Description: North Korea has failed Chin-- Shadaloo's ambitions enough, and now they've decided to reach out and force the unification themselves... into China. Things seem grim for a nation with more than its fair share of problems. Will Vega's new rule improve their lives, should he take it? Howard Rust, on a journey to where Chun-Li is held, has no choice but to stop by here. Despite the strong possibility that North Korea will keep to its overbearing and tyrannical status quo if rescued, he chooses to fight the invasion even now.
Commander Sinclair is not a cruel man. He takes no pleasure in the destruction of his foes and the execution of his enemies; for Commander Sinclair, it is simply, a job. He has done it well, but the Shadaloo offensive is starting to grind to a halt. Frankly, Shadaloo needs lands; it needs resources, and it needs to secure bases. Which is why Commander Sinclair has assaulted Pyongyang with all the force at his command.
What had started as 'Negotiations' had rapidly turned around with Sinclair's order to massacre much of North Korea's high command. Now, the forces of Brute Company are laying siege to the beleagured nation. Rockets and missiles pound the city from above, and massed troops prepare to make the final push.
Sinclair himself is sat in his jeep, mirrored sunglasses surveying the carnage with his pencil-thin moustache slick with sweat. "We'll take them, Jaina." He says to the young aid sat next to him. "An army of the sick and infirm. Its no challenge at all. Lets just try to take the city quickly. Something tells me we're going to need those walls strong and firm again before too long."
With the fall of China-occupied Russia thanks to Quon's heroism in the face of the one person he might not have truly wanted to have to fight against, Howard Rust gets a heads up that China's about to be invaded - that they're finally looking to be on the /defensive/ now.
Just in time for him to see that broadcast. That broadcast of two mysterious women declaring their own ambitions... and the sight of a captured Chun-Li. Whether they've decided to declare themselves enemies of Vega or not... after her sacrifice to see that Munin and himself survived that disastrous defense of India, he can't let things stand that way.
To this end, he has no choice but to get moving. His leg's better. He's always going to be sore everywhere, that's just who he is - especially the part about just toughing it out anyway with sheer grit.
A plan to go /around/ Korea and maybe into some safe territory further down by boat gets derailed pretty quickly as the Russian boat he boarded gets forced to dock in North Korea due to a high concentration of ships in-bound for Japan.
He was ready to just lay low and wait for things to pass until the ship ended up being attacked by the docks. Let's just say... one thing leads to another.
Before long, the sight of a stocky but powerful man just under six feet and - more visibly - a really nasty dark purple... thing on their head marches towards the capital of North Korea. A long scarf flutters in the breeze, a rusted length of pipe in his right hand as he seems to stroll much, much, much too casually in one of the most volatile and secretive nations of the modern era.
The truth of the matter is that one of his knees has been giving him guff more than any sort of misplaced sense of badassery or worth, but he's come to realize that the only way out, for now, is through - and through, he'll have to go. He's going to be counting on Quon and the rest to pull through (and importantly, not get themselves killed)... but he's going to need to pull his weight, too.
Brute Company's going to have a new problem beyond a sick and infirm standing army that is among the largest in the world.
A cry goes out from a spotter; someone is coming up from behind them!
The shout goes out, and a small contingent of the armed forces turn to look, and verify. If there is one thing this war has taught every single soldier first-hand, it is not to underestimate the effect even one man can have on them as a whole. Their numbers are not enough to guarantee victory. Even the most deluded soldier has to accept that now. It simply is not the way the world works.
Even Sinclair turns to observe, and he holds out his hand to his aid. The young woman passes him a bottle of water, which he takes a swig from, before he brings a megaphone to his lips, and speaks loudly and clearly. He thinks he knows this man; or knows of him at least. That, purple, *thing*. And the pipe. They have been reported as quite the thorn in the side of the advancing forces.
"TURN AROUND AND GO BACK."
"I REPEAT. TURN BACK NOW. ONE MORE STEP FORWARD WILL BE MET WITH LETHAL FORCE."
COMBATSYS: Brute Company has started a fight here.
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Brute Company 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Brute Company
COMBATSYS: Brute Company gathers his will.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|====---\-------\0 Brute Company
The older man's face is pretty much as stone when it comes to the threat of lethal force. That said, even though he has been shown pretty readily to take bullets... and rockets... and a truck... he's not really especially eager to take them. Just because one can, doesn't mean one especially enjoys doing it.
