Description: Shortly after a narrow save from a raging Brian, Rust - determined as ever to finish his work on the cranes - wills himself back to his nearly apartment, disregarding the need for immediate medical attention just to get an all-important wish through. Farah, not far behind, has her own things to say about his methods to help save his friends. Will a bunch of paper cranes save everyone, or perhaps, is there another key to all their troubles...?
Let's fast forward through the two or three minutes following the subdual of a... rather upset Brian Battler. Howard Rust, with a broken and useless left arm, has largely decided to go on ahead and deny the need for medical assistance. Queries about the importance of his paper bags (you know, to make sure he's not trying to avoid arrest by smuggling) leads to two full bags of folding paper being kicked down for their information, scooping up whatever he can in his right arm and marching off back towards his apartment with a determination that goes far past his respectable pain threshold.
"Not many more," he keeps telling himself, quietly, ready to leave pretty much the entire world and scene behind himself just to get this wish through. Queries of shock by fellow tenants, gasps, and suggestions he go to the hospital are met with willing ignorance as he drags his aging self along up. He's not waiting for a friggin' elevator. He's determined enough to chance further aggravation to his injuries by just simply walking up the stairs to the third floor.
It's a total wreck out there with Brian's little truck stunt and the raw destruction he brought to bear. He's not entirely sure how well off - if at all - Farah might be, but he can't stop. The moment he stops is the moment his body basically gives up and quits on him, he knows that well. Can't afford another delay, he reminds himself. He's got to finish the last of the thousand and go from there - even with just one functional hand, for the moment.
The last thing Farah remembers, when she wakes up, isn't a concrete, audiovisual memory. It is more a haunting feeling combined with emotions all curled up and tangled together. Before her is some sort of dark comet, a meteor falling from a sky of endless night, hurtling to cause her doom; like a guiding star, she shines alone in that darkness, blazing with all her might, but it is enough only to save her life and even that, at cost; the terrible weight of the meteor shunted to the side, sent somewhere that it won't do harm, but in the process, the flare of Farah's star burns brightly, then not at all.
When she wakes up, it's staring in the face of a concerned EMT, sitting on the edge of the back of an ambulance. The Egyptian feels groggy, and confused, but perhaps fortunately, no worse for wear; whoever it was that attacked them focused his ire on Howard Rust, and so Farah's injuries are superficial at best, at least physically. Already confused about what's going on, her brief time unconscious makes it seem as if she had perhaps been concussed by a particularly heavy blow. There's no sign of Rust, nor of Brian, which is confusing in and of itself. It takes some doing to convince the EMT that she hasn't been the vicitim of a head injury, but Farah pulls it off. Right now, finding Rust is her highest priority.
Fatigue still haunts the dusky-skinned girl as she makes her way up toward his apartment on foot; more often than not it precipitates slapping a hand onto the wall and staying in place for a moment to gather her strength. However, slowly but surely she continues to climb, until eventually she pushes past to Rust's floor, where she observes an interesting site;
On the ground, staring at the door as if waiting for someone to let it out, is a paper origami crane.
A paper origami crane... maybe a child just accidentally left it in the hallway while playing. It's not a very well-made paper crane, to put it lightly. Asymmetric, misshapen. Maybe a small child made it and accidentally left it out while playing? Its presence is ominous.
More ominous is the sound of wood buckling under a powerful blow. A horrible combover provides a most heinous highlight to a figure cloaked in shadow, thanks to some failing overhead lighting that really ought to be replaced. This building is full of expats to Japan... and really, unless you're part of an employment deal to certain people, is prohibitively expensive to pay in. That money is almost certainly not going towards proper lighting.
Maybe the water is at least very, very clean? ...Maybe?
A loud pop of some stubborn joint or another provides another clue to the identity of this mysterious figure on this floor seemingly breaking and entering... if the loud grumbling doesn't by itself indicate it.
"God damn if that... that landlord screams at me 'bout that door, how many times do... do I got to tell him," the owner of the voice narrates out loud as he helps himself inside the apartment whose door they just unceremoniously kicked open.
There's a brief moment where Farah simply holds the thing up, looking at it. Folding origami is not something she's tried, though it's likely that the lady with the dance-like fighting style would have the manual dexterity to pull it off... that, and she seems to be the type of person who, just when one might start to complain about her, turns out to be just... naturally good at things. Perhaps she was born under a lucky star in the end, after all.
But that aside, there is something... inexplicable about the bird. The paper is a little smudged with whatever might have been on the folder's hands at the time; rather than folding in perfect sharp creases, a few corners here and there are bent or folder over a second time, as if there were extra paper and the thing needed to be forced into a certain shape. Yet Farah's senses extend to more than mere physical qualities, and even without her powers, she can tell that the bird has the careworn, even halfway abandoned look of a child's toy that now sits in repose, having been so loved and played with for its short life...
