Description: "Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are." [Winner: Athena]
Athena Asamiya has never really known a time in her life where she held very much control over her schedule. She had taken to the training offered by the venerable Chin Gentsei with a zeal that could not be abated, the younger girl sticking to the prescribed regimen of exercise, meditation, and combat training to the letter. Then came the fighting events, as what must have originally seemed like a couple of kids playing at being 'fighters' with their drunk caretaker being tricked into tagging along and her schedule got even more stringent.
It didn't get any better when, after a year of gaining gradual notice in the fighting ciruits, an impromptu invitation to sing at a small time charity tournament sparked the chain of events that would lead to her being a world famous celebrity. Now days, her days are booked - private tutors do their best to help her keep up with school work while agents and managers conspire to keep her making appearances at singing events and fighting events around the globe!
As such, she knew almost nothing of Lee Chaolan's latest fighting tournament until she was recently informed she would be fighting in it. Someone in the marketing department of the firm managing the girl's idol career thought that the somewhat lighter mood of the event would be a good publicity appearance for Athena and thus paper work was filed, forms signed, plans made, and somewhere along the line, the eternally busy girl was told which flight she needed to take and when.
And now she's here, having arrived at the seaside resort an hour before. As with most of her public appearances, this event is no low-key bout. People have been bustling about for hours, setting up cameras, mics, trying to sneak in pictures and interviews wherever possible. Depending on the time of his arrival, Rust might feel slightly lost in the commotion of it all. There might be some popperazzi that tries to locate the once-shop teacher to get his thoughts on fighting someone as famous as Athena Asamiya and how intimidating that must be for him... And there is almost definitely a reporter that recognizes the Southtown hero for who he is and wants to seize the opportunity to talk about some of the less 'pleasant' experiences from the man's past...
It's no secret when the girl finally leaves the resort room set aside from her, as the cheers and excited buzz picks up measureably. Stepping out into the wooden walkway surrounding the resort, the young star is already bearing her ready, warm smile, right hand lifted to wave at those gathered as she tries to make her way down to the beach proper where the match is slated to take place. Her attire is simple and themely - a pristine white, breezy summer dress extends down to the girl's knees, swirling easily about her figure as she moves about. The straps over her shoulders from beneath the bodice of the garmet are crimson - a stark contrast with the white dress and a likely indicator of the swim attire worn beneath it per event rules.
Her feet are clad in sandals as violet as her long hair which is adorned by a golden band to keep it somewhat in check. With a skip in her step, she slips forward, negotiating the crowd like a natural, sometimes responding to those pressing in around her with a verbal acknowledgement - 'Great to see you again!' is expressed cheerfully. 'I hope you've been well since last time!' is declared sincerely. 'Ahhh, you would have to ask my manager that!' is offered with a light laugh with just a touch of uneasiness.
When it seems she's about to get completely cut off from approaching the beach, Athena somehow manages to give them all the slip, stepping out from the other side of the mob to plant her feet on the white sand. Many might find the ordeal of simply making it to the cordoned fighting location a draining challenge in and of itself, but Athena only seems energized by all the todo, eyes sparkling in excitement as she takes stock of the sandy stage, right hand lifting to brush her hair back over her shoulder. "Now," she wonders out loud to herself, "Who do I have the honor of meeting this time?" Such a lovely location. She quietly wishes she could stay to enjoy it, trying for a fleeting moment to forget other obligations in her schedule that might make that impossible.
She wouldn't feel alone about feeling a lack of control, even if the scale of such 'control' between their lives is different. Enter the middle-aged American man, relatively fresh back from a match in Metro City against one of their local heroes - the electrifying Dean. It went about as well as-- well, that's another story altogether.
A man who came home to having straws drawn in abesentia at the Kyokugen Dojo as to who to send to that beach tournament thing that even now he's not entirely sure he's completely in the loop over. Wear something summer-y, something you probably won't miss, have swimwear or something on, get shoved out the door and take the next flight... he didn't even really have much time to pick his /outfit/.
He's almost late to the match as it is, which gives reporters more time to mob where he comes out a different end of the seaside resort. For some incredibly strange reason he's wearing a bright neon cyan gi top (with the usual brown belt, but sans the toolbelt), searing neon green trunks, a pair of magenta sandals, and... that thing on his head, that horrible, disgusting, not at all convincing hairpiece is also a bright neon green to match the trunks. It's not entirely clear what he could be wearing under there, but some might see a flash of magenta inside his top.
More importantly, does he have more than one of those abominations he confuses for hair?!
"H-Hey, no, stop, 'm late," he protests as he shows severe difficulty in navigating the sea of paparazzi and their blinding cameras. His one free hand fails to really protect him from those lights, while his right hand - clenched as it is around his trademark rusted length of pipe - fails to hide the entirety of those scars running through his palm and just past his wrist. The famous injury from early 2009 that nearly ended his fighting career.
He fails to get much of a word in to the numerous questions asked of him, easily talked over with so many things shoved into his face. It gets a bit worse as he accidentally walks off the side of the peer into a short tumble onto the beach. It's as much a failure of adhering to some safety guidelines as it is a failure to navigate the paparazzi maze.
Athena has her answer as to who she's fighting as the older man rolls forward through the white sand into a stand, a brief wince on his face as he tries to gently wave them off with his free hand while wiping sand out of his eyes and mouth with his right forearm.
There's no doubt a few laughs and a few animated .gif files to pass through the humor sites online for that bit at his expense.
"Th-this is the right beach, right, tell me I, I got to the right one," he mutters aloud as he looks all around with as much nervousness as tiredness, a low grunt as he considers what's going to happen if he did just tumble onto the wrong beac--
He goes still for a moment when he catches sight of her. It's impossible for her /not/ to catch eyes and stand out in a crowd. The distance between her and the rest fills in one of the other uncertain pieces of the hastily delivered picture to him.
"A... Athena?" It might be hard to hear him, given fans are no doubt clamoring and cheering loud enough to speak over him - an unlikely hero of a fair number of conflicts around the world. He... looks far more the part of a lost (armed) tourist).