The older man takes himself a good look over the gathered soldiers, and the very sound of that megaphone. That politely worded request in clear, concise English. It's too bad he doesn't have a megaphone in turn to reply with. Even if he does speak up, his voice is a bit too mumbly in times of strain to really be coherent above the sound of gunfire or a bunch of soldiers at the ready.
They are at the ready.
His left hand clenches slightly. He can't look back, so he doesn't. He's stuck here, there's no choice. He is going to have to take that one step and walk into a hailstorm of bullets and rockets and maybe a truck.
He decides, instead, to leap into it after a small jogging start, eyes narrowed and knee crackling loudly before he takes to the air at an entirely modest jump height as far as fighters go, left forearm raised vertically while his pipe is held behind himself, raising just a knee that barely stretches out from his body as he all but jumps into the hardened, battle-ready Brute Company with what might be the sort of jump kick so many random Chinese soldiers have attempted, but yet to match.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company blocks Rust's Strong Kick.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|======-\-------\0 Brute Company
Rust's kick comes smashing into the assembled soldiers. But where many of their fellows have tried hard to match Rust, they fall backwards. One man crumples, his heavy body armor cracking and breaking. But his fellows are still standing, and Sinclair's mirrored sunglasses give just a little dip of his head in respect. Alright. Enough. He may not like needless slaughter, and he may take no pleasure in his work, but his work is *his work* and he will not see it undone by one man with a bad haircut.
"Open fire, he had his warning, that's more than we've given most."
Rust's words are barely audible over gunfire, and now that gunfire is being turned towards him. The army is slow, slower even that Rust, to respond to an attack on its back, but it is slowly turning, and the soldiers who are already facing him provide ample enough reason to worry.
It is an all-too-familiar sound. The roar of automatic weapons sweeping in wide focus, flying dirt and the pervasive scent of expended gunpowder. The smell of manufactured death.
Commander Sinclair narrows his eyes, and, slowly, reaches underneath the chair of his jeep to produce a wickedly long corsair's blade. His aid says nothing, but looks distinctly more worried.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Brute Company's Strong Shot.
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Rust 0/-------/------=|=======\-------\0 Brute Company
The gunfire comes. It's messy business as soon as he even lands in a solid crouch. He turns his left side towards where he thinks most of the fire is coming from (to be fair it's actually kind of an even amount everywhere), bullets largely bouncing off of him like they were instead wads of spitballs at a velocity that straddles the line between 'annoying' and 'painful.' Really, the gunfire and how loud it is this close is, arguably, more dangerous. The scarf flutters again in the cool breeze, somehow - by some miracle - avoiding being ventilated by bullets even with how it dramatically waves without care. Assuming it has feelings, of a sort.
Howard wastes little time after the first volley as he pushes into the crowd shoulder-first, looking to shove several soldiers off their feet before turning Ol' Rusty about in an incredibly wide swing to send about as many of them flying as his reach can muster.
Come on now, he thinks to himself as he clenches his teeth, none of us came as far as we have just to get gunned down like some guy on death row - especially not when there's still this much at stake.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company endures Rust's Armed Combo.
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Rust 0/-------/-----==|=======\==-----\1 Brute Company
Rust smashes into the enemy forces, but he might be disturbed to realize that, as the enemy seem to be falling back from the smashing effect of that brutally hard strike, they aren't... panicking, as they often have before. Instead, a column of sorts seems to be opening up; a window in both the enemy ranks and the curtain of gunfire that had been raining down on him so mercilessly.
"Gun the engine, Jaina. Take me closer." Sinclair's voice is disturbingly quiet, as he brings his shining blade up in front of his face. "I want to hit him with my sword."
And it is that roar of an engine which heralds Commander Sinclair's charge into the battlefield. The jeep roars forwards, sending dirt and mud flying, and the Commander leans out of the side as he goes. The aim is not, for once, to smash the vehicle into Rust; no. The forces of Shadaloo are not stupid and they have learnt that hitting fighters with cars is a great way to lose cars.
Instead, Sinclair intends to run Rust through on the way, and leave his sword in the would-be defender of Korea!
COMBATSYS: Brute Company successfully hit Rust with Questionable Tactics.
-* CRITICAL HIT! *-
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Rust 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Brute Company
Zach says, "Rust: "Ah, thanks, was trying to reach that spot!""
It's true, he doesn't quite see the fear and hesitation in their eyes this close up - that they stay this close means he's just going to have to keep swinging. It's really the only way - shut up, shoulder, he mentally thinks to himself, he doesn't care that it took a nasty fall from when Cammy gave him the business once again.