It's into this musing that the sound of someone kicking his door in drops, like an anvil, shattering the crystalline silence of the night's event's aftermath.
Yet what does it say about the Egyptian that, once her initial startlement fades, she moves toward the sound rather than away? And thus she has time to spy, for just a second, Rust finally arriving home. She doesn't interrupt as he walks through the door, trusting that even if it's not HIS apartment that the man has a good reason for being there, or can at least produce one... instead she just watches, so that when the Pacific teacher finally does turn to look, the dusky-skinned young woman is framed from behind in the doorway, casting her features in shadow as the light of the setting sun burns behind her. One thing is unmistakable, however: the crane held in her palm-out hand.
"I think you lost this," she says calmly.
That second to spy shows a whole lot as the man slowly stumbles along in. He's pushing himself far harder than any man of his level of injury ought to be. Yet, he has no arms free between his useless left one and the right one holding onto whatever he could grab from the mess of paper. He doesn't let anything get in the way. His own coffee table? Nudged by his foot, tipped over to send stale popcorn, old magazines, and a curious ad involving a wig spilling everywhere.
The overturned table still stands in his way a few steps forward. It gets nudged out of the way with his foot with significantly more gentleness.
The only thing that stops him as hte sound of Farah's voice. At first he thinks 'oh please don't let it be the goddamn keys again,' turning with reluctance and a wince that suggests his body really doesn't want him to be turning around in place much...
...a crane.
"Oh, uh... thanks," he says almost too quiet to really hear or understand. "Uh, I can't... I can't stop, go 'n pick that up, could you just... come back with me?" Whether she does or not, he keeps moving anyway. Through the hallway, past a kitchen, past a bathroom with the light on...
She might see it from his side. Going into his bedroom, there's a whole lot of paper-y structures in there. Crane-like, maybe...? And a birdcage, for some reason, all strewn across a workbench.
She has no reason not to follow him, and so Farah somewhat mutely nods, Rust's emotional distress palpable even without the benefit of empathic powers. Behind the scarred and toughened American, the lithe Egyptian is like a graceful ghost as she walks behind him, taking in the state of the apartment as she does so. One can learn a lot about an individual, after all, just from observing their home. Of course, the place seems... 'lived-in', but also only barely just. It as if Rust is *here*, present in the space, a lot of the time lately, yet Farah doesn't get the impression that he is LIVING in the space. It's more that he's... occupying it.
The ease with which the coffee table is merely brushed aside in the importance of Rust's current mission pretty much cements that.
She doesn't enter the man's bedroom, that much is certain; instead she stands outside it, seeing only as much as Rust allows her to, holding the crane for him to come and retrieve at his whim. She has nowhere else to be and, more importantly, this is the link that brought her here in the first place. The secrecy, the workbench, the *hint* of more of these things being in there somewhere, and most especially Rust's intense feeling of needing to get something done, soon and fast... they all add up, in her head.
Once Rust has been in the room for a moment or two, she decides to risk it, by asking point blank: "Are you... making a wish?"
Some wonder if there really is much to this man's life any more outside of this great, desperate obsession. Surely, for the most part he was just going through the motions before, navigating life as best as he could in between what he's been seeking for himself... but the way events have unfolded are, to say the least, not at all favorable.
This may be the only means he truly has left to keep himself together, if anyone can call this... keeping itself together.
Paper is dropped on the desk. A fair amount of it just topples off and hits the floor, something that doesn't seem to bother him as he turns along back to Farah - his mental exhaustion plainly visible on his face as much as the physical wear of age - where she pops that question.
Is he making a wish?
"Yeah... yeah, I am," he says without delay or surprise that someone knows. "'s the only... only means I got left," he says as he reaches out with his right hand to take the crane - one of the cranes he made at work today.
If Farah were familiar with school papers, it looks like he turned a disciplinary action report into a crane.
There's no resistance when Rust takes the crane out of Farah's hand; she stands there, respectfully, and without it to be held out, both of the college freshman's hands swing around to clasp behind her back. She hasn't been in Japan long, but the legend of paper cranes has still filtered back to her even before she moved here. Someone who folds a thousand paper cranes will have their wish granted, usually for health and longevity. There's a reason that under the Hiroshima Peace Memorial, paper cranes are found in abundance one day out of every year... the year for remembering the spirits of the dead. Each crane representing someone's effort, someone's dream, someone's desire for a better future.