Clearing his throat, he speaks up again as he points downward with his left hand to the ground, "this is where the, uh, the... the fight's happening, right, the, the whole tournament by that... that Lee guy? I'm... I'm not exactly sure..."
He sure hopes he didn't accidentally interrupt the beginnings of a concert or something, though the lack of mobbing security should probably clue him in on that.
It takes effort to tune them out - but it is effort well spent for the successful girl. For while she can at once feed off the energy of the crowd, it is also distracting in a moment where she would very much like to focus on the peace such a gorgeous location could afford one if not for the fact that it was brimming with fans. The nature of the fans certainly varied. Some were fight fanatics that would have shown up for any venue. Many were were probably there because they would make it to any of Athena's appearances that were within their means to attend. And then, of course, there were those who might have been drawn out simply because of the nature of the advertising campaign behind this curious tournament...
Were it not due to an unfortunate overlap in timing, had Asamiya been made aware of what had transpired against her younger Psycho Soldier cohort, she would have certainly bowed out of the event all together. For now, all she knows of it is that it is intended to be a fun, summer-themed fighting romp staged on the beautiful beaches around the world and what is there to not like about that?
She turns around suddenly, without apparent provocation, feet slipping easily over the sand, sharp, violet eyes settling on the garishly clothed individual a full second before he tumbles ungracefully off the side of the pier. It was almost as if she had known something worth watching was about to happen in that direction. Eyes widen slightly in concern at first, but the flash of worry passes quickly as the man seems to be all right as he's going to be at this exact moment, coming up on his feet in the end. She observes him muttering something at first, her mouth warming into a smile so sincere one would think she was meeting a life-long friend she hadn't seen for a while.
"So they tell me, anyway," Athena replies, her tone conversational and friendly, her voice raised enough to be heard over the ongoing din. She strides toward the man with a certain level of composed confidence, as if the only two people present in the sea-side cove were he and her. Seeing him brings back memories of a time not long enough ago - of a battle fought for the sake of all, of a sefless, desperate group taking a stand against a monster. There is a glimmer of those thoughts in her eyes as she closes distance with the sturdy fighter, her smile fading slightly, her expression becoming a touch more somber.
"It is..." the world-renown idol continues, resting one hand over another in front of her as she bends forward at the waist, her immaculately cared for hair slipping forward over a shoulder as she bows formally, "truly an honor to challenge a man such as yourself today." She rises back up, back straight, eyes never once even straying toward his hairpiece (maybe it's a self-defense mechanism?) as she focuses on his face.
Again her hand lifts, brushing her hair back over her shoulder out of habit. The extremely respectful greeting for the man most gathered were assuming was simply here as some kind of comic relief catches those who follow the exchange off guard and there is a slight air of confusion sensed in those nearby, but Athena pays it no mind. "Last time I saw you..." Last time she saw him, he was a champion of the most unlikely sort. Eyes narrow slightly as she studies his face further. He was targeted repeatedly by the Psycho Powered devil - such attacks have cracked the will of countless people and left shattered husks in the wake of his passing. Sucked back into the whirlwind of her life, she had, only fleetingly, wondered about those who had put all on the line to keep the people of Metro safe for another day. How had the fared? She had been trained and disciplined to weather the Psychic assaults of Shadaloo's mastermind... but what of the others? But she had never met any of them in person since to ask if the nightmare of Vega's touch had finally dulled.
"Are you still..." she continues then cuts herself off, shaking her head. This isn't the time to be dredging up darker times. Not here beneath the sun with the refreshing ocean breeze washing over them. Her expression shifts, the change subtle but undeniable, the girl brightening once again. "You seem to have been caught a little off guard. If you need time to prepare..." She's in no hurry. Eyes flit over what is resting atop his head before looking into his eyes once more. "A bold outfit." the girl continues in a friendly tone. "I have to wonder if there is a story behind it?"
So it is the place? There's a slow nod, though the tension doesn't leave his face. The tension of a man hurried and harried and humbled several times over in a very small span of time. If Athena were to represent the embodiment of the tranquility of these white sands with that smile... Howard Rust over there is probably the representation of a disturbed ocean, never quite finding equilibrium among its massive waters as the waves build and crash all over.
Also, if the ocean suddenly had a really bad kink in one of its elbows it really needed to flex out like he does. That is also a very apt comparison, flexing his left arm inward to give it one of those somewhat disturbing pops as she gives the most respectful bow. It settles in a moment later after her statement that this isn't only the venue - she is his opponent. One she is truly honored to challenge.
"I, I, uh, I am too. I mean," he stammers a bit as he returns the bow, which challenges her ability to avoid catching sight of that /thing/ he has on his scalp. It's not hard to stop the memories flooding back in of a terrible time in Metro City's history when Athena brings up the last time she saw him, where they all mounted what counter-offensive they could against Vega's machinations. To meet one of his personal heroes in incredible brief, Mike Haggar, and to meet the likes of Athena Asamiya - the sort of thing quite a number fans over there are sure clamoring for the chance to one day have. To them, Howard Rust may be the luckiest man in the world.
He sure doesn't sound or come off the part of someone who truly did survive - even overcome! - the would-be world dictator Vega in his mannerisms. The seeming nervousness and uncertainty of his position, that incredibly silly tumble off the pier...
"Am I still... uh?" He scratches the back of his head as he comes up straight, following along with her incomplete question as she quickly changes the subject. "I'm, I'll be okay," he coughs twice, "'scuse me," he pats his chest with his left hand before bringing Ol' Rusty up to his shoulder. Athena might get a slightly better view of that awful scarring on his right palm and wrist in the gesture as he stretches out one of his legs to her question.
"Bold? Well... I was told, uh, that, that I should probably wear something that, that I wouldn't miss much, but, ah, but," he shrugs his shoulders, "I, I dunno what they meant, kinda got... y'know," he reaches outward with his left hand in a pushing motion, "shoved through all the way, almost g-got in late..."
"Positions, people, positions!" A producer can be heard shouting fairly clearly to the crew. "We're almost running late here! Are they ready?" The producer asks another guy who looks out to the two of them, squinting, and making a completely indeterminate movement with their head that could mean just about anything.