As he clears aside soldiers, there's the roaring sound of the jeep engine that sees him turning his head moments too late in that direction, where he can see the commander eye-to-eye for that split second. Commander Sinclair might be able to see that they are not quite the eyes of a fierce warrior who has somehow brutishly fought his way past so many soldiers before.
It's a man who is actually very, very tired - but perhaps no more so than those who have had to march miles in the cold weather. (Come to think of it, why won't Rust put on a coat here?)
One split second later, the sword pokes into Rust's abdomen with enough momentum behind it that he clear knocks him over. The jeep feels a bit of a bump, too, as in the process the man somehow managed to get his pipe-wielding right hand between the front and back wheels - the back wheel runs it over for added insult to injury.
For precious moments after, the American man of the bad hair lies sprawled-out against the cold ground, a saber sticking up out of his gut. Some would have called the idea of running head-long to a man who has demonstrated such brutish strength and resilience, indeed, a very questionable tactic, and yet... the results of such a play are plain as day, as they may have themselves a bonafide fighter kill.
Howard blinks a couple of times. His right arm starts to twitch. His left hand, finally, sharply snaps up around the blade of the saber (he's not going to bother with trying to reach for the hilt), grasping the sharp edge and pulling it out. There is a bit of red that can be seen in his midsection, but as he tosses the saber into the dirt, they can see that it didn't manage to get too deeply into his stomach.
The fact that he can, and will, bleed with enough sufficient force behind it as he comes to stand up, core muscles shooting pain through his body, may be worth renewing the assault against him yet. Ol' Rusty is picked back up with his right hand as he sneers out to the lot of them like some kind of monstrous freak of nature that shouldn't still be moving, left hand shooting forward in an open palming motion to try and thrust back anybody in front of him (and, naturally, behind /them/).
"'m not some kind of... f-friggin' pig, the hell's," his muttering trails off to incoherency, adrenaline having probably overtaken better judgment for the moment.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company blocks Rust's Random Strike.
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Rust 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 Brute Company
Commander Sinclair doesn't shirk from his duty; it is his job to murder and brutalize in the name of, well, in truth, whoever is paying his cheques. At this moment in time, that means working on behalf of Vega, and therefore his murderous duty means he kills the young, the old, the weak, and the strong with equal ease.
Still, he cannot help but feel his job here was... unsatisfactory.
"Take his body, burn it."
Well, that's that.
But as the soldiers move to retrieve the corpse... the corpse moves. And even attacks them! In their stunned state, they manage to fend off the assault from Rust, though it is still enough to make them hesitate before they carry on. "S-Sir! Sir! He's not... he's not DEAD, sir!"
Sinclair turns around, and those mirrored sunglasses hide his disbelieving expression.
"You heard me." He repeats, as though this was totally expected. "Burn. The. Body."
A roaring wave of flames issue from the surrounding troopers; two men with flamethrowers brought forward hastily to do the honors. Rust might not be a pig, but that doesn't mean that they can't try to cook him up like one!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Brute Company's Trick Shot.
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Rust 0/-------/-======|===----\-------\0 Brute Company
The red spot in the man's gut seems to get a bit bigger against the cloth. Even if that wound didn't kill him, that's the kind of wound that should get people to stop and seek medical attention! He visibly stumbles a little even after that forceful palm thrust, just in time to watch one of the two flamethrower-wielding men walk up to him under the orders to, yes, burn the body.
Howard's eyes twitch in anger when he sees flame start to dance out the tip of the first. So much, he walks up and just slams his palm into the business end, a brief gout of flame shooting around his forearm but not doing much more than that.
"Christ," he actually utters almost loudly enough to be coherent, "all right, y'know, I, I can forgive the bullets, the... the knives. And, ah, I think... I think I might just, just say I'll just, just forgive the rockets, but... but setting me on... on fi--"
Number two turns it on from his blindside. Fwoosh! His right arm's on fire! His right arm's on fire! He raises his arm and Ol' Rusty in a pointless defensive gesture as he staggers back (this staggering back is ultimately what saves him from being /fully/ caught on fire). Common sense tells him that no, flailing his arm around isn't going to do it.
Immediately he pitches himself on the ground, rolling back and forth to try and put out the fire. Somewhere around the fourth repetition, he actually swings Ol' Rusty out low among those gathered in arm's reach - especially if flamethrower guys are looking to set him on fire again.
The moment he gets back up he swears he's going to give them all detention. He has forgotten in the heat of the moment that he is not a high school teacher any more and that he equates a bunch of deadly, armed, well-trained soldiers to being the same as the noisy, curiously-powerful schoolchildren he once taught in what might be a fit of PTSD.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company dodges Rust's Foundation Layer.