The young woman had always thought of the legend as an extended metaphor for making your dreams a reality. Making 1000 paper cranes is tough work. You can't just find a crane and make a wish; you have to fight to make your wish come true.
"These are dark days," the young woman says carefully, not wanting to -- if Rust has no idea -- indicate just HOW dark, though the idea that he took Brian's crazed rage in stride suggests he probably has a clue. Her smile is a gentle one, when she offers it, trying to convey at the very least that she understands why someone might actually make, for real, 1000 paper cranes... though Sadako Sasaki only made it just shy of 650 before she died, as the legend goes. "I suppose a little self-made good luck isn't out of the question."
The more Farah may look into the mass of paper on that desk, the more she may see why this is such a great big uphill battle for this man.
Most of them... probably wouldn't pass so readily for being paper cranes.
This man is not talented in matters of origami.
"Yeah," is all he says with minimal enthusiasm as he turns his back to Farah once more and goes to place the crane down in the stack of misshapen miracle workers. There's a few tumbleweed-like ones in there. One of them even looks kind of like that Muay Thai guy infamous for that... cat stalk thing? Ambush? What was that guy's name, anyway?
"I'm almost there," he says with conviction that fights against the desperation and fatigue in his voice, "you see 'em, I've, I've almost got... a full one thousand."
Though it really is kind of pushing it far to call more than half of these foldings cranes.
As the man at last sits down on a chair, left arm dangling more or less uselessly, he regards the sheets of paper he rescued from when he dumped those bags just to satisfy the curiosity of those cops who are likely all too busy taking witness accounts from nearby survivors of that great truck accident and the terrible assault of the gigantic Texan man.
"I got... I got a couple friends countin' on it." Even if one was stunned to silence, another would probably slap him silly, yet another is too brain addled on evil energy, and yet another is way too carefree in general to really even bother with the idea, but there's that man, with one good hand for folding - the hand that never really fully healed from back in '09 - suddenly realizing this logistical problem as he regards one piece of paper and thinks about how to go about properly bending it.
"Uhh... do you need, uh, a drink or somethin', I mean, I don't... mind you getting a glass. Might need to, to wash it out first, I, uh, I meant to do dishes last night, but..."
He's almost finished...
The look that comes on to Farah's face is a strange one, because she is suddenly feeling some very complex emotions. First and foremost is that, despite the apparent assertion that her powers are 'occult' in some way, the Soul Star is not a great believer in the supernatural in general. She keeps an open mind, of course; it could be that Rust's efforts to create a thousand paper cranes -- or rough approximations thereby -- may in fact bring about some sort of miracle. Stranger things have certainly happened. On the other hand, she isn't sure you'd want to rely on it if you have friends in trouble, as Rust claims that he does. And if you were her in this situation, what would you do? Tell Victoria that there isn't a Santa Claus, only to open yourself up to the danger of there really being one, or let her go on believing even though he's probably a myth?
In the end, she can't decide, and more to the point, feels that it's not her decision to make. She can help him without travelling that road.
"They're... lucky to have someone as dedicated as you on their side," is what she offers, since it's an unassailable truth... and it opens the door to a more useful line of inquiry. "But I don't think they'd want you to drive yourself mad trying to do it, either, if they're really your friends."
Paper creases between his forefinger and thumb as he considers how he's actually going to make a proper crane with just one hand, head turned as he grunts loudly. A sigh of defeat, or just acceptance of yet another roadblock... another distraction? But there is no mistaking that this is a man who fully believes in the silly fairy tale BS that's been laid bare in front of himself. A fully grown man of forty years, indulging in what some would call a childish desire.
"Mad?" He asks without looking back to face her. He's thinking of... yeah, I'll use my chin to help a bit, he thinks, as he starts about the awkward, tedious practice of putting these 'cranes' together. "It's... ahh, where the hell do I, do I even... start," he shakes his head as he raises his chin from the piece of paper.
"I got... I got a friend. Went missin' before our only fight in that... that tournament," she probably knows what he's talking about, "when we found him he was... he was all, kinda like... nah, exactly like that guy. The one that... that, just happened," he coughs once, "'scuse me."
"Took him to drug rehab... they, they didn't find a single thing wrong. They couldn't explain a lick of it... 'n... another guy got a collar or something he can't get off, it's, he's... let's say, something bad happened." He's hesitant to tell her that this friend in question is, officially, guilty of at least three counts of manslaughter.
"Another one's just... he's a plaything to some, to some really powerful people and... and I can't get through to him to just get someone outta his life." His chin comes down on the paper again. "Y'know, all this I'm dealin' with... nah, sounds like... what we're dealing with? 's magic."
Those descriptions...