He insists he'll be okay and Athena nods slightly. If she looks a little unconvinced, the expression fades quickly. "That's- I'm glad." Many might wonder at the exchange the two have, but most of it was lost in the excited murmurnings of the large crowd. Eyes flick to his arm as he lifts the trusty length of pipe, then focuses back on him, expression softening for another moment of consideration, focus back on his face. Her next words are spoken aloud, but seem to reflect a thought she keeps only to herself for now. "I wonder... why is it only injuries leave their mark..."
She looks away for a moment as if to compose herself before continuing, but he is answering her question about his attire next and the grin and raised eyebrows that his explanation provokes seems to push away all further reflection on less pleasant time. Instead, Rust provokes a laugh - a brief, musical lilt, as Athena shakes her head, "I see. Well, an ensemble like that may not be missed, but it's also unlikely to be quickly forgotten. And..." she continues, hand lifting, finger pressed lightly against her chin as she continues in a lightly teasing tone, "That still doesn't explain the hair." Hair? Hair around the world might be insulted at the association.
She grins, taking a step back, clasping her hands in front of her, "Good luck to you, Rust." One of the producers begins to get more ansty about the fight starting up. Athena doesn't seem to pay it any mind. Off the stage, she might be driven, flown, and scheduled twenty-four hours per day without much say in the matter. But on stage, she seems to radiate with a sense of confident control over the speed and time with which things will happen there. Athena's calm, unhurried attitude makes it clear that she'll start the fight on her time, not the tournament staff's schedule.
"Whenever you're ready then. This is our show, not theirs. Take your time." With that, the girl kicks back, springing away from Rust to land gracefully several meters away. Standing, back straight, she closes her eyes for a moment, breaths in, then exhales slowly. The simple prepatory gesture seems normal enough and to most it would seem to be little more than an experienced fighter focusing their thoughts on the battle to come.
But for the Psycho Soldier, it is far more than that. With that moment of quiet focus, she becomes attuned to the crowd around her. The emotion, the excitment, the energy of those gathered becomes part of her own psyche as she opens her mind to the power of her heart - that dreadful yet wondrous energy that she has spent her life learning to use. Releasing it is the easier part. Taming it? Keeping it from consuming her with its destructive potential? That's a battle she will never stop fighting.
A subtle pulse radiates out from the idol, not noticed directly by most, but felt in different ways by a few. A calming presence, an accepting feeling, and even, in the hearts of very few, an unshakable impression of being judged.
Prepared, attuned, Athena's eyes are open and focused on Rust. It's... really hard to miss him against the sand.
COMBATSYS: Athena has started a fight here.
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Athena 0/-------/------=|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Athena 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Rust
Considering how he drags himself through life on particularly rough stretches, Howard Rust probably has a very low standard for 'fine' that absolutely does warrant scrutiny and doubt from those around him. Those who have crossed paths with Shadaloo and other great powers of selfishness and evil almost never get out of it a hundred percent, always having to live with watching over their shoulders to make sure they weren't poised to stab them in the back when given an opportunity.
"What about my... my hair?" He straightens out at mention about hair, as though some sort of deeply ingrained defensive reflex, bringing his bare left hand to his head. This gets some disgust from a few people in the crowd. He almost always wears gloves, sure, one supposes if they have to touch that /thing/ on his head with gloves, that's... less disgusting an alternative than actually touching it with one's bare fingers. The way he runs his fingers through it like it's nothing. Just by touching it directly, he shouldn't ever delude himself into thinking it's hair - no completely sane man should. The way a part of it seems to stick to one of his fingers a little longer than it ought to. The uneven divide. The shape. The... everything. "It's just my... hair..."
...Moving on.
The yelling from the sidelines gets his head turning as Athena gives him good luck, a slight half-attentive nod as he breaks his left hand away from the horrific headpiece. The way he shrinks ever so slightly when yelled at cuts another startling contrast between the two. To the way Athena gracefully makes this time theirs, he seems as though under some sort of invisible yoke by men smaller than he. This is the man that fought through so many through terrible land wars as to occasionally appear inhuman from his incredible resilience to conventional injury and force - is he really truly being bowed by that producer over there?
Ol' Rusty lowers from his shoulder as Athena kicks back. Compared to her, his movements are much more slow and deliberate as he cranes his neck back over to her and takes in a deep breath with another nod... and closes his eyes, coincidentally at the same time as herself. He mumbles something completely inaudible as he bats the back of his fingers on his left hand against the pipe a few times. He wiggles the fingers on his right hand as if to reassert his hold on the pipe.
He's tense. A tension touched by the pulse, in some subtle way. Athena's presence is, in many ways, overwhelming on a subtle level. Captivating. Every way she moves, her choice of words and actions. Impossible not to take heed of, even if you aren't looking directly at her. Hearing her, seeing her. The calm crashes against the tension.
"Let's get this match started!" Speaks a fairly low-rent emcee who is not very good at his job. "Athena Asamiya!" There is loud cheering. "Howard Rust!" The cheering section for him is, surprisingly, not that much quieter - most of them tend towards the back. The Athena fans got here earlier, one suspects. "It's the Beachtime Bonanzaaaa!! And... on the sound of this airhorn, they're off!"
Rust's eyes open up again. Those brown eyes, almost nondescript were it not for the weariness. They narrow to an unmistakable focus as he points Ol' Rusty outward once to gauge their distance.
"All right, let's just have a, a good, cl--"
The airhorn cuts him off before he can finish his sentence. He rolls his shoulder once as he takes his steps to Athena, getting his head into the game forcibly. He inwardly accounts for how the sand's going to be problematic for some of his potential approaches on her. It's harder to glide one's feet against it, a little trick he's always used to add reach to several of his techniques.
Springing off of his right foot, he takes to the air as he brings Ol' Rusty up in his right hand, pointing his elbow forward as his eyes shift down to Athena's current position. His leaps aren't superb as far as fighters go - probably one of the lowest Athena may have encountered yet, but this may yet prove a small advantage in giving her slightly less time to react to it as he swings Ol' Rusty in a downward backhand arc at what would be around shoulder-level for her height.
