Description: Rumors have been spreading (?!) of a man trying to fold paper cranes to create a miracle strong enough to undo the curse set upon his friends and he. Farah, investigating the cause of the psychic murders, has found a noble starting place in following up that lead. But can Rust, esconced in his own problems, really be of any help to her? He's going to have to be, when Brian Battler busts in, ready to punch the hell out of the lamewad strainbrains who thought they could steal his invitation to the tournament!!
Well, that man's been touched for some time. Towards the latter half of a business trip to the UK and the last few days, Howard's gone into full-on eccentric recluse mode. Go to work, say the bare minimum, do the bare minimum work, stress out over every little thing going wrong in his life... and if he finds the time for it, fold.
It's the sort of thing that gets co-workers and their friends talking about whether or not he's come down with that same mania those other crazy people popping up all over the place have. It's easy enough to figure out where that man lives, if one is curious - he lives in an apartment complex pretty much filled with expats to Japan, over on the third floor.
The outer balcony has a rusting grill on it, even. It's sort of become a landmark. Some tourist guides even use it, nowadays, to say that's how you know you're on a certain street. (The landlord is increasingly unamused by this notion.)
It's fairly late into the afternoon, and one Howard Rust is quietly walking along the way down the hall to his living space, eyes looking like they belong to a man who has either not slept for a good day or so, has had something short of a lethal dose of caffeine, or maybe even both. In both of his burly arms are brown paper bags full of... something. Something probably heavy by normal people standards. For him, the only trouble is that they're so large, whatever it is in those bags!
He's also carrying his keys in his mouth, because whatever it is he's carrying, he doesn't feel like putting them down until they're inside.
Well... the world has turned upside down. That much is clear.
Twice now, Farah Tenjou has been the victim of attempted murder by strangers in every sense of the word. The bizarre woman with the dark and troubling past, wreathed in angry flame... the Russian 'priest' with his control over water and his cult of servants, ready to die for him without a second thought. Never mind that when she came back to Southtown, the entire city hummed with the echoes of some psychic power gone horribly, violently wrong. Brihan and Vladimir had made it clear that some ability the young Egyptian possessed was what made her marked for death, so it's not a difficult leap to think that her Soul Power abilities are what they're really talking about. Strangely, Farah had never considered them to be 'occult' in nature; rather like most fighters' ability to shape and focus chi, it was simply something she could do, rather than some... mystical, inexplicable power.
Now she's not so sure.
But being the daughter of a journalist has its advantages, and one of those is that you learn as a child how to develop and follow up leads. Returning to Southtown and stepping away from the KoF tournament itself -- a worthwhile, if brief, experience in professional fighting -- Farah dedicated herself to two things: going through news stories and blog posts looking for mention of any strange occult activity going on in Southtown, and actually asking around at schools, places like the YFCC, and even some of the professional fighting gyms and clubs. After all, fighters themselves are just shy of the occult... a few even cross right the hell over into it, Farah herself apparently included if the Cult of Whoever are right about her.
The random story from a Taiyo student about someone who's been pursuing the old urban legend about a thousand paper cranes? Well... it's not a great lead but it's better than nothing. And that feeling in the air that raises the hair on the back of Farah's neck, well... that's definitely what she imagines a 'curse' feels like.
That might be why she's in the parking lot of whatever building Rust lives in, even as he struggles with his keys and his bags of ~*Mystery Materials*~, looking up at it. The bus that got her here is just pulling away, and the Egyptian pulls the light grey jacket she's wearing over her normal clothes a little tigther... and not necessarily because of the weather.
Across the street, a pair of eyes watch the young Egyptian through the window of a parked UPS van. Instinctively, the one watching crushes the steering wheel, a shudder of unholy fury being swallowed by the large man as he turns his gaze away. A deep breath, composing himself once again, he looks at the unconscious UPS driver on the floor. With no stirring, the large man turns back to continue his observation, hidden by darkness and distance, to wait just a bit longer. One of these two knows what happened. Both may have to pay for that information.
Howard struggles with getting the key through the lock. This is mostly because he's not only holding it upside down, he's twisting his head at really uncomfortable angles to get the door open. It's something like a curious pet parrot having absolutely zero idea as to what the thing above them is, so the most they can do is wrap their beak around it and maybe tug it around a little.
Except Howard's not a bird.
The key falls out of his mouth with a small 'ping' noise his construction equipment noise-weathered ears don't pick up, a low grunt as he considers just kicking the door down and telling the landlord that it fell down when he turned the knob anyway, yeah, that sounds about right, he thinks, got to get inside, got to get these--
"Hey, Howard," comes an old lady's voice.
"Uhh, hey," he says kind of hastily, "could I--"
"Did you fix the benches outside yet?" She asks, hopefully.
/Benches/. His most hated foe.
"Er... no," he says, growling under his breath, "it coul--"
"Please do! My sister's coming to visit and she'll need a place to sit."
With a low grunt and the further hoisting of the bags of MYSTERY GOODS up in his grasp, he grunts, turns around, and embarks on what should be the last of the obstacles getting in the way of... er... whatever it is he's been hoping to accomplish by, well, folding.
Before long, there he is, just outside, eyes narrowing in the distance in Farah's especially vague direction. He doesn't see Farah for being the vaguely familiar woman he met in the park, no, he sees that particular area for those benches.
Oh, he'll /fix/ those benches, all right, he grouses as he starts marching along the parking lot, paying no need to some cars going in and out. In a ghastly display, one particularly hurried driver actually rams him from the side off a turn.
Aside from one or two steps to recenter his balance, he doesn't really seem to take heed of it even with the driver suddenly screaming about damage to one of their front lights.
