Description: All Rust wanted to do was cash a check. After their tournament battle, he and Frank join forces to aid the evacuations in Metro City, supplying their vaunted strength and resilience. They eventually make their way to Metro City First Bank, ostensibly to rescue anyone stranded there but also in the vain hope that someone there might be able to deposit Rust's tournament earnings so he can catch a plane out of this mess. But the bank is abandoned save for three feet of standing water and one Rolento, who has been roaming the ruined city and has half a mind to blow upon the vault. They may have to fight on desks and countertops to get out of the swampy muck, but hey, Frank, at least there are no gondolas.
Just some short time ago, Frank and Rust were fighting to the pain atop a gondola, along with a tough little boxing girl by the name of 'Tabitha'. Though her skill was without question and Frank's strength was terrible and terrifying, their combined forces weren't enough to drop the incredible superpower that was Howard Rust. When their gondola crashed in the middle of their fight(thanks to a falling, unconscious Frank), they had to continue their fight atop an old office building while Metro City flooded more and more and more, where Rust came within an inch of his life, and they all had to be rescued by Frank's longtime friend, Smalls.
Luckily they were rescued by...rescue workers, and when they were all better days later, Rust and Frank both combined their abilities and incredible talents to try and make their home a slightly better place.
Right now, Frank lumbered alongside his friend as they journeyed to a bank that, hopefully, could clear up Rust's financial troubles. For Frank's part, he was dressed simply in jeans and wifebeater, over which he wore an orange construction vest, brown toolbelt around his massive waist, and a yellow hardhat tight atop his head, hiding those eyes underneath a shade of blackness. Slung over his shoulder was a bundle of halved telephone poles, and atop this massive collection of lumber, sat Smalls, already tired after helping move bricks and cinder blocks for nearly half an hour.
"I horp this werks, yeh. Ya beart us fair'n'squer.", spoke the ape-like giant, his voice like gravel straining to pour through a gasoline canister.
It's been a turbulent last couple of days, to put it lightly. The cheque given to Howard for that victory is his entire ticket to getting things back on track after a capture into NESTS saw it fit to burn much of his possessions on hand. The clothes on his back (still the exceedingly situation-inappropriate beach wear), the shiny new length of pipe he continues to insist is Ol' Rusty, and that hairpiece are all he presently has on his person, to his name.
His experience in construction work from his late teens and twenties serves the general community about as well as it can. He remembers February of 1996 rather vividly, back in his home state of Oregon - not that it quite compares to this (or what happened about half-way through '95 at that). Nothing ever will.
Supplies are in short... well, supply. He hasn't had the ability to put on any newer clothes, other than wearing old orange construction safety vests they had in storage (they've run out of the newer yellow ones a week ago), or an old battered yellow hardhat. Tools have had to be rationed considering how easy it has been to get them corroded or lost.
The only luxury Howard has been able to afford on good will has been in bags. So many bags. Plastic bag upon plastic bag upon plastic bag into a tight air-sealed bag, all to house the piece of paper that would deposit the prize money from the bout into his account. It is now hidden in the heart of a bumpy gray plastic mass that is so heavily layered that it's impossible to see what's even inside, carried around close under his left arm as the two of them step into the Metro City First Bank.
Also... known as the last hope to run into a place that might be able to have the damned thing deposited.
"I, I do too," he murmurs aloud. He's cautiously optimistic. The street has not been as horribly flooded as most parts of the town. Maybe there's someone there, racking up the overtime pay, to help keep things moving. Mike Haggar, capable mayor that he is, has been stretched beyond his limits in getting as much running as he can when the storms threaten to tear his entire city to shreds and wash the remainders of it away.
"J-Just... if... if there's anyone inside," Howard speaks up, clearing his throat, "'scuse me, if there's... anyone inside, we, we gotta get 'em back to--"
He doesn't get to finish as he pushes open the doors that lead to the downward staircase that should lead into the rest of the building, to a place that may or may not have refugees, or possibly a working generator to ensure some things are online, or any sign of... society running itself.
What they see inside...
Chaos. Death. Destruction. The panic of the masses.
This is nothing to Rolento Schugerg. In fact, if anything, it is an almost refreshing change of pace. Only within the eye of a storm, with the world collapsing around him -- whether that world is the Mekong Delta, or the entirety of Earth -- can he find true focus.
Of course, this area of the city is rather thoroughly destroyed to say the least. The closer they get to the bank, the deeper the water gets, and it's rather rapidly becoming clear that the chances of a teller within are going to be less than zero. Yes, entering the bank might cause more tellers elsewhere in the world to spontaneously vanish.
And when the door is shoved open in a great slough of water, what they see is ruins fitting most any apocalypse. Tables overturned, glass shattered, items randomly floating in the meter-deep water. But at the far end is the massive vault proper, which presently has a dozen rather ominously-sized explosive devices slapped to them. Presently, a man familiar to one of the figures present is carefully setting up what appears to be a timed detonator.
A man of moderate size but flawless physique, aging hair clad within a crimson beret, cravat worn beneath a tan uniform and combat boots. A sheathed baton is upon his back, every bit as old and cherished as the missing Ol' Rusty.
Several other soldiers are milling about the area, shifting up assault rifles and other weaponry at the entrance. But Rolento hefts a fist, looking up with his blank white eyes.