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Rust 0/-------/-======|===----\-------\0 Brute Company
Commander Sinclair presses his lips together into a long, thin line. Watching this man being burned alive is not, really, how he had imagined his triumph against the North Koreans would go. There's a snap of his fingers, and his aid hands him his bottle of water. Sipping from that again, he does not look away from the scene laid out before him. The bright fire is making him thirsty. How... upsetting.
Rust's flailing is easy to see coming, relatively. Perhaps it is partly because nobody wants to get close to a guy who is *on fire*. Whatever the case, the troopers are keeping their distance, and wait until the flames are starting to burn down until they make their next move.
This, it turns out, is to move forward as one. With the warrior pretty much surrounded, they all know what order is going to come next, before it is even given.
"Afix bayonets."
*Chnk chnk*
"Charge."
"HOO-HAAAAAAAAAAH!"
And if Rust had ever had the misfortune to be standing on the playing fields when one of those terribly violent sports teams had been rushing, that might just come back to him now.
COMBATSYS: Rust interrupts Fierce Punch from Brute Company with Cement Upper.
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Rust 1/-------/=======|=======\-------\0 Brute Company
Howard grunts as he has to really compact his aching abdominal muscles again to pull himself up. He remembers having to charge head-on against fire not all that long ago. That he got out of such an encounter with little more than a good number of burns and an inability to ever appreciate saunas ever again seems trivial compared to the reaction over just having his right arm on fire.
Maybe he's just letting this whole scenario drag him down.
The clicking of bayonets sees him standing back up a bit more alert after stretching out one of his legs (god damn kink in them), in which... yes, he is kind of reminded of visiting a soccer game abroad while he was a part of Pacific. It was a trip with some faculty members. They had front row seats.
Hooligans rushed him. It wasn't pleasant. That time, he kind of had no choice but to endure it, but here....
He just shakes his head once and draws Ol' Rusty back, leaning forward. His right forearm is still a bit sore from being run over by a jeep, but, you know, at the end of the day... even if his grip with it isn't the best now, he can still hold the pipe and swing it. Swirling his wrist a bit just to make sure he still has that grip, he moves forward in an advancing uppercut just as the guys to his side and back glance him with their bayonets.
Those gathered about in /front/ of him, however, are treated to a monstrous advancing uppercut swing that should clear a good number of them all out of his way, the trademark uppercut that continues to have little to do with cement.
It may be seen as a cardinal sign of disrespect that he might knock some of them higher than a close-by statue of Dear Leader, but such niceties, admittedly, kind of escape his notice in the heat of the moment.
Drawing Ol' Rusty back down, he coughs once as he eyes those surrounding him, a silent challenge and an internal worry that maybe he should've charged up his cellphone in Russia while he still could.
Commander Sinclair can do nothing as the charge of his troops is scattered, the men turned into so many flying pins. That's something he's never going to get used to seeing. They had practiced that drill a hundred times, and yet, when it comes to being put into action... even the best laid plans of Shadaloo's men are forced to go awry.
"Jaina." He says, "Back a dozen meters. I'm calling in The Bomb."
Unlike some of Shadaloo's more notorious commanders, Sinclair recognizes the value in his men; he does not have enough to waste. So it is that Rust gets a few moments preparation as to what is coming. People are running, dragging their comrades back and out of his way; his challenge, seems to go unanswered. It does not look like they wish to stand up against him, and looking at the devastation he has wrought amongst their ranks, can anyone blame them?
But the whistling from above tells a very different story.
The descending weapon casts a growing shadow over Rust, a whistling shell which, upon impact, will *DETONATE* with an earth-shaking kaboom. Regardless of whether or not Rust is actually underneath it at the time, Sinclair will allow himself a small smile. He is, after all, a villain, and there are some things which no villains can resist saying.
"That should be the end of him." He states, as the dust cloud rolls upwards. "Nobody could possibly have survived that."
Jaina rolls her eyes.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Brute Company's Rocket Shower.
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Rust 1/-----==/=======|=------\-------\0 Brute Company
They're all backing off - this is a trend he's been seeing since Iran, where there was once what seemed to be a tireless advance that was made even in spite of fear and/or tactical considerations. Maybe they're going to retreat. Maybe they'll just leave well enough alone. Even so, he is standing in a nation with among the very worst human rights records in the entire world - a place that so many would say deserves intervention. Is it really right to stop them from doing that?