This is no ordinary man having a bad day.
This is a bad day /with a mission/.
She doesn't call it that, but if Farah were the American pop culture reference type, she'd note that her Spidey Sense... definitely tingling.
The young woman is about to walk up to the complex and do the only thing she can think of -- go door to door, knocking and asking about the whole paper crane thing, or at least see if there's anybody suspicious here doing... suspicious things -- when someone actually comes storming OUT of the building and is then hit by a car. This would be surprising in basically any sort of circumstance but it's a little more surprising when the car ends up with a nice dent and the human being it hit simply looks annoyed that he lost his stride. Plus, he... looks familiar.
If she could just place it.
Never mind that feeling of being watched. It's not even as if the disguised watcher in the UPS truck is the reason. Farah's felt like she's being watched for WEEKS; now she actually spends a non-trivial part of her day attempting to block out that feeling entirely so she can get through the day. This might be why her first impulse is to duck over to Howard Rust, face full of concern, and ask: "Hey... are you alright?"
Of course, implicit in this question are a whole bunch of other statements, like "How did you do that?" and "That poor car!"
This is a complication in the plan.
The observer in the van had planned on approaching Rust in his home, hoping that the destruction of his belongings would cause the man to spill the information he knew about the lost invitations in King of Fighters, but his being outside again... And this woman, who he somewhat mentally recognizes but his blood knows of very well, she, too, may know something. There's no reason he would feel the Rage well up like that otherwise; it has been very consistent in the flares.
With a grunt, the darkened observer starts the van and backs out of the parking lot opposite to the apartment, exiting a street away. He turns, as if driving away, letting the two slip from view. They needn't feel his eyes upon them just yet. They'll feel his boot soon enough.
"Yeah." He replies to a weighted, multi-layered question filled with nuance in tone to a simple, gravelly, one-syllable response. "'m here to, to fix the benches," he grouses out loud. Even with both arms full of stuff. Even with being hit by a car, not a single bit of whatever the hell is inside those bags fall out. A pop in his knee might suggest otherwise, but for himself, it's just kind of standard fare as the complaints of the driver fade further and further back in his mind. His hip is kind of sore, but, beyond that, it's secondary to the latest irritations of the day.
He had the friggin' right of way, what's he supposed to do, pull out his insurance info?
Unaware of those angry eyes falling upon the two of them, he shoots a brief look over to Farah... uh, where have I seen her, he thinks, as he stares at the work ahead of him. He is so not going to be holding anything in his mouth.
With great reluctance, he sets the bags down. From Farah's vantage point, it looks like he's carrying bagged stacks of... some really fancy and expensive paper. Really fancy, really expensive, as he crouches down before the first busted bench.
"Did ya... did ya need a place to sit, or... won't be long, gonna do this, gonan do this real fast."
It's probably stress, the reason why Farah can't quite remember this individual. And really, Howard Rust is a memorable person. Once you've met him, he sticks in the mind for the most part. But let's face it, both of these people have had a hard few months for their own reasons. A bit taken aback by the turn in the conversation, the Egyptian can only stammer out, in response, "I... are you sure you want to try and fix benches? In this state, I mean."
She sweeps out a hand, encompassing all of Rust's... Rust-ness. He just got hit by a car, he's carrying two massive bags of... something... and daylight is rapidly fading. Even in the eyes of a relatively charitable human being like Farah, the idea that he would drop everything and fix a couple of benches -- even as she has the thought, the dark-haired young woman turns to see if there are even benches here to FIX -- is a bit crazy.
"I don't... ah..." she starts, then clears her throat and starts over. "My name is Farah. I think we've met, haven't we?"
Good. They haven't left.
Two blocks away, he sits at a red light. Turning, he grabs the crumpled form of the UPS driver and jams his head against the gas pedal. The engine begins to roar as it's opened up, and as the light turns green, the brown truck rattles to life. One block away, he releases the steering wheel, moving quickly through the ransacked boxes of DVDs, books, games, heirlooms and porn so freaky it made even HIM shiver, the large man then tosses the back door open as the truck races towards the two fighters. However, the truck's alignment isn't perfect...
The man in the damaged car gets out to survey the damage. Still swearing madly at Rust, he wanders towards the back of his car, popping open his trunk to retrieve... something. Probably some tire iron or makeshift weapon, seeing as he then gets to holding it behind his back as he clears around the driver's side of his vehicle. But as he starts approaching Rust and Farah, an uncontrolled UPS truck plows into him as it careens down the road. A huge figure leaps from the vehicle, landing on both feet and skidding a bit before coming to a stop, still upright, as the truck behind him hits another vehicle and flips, crashing atop a motorcyclist and starting a rather nasty pileup on the road behind him.
"I have business with you," Brian Battler states, voice deep, growly and dripping with spite, erecting himself fully as the carnage behind him rages. He does love his dramatic entrances.
"So so people stop /askin'/ me, yes, yes, I, uh, I... I am," his voice zooms in and out of legibility, every gesture suggesting he has different things on his mind - sometimes even looking to Farah to make sure she's not looking to take whatever's in those paper bags as he sucks in some breath, rubs his hands, and has himself a look at what's going on under the seat.
It is a meeting of bitter foes. Bench in one corner, Rust in another. Their conflict may very well be endless even well beyond the grave. It is a feud that may have been foretold by prophecy years and years ago, that there would be seats that fall apart, and that there would be a man there to ensure their continued good behavior.
Alternately, he probably has gone crazy.
"Howard, ah, Howard Rust." It's always kind of difficult, sometimes, to introduce himself in Southtown because you never know if someone's asking you for your name in the order he's used to or the Japanese one. Even today one wouldn't believe how many times he's been asked if he's related to that crime boss Geese.