Momoko blankets.
COMBATSYS: Athena dodges Rust's Power Pipe.
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Athena 0/-------/------=|-------\-------\0 Rust
There is a bit of a murmur at Rust's answer. 'Hair? Did I hear that right?' 'Someone said that he thinks that's hair!' 'Not that- that- on his head, that isn't-... no way!!' Small voices in the ambient noises echoing throughout the cove, but Athena seems to pay Rust's defensiveness about his hair no further mind.
In spite her insistence that he take his time, the event staff seem eager to get the fight going. They have schedules to keep too, one must imagine. But Rust's opponent is in no hurry, standing some meters off, watching him quietly. The place she landed when putting distance between them is still some ways up from where the gentle waves are peaking, leaving the sand warm and dry. It takes some effort on her part to tune out all the voices with their infinite array of emotions but she knows when she has achieved that precision focus and control when all she hears for a long moment are the sounds of the ocean, the din of the audience fading to a quiet noise that seems somewhere far off.
That concentration is jarred significantly by the airhorn and Athena jumps for a moment as if startled, eyes blinking as she at once glances toward the ear-ringing signal that the match has begun at last. But her attention is on Rust an instant later, a slight nod offered in reply to his statement - she didn't need to hear it all audibly to understand its full intent.
For her part, she prepares by assuming a light stance, hands raised, her left arm extended forward, her right arm bent at the elbow, kept back a little, as if ready to strike. And then she waits. It is on Rust to make the first move once he has moved within attacking distance.
His short leap might have caught many fighters off guard, but Asamiya has fought against Master Gentsai enough to instantly recognize a 'barely-projectile-clearing-hop' when she sees one. The direction of his elbow points the path his swing will likely take when he attempts to strike with that length of pipe and that insight is all the swift girl needs to be out of the way.
It seems close - Athena leaning to the side, foot pressing against the sand, her angle leaving her parallel to the path of the pipe but not in its way, a 'swish' of air as it misses his target's shoulder - but it becomes clear that she intentionally kept her reaction minimal in order to stay close to the ex-teacher's own trajectory.
With a flick of her left wrist, her left hand goes from being held in a warding position to extending out to press against Rust's side as she nimbly adjusts her footing to be in close to his right. "Hiding in plain sight; the person you really are," she muses, voice soft as her right hand moves to follow the movements of her left, placing both palms against him - better to serve as the needed of conduit of energy for what comes next.
In all of his encounters with Vega, it is possible Rust has already experienced the sensation that follows - a quite disorienting, crushing sense of force acting quite in contrary with the natural order of gravity. If he is unable to resist it, he will find his magenta-sandals never quite get to touch the ground before he'll find himself being hurled in the opposite direction. The girl makes it seem effortless but that's only because this throw had very little to do with physical prowess. Telekinesis is one of the more difficult manifestations of Psycho Power to master... of course, depending on how rough Rust's possible flight through the air ends up being, it's debateable how precise Athena's ability even is.
COMBATSYS: Athena successfully hits Rust with Super Psychic Throw.
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Athena 0/-------/----===|======-\-------\0 Rust
Athena moves quickly enough that she all but disappears to him through her brief obscurity through the arc of his swing. It is by intuition (or probably common sense) that she moves to his right, knowing he can't easily swing his arm out any further with any real appreciable force towards her position - something he'd have to deal with once he touches the ground.
His calves feel a sudden, cramp-inducing pull to go with one of his knees suddenly surging in pain for no readily apparent reason as he flexes his legs for the landing, his right side feeling the gentle touch of her hands and the significantly less gentle touch of the forces of gravity conspiring against him. The audience sees it pretty clearly, Athena might /feel/ it pretty clearly. The comical bulging of eyes, the bared teeth.
To Rust's credit, he thinks faster than he moves, suddenly thrusting the pipe down into the sand at an attempt to anchor himself to either lessen or just outride the momentum. It holds for only a fraction of a second before the upward momentum earns a cracking noise and a tear heard across the entire beach, the rest of his body bending forward with his personally intended momentum while her strength pulls the other way.
The seams of his oddly colored gi top around the armpit split open with the force of it - to say nothing to how far out his shoulder bends as he is hurled up with significant torque, spin, and a lessened horizontal path that turns into being a higher vertical climb. Ol' Rusty is uprooted in short order, his grasp of the pipe lost as the rusted length of pipe lays limp on the beach.
His world spins uncomfortably and quickly, throwing out his ability to really gauge just how high up he is, or when he's exactly going to land. Dizzying still is the flashing of the sun against his eyes, or the blinding photo flashes capturing another dizzying photo op moment for Athena's awe-inducing powers.
It's an educated guess through the daze of rapid movement, uncertain position, and screaming pain shooting down his right arm as to when he's exactly landing. He hits the white sands in a dramatic spray of fine, shining grains on probably the worst part of his body to do so right now: his right side. The only silver lining is that his purely vertical ascent ensures he's at least in or close to striking distance with Athena (and she'll probably get sprayed by sand for being so close anyway).
He shouts something possibly profane, but it's hard to make out. Adrenaline and the imperative to not remain in a prone position for long in a pitched fight kicks him to deeply ingrained reflex from his training. His feet are a little off to the side from where Athena stands, but knowing he doesn't see her or her shadow around him gives him the idea he knows where to kick, pushing himself up to a short leap off of his left hand with the crackling of an elbow and his left foot as he swings one leg around in a wide arc in mid-air in hopes she's close enough to him - traditionally the second part of the famed Hien Shippu Kyaku used as an opening, the follow-up being a sudden thrust with his other leg in Athena's direction with fairly precise timing despite unmistakable disorientation - but the slightly backwards movement he has in mid-air might be his undoing in actually getting it to connect with her.
He doesn't have much to say at the moment, but how he clutches his right shoulder with his left hand (assuming he can cleanly land on his feet) probably says volumes on its own, to say nothing about the sucked in air through his teeth after the fact.
COMBATSYS: Athena blocks Rust's Girder Sway.