Curiously, Howard doesn't really seem to go anywhere when he hears the whistling. If anything, his shoulders start to slump as he thinks he recognizes where this is about to g-- oh, wait, no, it's going to be even worse than that. He knows for a fact he can't just outrun it. He clenches his left fist tight and crosses his arms, ducking his head as he goes to a kneel - a sad, pathetic sight for some.
The bomb falls directly on top of him in the professed earth-shattering kaboom. A large crater forms where the man stands, as dirt, pavement, and monuments alike all shudder and buckle under the force of the bomb. The shockwave runs through the battlefield, surely rattling teeth and nerves as much as structures.
As the smoke rises, some might say that nobody, indeed, could have survived such a direct hit. Only the popping sounds of something or another remain. Something popping, something cracking, right from the crater.
Followed by a series of coughs. The flames left burn ever so brightly, so violently, that a moment of silence might be warranted. That something so great, so big has to be used to take out /one/ man.
There's a shadow and the trail of something moving in the smoke. The popping sounds continue. Something moves, ever-so-stiffly from the wreckage. They can see a spot of very dark purple, as the smoke clears around a singed man with a burnt (but largely intact) scarf waving about, and - inexplicably - a still intact rusted length of pipe. If... anyone ever considered a rusted length of pipe no longer really suitable for its intended purpose prior to being used as a blunt instrument really 'intact.'
"You... you d-dropped one of those on me, didn't... you," he accuses in mumble, stepping towards the almost assuredly surprised Brute Company, moving forward with every step. They have cleared blast range, and even now the man walks at an entirely glacial pace thanks to stiffness all over his body and form that he can't quite fight out, though he tries to flex it out in one of his shoulders at least.
"'s gonna... take a, a lot more th-than... that," he promises them as he stops for a moment and points Ol' Rusty out to the lot of them in something of a challenge, before lowering his pipe.
COMBATSYS: Rust gains composure.
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Rust 1/-------/=======|=------\-------\0 Brute Company
Sinclair had been enjoying his water. Something to sip whilst waiting for the smoke to clear so he can order his men in to deal with the body, and then turn their attention back to crushing the defenders of Pyongyang. When he sees that Rust is not, in fact, scattered over a large area, he spews that water out.
"Sir, may I suggest that it is time to consider a tactical retreat?"
The first words out of Jaina's lips. The young aid is starting to lose faith in the ability of their men to complete this mission. Yes, it is one man (just ONE MAN), but it seems like they simply can not break him.
"Would you like to plead for mercy from Kim Jong Un?" He snaps, "Or perhaps you'd rather test your luck with Vega. No. Don't be ridiculous. All we need is... a fresh perspective. Order the men to fall back and prepare plan alpha seven."
He himself, picks up his megaphone.
"SIR. I DO NOT KNOW WHO YOU ARE, BUT YOU HAVE MADE YOUR POINT. NO MAN COULD LOOK AT WHAT YOU'VE DONE TODAY AND SAY THAT YOU DID NOT TRY."
There's a moments hesitation, he clears his throat.
"BUT WE *HAVE* MUCH MORE. WE HAVE MANY MEN HERE, SIR. NOT ONE OF THEM WILL RETREAT."
"STOP THIS. RETREAT. YOU ARE NO COWARD, BUT WHY THROW YOUR LIFE AWAY FOR *THEM*?"
COMBATSYS: Brute Company gathers his will.
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Rust 1/-------/=======|=====--\-------\0 Brute Company
Once again, addressed by megaphone. Howard still doesn't have one, but the silence that goes through the battlefield aside from these words, microphone feedback, and the wind might just be an open enough forum for him to speak up as he continues his march along over to the gathered. If they fall back, he can't outrun them. It's fairly easy to outrun the occasionally seemingly unstoppable Howard Rust - especially after coming out of serious trauma just like that.
He coughs once, patting his chest and clearing his throat. He's not sure if he can actually be heard, having become more aware of his mumbling issues as of recent times when he didn't think Munin was listening to him during their attempted retreat from India.
"Y'know, uh, I was... kinda... thinkin' 'bout it, under the, uh, the bomb," he gestures with his left hand back, "we... we all know 'bout, uh, North Korea." They all do - it's a hellhole that is host to one of the most intense leader worship cultures ever known in history. He's still not sure if they can hear him!
"Yeah. They... they got it... rough." He exhales loudly as one of his knees complain. He dutifully chooses to ignore it as he scratches at his gut and frowns. "If... if I got rid of you, who's to say that, that... ah, that it's going to, to... get better?" Let's be realistic - this is a political hot topic. Really, right now, this could be the chance to at long last depose a horrible regime and change lives for the better - would letting them conquer North Korea bring about this change?
