Description: In which Zach Glen pops this reality to one Howard Rust, who finally has to choose once and for all.
It hasn't been too long since Zach, Antoine, and Howard have gotten together to speak about the very last challenge ahead of them. Antoine tried to rouse those gathered to action, that now would be the time for them to move forth and put an end to the world's maladies.
Zach, wisely, decided to get a call out to everyone he knew concerning this.
Howard Rust... did not seem to take the idea all too well.
Though the sky is a dreary gray and everyone is instinctually on edge for the coming of... something, Mr. Rust has always called himself a working man. Here he is, surveying some of the last fixes to some damaged classrooms after a few students succumbed to the madness that plagues so many around the world now.
"Freakin' finally, it took you this long to get those walls in?" Complains one Mr. Marshall next to a sitting Howard, having himself a sip of some ice water.
"Well, uh, y'all kept... complainin' 'bout the AC," Howard gestures with his hand, irritation in his voice. He hates this man next to him so much. So, so very much. "Every time I offered, they were all... 'no, it'd cost too much to tear out the, the walls,' so... so I figured, fixin' it while I was--"
"Figure NOTHING! You're the EXPERT on this matter and it took you this long to fix a wall?!" Mr. Marshall throws his hands up. "You're worthless! Thanks to you we had to delay classes for another couple days! Have you forgot we aren't being PAID for days classes aren't in session, you idiot?!"
"Did ya... did ya friggin' need to buy a third house out in Morocco?" Rust mumbles out loud.
"DON'T give me any lip, Howard! All I gotta do is just report one little thing and I can have you gone, like this!" Mr. Marshall snaps his fingers with a sly grin. "Have you forgot that already?"
"...No." The shop teacher shakes his head as he has himself another sip of water.
"Now get off your tush and go finish up already, c'mon!"
"Could just... just, pick up a hammer or, or somethin' help me with..."
"I'm busy, Howard, you know that!" Indeed, Mr. Marshall is too busy having a little outdoors picnic with some of the other faculty staff who have brought wondrous rich delicacies that they will surely eat up before Mr. Rust can really get any himself.
"Yeah... y-yeah," Mr. Rust clears his throat as he rises up and faces down what's left of repairs and fixes before classes can start again... if they're going to, hefting up a toolbox and walking along over to, of all things...
...that's right, benches. As if they were irreplaceable and of utmost importance to the continued education of the students, apparently, from what Howard's immediate superiors and co-workers seem to insist as he faces down his truest arch-nemesis in the world of inanimate objects, mumbling something foul under his breath.
"It's... it's my job," he muses out loud quietly, as if to deliver a poignant address to the audience, "I'm, I'm lucky I got it... even with guys like, like him. 's my chance to make a difference, 'n... 'n something with my life."
With a loud exhale, he lowers his head, closes his eyes... and gets to work. "World ain't gonna keep goin' just because I'm, I'm over there."
Zach Glen was in the area, and not at all by coincidence either. No 'gut leanings' or 'psychic intuition' or 'winds of fate' kind of crap. He was a man with something approaching a mission. He made one side stop at a convenience store to grab some drinks owing to the weather, but arrived at Pacific High just in time to hear the conversation between Howard and Marshall. The psion frowns a bit at this; he doesn't like people who push other people around. He likes people who push his friends around even less, and while that may not be a very heroic stance to take, it /is/ a human one. He is halfway through the door to try and correct Marshall's attitude when he stops.
Perhaps that immediate reaction would not be the best route to take. Instead he waits for the teacher, who will in all likelihood mistake Zach for a student, to start heading for the door. The two collide, but Zach (having experience in dealing with larger people plowing into him) stands surprisingly firm. Zach remains standing, keeping his eyes on Marshall's for whatever duration of conversation the two are having. It is entirely likely that Zach's hair (blonde with deep purple tips) will draw some ire from this supposedly respectable educator.
Mr. Marshall is one of those people who try to project themselves loudly despite their very modest appearances. Besides, Zach is a fighter. Mr. Marshall is... very... much not, comically collapsing onto his bum as he collides against the more blonde-than-purple psychic.