"I, uh... maybe?" She does kind of sound familiar, now, although he doesn't lift himself out from the bench. Yet, the startling sounds of a roaring truck and the eventual sound of hunks of metal crashing into one another at dangerous speeds makes him jump up enough to bump his head underneath the seat of the bench.
Said bench immediately cracks into two.
"Ah god /dammit/," the man curses out loud just as the deep, sinister voice talks something about business. He really has no idea how much trouble he's in. "Can it wait? I'm, I'm fixin' somethin' here."
This is too much to handle.
Dark tidings approach. Farah comes back to Southtown to ivestigate. Her urban legends and other sources didnt help her at all; what she's left with is an apparently-indestructible American weirdo who's here to FIX it despite not really seeming prepared for it. The Egyptian is about to say something about when... uh... well, you saw. There goes the car, up on a curb or something, and no end in sight. Cringing back from the destruction, Farah squints and raises one arm, tails of her dark blue ribbon streaming out behind her from the backblast.
When she has five seconds to actually LOOK, the dark threads in Brian's aura seen to ripple and flex in her sight. Rust, his weirdness, and the bench are all but forgotten as the young psychic's fierce sense of responsibility kicks in. "Not another one.... how many people are there, touched by this darkness...?"
Apparently, more than enough.
As a lot of people's days suddenly get sour in the distance, Brian moves forward, walking slowly like impending doom. Every step deliberate, the ire seeping out of every pore of his body almost palpably. Eventually, he comes next to Farah, standing uncomfortably close to the Egyptian-blooded young woman. "Looks more like you're breaking things, Rust," he growls, impatience readily apparent in his voice. "No. This is business that will not wait."
His anger flares, a dark steam rising from his head and shoulders as he continues to speak. "You will answer me how the two of you managed invitations into the King of Fighters, yet /I/ was passed up. This is not mere coincidence, and there is only one answer to this... Someone stole my invitation. The two of you are suspect. Give me the answers I'm looking for and I may only break one of your legs."
"What the hell is it now," he grouses as he rises along up from the ground with a crackle in his shoulder, a low grunt. Does he even really need to ask what it sounds like what happened? Something inside of him already well knows what that sound wa - and his slow turn to face Brian is almost as dramatic in its slow, measured speed as Brian's entrance. Even if it's not really his intention for any of it to come off as a flourish.
For being a man just recently hit by a car, the sight of a large, angry seven-foot plus man should not be terribly intimidating. Maybe it's just the light of the fading day that casts a menacing aura around the ex-NFL player.
Why /was/ he picked for King of Fighters, when in the end his team got eliminated right in the first round? It's a pointed question that pierces right into one of the deeper depths of this man's continued emotional damages as he takes a cautioned step back.
"The hell if I know!" Something that was, for a time, an item of great hope and happiness has become an object of severe disappointment and depression. From that trip to Africa onward, it continued to be one thing after another concerning his friends. All things considered, 'losing KoF' and 'on the verge of losing his job' is coming off a whole lot more lightly than anyone else.
Except Yuri, she seems to have her family problems mostly squared away.
His eyes wander to the destruction going along just a ways behind and off to the side of Brian, and he grows silent thinking about it. His left hand points towards Brian as if to ask him, 'did you just do all that?'
His elbow sure isn't quiet, though.
She won't be intimidated. Brihan and Vladimir could not, and while Brian is perhaps a more imposing physical presence than either of those individuals, his... 'sense of purpose' may be a little less grandiose and a little more mundane. Still, Farah's psychic abilities are more than attuned enough to drink in the aura of malice and ready violence that clings to Brian... in fact, if anything, unlike the others she's met, that feeling of darkness seems to be feeding much more on what was already there: someone willing to hurt and perhaps even kill to get what he wants, because other people are only so important to him. The type of personality that might, in fact, be the most ripe for what the Cult is doing.
If only she knew that the Cult were DOING it.
It's Rust who speaks first, however, outlining with growing frustration and annoyance his own confusion at why he was picked. To Farah, who watched the Mountain Lions' matches with interest, the answer seems clear enough, now that she can connect the man in front of her to the man in the bouts. He was the rock around which that team was organized... probably in more ways than one, all told. But that likely isn't an answer that would satisfy the man in front of her, any more than her own thoughts on why Farah herself received an invite, are likely to. 'Luck of the draw' is never a satisfying answer, after all... what the complainant wants is someone or something to blame, to argue with.
Possibly to hurt.
"That's not an answer either of us could possibly know," the young woman says carefully, choosing her words in a very deliberate way. Still, a part of her mind is preparing itself for the massive American to leap into action, and the tails of her cobalt blue ribbon flutter a bit, the tiniest fraction of her Soul Power abilities channeled into them just in case. "I think you should go."
COMBATSYS: Brian has started a fight here on the left meter side.
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Brian 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here on the right meter side.
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Brian 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Brian equips The Rage.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Farah has joined the fight here on the right meter side.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
That was not the answer he was looking for.
When Rust responds, Brian's jaw sets, eyes widening as his brow furrows. The palpable aura of ire and danger seems to draw the heat from the air around him. He seems to ignore the construction worker's revalation, taking a deep breath as if about to bellow... when Farah opens her mouth. His movements slow, blinking once as he turns his gaze to the young woman, locking on like a targeting reticle.
If there are any children present, please ask them to leave the room.
"[REDACTED], I think you know full [REDACTED]ing well what the [REDACTED] happened. So, if you want me to leave, you little [REDACTED] suckin slant-eyed half-bred mother[REDACTED] sand [REDACTED], I'll [REDACTED]ing leave. But not until I've stomped a [REDACTED]ing hole the size of the god [REDACTED] mother[REDACTED] Pyramids in your crab-infested [REDACTED], you [REDACTED]."
