Description: Arriving with unusual serendipity at the administrative heart of the Kazama Invitational Tournament, former hero and future tournament champion (?!) Howard Rust is all but assaulted with oddly open affection by the tourney's organizer, then dragged straight through the chaos into a room where his destined matchup presumably awaits... where this train stops, nobody knows, but it seems a one way journey!
The Osaka International Convention Center.
Adopted as the headquarters for O-Corp's Kazama Invitational Tournament, this stylish building offers nearly unrivalled views of the flamboyant, ever-growing city, along with ample facilities to host everything from administrative departments to the dramatic 'final stage' for the tourney's finalists. The whole place is bustling with mooks of all shapes and sizes, some clad in pinstripe suits and others in glittery wrestling trunks. The average person wouldn't believe what goes on backstage at these things!
Even the main lobby is a crazed place to be; at one end, a half-dozen 'stunt fighters' go through their extreme cheerleading routine, whilst the opposite side is busily dominated by a sprawl of glass tables festooned with costume jewellry and outfits in various shades of skimpy. Even in a world dominated by mindful violence, it would seem, fashion occupies a position of importance. Tutting, matronly figures decked out in a silk brocade fuss over others rippling with muscle and wearing expressions of shock and loathing.
In the midst of it all is fighting poster-girl Asuka Kazama.
"You want me to wear WHAT?!"
The brash Osakan's gloved fists are clamped firmly to her hips, the forward arch of her upper body pronouncing furious indignation as hazel eyes blaze with the same righteous flame. Facing her is the poor unfortunate tasked with delivering her costume for the night's festivities, attempting with borderline-terror to conceal himself behind what amounts to a spool of string held together by several cushioned pads of synthetic material.
To be fair, the tight denim shorts and sports bra combination she's currently rocking doesn't leave that much to the imagination, but she's clearly put out by the mere suggestion that she dress down any further; so put out, in fact, that a wide circle is forming. Sure, it's partly because people are edging away as they notice that this angry young woman is the same found on posters throughout the convention center and the greater Osaka area...
...but it's a lot more to do with the way the floor is cracking around Asuka's feet, the faux-marble tiles spiderwebbing in a rough spiral formation that's slowly but surely spreading beneath the glass tables and half-naked fighters.
This... probably wouldn't be a great time to interrupt.
Just outside of the Osaka International Convention Center... a worn truck takes princess parking. It is, to all appearances, the most perfect parking slot imaginable. Of all the luck, to find a parking spot basically right next to one of the entrances - no restrictive markings or anything of the sort. No reservations, nothing. Just an open spot that begs for a vehicle to take it... and take it, a certain someone does.
Coming out the driver's side - albeit the American definition of driver's side - of the truck, a familiar booted foot, followed by an uncomfortably familiar creak of a knee.
"Ah. Easy does it. Easy..." A familair gravelly voice hisses as they lean against their vehicle, stretching out a leg. "Didn't... didn't expect traffic to be that bad... really shoulda taken that, that rest stop to stretch." Wincing! Grimacing! One of their hands, inside a work glove, taps the top of his scalp, where upon it sits... something in dark purple that is so unbelievably foul it does not deserve to be acknowledged further in any written record other than its color.
"Well." He claps his hands together at last. "Y'know... I got... I got a good feeling 'bout this. Yep." Taking in a deep breath, this mysterious individual of some level of general familiarity pats himself for any missing items... anything that could possibly be out of place... and at last rests his left hand atop the makeshift hilt of a rusted length of pipe that populates a toolbelt pocket with its bottom torn through.
Satisfied with this, he takes several brisk - by his standards - steps towards the front door, at which point he stops to squint at a sign with some warnings written in Japanese.
"Huh... validate... parking before you... y-yeah, not a problem," he clears his throat as he commences heading along in.
Some moments later, in the lobby...
"Uh... hey! Hey." Calls a voice, and a raised right hand among so many who are preparing for tonight's festivities. He looks entirely out of place - rugged, a little dirty, a little stinky, hardly presentable to the grand stage. "I'm, ah... here for... the thing? The thing that's... going on 'round here, what's it called, uhh," he bows his head slightly, looking entirely sheepish as he rubs a hand against the back of his head, against... that thing that sits on his head, his gaze wandering around as though at a loss as to where he actually ought to be.
"Am I, uh, uhh... I'm in the right... right place, right? Because, uh," his voice trails off into a single cough.
Tension. Anything but sexual - unless one corresponds to the popular psychological theory that all things are inherently related to the breeding instinct within humanity's core - it's got absolutely everything to do, instead, with sheer, bloody-minded violence. It's a fact of life in the world as we know it, that every seemingly small problem is magnified a thousandfold by the introduction of a volatile teenage girl capable of putting her fist through several inches of concrete. Furthermore...