"Rust Howard." he allows. "Metro City has descended to utter chaos. I believe it to shortly be given a State of Emergency, and be evacuated in it's entirety." What this has to do with robbing a bank is unknown.
"Your presence here is surprising, but pointless. The United Soldiers for the People's Liberation have been actively rescuing those in dire straights upon the most affected areas. Helicopters and armored vehicles... to think, I had spent a decade preparing them for war, and instead find them rescuing civilians who have no part in my political ideologies. Ironic!"
In a fluid motion his baton slithers free and then cracks into his open palm. "This bank is well-insured by one of the countless predatory companies, and is itself a vile institution I do not condone. I recommend turning around and leaving. There is no merit to a pointless conflict, when there are lives on the line."
Overhead, the heavy thrum of a sleek black helicopter is heard, appearing to patrol Metro City. ...Well, y'know, even if Rust can't cash a check here at the moment, and doesn't feel like battling Rolento's dubious but rarely outright villainous principals, he could probably get him a ride somewhere sane...
Frank didn't go in immediately with Rust. No, his and Smalls' jobs were to place these logs up the street a few feet, to try and maybe reduce the flooding a little, hold the area until more workers could arrive with concrete or something that they can build a dam with. And so Frank and Smalls(Well...Frank) worked, swiftly but firmly, making sure the job was done correctly, and only then did the big man sway on his feet, followed behind by Smalls still in his fishing hat, still in his gear, except his life jacket was replaced with an orange vest, much like his two travel partners. Frank swung the door open, striding right into the room before stopping, fists instantly clenching, and eyes narrowing(good luck seeing that, though.), teet gritting as he counted the men with guns and noting the detonator in the man's hand. Moments later, Smalls followed, and only took a quick look before instantly speaking.
"Hey, more army jerks? Whaddathey, gonna shoot the water if it don't leave on a count'a three? Hey, how about yous clamheads take a hike an' rescue some'adem people an' play Rambo another time. My sidekicks an' I, we's gotta make a withdrawl, see?"
Smalls did know that these weren't more rescue workers, right?
Wait, is that how he spoke to rescue workers?
No, that's how he spoke to everybody. Everybody ever.
Vain hopes. It's all over Howard's face, that there might be some small break in the madness he might be able to get back a grasp on a life that he was nearly taken away from forevermore. When it's lined by inconveniences such as being forced to have to try and make a deposit in a time and place where such a thing simply isn't possible, where rainstorms unheard of in history going back over a hundred years or more, and... well, this sort of bellyaching would take a long time in which to run down the entire list. That alone is a good start.
Upon seeing people moving at all, Howard raises up the hand with Ol' Rusty as if to say 'hey, uh, guys,' but that single name being called, by that voice, roots him to the spot. He knows that voice, even if he hasn't heard it in years. It doesn't leave you when you hear it. The voice of...
He mouths Rolento's name, taking a step back as he takes in the number of people present. Refugees? Soldiers. By dumb luck (what other kind of luck?), stumbling into the middle of one of Rolento's military operations, and even on his own face he's starting to look incredulous at all the surprising encounters, all the people showing up from one of the most pivotal and stressful moments of his life - the Southtown Invasion. Somehow, that bothers him more than the assault rifles pointed towards the entrance.
He turns a head to look away, wordlessly, although it's clear he's struggling to think of something to say to all of that - though it may also be owed to the helicopter he hears overhead. He remembers, very well, Rolento's stance on how the war was conducted in the Southtown Invasion. How he came to his aid - and others' - and is the reason he can still use his right hand to fight, albeit with not as quite as good a grip on the pipe as he used to. He has every reason to believe he's telling the truth about his men assisting in evacuation efforts.
Years ago, he'd have written him off (perhaps rightfully) as a terrorist and left it at that. So battered and thrust into intrigue and the like over the years... it grows harder and harder to argue with the seeming sincerity Rolento projects. Or the explosives already rigged up to the vault. Or all the standing water that might stand to rush in and ruin the reserves. Or the fact that lives are at stake out there, right now, and that a fight between everyone involved will mean less able hands to fight back the rising tides... or that oncoming hurricane there's been talks about.
All difficult things to stand up and speak out against.
Grunting, the aging American man looks ready to just shake his head and throw up his hands at the latest chapter of this nonsense, looking as though ready to try and tap Frank's shoulder with the pipe as if to have a word with him, when Smalls' big mouth chooses to taketh away as much as it giveth in an hour of great need not too many days before.
"Sm-smalls, no, don't--" Don't give them the wrong idea, he means to say, as his train of thought about what he means to say to Frank is interrupted in the wake of a short man with attitude.
The half-dozen soldiers all widen their eyes at the comment from Smalls, who seem to be much in the same mindset of Rust; Rolento's really not one of those people that has any tolerance for mouthing off. No matter the relationship, the one absolute requirement of his is respect and discipline. Those who lack it are his enemy, to say the very least.
"You will never imply I work for any nation's armed forces again!!" Rolento snarls, pointing his baton towards Smalls with an expression of dangerous instability. Oh, yes. He's not sane. The monster born in the wilds of Vietnam may go quiet, and he might shackle it well enough to operate day to day, but... there's few triggers worse than that. "You three are interfering in my business. These funds are better served in my hands than that of the banks. Those civilians who might suffer shall be reimbursed, grudgingly, by the institutions that normally prey on them. A fitting end."