Balling his fist up that the skin on his hand fissures, cracks and starts to bleed on it's own, he shudders for a moment as his ire peaks. Suddenly, he rips the air a new one as he drives that mallet of a hand right towards Farah's face as all emotion seems to flatline in his face, the red, white and black contrail of his fist now the only outward sign of effort he seems to be showing.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Brian's Brian Hammer.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
Cripes, how do I keep getting into these, the older man visibly slumps. Just one thing after another, isn't it. A man can't have his peace to get to work on [PLOT SPOILERS]. He winces at the fire he can see over there at the wreck, though his backwards cautionary walk stops as Farah draws her weapon. She's resolute, she's ready to defend herself.
Then, the cascade of curse words. The accusations. Maybe it's machismo in the face of pretty much everything in his life looking to fall apart around him. Perhaps there's an inner desire to just leave the goddamn bench as it is and let it be someone else's problem. Maybe he's looking to have another excuse to be hospitalized where people don't rag on him day in, day out.
"All right, that's... that's enough," he tiredly declares as he walks along up, underestimating what sorts of foul power is truly at hand here - what the hell is wrong with that guy's hand, anyway? Placing himself right in harm's way almost as though it were a simple, everyday decision, he thrusts his left hand out to catch the telegraphed, balled-up fist coming right towards his face.
Meat and bone collide in an epic explosion of gut-wrenching, bone-crunching sound as his entire body goes stiff from the sheer shock of not just where fist meets palm - but what sorts of energy courses through his forearm before dissipating.
His own face says all, teeth bared and eyes widened in probably the single greatest grimace this man has ever delivered in recent times, stance shuddering underneath Brian's might - Brian could so much as just lightly shove him from here and see him to the hard pavement of the sidewalk with nary an effort.
"What the, what the /hell/ was that," he wheezes out, petrified on the spot from both pain and utter surprise. He has never stood up against a punch like /that/.
That punch is like being hit by that car magnified by five.
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
Maybe she wasn't going to be intimidated, but considering the blow that suddenly comes hurling her way and the moments that lead up to it, it's certainly evident that Farah can be taken by surprise. It's not as if Brian was all sweetness and light one second and Fox News the next, but the sudden explosion of self-inflicted, out-of-nowhere wounds on his fist as it streaks forward like a comet, plus the sudden surge in that sense of a building darkness inside... well, let's just say that had Rust not intervened, the situation would have been a lot different and probably a lot more tragic than it was.
As it stands, her eyes widen at the titanic clashing of immovable object and irresistable force in front of her; the Egyptian actually FELT that, as Rust 'catches' Brian's punch. For a moment, she's stunned that the pavement around them both didn't just crack into a million spiderweb fractures then and there. Perhaps more importantly, though, Farah senses deep inside the nobility of Rust's spirit. A casual observer might wonder what made him step in; Farah has the unique ability to know that it was a decision his heart made well before his brain or body became involved.
To let that go unanswered would be about as close to a 'sin' as Farah believes in.
Stepping forward, the young woman braces Rust for a moment, glancing at him carefully, trying to prevent him from falling face-first onto the pavement. And then her vision swings to Brian, violet eyes glittering. "I wonder, did someone give you that power, or did it simply happen because of the empty space in your heart?" Psychics can be really irritating to talk to sometimes, can't they?
"Either way," Farah says, getting into a fighting stance, "I'll ease your burden." In a blur of white cloth and blue ribbon tails, she twists forward, attempting to grip Brian's meaty arm and twist it into a backwards arm lock before letting go and *shoving*, hard, from behind... a maneuver intended to put the football player on the ground much as he'd intended for Farah (and, inadvertently, Rust) a moment ago.
COMBATSYS: Farah successfully hits Brian with Medium Throw.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/---====|-------\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
Brian should really know better than to try taking on more than one person at a time. But Brian is not really in control right now. Rust's interception of the punch is met with dead eyes and little acknowledgement, like a robot merely switching targets. Rust was the initial reason to be here, after all, and Farah merely a secondary concern.
Well, she was. As she grips the large man's arm, his attention shifts again, but not quickly enough to avoid being taken off his feet and shoved, face first, into the pavement. He skids a bit, then pops up effortlessly onto his feet, turning to face the two again.
Speaking of face... Ewww. That's some nasty road rash. Blood seeps from his cheek and right hand as he steps forward again, apparently ignoring the words coming out of either of the two. His left hand snaps out, the skin on his knuckles tearing as it rockets towards Farah's jaw, likely an instinctual reaction to keep it from wagging so much.
Farah's help to keep him upright is appreciated in relative silence. What is not appreciated is the surges of pain every time he tries to wiggle a finger on his left hand, making for a far less inviting personality when Farah's assistance is met with a curse - not one aimed /at/ her, but more the sudden realization.
Just one of Brian's brutal attacks was enough to break his left hand entirely, a truly and utterly fearful realization as he tries to shake it off and just hope that his fingers magically start to move to his command. To be strong enough to break a part of him in one blow...?
"Holy shit." He utters in quiet, where Farah opts to speak to Brian in more verbose terms and push on her assault. One of his knees twinge in pain for no readily apparent reason. The time he spends reeling in pain, however, proves to have a potentially more dire cost than just his left hand.
Brian gets a good shot at possibly breaking Farah's everything with that one punch. He's nowhere near fast or together enough to step in and intercept a second time when he has it in him to look over his shoulder.