"I don't know if it's 'magic'. But there is some dark power at work in the world right now. They've tried to kill me twice over, by now. And it sounds as if... your friends are involved somehow."
...It is too much to be a coincidence.
She'd hoped not to interfere, nor to embroil herself in a stranger's affairs, but before she could only guess or suppose, wondering if it was the same. Now? 'Exactly like the guy' from whom she had that unmistakable vibe? A 'plaything to some really powerful people'?
Farah dares to sit down next to Rust, and to put her hand out and place it on top of his. The gesture is intended to be as gentle a version of 'stop what you're doing' as she can manage, and she sets her jaw, wearing the expression of someone having to do something unpleasant. "But all the paper cranes in the world won't fix that." He must feel... frustrated. Like there's nothing he can do, and this -- this thing, working with his hands, creating something -- is what he knows, what he can operate inside. This is something he can do, and so he does it, ignoring his fatigue, focused beyond comprehension. "They need more... earthly help."
The man's face tenses a little about not knowing if it's magic. He's seen proof, after being a man of... well, maybe not science, but at least general practicality - but he is too focused on trying to make a crane out of his precarious situation of having only one good hand to work with.
Farah lays a gentle hand on his. For the difference in size and physical strength between the two, one would think a man of his sheer stubbornness would find it a trifle - maybe even something he could do without conscious thought - to just shrug it off and continue.
He doesn't, when - despite her mystical person and sometimes slightly otherworldly way of presenting herself - she brings down the common sense advice that, in any other circumstance, probably would have come straight out of his mouth instead.
He growls quietly when she mentions it probably won't fix that.
"Then what will?" Comes his response, just short of an outburst, as he turns his head to face hers. "I'm... I'm really outta ideas! Given all that's... that's goin' on..."
And this is why she feared to say anything: because Farah doesn't have a ready-made answer to that question. She knows that making cranes isn't the answer, but what is? Would destroying the people who've tried to kill her bring the woman any peace, or save this man's stricken friends? Perhaps, but perhaps not. It may be that all such violence would produce is more violence, in the end. But the Egyptian is of the firm belief that one cannot simply hope for the future to turn out for the best, hoping and praying. Even Christians say, 'The Lord helps those who help themselves,' after all. And inside, Farah wants to help this man, because she knows his plight is her own. They are both stricken by the darkness, which threatens to take everything they have, and they must find a way to strike back.
"I don't know the answer to that," she says quietly, being honest, and for a moment she bows her head to look at a kind-of crane on the workbench. Brihan, and Father Vladimir... she saw such darkness in their hearts. The pain of loss becoming the consuming flame of hatred, for the former; the dark cloud of pure selfish greed in the latter. "But there may be a way to find out. There is a... group, who controls this dark power. Perhaps we have to seek one out and demand the solution from them. Or it may be that..."
Would you kill to save the world, Farah Tenjou? Would Rust? The unvoiced question rings in her head like the echo of cannon fire.
Violet eyes turn to Rust, the adamant gaze of someone who has decided on her course. "I will help you. I've... run from them. The idea that someone wants me dead is scary. Scarier than I think I can deal with. But maybe I needed to see what you were doing before I could resolve to change how I felt."
When Farah admits she doesn't have the answer to that, Howard shakes his head and just looks back to the crane-in-composition as she describes the group... Zach mentioned something kinda-sorta like it back when the shop teacher was thinking to use a chainsaw to get the choker off of him, but admittedly details are kind of a bit fuzzy for him now considering all that happened at that point.
"Where the hell would they be," he asks out loud that might disrupt her train of thought about her dire inner question about whether or not she'd kill to save the world - or if he would.
Just as he's ready to grouse and maybe protest some more as a means of justifying continuing his path, those startling eyes lay upon him - and for a moment, he remains motionless. Her promise to help - the idea that someone really wants her dead is scary... and how seeing him may help her decide her course.
"I dunno how much I can do," he says in a moment of weakness and defeat as his right elbow suddenly knocks a crane - and something else - off the table.
His own resolve in regards to these cranes, however, remains completely unshaken. "Whoa! One sec--"
With significant effort on his part, he leans down and kneels off his seat to go retrieve the fallen crate and... a flyer?
He gives it a good look-over, an unnatural pause that may beg the question if something is wrong, but the gears in his head begin to turn as he regards the colorful illustration of a very familiar purple-haired girl and a couple of notable keywords.
At least, before he starts rising up out of his kneel again (and wow, his knee is really loud tonight).
"I think... I think I got an idea."
Log created on 19:30:04 06/02/2011 by Rust, and last modified on 23:22:01 06/02/2011.