He then sweeps down his baton, smacking it into his palm. "You have three seconds to leave, or I shall engage. One..." he begins, shifting his foot backwards, balanced precariously upon a floating piece of debris.
Oh yes. This has gone poorly very badly.
Frank was known as a simple kind of guy, thanks in part to his overwhelmingly ugly face, his usual lines of profession, and his tendency in a fight to just put someone through the sidewalk, but he understood situations like this. He could gauge by Rust's reaction that they wanted no part of this, and even though the guy with the cane struck him as a big bully, he knew when he was outgunned. Especially when he literally was.
And so, the big man extended a great massive arm downward, hand gently placing itself on the shoulder of the diminunitive blabber mouth even as Frank strained out with that voice of his.
"C'mn, Smalls, we gertta get outta here. We gerts work ta do."
That seemed to deflate the little guy who looked out of place, yet right at home with this trio of wacky looking characters. He looked up with wide eyes and a look of surprise as Frank turned, sloshing through water in those worn workboots of his. And so Smalls shrugged his shoulders, turned to leave, but before he went he quickly turned around and gave Rolento a parting gift of his middle finger, which instantly caused one of the more gung-ho men to fire a "warning burst" around Smalls' feet and causing the little man to practically scream out.
Instantly Frank turned on a dime, snarling out in anger and reaching out to grab one of the big, heavy upturned oak desks, permanently stuck and ruined as its metal legs were attached to the ground, now rusted. Those permanently stuck rusted legs were ripped right out of the ground as the big thing hurtled through the air, aiming at Rolento, and a big mass of his men at the same time. Did anyone teach the new guy how fighters usually react to danger? Maybe they should have.
COMBATSYS: Frank has started a fight here.
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Frank 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Frank 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rolento has joined the fight here as a boss!
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
There's a lot going on that no one would want a part of if they could help it. Three seconds. Turn his back, let himself stew and waste one of those three seconds as to whether or not Mike would piledrive him through a couple floors if he had to be the one to deliver news that Rolento just made off with a bank vault full of money to fund whatever his desires are after the whole rescue and evacuation efforts are over with, thereby leaving him with actually /two/ seconds to leave if he's going to...
Gunshots. A scream. The screech of rusted metal, and the slow, horrified look on Howard's face as it sinks in that now, there really isn't any backing out of a tough situation with a tough man, with a crowd raised to be the toughest and strongest army he can put under himself.
Pick your favorite single-syllable swear, for that's what comes right out of the aging pipe-wielding man's mouth that is lost the sound of a desk being ripped out of the ground and hurled Rolento's way. Gunfire's sure to follow.
Sloshing through the water, Howard murmurs something lost in the ensuing chaos as he attempts to stand ever-closer to the big man and his small friend, leading defensively with his pipe-wilding right arm as opposed to the left, thanks to the preciousness of the cargo he's carrying underneath all those crazy compacted layers of plastic against immediate return fire that might now be coming their way.
Flashbacks of the insanity of the Asian land war spurred on by Vega start to surface.
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rolento dodges Frank's Large Thrown Object.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Rust
To Frank's benefit, Rolento could care less what he looks like. He's no spring chicken himself, with the brutal scar and aging features. He was never handsome from the onset, although average is likely a tier that the huge man would be happy to reside within.
But a few moments after the gun goes off, Rolento simply grits his teeth in what seems to be aggravation. "Fools. The proper response to gunfire... is to leave more QUICKLY!!" Suddenly leaping upwards, a foot presses upon the heaved desk while it remains mid-air. He then kicks downwards, using it as leverage to hurtle in the direction of Frank. His baton twirls wildly, the detoured desk just barely missing crashing into his soldiers. They scatter backwards, and lift their weapons up.
There's no need to try to help when Rolento is fighting. They would only get in the way and distract him... a potential death sentence.
"ONE SECOND LEFT, HOWARD RUST. I RECOMMEND YOU ABDICATE THE PREMISES!!"
And then he brutally swings downwards, aiming for a multiple-strike blow of his rotating baton into Frank's shoulder. Landing in a crouch, he then rushes into a second towards his midsection, aiming to blow the larger man backwards, and finally twists into a last upwards strike, this one aimed right at his face, with enough whipcord force to lift even a man of his size off the ground!!
COMBATSYS: Rolento successfully hits Frank with Patriot Circle.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|-------\-------\0 Rust
Well, it seemed that Frank was gonna have another one of -those- fights. That baton smacked against his shoulder, the weapon most likely wobbling and vibrating from each impact it made against those impossibly thick bones of Frank, and Frank was lifted off his feet at least three inches when Rolento came back in, to slam against the gut of the big brawler. Moments later that baton was smacked against Frank's face in an upward strike and Frank's chin shot up as if he were a puppet with his strings suddenly cut. Still, he didn't cry out, didn't do much except grunt against that initial blast to his vulnerable midsection.
And when he landed...he landed back on his feet, and acted immediately as if he hadn't just been blasted into next week. Ignoring the blood trickling down that broken and re-broken nose, the big man aimed to wrap those big arms right around the midsection of the army fighter, and wasting no time, he tried to lift Rolento right off his feet and squeeze the man's lower spine and stomach area into a thin, Gogurt-like paste!