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Athena 0/-------/---====|======-\-------\0 Rust
His surprise at the nature of her attack is felt and to some degree, expected. It would be hard to brace for what follows when the technique begins with what seems such a harmless touch. In most fights, contests such as these are determined by rippling muscles or demonstrations of extreme prowess in physical martial arts. To consider something so inoccuous as a simple touch of the palm could translate into the punishing experience Rust is put through is certainly not the first thing one might expect.
But there's no denying the efficacy of her telekinetic technique as the larger fighter is sent careening back through the air while Athena stays put mostly where she had started the fight to begin with. Though she doesn't key into the specific words or individual emotions of the audience at the sight of her sending Rust flying, the idol fighter most definitely does not echo the rippling sentiment of amusement felt coming from the crowd. Her own expression seems somewhat stoic, her feet dug into the sand, her dress and hair tousled by the ocean breeze.
Something seems off to her - is this the man that defied the tyrant of Shadaloo? Putting his existence on the line in defense of so many innocents? She had only seen his bravery in the face of so much power on that desolate highway outside of Metro City. But... what of his techniques? What power does he wield? How could he be one to take such a stand then while wielding nothing more imposing than a rusty length of pipe? In the eyes of the audience, he must seem by now the comic relief, with his garish neon attire and... hair piece.
He lands hard, the spray of sand causing Athena to wince back a little, hand held to protect her eyes before standing ready once more. With the power she has, the thought of fighting monsters like Vega terrifies her. Yet here is this man who would not be brought low by the self-proclaimed Emperror. She wonders if she had formed a hasty impression in her head - expecting Rust to be a fighter on par with the likes of Ryu; someone she felt truly had the strength it took to fight the worst the world had to offer.
When he kicks from the ground, he proves he isn't to be felled by a single demonstration of her psionic potential, his foot slamming out fast. She actively defends against the spinning kick, hands moving to intersect and slightly redirect the momentum as well as pushing herself out of harm's way. That there's a follow up seems to catch her by surprise, however, the sudden jutting of his foot at just the right angle to cut through her guard.
Split second timing has her bringing her arms together, simply bracing for the force rather than defending against it more adeptly. Feet slip back through the sand, leaving parallel grooves in the ground before she comes to a stop, releasing a soft exhale and chosing to ignore the thrum of pain in her forearms caused by absorbing his strike in a less than fluid way. His determination certainly isn't in question. Neither are the muscles behind his striking power, now that she's felt them. But that wouldn't have been enough, would it? Not against the devil himself. "Facing /him/... and surviving." she has to know, "Was it luck? Or are you divinity in disguise; a god playing the fool?"
Her left foot slams back, sending a small wave of sand behind her, the girl bracing to unleash another attack. They're not far from each other now - Athena's eyes searching his face with an almost a visible need to find something that might not actually be there. "Why did you stand against him? The terror would paralyze most in spite the best of intentions..."
She seems determined to punctuate her inquiry with another test of Psycho Power, hands snapping back, rose-hued energy coursing down her limbs to build in her hands. There is a window of time to act as the energy builds, threatening to deliver another significant amount of pain - albeit of a more direct nature than her last attack - when Athena whips her arms forward to unleash the attack. At this close range, it would be hard to make out the tightly compressed sphere of highly concentrated Psycho Power contained in a shell of sheer will power made manifest. But unless Rust manages to get out of the way, the explosion of rose colored energy would be undeniable in its magnitude!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Athena's Psycho Shoot.
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Athena 0/-------/--=====|=======\-------\1 Rust
It would be exceptionally difficult to confuse Howard Rust for a true legend along the lines of Ryu after some unexpectedly bad showings in some of his more recent matches. They were against heroes in their own right - Carlos, Lucia, Dean - people whose given names alone get people in Metro City and places beyond spark familiarity for their deeds against gang violence.
Even the ranked martial arts belt prowess he holds is still just high among the initiate ranks - brown belt, in Kyokugen. Even if they say the totality of his life experiences, personal techniques, and physical abilities put him on a tier above that particular level of mastery of that discipline. The accusations are whispers. Some wonder if he ever really did fight against Vega, as if it were some elaborate sham. A more reasonable majority have come to a conclusion Athena would eventually say aloud.
Especially after he grips his right shoulder so gingerly following his crouching plant into the sand. It's a visually understated injury, but one that clearly weighs on the mind of a man who lives with a multitude of them. Given how long he holds it as his right hand reaches out to pick up the pipe at a measured, deliberate pace as to not aggravate it too much, there is actual internal debate over headsets among the medical crews and officials as to whether or not they should stop the match there.
"Him?" He murmurs aloud for clarification. Luck, or a divinity in... she means Vega. How did a man like him survive a handful of times where so few can even boast - or otherwise be eternally thankful - that they survived one?
"Luck... luck's not, not out of the, uh, question." Words are punctuated with the tinge of pain and humility - even regret, remembering all to readily how the Vega experience changed a late friend's life to a downward spiral he never rose back up from. To say nothing of that original encounter, where he never even got to meet the person that supposedly rescued him - and the help of passing Ikari Warrior patrols of the area. He himself rises back up slowly, left hand still on his right shoulder as Ol' Rusty points downward and away. He coughs once.
Her next question can't be answered readily in words in time. Given how close the two are and the worrying build-up of energy that follows, it probably says a lot that he doesn't think to take a step to the side, sway a certain way, /any/ movement that suggests moving. His left hand clutches tightly enough Athena can see the veins pop.
The compressed Psycho Power explodes against him just as the audience can see him moving his left forearm into it horizontally, shutting his eyes in brief as the the blinding brilliance explodes all about him. His cyan gi top tatters, even disintegrates a third of the entire top from the sleeve and shoulder in revelation of some magenta one-piece swimsuit underneath while his feet slide back and gather sand around the ankles. A swimsuit that doesn't appear to be a particularly comfortable fit...
"Never... never not been... afraid," he murmurs out, a bit difficult to hear, voice increasingly more somber as he flexes his left arm downwards with a sour look on his face, even a twitch of some fingers, clearing his throat. His joints accompany these words with crackling, popping. There is an undeniable stiffness in his movement as he moves his feet out of the little hills gathered around them. This doesn't quite answer why he found it in him to be willing to attempt to stand up to Vega after so many times.
