -- was at times obscured to me."
His smile is almost resigned; wearily, he shakes his head.
"'True passion cannot be denied'... As though right were might. But..."
When he looks back to Frei, that smile has faded; his eyes have cleared.
"I believe not because I know, but because I feel I must. And there's a presumptuousness inherent in that... that you've always perceived." Those bright eyes narrow slightly. "I want to savor this call I have now, to explore these possibilities. Some of them are darker than others, but..." For some reason, he does not feel compelled to mention the clue he has received toward the perpetrator of Jiro's demise. Not important at the moment. "To no longer reach out for a destiny -- not until I must -- that is new to me. I suppose it's because... I know that I can always go home. And that's thanks to you."
Alma swallows. The gleam in his eyes is not what it once was.
"You are my best friend, Frei."
It is human.
"Do you... think I am doing the right thing?"
Those are tears unshed.
Perhaps one of Alma's greatest gifts, to Frei's perception, hasn't ever been his mastery of some formless psychic power, but the ease with which he shifts between real and philosophical modes. Sitting there dunking a tea bag in a cup, standing in the office as if they were simply going to chat about the latest episode of a popular TV show, Alma lays out what philosophical meanderings are occupying his mind as if they were nothing. And, typical of most people, Frei reflects, he probably doesn't recognize that he does it... or that other people need to shift into a proverbial gear to get up that hill first, before pushing it into overdrive and heading out onto the highways of self-reflection. As it stands, Frei takes one last item from the store out of his pocket -- a Payday bar, his favorite -- and leans back against a file cabinet, taking that all in.
Even as Alma tells his tale, snippest of pop songs filter through Frei's head. Tom Petty's smooth tenor reminds him, 'the future is wide open'. This little internal soundtrack plays over his memory of their last moments shared together, sitting on the ruins of the gantry, and Alma wondering aloud what he should do, where he should go, now that so much of what he knew and cared about had been irrevocably altered. Not sure he could go on. 'What should I do?' And the future IS wide open, so Frei's response had been: 'whatever you want.' He believed in that response then and does now, too. Would he have ever imagined that the musica mundana of his *own* existence was some sort of bedrock against which Alma might make good on that promise, he wouldn't have thought of.
His head tilts back and he looks at the ceiling. With a sort of wistful smile, he asks -- more of the universe than of Alma -- "It's almost like you're asking permission to be me for a while."
After a moment he brings his head down and looks sideways at Alma for a moment, deciding that perhaps sharing his own experience might provide some insight for his philosophical friend's dilemma. "Age 19. Exactly 7 months of college under my belt. And I can't take it anymore, and I've been fighting with my mother over tiny, inconsequential things for years. I snap, I tell her and the college and my normal life to go to hell and I move to China." He takes another bite of the peanut bar, chewing thoughtfully, before he continues. "I live in a Buddhist temple for a while. I studied with some Shintoists before I left Japan. Sikhs. Taoists. All sorts, all over Asia. Little by little I picked up what I felt like were pieces of the puzzle but never the whole thing. And then I meet some guy in a bar -- actually not too far from where Zhuge Liang was from in the Three Kingdoms -- and he catches my eye. And he teaches me... things. The rest you know, I think."
He pauses for a moment, then looks to the side, knitting his brow. "And now I talk to my mother again, who watches me fight on TV using a combination of my style and her style. After we reconciled she took up *watercolors*. And maybe now I have a better appreciation for my place in the world." He shakes his head, then looks at Alma. "Do I think you're doing the RIGHT thing? I have no idea. That presupposes there's a right thing at all, you know? I think the only person who's ever really judged you that way is you."
That was what he learned from Isis Tsukitomi. He and his mother kept themselves apart and fear of what reconciling might mean, fear of facing the fact that the situation was more complex than they could have imagined, kept them from rectifying the situation. 'Home', for both, was a hostile place with no guarantee of safety. Where taking risks wasn't a good idea. What they found was that 'home' involves trust, and 'family' is knowing that no matter what happens, you can always come back.
Alma might call him his best friend, but the truth is, by now they're family.
"Do what your heart demands. I guess you won't know if it's the 'right' thing until you do it. And if you do something stupid, I'll tell you because I care about it, n
"Do what your heart demands. I guess you won't know if it's the 'right' thing until you do it. And if you do something stupid, I'll tell you because I care about it, not because I want to punish you for doing it. I guess that's all the guarantee I have."
Alma's smile widens slowly into a grin.
"I suppose... I am."
He blinks once, twice, and that gleam is gone.
"Perhaps I should have asked long ago."
Some tears don't need to be shed.
He listens, of course. And he waits until Frei is finished to think. The gift that Frei perceives in Alma is well-spotted, and kind, but it is one that even Alma, who has so gradually but so profoundly acquired perspective outside of the relentless pull of the vibrancy of his own mental landscape, has difficulty seeing in himself. The fact is, of course, that he has difficulty seeing a clear distinction between the personal and the abstract, between the real and the philosophical, much as he has difficulty disassociating a person from their aura. That he is nevertheless able to communicate his vision without seeming insane is a testament more than anything to that very conviction, that sense that his self and the world must somehow be reconciled. That to live rightly and to persuade others of that rightness, while significantly different, are not disconnected. True passion should not be denied.
"The only person..."
Frei is right, of course. Alma's early alienation, while not necessarily his fault, all occurred within the confines of his own mind. Ever since, without parents to hold him accountable or demands other than those of the obligations he has taken up himself, he has been his own judge and jury. He has been thorough, but, as any self-criticism, limited in his vision. The very notion of living rightly was something he has always demanded of himself, but never -- except in a very oblique fashion, and then only in a very corrupt form, by his mother -- by others. And yet...
"I don't believe a man can will meaning."
Alma's eyes have gently closed.
"Some ideals cause the believer to fall into darkness. Some bring fulfillment, and bring the believer into light. Perhaps it is the structure of the human psyche; perhaps it is the will of the gods. But it is not the will of man. I have a need... a need for justification. A need for justified belief. I feel my convictions would otherwise collapse in the face of rising darkness. And then... with it would collapse the meaning of all else I've stood for. My friendships, my pain... even..."
He furrows his brow, as though stumbling upon something new.
"...my parents' deaths... their suffering... would be in vain."
He pauses, before shrugging slightly, half-smiling as he looks up again to meet Frei's eyes. "Well," he murmurs, a grown man faintly abashed at some perceived act of childishness, "that's partly where it began, anyway, I suspect."
He shakes his head slightly.
"I've never sought eternity, to enscribe my convictions and desires in the heavens, as I know others like me have. I only want what is meaningful to me to be meaningful now -- and if that meaning depends upon my own humanity, then I think it must be somehow shared. But the present is always the present, extending forever. Perhaps I... perhaps I was more like that than I thought."
And then he smiles, wider than before.
"Well, trying to be you will be harmless, Frei," he half-chuckles. "I won't succeed."
His gaze is fond.
"But I suspect I'll be better off for the attempt."
Log created on 20:14:11 12/15/2010 by Alma, and last modified on 22:31:00 12/21/2010.