Howard tries to speak up just as Rolento brings back the reality of the situation to them. Rolento's got men with guns and primed explosives over by the vault. He has one second to leave.
Howard's better nature gets the best of him, by far, a desire to stop the situation from escalating further lost to a mutual desire between himself and Frank to move in the interest of a close friend in a situation they may have brought upon themselves, navigating the nasty waters to throw himself forward further between Rolento and the rest - Rolento's superior agility ensures he's knocking on Frank before he can do anything about it.
The problem is that Howard does not have a free hand, between that thing he's carrying and that length of pipe. The only thing he can do when he is unable to speak up over Rolento's yelling or the sight of Frank being batterd down is to move in and - foolishly - further impose himself in. It would be easy enough to walk out the door and leave Frank and Smalls to die, to just about anyone else.
Nothing ever seems to go easy.
A desire to stop the situation from escalating further lost to a mutual desire between himself and Frank to move in the interest of a close friend in a situation they may have brought upon themselves, navigating the nasty waters to throw himself forward further between Rolento and the rest when Frank is knocked back by the spinning baton combination.
What is meant to be an attempt to bar Rolento from Frank and Smalls to hold him back can quickly considered more akin to an elbowing, owing to that 'no free hands' issue as what words he tries to say just don't quite come out with all the splashing and the yelling drowning him out when Frank pulls himself up. (There may or may not be subtle appreciation in the decisiveness of Howard's forward movement compared to five years ago, but there is almost nothing going on here that will lead to anyone giving a friendly pat on the back alongside peaceful reminisince.)
Howard can't even get half of a shaking head out when Frank lumbers on up from behind, just off to his side, to try and wrap those big arms around Rolento.
It's all a wash even before factoring the filthy water that washes the ground and who knows how many sensitive bank account documents that had the misfortune to be left out in the open when the weather came pounding in.
COMBATSYS: Rolento parries Frank's Bearhug!
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|-------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rolento blocks Rust's Random Piping.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|-------\-------\0 Rust
Oh, Rolento's weapon is made to strike true opponents, with bodies built of steel. He has torn down the likes of Urien, strike by strike, who are infinitely more dense and armored than Frank and Rust; allowing the vibrations to thrum through, rather than resisting it, using the supple and absorbing nature of the wood with the lead core to transfer energy without the snapback. He has done his homework on how to dissect living people for decades. He may be of similar age to both present, but their histories as fighters... he has been learning special forces training since a young teenager, a genius and a prodigy, and has hundreds of kills on top of it...!!
Finding himself eclipsed by those massive arms, Rolento is then struck heavily by Rust, barely managing to stave off the force of his assault. But now, he has reached the martial trance of a trained killer. Diplomacy and words have no place here any longer.
Unbalanced and with a noose of cable aiming to crush his body, he instead leapt straight upwards, slamming his baton into the ground and seeming to perch on it for just a moment. Before bracing himself and leaping straight upwards, in a backwards flip through the air that takes him well out of reach.
"You made a regrettable choice, Howard Rust." is all he says, descending on him before aiming to slam both heels of his feet upon Rust's chest and drive him down into the water before leaping off, coiled tight and spinning wildly.
If the maneuver succeeded, a moment later he might notice the strand of sticky grenades on his chest, that would rather violently explode!!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Rolento's Fatality Package EX.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|=------\-------\0 Rust
Compare to Howard Rust, some random guy who kind of tried to make a living off of becoming a star fighter, having that dream taken away, working towards it gradually again at risk of his job... through numerous trials he has honed his strength and endurance to almost legendary levels, able to strike decisively and survive some of the most grievous harm imaginable.
Rolento has those kinds of guys pegged.
Howard has trouble following Rolento's movements between the impressive baton-stand and the next second where he's on top of him. No hands free, all he appears to be able to do is to try and feebly shove Rolento off. He's too quick to touch - springboarding off the man who has been informed of having made a regrettable choice (the look on his face might be in agreement), Howard keeps his feet spaced apart and his balance kept to stay on his feet, except...
Grenades.
It says plenty when the item Howard chooses to drop is the /pipe/, turning his left arm away from Rolento as his now free hand rips the orange construction vest with stuck-on grenades free, left hand tensing tightly into a fist as the mass of plastic is buried tight in his armpit...
A series of explosions ring out a short ways in front of Howard, splashing water everywhere. In the wake of it all, he stands on his feet still, eyes squinted shut, shaking out his right hand with a grimace and a whole lot of popping noises of complaining joints in its wake...
He threw the garment with the pinned explosives away in probably the nick of time, it would seem, if only just. Rolento's ability to traverse terrain in a fight is almost unmatched among even the upper echelons of fighters, Howard's clearly not looking anywhere towards where this man might even be now...
Were it not for a sudden, quick rise of his right leg against a nearby desk to pop it up into the air with one (...comparatively) quick kick, straining the very limits of what flexibility he has in to punt the desk on up high and fighting his partial submerging for sake of actually building force and velocity for the kick. The ruined piece of office furniture erupts from hits watery rest in a triumphant (but disgusting) splash of water as it descends towards Rolento from a high angle, a kiai lost in the watery eruption.
Given Rolento's nearly unmatchable battlefield awareness and instincts, the (not too great) threat of possibly being struck by this is probably far less a message as opposed to the fact the man before him now demonstrates a /capability/ to do something like this.