"You! WATCH where you're going!" He sneers as he scrambles up to his feet ineptly. "School is CLOSED, young man! I'll write you up for trespassing if you don't skedaddle right now--"
"Is it LaRose?" Mr. Rust asks from a ways away without looking up. "He's here for, for extra cr--"
"NO it's not him!" Mr. Marshall yells. "I don't care which one you are, young man! Get OUT of my way!"
Mr. Rust hasn't yet really noticed the real reason for the commotion, let alone look away from his work against the pile o' broken benches. Sigh, /benches/.
Might as well start calling them bintches, because they are increasingly a real bitch to maintain.
Zach, on the other hand, does not bluster. He calmly walks up to the teacher, and then gets half a step inside the older man's personal space. Definitely within Zach's attack range, though Marshall undoubtedly does not know (let alone realize) that. His eyes stay locked on Marshall's as he does so, somehow managing to loom a bit despite the fact that Glen gives up about half a foot on the man. He is quiet for a brief moment, making sure he has a hand on his temper.
"Excuse me," the psychic says quietly, evenly. Rust undoubtedly recognizes the voice at this point, and almost as likely recognizes the tone Zach is using. The one that suggests that Zach might try to kick a person's ass up to their ears, depending on how the other person handles the situation. "I don't think we've met," Zach says as he extends a hand towards Marshall. "I'm Zach Glen," he says with that maddeningly calm tone, "Nice to meet you. You are?"
"Then, uh, who is it?" Mr. Rust would really like to know. He's hoping it's not who he thinks it is, prior to hearing that voice. His mind has already run the various possibilities. One of the representatives from up high, for example, ready to scream and complain about the Southtown chapter's failings again. After all, it wasn't long ago that they scored the lowest on standardized tests.
Whose homeroom scored lowest? Guess. Just guess.
That it turns out to actually /be/ Zach is not, immediately, a source of relief. After all, he's on the clock and it's not really common for Zach to just step up here in the middle of the work day as the shop teacher looks over his shoulder to the scene of Zach having a nice, polite talk with Mr. Marshall.
"I don't care!" Mr. Marshall screeches at Zach as the psychic politely extends a hand. "Just get out--"
"Cripes." Comes Mr. Rust as he rises up with a grunt, loud popping in his knees as he ambles towards the two. "Zach... just let 'im, let 'im go. He's... busy."
"You're damned right I am!" Mr. Marshall turns his nose up in a huff as he at least gives the concession of walking /around/ Zach rather than trying to go /through/... unless Zach stops him.
"A-Anyway... Zach," the older man with the bad combover rolls a shoulder, "what're you... what're you doin' here? 'm working."
Zach gives it half a second of thought, which is exactly five tenths of a second more thought that if Rust had not asked at all. No, the look in those emerald eyes says, this guy is not getting off so lightly. Yes, the world is on the verge of ending in blood and fire, sure. But sometimes the smaller fights need to be had. Zach does not shift his stance a whole lot, just a bit to make Marshall work to get around the psychic. The hand is still extended in greeting. At least he's not glowing.
"You know," Zach says almost philosophically, "My father tells me you can tell a lot about a person by watching how they deal with new people." He tilts his head to one side, his violet-tipped bangs leaning with the tilt. "And even more by how they treat subordinates," he says, still polite. Did he hear the conversation between the two teachers?
"Hn?" Mr. Marshall makes a most sour face in how much work Zach makes for the man to just get /out/. "Subordinate? Hah! At his rate I wouldn't recommend him to be an indentured servant's own assistant!!"
Mr. Rust grumbles, taking another step towards the two. "Zach. Zach." He gestures for him to come closer, as if to say 'just let the man go.' Where Zach sees virtue in having the smaller fights be made for the better, Mr. Rust has been conditioned - unfortunately, in this fantastical world of supreme martial artists being the pinnacle of majesty and power - to a world where some things just can't be solved by screaming people down and beating them until they see your way.
Zach heaves a sigh, looking a little disappointed. "You really shouldn't judge people like that," he says helpfully. "That man," he says as he points towards Rust, "Could be the greatest teacher you have here. The lessons your students could learn from him would get them very far in life." The hand drops, as Zach gets up close on Marshall once more.