"No." Howard speaks up as he shakes his head and continues walking forward. "Under Vega... y'know, I think... he's gonna, he's gonna make it worse. I saw... his men, in Nepal. They... they gunned down i-innocents. Innocent people. I... I felt his, his power first hand." He almost breaks into a cold sweat, thinking about it. The very sensation of being hit by Vega transcends mere physical harm - he imparts so much of his hatred and ambition into that power that on some level, no matter how hard you resolve, you cannot help but feel meek or possibly submissive to it. He is fear. He is horror. He is /power/ itself, in many ways - maybe the very embodiment of human's will to achieve and conquer, to shape things to their very desires and needs.
"He'll... he'll keep the, the cruelty going. He... he might improve on it, by, uh, making it... worse." He trips up a little in comparing 'improved' to 'bad,' but to be fair most people aren't expected to give rousing speeches shortly after /surviving a direct hit with a bomb/. "I... I don't want to, to see anyone else subjected to, to that."
He draws ever closer, flexing the fingers on his right hand to insure he still has a good hold and grip on the pipe, even if his stance seems a little more tired and limp. "When he, he and some... some other people invaded Southtown years ago, I... I was there," he sneers, "the, the occupations... the way they, they attacked /schools/. With... with /children/." Now he's just getting angry remembering how helpless he felt in the big picture.
"If, if I let him take this... if, if I let you take these people, what's... what's he going to do?" He shouts. "WHAT THE HELL IS HE GOING... GOING TO DO?"
He remembers all the years people tried to encourage him to chase his dreams, to get back in shape. To really make a true bid for fighting superstardom. Every trial has somehow managed to harden him, make him stronger and stronger yet. He never imagined he would be caught in a true wide-scale war such as this. From simple students with ambitions, to would-be underworld kingpins, to even wandering fighters already having attained some sort of peace and what they want, they all pushed him.
This, is the result, as Howard Rust closes ever further, leaning forward as he gains a little bit of momentum from 'sluggish walk' to 'nearly jogging.'
"Maybe... maybe things won't, won't get better here for... for what I'm doin' right here. They probably won't, y'know, thank me, or... maybe they'll treat me like, like some kind of invader like /you/," which isn't far from the truth, he is very much illegally in North Korean borders, "but... but y'know, I don't... I don't give a god... damn... shit."
Maybe Vega has a plan to improve the lives of all involved, paradoxically - but he doesn't trust that... no, he's somehow even more than a man, but he's not going to let it stop him.
"I... I can't beat Vega on my own. He, he showed me out in India," he admits in a moment of humility, "but... but I'm not actin' alone. Everywhere... people I, I call friends, people I, I don't know... they're fighting. Some... some, even bigger groups of people than... than you." Still, a company is not a small number of soldiers.
"So... so now, I gotta, I gotta give you the... the deal," he coughs once, maybe he shouldn't have really inhaled the smoke from that bomb. It might be doing something really, really bad to his lungs. Ol' Rusty is suddenly taken in two hands as he moves at the most speed he can really muster outside of choice maneuvers, all but running (...jogging) into the soldiers if they don't back off.
"You get the, the hell out of my face and, and out of this place right now, or--" He doesn't finish. He's too busy swinging like a goddamn lunatic with fierce, violent two-handed swings, almost like a baseball bat set to try and overpower whatever defensive measures they set up to stop him. He doesn't have time to be playing with words with a bunch of terrorists, as it were.
The scarf dramatically flaps about with every move, singed and darkened but not destroyed, much like the rest of himself.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company endures Rust's Crushing Strike.
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Rust 1/------=/=======|=======\=------\1 Brute Company
Sinclair has listened to many speeches in his time. He has heard men beg for their lives, he has heard people proclaim that he cannot win; that he will meet his equal, that he will be destroyed for the evil he has done. Sinclair is not a good man, though he is not deluded enough to embrace his reputation as an evil one either. The fact is, when a warrior like Rust sets his mind to it, he can move mountains. Would plan Alpha Seven work? Sinclair does not know. But listening to the fury in the man's voice... the impassioned nature of it, he knows that he will not be receiving any mercy.
Commander Sinclair had not been involved in Southtown himself; though it had been the big for power which had convinced him that Vega was, in fact, a man with the means and the ability to make good on his rewards. He had only stood in Vega's presence a handful of times, but he knew for certain that Rust's fear, is just as sensible as anything else he might say. They are Shadaloo. They would plunge the world into darkness and despair; but for those loyal? For Sinclair himself and his men? Perhaps, rewards worth damning every other soul on the planet.