Frank, he didn't have much of a stake in this fight, although there was yet another reason to call Rust a friend, to consider the man somebody that he -trusts-. He grew up big, he grew up strong, and he grew up with a mean streak in him, even if he did try to eat his vegetables every evening, and say his prayers every night. Sometimes, no matter how much of a good kid you tried to be, there was a bad seed planted deep down. This is what Frank thought about life, this is the conclusion he reached from his life. All you could do was try to make up for it, try to do good when you know you've done bad.
Frank sees a very simple way to do good right now. Seeing that dropped pipe he reaches over with that impossible reach, grabbing the length of metal and flipping it into the air, grabbing the opposite (now sludgy) end with his left gloved hand, and handing it idly to Rust. But he didn't even wait to see if he took it, just letting it hang in the air as he charged his prey. Frank didn't have the speed and agility of Rolento, he couldn't hop through the water with the greatest of ease, he didn't have an answer for how his heavy weight sunk his ankles deep into that water, and silt, and gunk that threatened to trap another man with nowhere to go. Instead he just ran with those powerful legs of his, boots ripping right out of that gunk every single time as water splashed absolutely everywhere, and eventually Frank leapt to aim vicious punch, right behind that desk. His speed and power perhaps hurrying that furniture along, and if he made contact, his fist would smash right through the warped wood, on its way to make contact with the insane "soldier's" prettyboy face!
"HRAAAAAAAGH!"
COMBATSYS: Rolento dodges Rust's Large Thrown Object.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/---====|=------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rolento dodges Frank's Body Blow.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/---====|=------\-------\0 Rust
"What is this, Rust Howard?! Such awkward, pathetic engagements!! You two are moving in slow motion to me!! Kneel immediately, and I will discipline you for this disruption appropriately, and we can cease this suicidal facade!!"
Rolento leaps straight upwards, seeming to turn into a blur. Both eyes are wide open, eyes seeming out of focus; he's taking in the world right now, focusing on nothing, center of balance perfect. It's truly something beautiful to observe. The desk doesn't even get within a meter of him before he braces against the ceiling, kicking down and landing in a crouch before Frank as his punch is let loose when the man is not even in the area anymore. It would have took something greater than a miracle for it to hit.
And then he slams his baton forward, aiming to hit Frank in his throat -- before flipping straight forward, and attempting to hurl him by the caught chin in a brutal overhead right towards the water in the distance with a growl, mastery of inertia allowing a burst of power far beyond what he normally has!!
"I was impressed last time we had met. Perhaps my assessment was incorrect. Or perhaps you are simply old. But you face a man who has battled what you struggle with for a decade longer, Rust Howard. The only excuse for your weakness... is a lack of technique and mentality. Do you think my every joint does not ache?! That my every muscle does not scream?!"
COMBATSYS: Frank blocks Rolento's Medium Throw.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-======|=------\-------\0 Rust
Frank had trouble even following the powerful soldier, his only inclanation that anything was wrong was that baton slamming into his adam's apple, causing the big man to choke and his right-arm to drop. Spittle sprayed as he was then 'flipped' overhead, but out of sight he immediately landed with a roll, coming up to one knee and shaking his head. He took a moment to gather his senses, throwing off that hardhat of his, showing the dockworker's cap underneath. Why did he wear that under a hardhat? Well, for situations like this, of course!
Snarling, kneeling at a crouch behing the man currently monologuing, he decided to try and throw a little monkey wrench in the man's gameplan. A monkey wrench in the form of that big, ape-like arm clenching its fist, and shooting its forearm area upward between the man's legs, aiming to get his attention with a smash right in the jewels!
Thanks to Frank's timely assistance, he catches Ol' Rusty with his right hand with only a pain-inspired smirk as slightly pained fingers in the wake of the earlier explosion are pressed against the cool, shining steel of the stolen length of pipe from a facility that does not legally exist. That, and it's totally gross to the touch. Lacking his work gloves at present, one can see the ugly deep burn and laceration scars that marr his right palm, extending to the wrist.
It makes Rolento's assessments and statements remind him all the more. Sometimes it feels like he can't go two days without someone commenting on his progress, or his continued fallacies, or what have you - even more jarring when, to him, it's people he hasn't seen in years. (People who nonetheless keep tabs on him just in case he blunders into trouble by getting in their way again like, say... this.)
"W-We're n--" Howard has generally always had problems getting a word in edgewise on much of anyone in the heat of the moment when Frank gets snarly with the superb soldier. It's not easy to when you are facing down, five years later, people you've thought largely written out of one's life - and still occasionally casting glances to make sure the (future) money's fine, and ensure there aren't guns blazing about.
Or where the little loudmouth went, for that matter.
"This is--" an excuse? A counterargument? A statement? A half-formed thought that shouldn't have left his mouth to begin with? It's tinged with frustration and irritation alike as Howard follows after Frank being caught at the at the machinations of the military madman. He hasn't known Frank long, he can only claim to be vaguely familiar with his fighting technique after coming to blows with him first-hand.
Nonetheless, Howard sloshes through the water - a giveaway of his impending movement, as he springs up out of there to try and plant a foot briefly on Frank's far broader, meatier shoulders to swing Ol' Rusty upward, far higher than he ought to in one seemingly overcommitted, desperate one-handed swing that goes over Rolento's head if he doesn't escape high...