"That hard work and dedication mean more than position or talent or power. That sometimes, you have to all you have to do to succeed is endure, even when enduring is that most impossible of things." Zach rises up on the balls of his feet. "That you shouldn't look down on anyone, no matter how humble or meek they might be. Because you never know when that meek or unassuming person is going to do something amazing."
Zach seems to be baiting this guy, but to what end?
"GREATEST TEACHER?!" Mr. Marshall starts to laugh obnoxiously at this thought, this single outburst being the only thing that really interrupts Zach's train of thought that, somehow, carries through the man's obnoxious voice.
"Zach," Rust speaks up a bit more sharply, as if deciding he really doesn't have time to get into these sorts of things even if, on some level, he'd surely appreciate it when his mind isn't full of trouble and benches.
The benches have invaded his mind and soul. He cannot escape them.
"What rubbish do you people get that sort of talk from?!" Mr. Marshall yells, in an attempt to just try and flush out Zach's reasoning with just sheer volume. "That man's homeroom scored the lowest in the ENTIRE Pacific system! Why, if I had it my way I'd fire him for someone who actually /went/ to a real college of note... I have no time for this!"
"Zach," Rust mumbles his name again, as if nervous despite being a large enough man that, push come to shove, could probably send the two of them flying across the entire floor of campus if properly motivated.
"The only thing that man over there's /good/ for is being an attack dog... even if he couldn't make it past the first round of King of Fighters, hah!"
Rust visibly growls at mention of this.
"Now out of my way!!" Mr. Marshall makes that one last push - very literally, in this case - to forcibly remove Zach out of his way, empowered if only for having, technically, the right of way. He works here and Zach is, for all intents and purposes, a trespasser.
Zach twists with the push... while hooking a foot on Marshall's leading ankle, tripping the teacher up with an ease that suggests that this is hardly the first time he has done such a thing. Zach calmly lets the man crash, before leaning over to grab the teacher by the back of his over-priced suit. "And yet," Zach says, "People will follow him." He channels a faint trace of soul power through his body, augmenting his strength enough to simply pick Mr. Marshall up off of the floor and getting him to his feet.
"He built a team, a young team at that," Zach says as he circles the teacher, helping to lightly knock sawdust off the suit. "And that team stood up to one of the teams fighting in the championship match." The loss does not seem to sting Zach quite as much as it does Rust. Losing is something that happens, Zach's tone seems to say, that sometimes it happens regardless of how much you prepare or how much you want to win. "We stood up the Red Cyclone of Russia, Howard and I. And yes," Zach says. "We lost. Despite all of our preperation, all our will and effort, we were beaten. But we /did/ take down Zangief."
Zach then calmly grabs the teacher's tie, using it to pull the man down to eye level. "I entered that tournament for him. I was planning to wait for the next one to come around, because I had a feeling that something like that would happen, but I saw how badly he wanted it." Zach's eye blaze a bit. "And aside from one or two parts of it, I would not trade /anything/ for that experience."
He lets go of the tie, giving Marshall a very light shove towards the door. "So go ahead and mock that if you'd like," Zach warns, steel creeping into his tone for the first time in this conversation. "But I feel obligated to warn you that I am a lot less forgiving of bullies than my friend is."
"Wha?!" That may be the only thing Mr. Marshall and Mr. Rust together ever agree on, in terms of choice of words as Zach counters the mundane shove with all the experience and skill afforded to him in his time in the fighting circuit.
Howard is largely dumbstruck by this sudden, unthinkable act given all that's happened to him at work since he returned from that poor King of Fighters turnout. His heart may, literally, be now defying his family's lack of genetic history for heart disease, moments away from seizing up under the thought that he may be just about to lose his job based on this... ultimately deserving exchange.
Mr. Marshall is stunned as Zach lists off the various virtues of Rust's attempts to bring the whole team together while being shown to his feet, but there's that feeling of arrogance in there, as if to suggest 'I am NOT being shown up by this complete stranger of questionable financial background and origin!'
Where Zach and Mr. Marshall go face-to-face, he is frozen - to say nothing of Mr. Rust who has to take in what Zach is saying from the perspective of someone who has faced an equally uphill battle for their own reasons... though he could probably count, on his part, more than two parts he'd have hoped to have gone differently outside of the result of that fight.