A fact, again, that nobody ever seems to learn this lesson.
By the time Rust has found his place in the annals of parking history, the atmosphere inside the convention center's lobby is thick. A hush has come over the administrators and fighters alike, and all eyes have slowly turned to settle - to some degree or another - upon the indignant figure of Asuka Kazama. In one corner, a few O-Corp executives whisper in hushed, excited tones, their designer-bespectacled eyes glinting, but everyone else? Everyone else is silent only for the shallow labours of their breathing.
Until a hero stumbles and stammers into their midst. A single cough is what it ultimately takes to break the spell, several hundred stunned and horrified pairs of eyes drifting from one trainwreck to another. Asuka's aren't included among them, the prodigy's hard gaze remaining upon her poor victim.
"I SAID!!" Suddenly she's surging forward, and nobody quite knows where to look as she grabs the poor fashionista by the skull and, with a whiplike flexion of her honed torso, sends him windmilling around at the end of one arm right into a rail of very expensive - if also very gaudy - clothing. As aluminium screeches and shudders, then falls about the unfortunate man's prostrate form, a wispy collective of material flutters slowly through the air between them. Asuka releases a breath, and hisses, "I'm NOT wearing THAT!!"
Chest rising and heaving, she stands there for several long, uncomfortable seconds, the picture of barely-harnessed rage, the floor still crackling and popping beneath her flat-heeled leather boots. Somebody nearby clears their throat-- the similarly-uncomfortable mirror to Howard's own cough.
Asuka straightens up, runs a hand through the fine brown strands of her hair, and turns to stride off through the wavering statues of the crowd. She seems to be making her way toward the exit, when her hazel eyes alight upon a familiar object just above the level of her gaze. Abruptly, she changes trajectory, her stride only growing brisker as she closes in... on Rust...
"Why is it," she calls out, getting closer and closer, "That every time I'm having the worst day of my life, that THING--"
And then she's upon him, lunging the last few feet. Uh oh.
"--isn't far away?!"
"Uhh... hi, I--" Attention! He has attention. That means he can communicate information - somehow - and receive information in turn, information of which is assuredly important for whatever intent he may have initialized in his entrance, a hand raised ever slightly as he is cut off by the shouting, the screaming...
The poor victim of punchy punctuation on a subject they push to their very peril, which earns itself a sympathetic wince once the aging American man's mind catches up with the particulars before him. He stands largely dumbstruck, as if wondering that maybe he might've come here... too soon? At a really bad time? Should he just walk out and come back lat-- no, no, no, he's not going to do that, he's not giving up that sweet parking spot to go drive to some other place to let time pass and come back to find he'd have to park like a mile or so away.
Even with his reluctance to do so, his body language seems to communicate it as he breaks his gaze away from the ruckus, towards random people as if to ask something that doesn't quite make it to his tongue other than for a ponderous 'uhhhh.'
She draws ever closer, and as if by cinematic timing, he turns his head back towards her just as she closes in on him.
Compared to those who show outright fear and some desire to hide, to cower, to plead for their life, there is somewhere deep down in the heart of a guy who has probably learned the hard way - more than once - of one of the inevitabilities of life in a country so very well defined by its young up-and-coming fighting talent more often than not.
Rather than show fear and give up ground, his shoulders slump, posture looking a touch more like a defeated man resigned to a situation all too familiar across so many people of this generation.
"Uh... hi," he awkwardly greets, right hand all but defensively upon his scalp. That, or maybe he's having the beginnings of a headache? It's hard to tell. Even slouching like a scolded child, on some level it seems like a gross underreaction to a young, brash girl of greater skill and strength than she has self-control lunging at one's person.
"I'm... ahhh... happy to see you, too? I mean... you're... you're talking to me, right?" He thinks to even look over his shoulder, as though subconsciously dodging the obvious subject. "You're asking me? 'cause... uh, I don't... know what you're--"
There are few things more threatening to a middle-aged man of nervous disposition than a lunging, full-busted vision in a sports bra. Except for one of the same bordering thoroughly on jailbait. The onlookers, unimaginative as they almost uniformly are, just keep right on staring as Rust attempts to figuratively excuse himself, his attempt to crawl right into himself and flip inside out to a universe where Things Make Sense failing utterly in the face of the boisterous Osakan... who envelops him in a hug.
Let's be clear here; it's not the tender, forcefully affectionate hug of a little girl eager for validation. If she were a few inches taller and less broad around the chest, it would be considered a full-on, backclapping manhug.
Asuka's expression of frustrated ferocity eases to one of actual, honest excitement, the reunion with an old (very old) friend drawing out some of the more genuine confidence she has at her disposal. Even surrounded by staring strangers in a room festooned with - and again, let's be clear - pictures of her ample cleavage, the heiress to the Kazama style greets this crusty warrior as if they were completely alone. Perhaps she was made for the limelight.