One rotation later, he does it again, too high...?
One last rotation, it goes far lower, turned from two swings into a downward lunge to carry his own weight downward, back into the water of limited mobility.
"I-I didn't come here to be sch--" He doesn't quite finish the sentence before it ends on a cough, a sharp, verbal comeback to Rolento's assertions taking a delay.
COMBATSYS: Rolento instinctively dodges Frank's Hook Punch.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-======|=------\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rolento dodges Rust's Power Pipe.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-======|=------\-------\0 Rust
"Hrmph." is all Rolento states, utterly dismissive. "I will not accept this sort of insubordination. If both of you are so eager to aide Metro City, then I shall draft you forthwith." He flexes the grip on his baton, and then assumes a more aggressive stance; still, at long last, but for how long? When Frank moves forward, Rolento simply thumps the end of his baton down, and then lifts up atop it; the fist glances off the side of the weapon, his legs nowhere near the large figure's weapon. And then he explodes backwards, gone in a blur when Rust swings his weapon at him once more. Perching on a distant wall in a crouch, before kicking forward and then swinging his weapon overhead in a brutal arc, aiming to slam the very tip of his weapon right between Rust's eyes. "HNNNNN!!" The exclamation of the strong! His soldiers are standing at attention against the walls, rifles at ease, simply watching. But how long can he keep up that pace before he falters...?!
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Rolento's Mekong Delta Air Raid.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/-======|==-----\-------\0 Rust
Howard comes to a crouch in the muck. His left arm rises awkwardly high - the one carrying the plastic mass containing his key to starting to get things back on track, once this latest encounter--
No, to write 'once this latest encounter is over' would be selling the real threat short. The assumption that one Rolento could be easily swept aside by luck, pluck, or anything of that sort is foolish. To think of an 'after' with him when he comes down quick upon him with such speed, precision... virtual perfection in form, with no wasted flex or movement.
Howard responds to this by crouching and turning around just as there's the cue of Rolento kicking off to come at him, switching which arm is closer to Rolento's approach. He may have noticed in most instances that Howard favors the left when on defense. This circumstance has changed as he dares to move his right elbow upwards into it. The arm that holds the pipe.
Rolento no doubt remembers the circumstances with his right hand, and that's still true as the shock of it sees the pipe drop out of his right hand with an errant twitch and a barely vocalized gasp, the very tip of that baton having just clipped the back of his head in the process. A narrow defense...
"N-Not just Metr--" he segues into a grunt as he thrusts his freed right hand up, daring to enter a tug-o'-war with Rolento he is likely to lose. It's equal parts for leverage to try and stop him from using the tip of the baton to make his escape as he thrusts himself up out of the water in one wide kick that precedes a straighter one that gives him a bit of a backward push, as though banking on Rolento being focused enough on the upper body to try and plant those two good kicks on him.
Rolento danced right over Frank, and the big man grit his teeth as he slowly rose to a standing action to watch the resulting clash, the army man's attempt to brain his good friend Howard, and the worker's resulting attempt to grapple and strike down this crazy bastard. Frank hung back and watched, and from sheer experience in dingy bars, and from the now recent experience of fighting the Kyokugan Karate master himself, Frank had a pretty good guess what he was gonna try...and decided to give him a hand.
"HEY! Boytoy! Yer talk too much, yeh!"
This was followed by that wallet chain of Frank's being pulled loose, hurling it forward like a lash, and aiming for an ankle or leg of Rolento's or anything around the leg. If he managed to snare his foe, Frank would suddenly YANK backward with that mighty strength of his, trying to throw the baton-fighter off-balance, and maybe cause him to stumble in to Rust's kick attempts!
COMBATSYS: Frank successfully hits Rolento with Wallet Chain.
- Power hit! -
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/=======|==-----\-------\0 Rust
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Rolento with Girder Sway.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
Surprise.
That is what breaks this chain of inviolability.
Rolento catches the glint of the weapon in the air, before it cracks across his face. Hard. He's knocked out of his leap, suddenly forced to land hard on his leg with a grunt, face a grimace of discomfort. A moment later, both brutal kicks sink into the U.S.P.L. commando, and he's sent flying backwards. Crashing into the water, for a few moments he's submerged, beret floating around. His men all suddenly widen eyes, looking horrified.
Slowly, slowly, Rolento rises up to his feet. Dripping water all around him. "Enough. I am graduating you..."
Suddenly Rolento's hand flicks out. The narrow line is coated with an anti-shine coating. To loop around Frank's throat, before Rolento hurtles up to suddenly loop the other end over a piece of metal jutting from the ceiling.
"EXECUTION!!"
A moment later he attempts to hurtle Frank straight up into the air, where he would dangle being strangled like a grand meat pinata. The taut cord is pressed almost to the ground, before Rolento shifts forward and taps it. The tensile strength is so maximized, that causes it to snap, and allow Frank to collapse towards the water, likely more than a little blue-faced... but giving Rust a perfect chance to attack him while he's forced to remain still!!
COMBATSYS: Rolento successfully hits Frank with Take No Prisoner.
- Power hit! -
ROLENTO
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Frank 1/--=====/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
He wasn't blue-faced, he was red-faced. He was hanging there, dangling with his legs not even kicking, a bit of blood oozing from that garrote while his hands and fingers felt numb. Rolento is bringing that cord lower to the ground, and is probably well on his way to tapping it, to releasing Frank from that misery. He probably didn't expect one left hand to suddenly raise up, and drop a somehow clenched fist aimed straight for the top of his beret-wearing skull.