"That guy's got a punch," he warns maybe a little too late after the fact as his right hand goes upon the makeshift hilt of Ol' Rusty. It may be panic and stress doing its job here, but for whatever reason, Ol' Rusty just won't cleanly come out of its toolbelt pocket.
With no other alternative, he steps forward and tries to swing his left elbow into Brian's back, something that loses a bit of punch given, oh, his left hand can't clench into a fist.
COMBATSYS: Farah fails to counter Medium Punch from Brian with Deneb Kaitos.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
The warnings -- from Rust, and from her own senses -- come just a moment too late.
Twirling on her heel, Farah knows even before she commits herself to attacking the massive man that she's going to have to defend herself relatively soon. Thus even before he gets up she's trying to prepare herself, the tails of her ribbon gripped in the opposite hand, ready to try and catch whatever it is that comes her way. Memories of her fights with Brihan and Vladimir haunt her, both steeling her resolve and filling her with disquieting emotions.
Brian's fist, too meteoric in momentum to be caught by even her Soul-empowered defense, merely fills her with pain.
The girl is light, and Brian is powerful even without the strength of Orochi filling his veins; small spatters of that blood dot Farah's white shirt as she literally goes flying through the air, slamming into the side of a car so hard the door dents inward and the safety glass of the window cracks into myriad fracturing patterns. The car alarm blares, as the Egyptian sinks to the ground, groaning.
COMBATSYS: Brian endures Rust's Weakened Random Strike.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
It's true, the Texan was pretty much a juggernaut prior to the joining with Orochi blood, but his desire for power and his long-standing bloodlust has brought him to this state... A human wrecking ball. Brian is now a machine of rage, hate and pain, moving with the efficiency of a well-oiled engine. The blow from Rust is barely acknowledged, the former linebacker merely twisting himself to absorb the impact more easily as he stalks towards the woman he's downed.
As she slumps to the ground, the stalking pace he was using changes. He bounds forward suddenly, exploding off the line for two steps before taking to the air, twisting around as he leaps. The seven foot two, three hundred plus pound man comes crashing down, intending to turn Farah into a much flatter version of herself as he attempts to crush her with his chest alone.
Not just barely acknowledged, actually striking his elbow against that man of greater muscle and stature than himself - powered by that rage - stings a bit. The sting is secondary to the shock of the sheer brutality unfolding before him because... let's face it, if Brian could break a hand with just one punch, it says a lot. He doesn't want to discount Farah's ability by appearances alone, but he thinks he has a pretty good idea of what'll happen if he lets him continue to have his way with her.
One problem. Brian's already got a good running start, the cloud of dust kicked up from his forward corkscrew in the air a very, very sure sign of what'll happen if he isn't stopped.
It /is/ likely too late to stop him outright, but a part of him thinks... no, can't let my injury stop me, he grouses as he draws Ol' Rusty out of the belt. His age has dulled his athleticism quite a bit, but he's sure he can still pull something like this off.
He doesn't really have a choice.
Taking a couple steps forward, he plants Ol' Rusty down on the asphalt and uses what strength he's got in his right hand to propel himself forward as he handstands and subsequently launches himself off the pipe - though it slips out of his grasp, falling over onto the parking lot.
No time to worry about that, he's in mid-air. He still has it, right? Trying to right himself in the air, he brings a leg up to the extent his flexibility of today allows, trying to swing it downward upon Brian as he comes down in a motion that bears an extremely suspicious likeness to the Crack Shoot.
Can he catch him with it in time? Will it even be enough?
COMBATSYS: Farah dodges Brian's Screw Body Press.
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Brian [E] 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
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Rust 0/-------/-------|
What he decides to destroy, apparently, Brian shall destroy. Rust's concern for Farah is not unfounded; she is unlikely to be able to withstand the footballer's assault for very long. On the other hand, she is not going to simply roll over and die, either... and perhaps being on the losing end of that titanic strike a moment before -- not to mention feeling the visceral consequences of such -- was the wakeup call that Farah really needed to get herself in gear. She looks up in time to see Brian leaping at her, and some deeply buried and protected reserves kick in, running entirely on instinct. The Egyptian hurls herself to the side, rolling to a stop on one knee a few feet away. The car alarm stops, mostly because Brian just landed on the car Brian-first. The result is thankfully nothing so dramatic as an explosion, but it's more than enough to crush the passenger side and enough of the horn mechanism so that the alarm gives a fraction of one last wail like a death rattle.
For the moment, she seems to be content not to attack, being alright with Rust taking the lead even as Farah takes a moment to catch her breath. Still, though, there is a subtle build-up of that cobalt sky-colored psychic energyes as she watches... the only hint to her future intentions.
COMBATSYS: Farah focuses on her next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Brian endures Rust's Weakened Crashing Down EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 1/------=/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/------=|
Coincidences collide as Brian pretty much totals the car with his crotch. The shocks of the vehicle fire one last time before rupturing, bouncing the large man up just slightly before he makes his graceless descent to the ground... But then Rust drops his boot on the back of his head, the force of which flips the large man and causes him to land in a deep-knee bend, but on his feet nevertheless. The hand landing on the crushed car hood steadies him from falling backwards, but it allows him to erect himself once again with very little effort.
The secondary effect of this, however, is Brian seeing the need to change targets. Rust has now proven himself to be a problem, and removing the problem, bodily, seems to be the latest plan. A large, bloody paw reaches out towards the construction worker's shoulder, the intent to shove him off balance first, then fling him, head first, through the cab of the heavily damaged car behind them. Most likely through the door, which is still closed, mind.