"You have no idea how glad I am to have another SANE person here," murmurs the tomboy as she disengages from the probably-unwilling Rust, albeit keeping one over-large hand on the small of his cranky back as she attempts to turn him toward the end of the lobby - where that group of executives await.
"Oi!!" Her voice raised again, the roughness of her native dialect in full force, Asuka draws the attention of a slender, suited-and-booted figure at the rear of that group. An oddly androgynous creature beneath the designer frames, this one sports a cynically-amused quirk of the lips and a sleek ponytail both at odds with the otherwise firmly professional air. "We've got a match lined up for this guy, right?" That draws a nonplussed shrug. "What about that kid in conference room seven?" ...Followed by a raised eyebrow.
People are still staring as the tournament executives drop back into their own hushed conversation. It's really not a comfortable atmosphere.
"So how have you been?" Asuka turns back to Rust like she doesn't even notice, again running her hand through her hair, pausing to scratch casually at the nape of her neck, "You found the place alright, right? I didn't see your name in the signups, but we can get you sorted and throw you into a fight right away. No point standing around talking about it!"
Or you know, explaining anything.
Some may wonder if, in fact, he is the visitor from a land where things are instead complete nonsense and that he still has yet to adjust to the reality of this world of fighters, of overly emotional young women of curious amounts of strength and potential and world-spanning conspiracies and psychic super-madmen with the manpower to bring the world to its knees--
Somehow, that eternal culture shock this man somehow manages to keep suffering comes to a halt with one brief burst of surprise as he is embraced. He exhales loudly - it's hard to tell if it's relief or maybe that she might be squeezing his side a little too hard. Day to day training in the Kyokugen Dojo is harsh, after all - odds are always good there's probably the beginning of a cracked rib somewhere or another on his person (or anyone else's in those parts, for that matter).
Eventually, the surprise and hesitation melts away slightly, and he deigns to allow his free hand to reach down and lightly pat her on the back around the time she disengages, seeing him once again awkwardly raise his hand up as she walks him along towards the lobby.
"Well, ah... it's... good to see you?" He's not sure it's good to see her throw a guy through expensive-looking stuff as a civilized way to say 'no, I'm not wearing that,' but, there is always that baseline relief that comes from someone you know being largely okay.
Asuka very quickly dominates the train of discussion, beating him to asking almost exactly what he means to among those she addresses basically in his stead. Something that reminds him of someone else he hasn't seen in years! One of his knees creak as though to say 'oh dude I totally know who you're thinking about, no, I don't like that thought.'
"How've I been?" He asks, as though surprised to be addressed and allowed to speak as he rubs at the back of his head again. "Well, uhh... I learned that... that some of my, uh, my benefits from Pacific, they... they haven't expired, I mean... travel stuff, I got... got some free flights, hotel stays I hadn't, uh, hadn't used, an--"
When she continues into mentioning nothing on signups, he visibly shrinks as though all of a sudden he's come to realize that maybe he's had just a little too much luck discovering this, and getting the most perfect parking spot scientifically possible... okay, traffic was kind of a mess, but other than that... this was shaping up to be a good day! A great one! "Uhh, w-well, I--"
Asuka's already guiding the thought process of what to do next to solve this issue by shoving him at a fight right away - he didn't have much time to do any of the typical stretches at all. Long drive, get out of car, awkwardly shuffle in to find proper people...
Maybe this isn't shaping up to be that great a day at all?
"R-Right now? This soon? This early? I, uh... okay?" He nods his head as he struggles to catch up with the flurry of little challenges and information just suddenly piling up on him - did I need to sign up, am I fighting right now, is there something else I ought to do... shouldn't I be booking a hotel, are my medical papers in order (how many times has that one got him? Too many times to count)--
"I mean, I--"
Rust's frantic, nervous thought processes are all easy enough to answer with the simplicity of the now, with the need to cut through the lobby's hustle and bustle, the uncertainties and the you'll-never-knows...
It all boils down to: too many questions. Not enough fighting.
This is a tournament, and as the androgynous executive smoothly slips to the side of the marching pair of warriors - young and old, lost and apparently found in spite of their prior similarities - his profesionally-clipped, carefully-worded coercements see Asuka and Rust both guided through the lobby, up an elevator and surely unto the fabled conference room seven.
Pausing at the doors, Asuka gives the toupee-clad hero one last clap on the back, grins encouragingly and spares only a few parting words--
"You'll be fine! We'll catch up afterwards, if I don't see you in the final first! Remember-- after last time, I owe you one, Howard Rust!!"
--before she shoves him through the portal to destiny.
"See you on the other side!"
The door slams shut.
Log created on 09:51:16 07/11/2014 by Asuka, and last modified on 12:18:44 07/11/2014.