Whether that hit or missed, those great neck muscles of Frank would flex and the tensile would snap all its own, the big man being dropped shakily and warily on his feet. He lurched like a drunk at the best of times, and it was clear that he had a great deal of difficulty staying on his feet, after that attempted lynching. Still, he didn't let himself feel it now, he just grabbed at the back of Rolento's collar, and if he managed to snaggle on, he'd smash Rolento into the left wall, bring him back into the right, only to then, suddenly, flip him up and grasp him right on his right shoulder, keeping him 'upright' enough so that the army-man's head was level with Rust.
This perhaps done, Frank would suddenly charge and lunge like a rhino, aiming his current hated enemy for his good friend. But this wasn't an attack on Rust, was it? No...no, Frank must have had something like a plan in his head. And he hoped against hope that Rust was on the same page!
The spacing between commando and would-be prize money collector provides Howard the opportunity he needs to pick back up the pipe. He's working with both hands filled, and one item seems far less important to the immediate fight compared to the other - why does he keep risking that plastic lump, one may have to beg to ask? He tries to follow where Rolento goes after that knock into the water, thinking maybe he should at last get the hell out of the drink, like onto one of thoe desks...
When Frank gets snagged and hung - it takes a moment for Howard to really notice that's a thing that's going on since the cord by design is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye (this does not excuse the inability to recognize from the get-go that he is being hung and strangled on something and not magically levitated, but this is digression) - Howard does the obvious, saying the first thing he's been able to clear as day since this awkward reunion.
"Frank!" He calls.
It doesn't matter quite how the next couple of events go, with the haze of panic as to what's going on. There's something of a single-minded pursuit to move towards Rolento - the matter of delivery towards his position via Frank, or moving towards Rolento being irrelevant when trying to move in for the sake of a good friend, the sequence of events in specific that lead into this are largely irrelevant.
The one solid bullet point regardless is an attempt to thrust Ol' Rusty forward into the genius combatant's clothing, to find some place to hook onto him as the latter half of this pitched counter-offensive, to try and hoist him for a quick whirl before flinging him away.
Given he only has one arm available for this at present, he sacrifices some of the pipe's reach to partially tuck one end under his shoulder to help support the weight of Rolento's body should the tip of the pipe catch, as the second - but perhaps not last - step of everyone's presently bad day.
COMBATSYS: Rolento blocks Frank and Rust's Talk About A Bad Hairday.
ROLENTO
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Frank 0/-------/--=====|====---\-------\0 Rust
Well. Frank is the resilient sort. To Rolento's credit, he swishes his head away, evading the donkeypunch before twisting back to his feet. Breaking the wire early? That's not authorized activities at all!! Grasped and hefted like some kind of child, Rolento is slammed into a bank wall, causing it to cave inwards. But he exhales at the exact moment, entire body relaxing, force dispersing heavily. But this doesn't save him from then being hurled through the air in Rust's direction, tumbling head over heels.
With a grunt, Rolento brings up his forearms and legs, inverting his pipe. The blow from Rust hits it dead center. The wood creaks heavily, a massive amount of power thrumming through, bursting into the elderly brawler's every joint and likely causing the ground beneath his feet to thrum.
Before Rolento recoils backwards, skidding to a crouch. "...Hrmph. Enough of these games. Look beneath your feet."
Both might, but only Frank would be the Oprah winner -- there's a grenade, sans pin, in the water. Which explodes in a catastrophic fireball of condensed anti-tank munitions a moment later, sending frothing white surging in all directions!!
COMBATSYS: Rolento successfully hits Frank with Grenadier.
ROLENTO
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[ < > ///////////////////////// ]
Frank 1/-----==/=======|====---\-------\0 Rust
Frank was too out of it to even look down, and stepped on the grenade at the precise perfect time that it went off on him, explosion moving up his right leg, smoke rising, his jeans ripping and shredding, and the big man gave a grunt, lifting up his right leg to show the boot blown almost to shreds, bits hanging off of him just like the blown edges of his jeans on that side. He wasn't gonna last too much longer. He'd been hung, beat up, blown up, so surely he was about to keel over, right?
No, what he was gonna do, was take a step, then another one, lurching like a zombie, arms whipping wildly even as his teeth grit, even as he snarled in rage, and even as he rushed right up to Rolento with a frightening speed and determination. He was out on his feet, he was by all counts unconscious...but his hands still lashed out, and tried to clasp either side of the man's skull. And if this worked, if he managed to get his mitts around that dome of the deranged beret-wearing goon, then he was gonna...he was gonna...
COMBATSYS: Frank can no longer fight.
ROLENTO
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Rust 0/-------/---====|
"Gkkkghg!!" This isn't the first time Howard has encountered someone so incredible with their ability to redirect physical force in such a way that it reverberates back through an attacker. That catch by Rolento to stop himself from being hurled about further looks more like the two of them exchanged real, solid blows.
Well, at least Rust looks like he might've been dealt one, staggering back a ways as his entire body aches from the shuddering sensation that goes through him, Ol' Rusty slipping further down the grasp of his right hand as he goes to a crouch in the squalid, gross water, stepping all over papers related to someone's investments from a good four years ago that quickly disintegrates in the water.