COMBATSYS: Rust endures Brian's DDT.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 1/----===/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/---====|
And that landing isn't any easier on the would-be savior! Landing upon a jagged wreck (whether man or machine, it's kind of ambivalent) does not do wonders for his balance, a backwards fall upon hard asphalt and bits and pieces of glass resulting in a prolonged groan. It's... a fine reminder that he's not quite as young as he used to be.
Having to steady himself with his right hand to pull himself up, he casts a quick glance over to Farah to ensure that she's, you know, not flattened like a pancake or anything, and aside from the worrying blood on her shirt, well, she seems ok--
Now's a great time to start worrying about himself, what with the berserking Brian shoving him off balance - perfect for him to be grabbed and hurled along to the car.
Stand-alone, Brian's grasp around him could probably kill a lesser man. Imagine the pain of a man who is like a cannonball through a car door, a car door that buckles and flies off in a shower of splintered metal and glass shards.
Imagine this man, by chance, getting his right hand firmly around a piece of metal that used to separate the two sides of the same car door and proceeding to make a full one-eighty where his body brushes painfully up against car seats and collapsed car roof, somehow finding enough room and momentum to find himself flung back /out/ the opposite door - dangerously close to Farah - and a part of him just wonders, deep inside.
What did I do to deserve this?
Most people would relish such a great rebound back towards Brian. After getting punched by him once and unceremoniously hurled through a car, though, there's not really much in the way of zeal for this man in heading right back Brian's way.
So much so that his attempt to bring his lower body first through a raised knee isn't so much a calculated risk from an on-the-spot advantage as it is what he thinks might be the best way to go /through/ him, his upper right arm a breeding ground for muscle cramps after that whip.
Somewhere rather closer to the ground, a slumped Farah Tenjou would like to sit this one out for now, thank you. This isn't the first time she's fought someone with prodigious physical power; Preston Wellington, for example, was just as brutally powerful... and as regretfully foulmouthed and seemingly racist, too. But there is a difference, here. For all his bluster and for all his muscles, Preston is not per se a 'bad person', nor did he have a genuine desire to hurt Farah, even with his words rather than his fists. He was more... ambivalent. But whether it was always there or placed there by someone else, Brian's heart holds a destroyer's urge now. The impulse to see things broken and laid bare, to crush and to break... even himself, apparently, if need be.
For all her desires and hopes, for all her genuine courage, Farah is still young, and this is still terrifying, and the idea of losing her life in defense of her morals always sounds more attractive when there's no danger of it actually happening.
Yet when Rust passes THROUGH the car above her, and she can feel the Pacific teacher pushing on despite his hesitation -- worrying about her instead of himself -- it is, perhaps, enough.
Just as Rust rockets out of the car above her head, the girl rises, a halo of starry night sky-colored Soul Power flowing around her, concentrating in the tails of that ribbon around her wrist. "Maybe I don't have that physical power, but my soul..."
She had considered, for a moment, fleeing. Perhaps her soul isn't THAT strong. Perhaps she's not THAT amazing.
Her arm comes up. For now, it's strong enough.
An arm whips out, and that brilliant dark blue/silver-white starlight of psychic energy forms into a glitter-trailing sphere that follows the whip-like path of her arm toward Brian. "My soul is stronger than yours!"
COMBATSYS: Brian endures Rust's Strong Kick.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 1/--=====/=======|===----\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Brian fails to slow Sacred Heart from Farah with Thrown Object.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 1/=======/=======|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/---====|
Helicopters begin to circle overhead. In the distance, dozens of police sirens start to converge upon the scene of destruction and chaos. Several dark armored vans start showing up at the scene, creeping into the parking lot carefully as the fighters are occupied with one another.
Meanwhile, Brian takes a flying knee to the shoulder, hard enough to spin him completely around to face the car. The blow was nearly enough to take him off his feet, but reaching out to put his hands on the damaged door in order to steady himself prevents him from hitting pavement. The door, however, does not have enough strength left in the welds to withstand the extra pressure, and the hinges give way as he regains his footing.
As Farah fires that whiplike bolt of psionic force towards him, the Texan uses that same door as a weapon of his own, attempting to strike the starburst out of the air. A car door, however, is not aerodynamic in the least, and ends up sailing over both Rust and Farah's head, smashing into another car instead as the energy crashes into Brian.
And, for the first time, the man shows some semblance of pain. Eyes go wide, teeth grit and a dark steam pours from the impact site. Taking a step back to catch himself, the expression on his face again starts to fade as blood starts to pool about his feet.
At the point of impact, Howard's eyes are closed. He's thinking thoughts like 'please don't grab me again, please don't hit me again, holy hell how did you break my hand in just /one punch/' and is largely rewarded in his prayers by having a rough landing where he skids on the seat of his pants with one of his knees bent uncomfortably inward, skidding upon the road and debris. The friction burns are yet another ache on top of everything else.
If his eyes were sore, though, he's got a sight right now. Ol' Rusty, just within arm's reach. His right arm's still cramping up big time from that whip-around... but a little grit goes a long way in steadying himself up and grabbing his weapon of choice as he looks back along over to the destruction a ways away.
"The hell's even, even your problem," he asks, surrounded by destruction, fire, sirens, and helicopters... the lingering pains in his hip, leg, right arm, his busted left hand. The last few moments were nothing short of an adrenaline rush, and wooziness gets in the way of him collecting his thoughts when it comes time to actually bring the pipe to bear against Brian - whenever that may be, if it has to come.
"I don't... I don't got time for this shit."
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/---====|
The words 'you can't feel that?' bubble up in Farah's throat, at Rust's question, but they die out before she can actually say them. Why would he be able to? Perhaps it was presumptuous of her to think that everyone can see or feel the things she can. But even as the girl pulls forward, trying to stand side by side with Howard Rust rather than behind him as someone to be protected, even as she watches the 'real' Brian break through the battle-lust for a moment and then fade again, like a drowning man sinking below the waves. No... this isn't normal. And maybe Mr. Rust doesn't know that, so it falls her to make it clear.