The man is lightly shoved to the door, but for all of Zach's measured care, it's a humorous delight to watch Mr. Marshall stumble clumsily as his balance and choice of where he can walk and go is returned to /him/, a sneer as he faces back at Zach and waves a finger.
"I... I won't forget this!!" He shouts before running down the hall towards what is, effectively, loafing around with the other overly rich faculty members.
Mr. Rust still stands there... but starts to lean up against the wall, right arm outstretched as he lowers his head. "Zach, look... Zach." He takes in a deep breath as he hides his face with his left hand, an elbow popping. "Listen... thanks, all right, that man, that man... grade A douchebag. But... but hell, that, that's... that's gonna, gonna get me fired." His voice grows more sullen, as if slowly coming to terms that, yes, that's just what happened and, yes, there probably won't be any avoiding it now.
Zach smiles coldly, and waves a bit. "I hope not," Zach says. "Maybe you'll learn something from it." Zach doubts it, however. He's been by some of the other schools, seen teachers like Marshall; so superior because they are /teachers/ and students should be falling over in gratitude for their very presence. He waves, a faint burst of violet sparks emitting from his hand as he does so. Then he turns to Rust. "You deserve better," Zach says firmly. "If that guy was any indicator, this place is positively /toxic/ for you. It may not physically kill you, but it'll kill you all the same."
Zach walks over to one of the busted benches, looking at it for a moment before setting down the plastic bag that was dangling off of his left wrist the entire time. The bag slides open to reveal a pair of plastic bottles, both damp from dew built up from the heat. He reaches over, grabbing some tools and starts to work on the bench. "Well," Zach says, "Let me help with this, then. At the very least, you'd be able to leave without these bastards saying you owe them anything."
He considers for a moment. "Other than the asshole," Zach says, "How you doing?"
Zach may /hope/ not, but Rust, admittedly, is in a place where he knows for a fact his job security is as strong as a frayed thread of rope, where that slightest misstep will see him tossed out the door at last and render the last ten or so years of his life spent trying to make something good of himself in getting a good job in education, well... moot.
Where Zach politely sets down some drinks and then all but invites himself to help (which, let's be honest, Rust needs a whoooooooole lot of), it all just sinks in to Howard as he breathes in deeply and brings himself back over to the benches.
"Yeah, he's... he's the worst of 'em... I'm, uh, I'm not a favorite of, of much anybody on staff." Which more or less confirms, exactly, what Zach is saying about this place. "But... Zach, this is... this is how I'm makin' my difference to the world," he says as he picks up a hammer and gets back to setting a nail with his left hand - something he used to do with his right hand before the injury sustained from Igniz.
"And I'm... hell, ya already know," he snorts as he gently gets the nail set, "Zach, I ain't a superhero. Helpin' clear that, that temple out... 's one thing. Goin' off to where it's all comin' together... I don't know, Zach. I don't know."
Notably, he manages to hammer himself in the thumb at least twice. It is a testament to his ability to resist physical pain that he just doesn't seem to notice this mistake, even when striking at such force it should be bruising at the minimum.
"I've spent... I've spent the last, last couple of years here just... despite it all, bein'... beaten 'round, nearly killed, made a joke out of... am I really gonna make much difference out there, when... when there's gonna be a bunch of other people, just as strong as us... or, y'know, even moreso... doin' it?"
The older man wipes his brow as he grabs one of the plastic bottles, tilting it in Zach's direction briefly in a quick way of saying 'thanks.' "'n if I go... they're gonna fire me, Zach. They give me hell, but... but I know I'm reachin' out to... to these kids. Rich people who... who really got to experience what it's, w-what it's like to just... work with your hands, do somethin' good on your own. Kids who'll, who'll grow up to be influential, Zach."
"I didn't... I didn't say this to him when we were together last, Zach, but... but I dunno if I can... if I can trade away this future for, for another I can't guarantee'll even happen."
Zach sets his hammer down, and runs a hand through his hair. "Well", Zach says. "That /is/ something to consider." He sits down, and turns to face Rust, staring at the older man for a long moment. Zach is considering his words carefully, and not at all certain that he is considering them well.