He's moving towards her entirely by necessity, right arm seemingly going limp even with his hand's hold on Ol' Rusty. There's a slight movement of his wrist that might give away to her the intent to attack, his tired face with a slight frown as the joint popping continues.
Knowing he can't easily slide through the sand, he comes in a bit closer than he's usually comfortable with before swinging Ol' Rusty upward despite immense protests by his entire arm. Enough protest to rob the uppercut swing of some punch, but not the /will/ to swing it as he struggles to succinctly put his thoughts in spoken form in the heat of the moment as Athena runs the risk of a rusted length of pipe popping her in the chin in that famous forward uppercutting strike.
"'fraid of what'd happen if, if I," he doesn't quite finish it before whatever's jumped down his throat intercepts his ability to speak.
COMBATSYS: Athena interrupts Weakened Cement Upper from Rust with Psycho Sword EX.
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Athena 1/-------/=======|=======\=====--\1 Rust
It's not the words that catch her off guard but the poignant cocktail of emotions that rise to the surface as he speaks them when Rust admits luck may very well might have been a factor in his survival against awe inspiring power. To look at his physical stature, one would never expect to find such timidity. The advancing years have done nothing to mask his thick, muscular build. His strength alone would be enough to swell most men's hearts with pride and confidence. The hint of pain unspoken almost makes her regret prying but she cannot help herself. Rust is nothing like any other wouldbe hero she had ever met... how can she not sate that burning curiosity at having this chance to talk with him in person?
And then she finds regret in his eyes though she cannot fathom the details of its causation and her eyes widen slightly, breath sucked in, but perhaps those were merely byproducts of the significant attack she hurls his way?
She doesn't notice the tensing of his muscles or the most definitely regrettable damage to his gi-top as the girl takes a step back as if to right herself from an unseen blow. "So..." She catches herself, eyes blinking once as if struck by a distracting epiphany, "...beautiful." comes the murmured word too softly uttered to be picked up by the recording. If her manager heard the statement while the girl was staring seemingly awestruck at a man beclothed in an afront to swimwear around the globe, he might have worried that Athena's eyesight was in need of a serious checkup! But there are few in the world that could see what she sees in that moment - what vision would provoke such whispered admiration for the humble ex-Pacific High teacher.
Sliding her feet comfortably through the sand, she adjusts her stance, looking over her left shoulder which is now pointed toward Rust, right foot planted back slightly as if she was preparing for his next attack well in advance of possibly knowing what it will be. She otherwise doesn't move, her normally flighty, acrobatic style of fighting replaced by this seemingly stationary, steadfast approach to combat, with only the sea breeze to whip at hair and dress to lend motion to her form while she stays patiently still.
Rust speaks again when the capacity to do so returns to him, admitting that through it all, there never had been a moment he wasn't afraid. Athena's violet eyes lock on his then, fixed on those simple, brown pools of barely concealed suffering, confirming to her the words he says are true beyond all shadow of a doubt. It is then that she nods, blinking her eyes multiple times as a stray grain of sand might have gotten stuck in one. She seems to be struck by something a second time, swallowing suddenly as if struggling to clear her throat. "Me-" Her voice catches and she closes her eyes for a moment, experiencing a rare moment of being unable to enunciate clearly.
Strange, she thinks to herself, that it is in the presence of this man that she feels the most like letting down her guard, allowing gaps in the mask she's always kept over her thoughts and feelings, the truth escaping unfiltered for a fleeting moment in time. "Me too." she exhales, feeling a great weight lifting from her chest as she utters the quiet confession. She breaths in again quickly followed by a second exhale, her mouth opening, curling into an expression of surprised relief having finally admitted that to someone.
He moves in at... not the greatest speed ever caught on camera and Athena's stance only becomes that much more sure, her right arm held alongside her torso, her right hand pointing out behind her, fingers pressed together and also pointing down at an angle as another surge of energy begins to imbue her limb with that same rose-hued light. 'Thank you.' she mouths though the words aren't given voice. So this is a true hero afterall - a god playing the fool, indeed.
His arm rises into that uppercutting strike Rust's fans have come to know and love and Athena meets him mid-attack, ignoring the impact she knows is coming - not out of a lack of fear about the bruise it will undoubtedly inflict - but out of respect for his effort in spite his pain.
The reliable pipe glances hard against her left shoulder as Athena springs into the attack, twisting to bring her right arm forward, fingers extended in a knife-like position. Muscles contract to propel her from the sand, her right arm lancing forward and lifting upward, blindingly bright Psycho Power compressed at her finger tips, leaving a thin trail of tapering power in its wake. Her ascent would take her a few meters into the air before she would reach the apex of her flight, the girl twisting around as the power in her attack wanes and she drops back down toward the sand, her white dress flowing down around her legs as she lands in a half-crouch, face lifted to watch Rust.
Who isn't afraid of Vega? That's what Rust would ask in a circumstance where there were more space to do so in between exchanges of technique and strength. You could not look at a photograph of Vega after seeing him and say that is Vega. No electronic media can capture the palpable aura of hatred that just happens to be shaped like a human being. Sometimes you can't even see him through it. Concentrated, pure evil that just happens to take residence in a human body and demand for you to submit.
Her mouthed words of thanks is lost in the flash of light that is her willpower and self given form. For being on the opposite end of the spectrum in 'feel,' there is no lack of incredible strength and feeling by a woman whose physique pales to his. The odd paradox of a feeling of warmth, of something... pleasant? Something that provides a great power as her fingers strike against his chin at an impact that exceeds many tightly drawn fists, hardest bludgeons, or sharpest edges, and (in one outstanding case) corrosive substances that have made contact with it over the years. His entire upper body violently arches back, feet taking leave of their position on the beach as tatters of magenta and a more whole stretch of cyan cloth all flutter out to the breeze.