"I do not know this man, personally," Farah says carefully. She is guarded, also not attacking for the moment, glad for the brief respite in the fighting. The two of them delivered blows that he clearly felt; perhaps it will be enough to convince him to leave. But she doesn't want to simply... beat the man down. Not while the prospect of an alternative exists. "Perhaps he is always violent. But *now*, *this* violence... it is something else."
Her eyes dart to Rust for just a moment, knowing how dangerous taking her eyes off Brian is, and then back to the football player. "There have been others. An African woman, a Russian man... they are not 'consumed' as he is, but they wield a similar darkness. It is wrapped around their very souls." For a moment, she shudders, remembering the depths of Brihan's madness, as experienced through their brief but potent psychic link. Farah would give anything not to feel that again.
"I do not think the actual issue of the tournament matters. It was merely an excuse..."
COMBATSYS: Farah takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/---====|
Several teams of SWAT step out of their vans, hustling out from the interior and behind the protection of the armored carriers as they stack up and prepare for what comes next. Also, with the full rage of the giant Texan, a man with several warrants out for his arrest currently, currently visible, they don't want to be anywhere near him just yet. Sadly, this means that Rust and Farah get the brunt of the man's ire instead.
Brian steps back up, squaring his shoulders against his two foes as they speak. What they are saying means nothing to him. Nothing really means anything to him right now. Nothing but hearing cries of agony, the feeling of bones shattering, or the name of the one who stole his invitation to the King of Fighters tournament. Because that's what he's here for. He snorts, silver jets of chi made pink by aspirated blood.
The only tell on what happens next is the slight full body lean forward he gives prior to jetting forward, almost taking off at full speed from the start. He charges at the two, but then does a full baseball slide in the gap between the two fighters, cowboy boots digging through the concrete to stop just behind them. He twists on the outstretched heel, planting the other foot and rocketing his two massive, bloody, silver-and-black contrailed fists at the small of his opponent's backs, attempting to drive them both into the air with the force of a rocket taking off. Should he succeed, they can look forward to being spiked back into the ground as he takes to the air after them, with the final injustice being the whole of Brian's weight landing upon one of their elbows.
They may not like the idea of beating him down, but he certainly does like the idea of doing that to them.
COMBATSYS: Brian knocks away Rust with Big Bang Blitzkrieg.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/--=====/=======|
As Farah comes to his side, Howard is still, right hand clenched around Ol' Rusty as tight as it really can be, given its lasting injuries. Blood trickles down his face at last from the cuts going through those car doors. A low grunt escapes his throat as he flexes his right arm to try and get the kink out as Farah talks. Is he not listening? Does he really believe he has no time for any of this?
"I know... one other guy. One other guy just... actin' like that." He drops these words towards the end of Farah's examples. "'m close. Dunno where he ran to now," and being forcefully dragged to England as per his job really did not help in regards to trying to pin down Antoine's location. Really, so many things just keep getting in his way that he simply can't fully ignore, despite everything. That's why he's doing this, he recalls. That's how he'll do it.
Of course, as he muses this, there is a giant Texan man powered by supernatural steroids coming right at them. He prepares to face it head on, Ol' Rusty pointed in his general direction.
"Close to savin' him." He declares, as if ready to take the full brunt of the charge head on and just plow right through him himself like the fusion of a man and a rusted length of pipe.
The dramatic moment is ruined thanks to a touch of Brian's brutal cunning, Brian baseball sliding between the two and clipping Rust's leg that forces him to a kneel. It's all Brian needs to go through with his chi-infused fist into /his/ back. The loud yell of pain as he finds himself lifted clean up into the air (whoa, helicopters, sure are plenty of them), blood and saliva out the side of his face as he gags in midair.
Heavily winded (and wounded) by the shot that takes him up, he's too dazed to even think much of anything when Brian spikes him back down so hard into the asphalt underneath thet there's a Rust-shaped outline in the road where Rust himself lies... to say nothing of the spider cracks causing parts of the road to cave down into these craters, showering him in dust and rock.
It's by force of habit he raises his left arm, even though the respective hand is broken - and Brian comes down hard upon it, adding the extent of fracture to 'pretty much his entire left arm' with another yell of pain, a slight roll into his side as a tear or two actually manages down his eyes. Pain! Pain! Pain everywhere!
He's lucky he can still feel his legs. He's not so lucky in that he can /feel everything/. It's not entirely unlike those times Igniz blasted him into and across the turf of Pacific High.
Any resolve he may have had moments prior turns, once more, to pure desperation. It's hard to maneuver himself in the pile of busted, broken road - a part of him is even wedged into it. The couple of seconds it'd take for him to free himself is added moments that Brian has in which to either gather himself or continue the assault.
TtThat's when he strikes out with one of his legs in the vague direction of the giant Texan, a multitude of these kicks. Most are likely to hit air. Anything that hits the part of the busted road or the Texan sounds like a jackhammer going to work on the road.
He's not sure where Farah's gone to - he'd like to hope she got out of that safe.
COMBATSYS: Farah stops Big Bang Blitzkrieg from Brian with Soul Arc EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/---====/=======|
Once again, Farah is staring death in the face.
Even a 'love tap' from Brian hurled her into a car with the force of a wrecking ball. This? It's not even clear what this would do, other than perhaps simply tear a hole in her torso so wide her lungs would end up somewhere in the South China Sea. She wants, deep down, to think of Rust, but she can't; intuition, survival instinct, they're all saying to focus on herself for the time being. Rust going flying a bit to her right barely processes. She just knows that she has one chance to save herself, and it's going to require every ounce of power she can muster.