"Jaina." Sinclair says, as he draws his pistol. The swathe of destruction Rust is carving through his men provides him ample time to prepare. "Get out of here. Find my wife, if the worst happens. Make sure those Shadaloo bastards pay up."
When the scarf-wrapped man finally slows in his swinging, finely polished boots crunch across the scorched and blood-stained ground towards him. There is a cold fury in Commander Sinclair's eyes; all around them lay the dead and the dying, the bleeding and the broke. He nods his head, once. Behind him, the jeep is retreating; at least one lie in his own attempt to bluff Howard Rust, even if most of the others are, by now, too beaten up to retreat on their own.
"I can't say what Vega will do." Such... staggering lack of respect, not even a title - compared to so many of Shadaloo's men, Sinclair really does seem to have some common sense about him. Perhaps that's why he's survived so long. "But I have your measure, Sir. I have watched you. You've played the game well, but it is time, to die."
Lashing out with surprising speed for an untrained fighter, Sinclair aims to smash his boot into Rust's knee, but he does not end there. He's desperate, backed into a corner, and he will not go down without a fight.
His gun comes around, aimed to press into the wound left by his sword, and he squeezes the trigger, again and again, until the damned thing jams, and then, he brings that up, to try and brutally crush Rust's injured shoulder with the butt of the weapon. Should all go according to plan, he has just two words left; delivered without any mercy at all in his cold, dark tone. Rust's reflection visible in those mirrored glasses.
"Stay. Down."
COMBATSYS: Brute Company successfully hit Rust with Threat Assessment.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////// ]
Rust 1/--=====/=======|=------\-------\0 Brute Company
Howard's frantic swinging does, eventually, slow. He inhaled something he shouldn't - it's wrecking his lungs something fierce. He's going to be due for a sickening coughing fit before long, especially after such incredibly strenuous efforts to fight off men who hold nothing back against him. Bullets, blades, the bomb... even for one man, one man renowned now for his borderline superhuman resistance to injury not typically seen among people of his caliber of fighter can really only soak so much at once.
He regards Sinclar blearily with a huff and a grunt (and a cough), as the commander brings his own expertise and observations to bear with unrelenting speed and decisive strength - the boot to his knee immediately sees Howard to a kneel. The kick is incredibly respectful in its form and strength. He wonders in brief if Commander Sinclair would have been able to stand up to the likes of Munin on his own (he sure hopes she's gotten help back out wherever she went for it, that whoever she went to listened).
From there, it's too late for him to move forth. Sinclair's got his number, and pumps bullet after bullet into his stomach. It is excruciating to watch, maybe even gut-wrenching for those few who stay behind to watch their Commander's back - to see a man take an entire clip of a gun. The man in the shades may even see that a bullet or two almost certainly gets /inside/ him. That's incredibly dangerous - there may be, at least, a legitimate wound that has a remote chance of claiming this man's life, if it was able to actually get in deeply enough.
Writhing in pain too much to stand back up when the weapon jams, he brings it into his aching shoulder with such force that - somehow - it gets rid off that feeling of stiffness even with the sickening crack, a sigh of something that's almost relief as he feels a sudden surge of added feeling and flexibility into his shoulder. The shock is still enough for him to drop Ol' Rusty onto the ground with a clatter, giving the words an added point even as his left hand clutches his bleeding stomach.
Howard, sweat and dirt irritating his eyes (to say nothing of the disgusting hairpiece), gives Commander Sinclair one good, hard stare for the tense moment that it looks like it'll be it. He visibly struggles, breathing heavily in and out as he considers this demand, surrounded by a culture of worship of a person who to the outside world does not deserve it, by people whose lives may continue to be incredibly miserable regardless of the outcome between these people, of the world at large that is only starting to truly fight back against Shadaloo's ambitions.
To this, Howard finds the strength to pick Ol' Rusty back up, rearing it back once as his eyes go out of focus to some space behind the Commander, at which point, he answers.
He answers with a sudden forward thrust with such strength behind it that he carries himself forward with it, boots scraping into the ground under its momentum. He seeks to put Ol' Rusty through a single line of space - a line of space occupied by Sinclair and whoever may be foolishly standing behind their intrepid commander, contact resounding across the battlefield like the sound of a wrecking ball hitting a decrepit building as the blow carries him past the commander - by all appearances, a dramatic samurai-like dash-and-smash, Howard ending in a kneel with his left hand still clutching his stomach as Ol' Rusty is now pointed outwards and away.