He rubs a hand across his face for a moment. This is going to be harsh, perhaps needlessly so. Rust is on the cusp of something major. To call it life-altering would be to do it injustice in the sheer scope of the thing.
"We're facing the end of the world," Zach says carefully. "You and I both know what these people are after. They want /everyone/ dead. Not just the old and infirm. Not just the psychics or the chi-wielders. /Everyone/. Every man, woman, and child. They want not only for everyone to die, but for noone else to be born."
Zach leans forward, intent. "They want to end any future you hope to build with these students, Rust." Zach frowns with a bit of compassion; the nature of the threat is as huge as the decision Rust is facing in many ways. "You may not be a superhero," Zach says. "But you are capable of a lot more than a vast majority of people. We're both pretty strong, you know. Your strengths may run in different directions than mine, but you're not weaker than I am either."
It is something to consider. Something that ends up being considered over half the bottled drink being inhaled in seconds, because Mr. Rust is a very thirsty man. Also a very nervous man, which contributes to just how quick he may be blowing through Zach's gift of cold water even when years of construction work helped condition him to the ideal expenditure of water versus work.
He sets down the drink as Zach drops the big bomb - they are facing the end of the world. The older man slows down from picking up a hammer again as Zach, someone with far more experience with the enemy they are facing, highlights the hard truth of the matter.
If /they/ succeed, those crazy-ass cultists, there isn't going to be a future. Zach leaning forward does not help things as sweat runs down the brow and, somehow, that awful combover seems to droop just a little more as he considers the work ahead of him. Benches. Broken benches, as Zach pushes that harder truth forward.
They want to end any future he hopes to build with those students.
They /will/ end any future he hopes to build with those students.
"Zach," he finally speaks up at the end of all this motivational talk, starting to stand up. "God damn it. Zach."
The older man shakes his head. He mouths Zach's name again, but doesn't say it as he stares down at the pile. The goddamn pile of benches. The benches that taunt him, the benches that anchor him. The hazards to his sanity and health in just how often he has to suffer doing all the petty handiwork for anyone and everyone on campus.
"SHIT." He exclaims out loud as he brings his arms, somehow, among the whole mass of them, a loud cry of anger as each and every broken bench in that bunch are hefted from where they lay, awaiting his gentle carpenting touch. These same benches have, time after time, been carefully mended and restored to usability... only for /some/ contrived means to see them turn into a new side project for him to have to do.
Three seconds later, all of them are summarily thrown out the long windows dotting this particular room. Glass shatters, splintering about the courtyard as various teachers suddenly run and hide, their undeserved feast crushed under a rain of busted benches that scatter all about the school grounds as one Mr. Rust stands, fists clenched. His breath is heavy. Angry. He doesn't need to look down and just see how even /more/ damaged said benches are after his little display of super strength and frustration.
"Zach," he says as he steps out towards the door, "put the tools down, we're, we're goin' right now and, and if anyone stops us," there's no pause to think about what drops out of his mouth next, "Mr. Marshall caught... caught that thing Antoine had, am, am I clear?"
Zach's eyes go wide as he watches Rust lose his temper. As much as one needs to beware the small people, you need to beware even more of the quiet ones. He watches, and then listens to Rust's decision. He pulls himself to his feet, looking around.
"Right," Zach says with a serious expression that doesn't quite reach the smile in his eyes. "The guy was clearly caught up in it. It's a good thing there were a pair of fighters around to bring it to an end without anyone else getting hurt." Zach peers out the window hesitantly before saying, "I'm sorry about that. I might have been a little harsher than I needed to be just now." No point in having Rust angry at /him/ for this.
"Shut up, I, I don't want to hear... 'nother word outta, outta your mouth," Rust interjects as he pats himself down to make sure he has everything. Ol' Rusty, check-- actually, at this point, may as well just /be/ Ol' Rusty at this rate as he storms out the doorway with that rare bit of urgency one normally doesn't see out of him, considering how slowly he typically covers ground.
Even his knees have taken 'shut up' to heart, no pops or cracks to speak of.
"Not another word 'till we're, 'till we're out the goddamn city."
Log created on 10:20:03 07/28/2011 by Rust, and last modified on 13:21:52 07/28/2011.