An incomprehensible gurgling noise - a half-formed curse? - escapes the man's lips as he sails through the air. The same sort of strength that overwhelms the mind and soul in ways those who aren't 'like' those with the psychic gift have difficulty coping with. Despite the polarity of what emotions drive Athena or Vega, the shock is startingly similar no matter the wickedness or righteousness of one's soul.
Turning his body weight to his left to land on his less injured arm and just managing to keep hold of Ol' Rusty, he exhales deeply as he staggers up to his feet. His head swims in and out of focus, a trickle of blood going down the side of his mouth and nostril.
Some fans complain about how it's the /guy/ getting stripped to near-toplessness, but there is likely some silent appreciation that it moves to destroy such affronts to fashion and color coordination. Now, if there was only some way to obliterate that thing on his scalp from all of reality, memory, /time/. They may not be so fortunate.
"...re 'n Zach, like that, 'n," He shakes his head a few times to this completely incomprehensible sentence fragment to some idle thought that's entered his head, a clear sign of fatigue and not being entirely there that moment, left hand up against his head as he takes a few cautionary steps towards her. He bends his legs enough as such that one could assume there is the attempt to assert some sort of stance even in how difficult it is to purchase solid footing among the shifting sands (in those sandals, even), bowing down ever lower as he points Ol' Rusty back. His left shoulder rubs his right shoulder gingerly in brief, blinking a few times. Should he even really chance swinging that arm again?
"'m, 'm still good," is he reassuring her or himself?
It's a poignant pause. His right fingers wiggle on the rusted length of pipe, and he once again wishes he kept his gloves on given how they scrape against it. He lifts his head up a little as the wind blows in his face.
Then, in a single instant, he moves. It is not notable simply because he does - it is notable for how fast the movement is, the sudden forward thrust of Ol' Rusty with such strength that it hurtles himself forward, velocity and speed mitigated ever so slightly by the pooling sand that gathers around his ankles as he glides a short distance across the beach.
His right shoulder's surge of pain - its pleading! - to make him not thrust his whole arm forward is ignored even as the muscles take the side of the shoulder, the forward motion of Ol' Rusty displacing the very air around it in its speed and forward movement. On impact, if any, there is a loud earth-shattering sound like a wrecking ball just hit a building as he slides a bit past where Athena is currently standing, holding his pose and form at the end silently unless... disrupted.
COMBATSYS: Rust knocks away Athena with Condemned EX.
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Athena 2/<<<<<<</<<<<<<<|==-----\-------\0 Rust
She rises up to standing, composure recovered, mouth curled into a quiet smile but her demeanor no less serious than when the match's first attacks were exchanged. The visible energy that was concentrated in her hand during her last technique has faded. But something lingers still - power less seen than felt, a crackling of energy about the girl that suggests she has been building toward a larger technique for a little while now, collecting more and more of her psychic potential moment by moment. The crowd can feel it even if they aren't entirely aware of it; that subtle psychic resonance that Athena has always possessed when standing on the stage.
Rust lands less hard than his previous engagement with the sand, struggling back to his feet as Athena remains somewhat rooted to where she landed. She hasn't returned to her ready stance, though she stands with her back straight, her arms at her sides, palms open and directed toward the ground at her feet. A small current of wind swirls about her for a moment, seeming to move against the ocean breeze. To get back up after the attacks he's weathered confirms Rust's reputation for being more durable than many fighters can hope to be. But it isn't his resilience to combat damage that Athena is reflecting on now, but rather his perseverance of character. "I don't think anyone asks to be a hero," she contemplates. "Not the real ones anyway. Sometimes it just turns out that way."
She breaths in then exhales slowly, gathering unseen energy to answer her will. She nods slightly in acknowledgement when he says he's still good. She isn't sure she believes that on any level - either his current physical condition, or his entire state of being after what she's seen of his soul - but his assertion brokers no argument from the violet-haired idol fighter for now. She doesn't attack nor does she budge from her spot as Rust tests his fingers and on some level, she has to block out the sense of pain emanating from Rust's gestures and movement. He really needs to get that shoulder looked at!!
She closes her eyes for a moment as Rust readies his attack. He would feel it as he moved as, in that same instant, a shell of Psycho Power erupts up around the girl. It is at once a barrier as well as an intended attack, her eyes snapping forward as the rose-hued energy surges into being once more. Had Rust been even a split second slower, his Samurai-like sword dash would have had him charging directly into an explosion of power that might have thoroughly countered his assault. As-is, with him crossing past her location a miniscule of time too early, he will still feel a counter force pressing back against the momentum of his attack, absorbing some of its crushing impulse...
But on Athena's part, it was too little, too late to stop the full force of his attack. A spray of white sand goes flying as the impact hits home and for all Athena's effort to remain grounded, the smaller fighter is sent flying in a rather ungraceful arc backward, a wake of stray Psycho Power left behind in her path.
It is as she flies from the epicenter of the exchange that that percentage of the audience that was /specifically/ drawn to the event based on how it was marketed by Lee's campaign might find themselves a touch disappointed. While Athena was blissfully unaware of the somewhat lascivious nature of the event, the staff of people responsible for getting her into it in the first place most definitely were not. And while there is always a risk of anything happening when they take the chance of putting the popular teen idol into fighting events, they most definitely took the utmost in precautions for this one... The light, seemingly delicate sundress Athena is wearing over her bikini happens to be made of a highly advanced tri-weave of Dyneema fibers and light composite materials. That isn't to say the girl's 'combat attire' is indestructible, but it is highly tear-proof, fire-resistant, and just all around more durable than it seems like it should be.
As hard as she just got hit by Rust's attack there doesn't seem to be any immediately obvious damage to the outfit. Though right then, Athena is thinking only about the pain /she's/ feeling as she splashes down into the shallow waves rolling against the beach.
There's zero risk of drowning as the girl is kick-rolling back up to her feet a second later, though now far more damp for her trouble. The white dress hugs her figure more closely now and confirms previous suspicions of the crimson shade of her swimsuit, but that would be the most anyone is likely to see of her figure in this fight at least!