"No," he says.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Brute Company with Condemned.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ < > / ]
Rust 0/-------/------=|======-\-------\0 Brute Company
Sinclair fancied himself for a fighter, once. But he did not have the skill for it; he is a mere man. A strong man, perhaps, but not a man who could rise on his own into the annuls of legend. The smile on the Commander's lips is an unpleasant thing indeed. He does not feel pleasure for the pain he has caused Rust; but there is a certain sense of satisfaction. HE has succeeded where everyone else failed. If Rust would only lay down and die, his reputation would only grow.
But Rust does not die. Instead, all too quickly, Rust is coming forwards. Sinclair tries to put his gun in the way, to parry that pipe with his sidearm... but then, Rust is behind him.
Sinclair looks down at the shattered remains of his weapon, the twisted lump of metal, and the blood welling thick through his uniform.
He sinks to his knees. And then, to the blood-slick ground. His glasses knocked from his face, shattering against the ground. His eyes close, and he sighs.
"Well... played."
Had the plan worked? No. The Commander lays struck down, those few men still left to try and prepare for the counterassault also taken with him. It is in these moments that we define who we are.
"COMMANDER!"
Looking for all the world like a woman who can't even believe she's doing it herself, the jeep comes tearing back across the battlefield. It goes against every tactical protocol; the Company is broken, beaten and crushed. But Jaina does not want this to be the end for her Commander. She has just one shot.
And if she has to mow Rust down with her jeep to do it, then that is what she will do.
COMBATSYS: Brute Company can no longer fight.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Brute Company's Huge Random Weapon EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/-----==|
There's another palpable silence for that heat of the moment in which Rust is waiting for that confirmation, even as he feels the warmth of his body trying to escape into his now bloodied gloved left hand. A part of him almost does want to just kneel there and hope someone comes to help - it's getting increasingly harder to breathe even as he presses harder against it. He has nothing more to say to Sinclair as he, dazed, looks to the broken and fallen. Again, that same sort of hollow feeling. Given the location, it's hard to tell if even standing up to stop this wicked order from being toppled was anything close to being the right thing to do.
A voice screams for the commander, and Howard sharply turns his head. The jeep rushes for him - in any healthier a state, the results of such a maneuver are a foregone conclusion. While he is there, kneeling and bleeding, it is a much, much closer fight.
At the very point of impact, it seems to solidly be in the jeep's favor as his knees grind against the ground, his left arm partially embedded in its grill in a last-minute attempt to try and 'catch' it with his forearm stopping him from being run over. It instead carries him along for the ride, a short ways, until he puts his leg muscles into it and starts pushing back to forcefully slow it to a halt.
He stops the jeep pretty much by the time his heels are ready to dig into the fallen form of the Commander (to say nothing of any other bodies that might have come in between), struggling to rise and stand with a vicious shout and a raised pipe.
He stops before he swings again out of adrenaline and fury, to stare down the comparatively meeker assistant with a scowl before his face softens. His raised arm lowers, as he brings his left hand away from his wound to use the hood of the jeep to pull himself up.
"It's done," he mumbles out, "j-just... go. Get out." He speaks up a little more forcefully as his left hand returns to his gut with a wince. In the big picture... he's hurt, he should stop, he should lay down and wait for help. On the other hand, he's not going to be able to trust North Korea with anything resembling proper care. He'll just have to attempt to massage the bullets out himself as he staggers off. The scarf is significantly more lively than the person wielding it, trailing upwards and off to the east from a western wind.
He's hoping the South will be in good enough hands that maybe he can work out a route to Myanmar - or perhaps Rugalistan - from there. He casts no glances back to the fallen form of the commander, the jeep, the assistant, or any other soldiers about as he starts walking southward. Ol' Rusty still stays in his right hand, and one of his knees pops in relative agreement of this idea despite not really wanting to be flexed so much right about now.
Everywhere, he sees depictions of the recently deceased Kim Jong-il. This very city housed his funeral just at the end of the last year. They probably won't thank him for this - they might call it an act of divine power from the new leader himself.
Howard doesn't really have the time or inclination to soak up accolades. He's still on a clock to a job schedule that he more or less imprisons himself inside, working extra hours to just fight off the fatigue and weakness of his body to a stubborn march to an end that seems more and more in reach every passing day.
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\ <
Rust 0/-------/-----==|
Log created on 09:40:56 03/03/2012 by Rust, and last modified on 09:03:44 03/05/2012.