In the end it almost isn't enough.
Spinning as soon as Farah sees Brian slide past her, the Soul Star snaps up her ribbon as before, holding the taut-pulled tails in front of her like a shield, horizontal, parallel to the ground. There's no hope of countering this attack, little hope of shoving it aside, but maybe -- just maybe -- she can endure it long enough to drain it of its killing force. With a sharp yell, the air before her -- centered on that ribbon -- explodes into cobalt blue light, as if the girl were wearing a starry twilight like a mantle. It is her spirit made manifest, all the force she can bring to bear. All in a desperate bid to keep her alive.
The comet that is Brian, wrapped in that dark-tainted silvery chi, slams into the invisible barrier of Soul Power with a horrible sound, like the cracking of ice. Farah screams in pain, her clothes and hair fluttering out behind her, but the barrier of psychic energy holds. In fact, it seems to tell physics to take a hike, keeping an airborne Brian suspended as the terrible power he brings to bear fights with her ability to defend against it.
Every fiber, every cell of her body screams in pain, being asked to channel far more in this effort than she really had to give, but in the desperate fight between life and certain death, the Egyptian demands more... much more. With a yell that starts ragged, but then increases in volume even as it diminishes in articulateness, more and more of that power spills out around her hands and the point of impact for Brian's foot. A trickle of red blood starts to wind its way down her face from her nose, payback in kind for how much of herself she has to pour into this.
The battle seems to go on forever, but to the outside world, in the mere blink of an eye, it is done; physics reasserts itself, directing Brian's momentum past and away from Farah. Biology, too, decides to cash in its chips; barely awake, practically insensate, the young psychic topples forward onto the pavement, widened violet eyes looking vacantly at nothing, breathing heavily.
COMBATSYS: Brian endures Rust's Jackhammer Kick.
[ \\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Brian [E] 0/-------/=======|===----\-------\0 Farah
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/-======/=======|
Had they seen the previous attack coming, they'd have tried to stop it, but there was nothing they could do then. To hopefully save lives, this is when SWAT decides to pounce.
Rust strikes out, and strikes true. His repeated kicks slam against Brian's thigh and knee, which seems to mostly weather the onslaught before the Texan has the ability to pull the limb away. His eyes begin to smoke unnaturally, and his jaw once again sets. Someone is about to die.
As Brian steps in to finish what he's started, however, law enforcement steps in. Not one, not two, but FIVE sets of Taser darts plunge into the Texan's chest, with an additional one landing in the back of the opposite knee to the one Rust was just assaulting. Every muscle in Brian's body tenses in an instant as 1,200 volts courses through his body at 114 pulses per second. Overkill? Perhaps. But it puts the big man onto the ground and keeps him there. "Team Six, Team Six," one says over his radio. "Suspect is in custody."
The teams rush forward, surrounding the downed man as they quickly take him into custody. The fight is over, it would seem. Two officers approach Rust and Farah, hands on their weapons but not directly pointed at them. One pulls down his balaclava and looks the two over. "It's okay, go ahead and stay there," he says, his tone concerned but firm. "We'll get EMTs on scene once we get the suspect out of here."
COMBATSYS: Brian takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Farah 0/-------/----===|
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/-======/=======|
COMBATSYS: Brian can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Farah 0/-------/----===|
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/-======/=======|
COMBATSYS: Farah has left the fight here.
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/-======/=======|
The older, smaller, no less better for the wear man's strength is slowly starting to give out, the repeated kicks coming to a stop in anticlimactic fashion. He sees the ghastly look in Brian's face, even with his view shrouded by dust and grime all over him. The smoking eyes. It's ghastly to look at - Antoine, when he found him with Quon, comparatively had the surrounding forest area around him dead and a sick brown aura.
This goes into gut-wrenching nausea level right quick. Propping himself up with his right elbow, he readies himself for the worst. It's him and Ol' Rusty against the latest fight for his life - uncomfortable flashbacks to near-death scenarios during the Southtown Invasion flood him, rearing back Ol' Rusty as if ready to strike one last, good strike to topple the giant.
Taser darts fly by just above him. Howard has no idea what's going on exactly when Brian tenses over and puts him down... until the radio comes in. Holy shit, law enforcement doing its job in Southtown... wow, maybe he really should rethink his stance about donating cash to the police departments of the city.
The sight of other guys trying to address the two of them - in varying states of extreme fatigue and searing pain - might be a welcome sight to relax. Everything's going to be all right. Just stay there, they say.
"I, I can't stay here," Howard winces, even though he really ought to stay there and wait for help. His left arm is a broken mass of calcium, there's blood and dirt on his face, pretty much a whole lot of reasons to sit there and wait for EMTs. His right arm, still holding strength, hoists himself up out of the hole with his elbow helping pull himself up and out.
"I got, I got somewhere to be... /right now/," he coughs a few times. Just as he had enough fight left in him for one more good hit against Brian, he's got enough to pull himself up - shaky as his posture is, "'m almost... almost done, not gonna... not gonna let jackasses like, like him... stop me," he hisses as he eyes wherever the hell the paper bags went.
They are of utmost priority - he has yet to even really see where Farah is or how she's holding up, as he faces down the inevitable fate of being dragged to a hospital in a stretcher and losing a couple more valuable days of time.
COMBATSYS: Rust focuses on his next action.
[ \\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 1/-======/=======|
Log created on 18:50:12 05/10/2011 by Rust, and last modified on 09:55:01 05/24/2011.