Her previous energy already scattered, she has to prepare her next assault from scratch, "A good, clean fight indeed." she declares, remembering Rust's exhortation at the start, glad to see that the brick-built man can dish out attacks as well as take them... it means she can give him one more technique to deal with without having to hold back!
One more wave laps around her feet as she sprints forward, closing the distance between the two of them rapidly. From several meters out, Athena leaps into the air, her body becoming shrouded in another burst of rose-hued Psycho Power... And then at the apex of her high jump, those in attendence might find it strange that there seems to be five airborn Athenas attacking in parallel? The cameras pick up no such phenomenon, but Rust might find it a challenge to contend with with the girl's next attack as one after another, the images descend in a sharp angle, curled into a ball, attempting to crash bodily into him, a teenaged Psycho Imbued missile attempting to bowl him over.
Five different attacks descend at the man while only one of them happens to be real. Each image would vanish harmlessly after passing through him, but the real Athena would crash into him with incredible force before tumbling to a crouching position some meters beyond, pausing to collect her wits after such an expenditure of effort!
COMBATSYS: Rust fails to interrupt Phoenix Fang Arrow from Athena with Weakened Intercepting Pipe.
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Athena 0/-------/<<<<<<<|
COMBATSYS: Rust can no longer fight.
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Athena 0/-------/<<<<<<<|
That shoulder isn't the only thing projecting pain. Howard Rust's body is a veritable litany of aggravating persistent injuries - as his bare top may well show. An encyclopedia of many little aches and pains that conspire to keep the aging man down. Just about anyone else would have been convinced by health care professionals to stop. This man's medical insurance costs must be an absolute nightmare among those who participate in televised battle. There may or may not have been some segment on a fighting celebrity news show theorizing and detailing this man's insurance costs. There may be an injury or two named after him in medical circles.
Yet, he endures, even as the collision against the partially formed psi-empowered barrier wracks additional pain through his arm. Ol' Rusty slides a bit further back through his right hand's grip, scraping rusted metal against bare, scarred flesh. It's a surprise the sensation isn't enough to get him to drop it.
It's much less of a surprise that his right shoulder locks up in its current position, clutching it with his left hand. With another sour look of pain on his face, there's another moment of relative silence to contemplate what she's said prior to that single, devastating strike. He doesn't look behind himself - a part of him fears stressing the muscles and joints around his shoulder just by craning his neck. He can really only gauge what's going on by the variety of gasps, oohs, and aahs and the faint cheers of people who had waited for him to land an actual clean strike on her.
Nobody asks to be a hero... not the real ones anyway. How it turns out that way. He has no verbal answer to it - he may be celebrated for that now, but the label clearly must weigh on him heavily given the embarrassing introduction to the battle and his atrocious record in recent times. He never really fancied himself as a globetrotting wrong-righting type despite doing just that in Vega's land wars. Day job, Kyokugen student as much as an aide for the white belts. Career, fighting. That's the life he wanted, right? The life he's living right now.
Is he happy with that? One fan expressed significant issues with how he's carried himself in his previous fights.
This sort of thought times itself well to the seeming quiet as Athena draws ever closer. One of his knees start to twitch in pain again. A good, clean fight indeed, she says. It has been. There should be nothing to be ashamed of.
From the corner of his eye, Athena seems to attack. With bared teeth and fighting the stiffness and general uncooperative nature of limbs tired and sore along with a swimming consciousness, he tilts downward and to the right. The lack of impact in the sand should be a cue. Some kind of feint?
He closes his eyes and breathes in deep for what little time he has to do so. There's been a lot of training in this direction - not always going by your eyes. He's started chopping bottles blindfolded without much issue. Even managed to correctly identify the angles some would attack from... but it's harder to get a read on Athena, when she is not making footsteps. The people he typically spars with make footsteps. He has no choice but to feel for it intuitively
Forcing his right shoulder down with great discomfort, he takes Ol' Rusty in both hands. One good swing. I just need one good swing. A mental minute passes in but a real second in that moment of focus. One good swing...
Athena number four comes down, and Rust swings Ol' Rusty in both hands with a defiant roar in a brutal, mostly horizontal swing - not unlike the swing of a baseball bat, twisting his upper body to the right with the strike. Some sand sprays in its wake as his eyes fly wide open. His mind has trouble comprehending the sensation that follows. Spatially, he had to have hit her! Why does the swing feel so empty, without the physical feedback of--
/Something/ (definitely Athena-related by his jolted mind's reckoning) gets him from his lower left hip, bowling through him that his legs kick up into the air ever-so-awkwardly. The strike hit him as such that he has precious little air time in the wake of her impact. One good, hard, push, and his upper back hits the sands at a particularly dangerous speed. All the force goes into his right shoulder to a veritable yell of pain. Officials make the right call, right there - that's one fall on a clearly injured shoulder too many, and some brass up top expresses serious concern about the decision to let the fight go on after that lifting trick she got on him at the start. The way Rust stays laying there as he rolls face-down into the sand is a surefire indicator that he likely wouldn't have gotten up after a proper count to begin with. It's over by either reasonable standard of determining a knockout.
"Your winner, by knockout," speaks the mediocre Emcee to a variety of cheers, "Athena... Asamiya!!" Her fans are very clear and easy to see up front, waving their little banners. The cameras.
Howard, face-down in the sand, stirs and makes the occasional motion to push up with his left. One medical official's already rushing to check him over. His left hand goes to his forehead, fingers up against that disgusting hairpiece to keep it there as it slightly droops.
"Good fhgldghthjlgh," there's really no other way to commit that compltely nonsensical word to text as a dab of cotton is wiped against the side of his mouth to a pained face that also gets dabbed. He can't quite see Athena past the medical guy on him, but this doesn't seem to dissuade him from trying to speak again (or is he still talking... is there a difference?).
"Annnhrrh," and... what else is there to say (or in his case, mumble)? He seems to struggle to think of something to say beyond the desire to say /something/ to her, waving his finger from his left hand by habit as he's helped to his feet so he can be walked out, taking Ol' Rusty from his right to his left with his head bowed and his feet dragging.
Log created on 00:41:54 06/16/2013 by Athena, and last modified on 00:52:38 06/18/2013.