'Look beneath your feet.' Howard falls for it - did he prepare by tossing live explosives that far behind hi--
The explosion (and great waves of water that knock off his yellow construction worker helmet, revealing a truly ghastly sight underneath... that hairpiece) from a ways away tells him, no, that wasn't meant for him, and once more, Howard repeats that one clear, concise word.
"Frank!" He calls, as he stomps across the water towards Frank, clambering on top of a desk in the process that he pretty much doesn't need to if he's just going to jump right back in and keep wading towards him about as fast as his aging, tired body can really take him.
Howard can take those kinds of explosions better than a lot of people. Frank... he's big, he's strong, but he has no idea as to the true absolute limits of his ability to take things human flesh typically does not, having a hard time seeing the raised leg that might reassure the smaller of the two (wait.. weren't there three, at one point? Where's Smalls?) thanks to the smoke that rises in the wake of the explosions.
As Frank lumbers towards Rolento for that one, last, desperate squeeze, the pipe-wielding man drops Ol' Rusty on another table en-route as to be able to get his right hand around one of Frank's shoulders to try and keep him upright, to not have him keel over face-first into the water or what have you.
He'd rather not have another drowning scare like a couple days ago.
"Frank. Frank. Can you, c-can you... can you feel your feet, how does--" the rest of his utterances follow this general trend as if to make sure one of his feet somehow didn't disintegrate under the explosive force, or anything horrific like that.
Howard's seen some pretty nasty things first-hand from those Asian land wars...
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
ROLENTO
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Rust 0/-------/---====|
COMBATSYS: Rolento interrupts Head Squeeze from Frank with Deadly Package.
ROLENTO
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Rust 0/-------/---====|
Rolento is not a man who knows the definition of mercy. When Frank grasps him by the head and latches on, the mercenary does the same. A hand grasps the other by the front of his clothing, before suddenly leaning backwards, yanking him off-balance. And then hurtling straight up, hauling the massive dockworker into the air. At the apex, he twists and shoulder-throws Frank with a snarl -- attached to him is another string of grenades, all of which explode in a great blast the moment he smacks into a desk, likely causing his already battered body to thump to the ground, smoking even worse.
Landing in a crouch, Rolento is slow to rise. "...Punishment has been wrought." he offers Rust. "I will offer you this chance to acquiesce. There is no further merit to this battle... especially if you wish to remain healthy enough to administer medical aid to your friend. He is a martyr for the mouth of his colleague...!! I am willing to end things here, if you are!!"
His baton shifts to point towards the other man, spattered in blood that is not his own. "You never struck me as a man motivated by vengeance or pride. Stand down, Howard Rust. And I will have my own personal trauma team tend to him. ...There is no merit in losing a man of his dedication, when Metro City needs every last soul. And that includes either of us."
Frank is unmercifully ripped out of Howard's caring touch in a brutal display, watching Rolento masterfully hoist and toss away Frank so that the commando and the ex-construction worker can stand face to face, open scarred right hand outstretched to the large lug as he's dealt with decisively.
"Shit, shit," Howard chants twice. It would be thrice, were it not for a cough, at which point he decides maybe two is enough to communicate his thoughts on the matter as Rolento speaks again about punishment being wrought. The offer to acquiesce, which takes him a moment to remember what the meaning of the word is.
Between the two of them, even with the years that have passed and the reinforcement of his physique, technique, and further attunement to the very breath of the world itself, Rolento is easily the superior of the two. Even if Howard did find solid ground to stand on, he can't bound off walls, and is nowhere near as armed. As prepared.
It probably says plenty that when Rolento offers to have the hostilities cease, that the man with the horrible hairpiece does not even so much as glance at the gunmen standing off to the side. Years and years ago, when called to see Rolento, he couldn't hide his nervousness. Fear. He was out of his element, front to back. Out of his depth. Out of his league, yet still stuck and charged with doing what he could... even as a seeming game piece of various powers and interests.
The years have changed plenty (aside from still being out of his element, which seems to be just the essence of his very being). This time around, the nervous glances may instead be given towards /him/, maybe even by the same people who cast him the stink eye on the way to the roof of that complex Rolento had as a base back then. With Rolento's urging, with the promises of his friend's care... it should communicate something to the put-upon man who just cannot seem to keep out of trouble since that fateful evening he went looking for that bear.
There is still tension in Rust's body language and even stance for those lingering, critical moments when Rolento makes his case. He probably already subconsciously has figured how he'd adapt the kick techniques he's mastered and drilled into him from the Kyokugen discipline to further, greater effect - maybe enough to even fight and overcome water's effect on dampening what velocity he could swing it.
One thing, however, has not changed in the least. It may well be the very reason so many people have come to trust him after a short amount of time in a pinch like this.
Howard takes a step back towards the table he put the pipe down upon, wiggling his fingers... and raising his hand.
"I, I don't have my toolbelt with me, uh... just, just... just pretend I'm... putting it there," he awkwardly, clumsily says as he picks it up and sticks it under his left armpit with that egregiously overly layered lump of plastic upon plastic upon plastic protecting the big prize from all the water that surrounds it, that threatens to rip the big score away from him forever.
"A-All right?" He raises his right hand up. "Not... not pointin' it at you, or... or anyone, it's... it's out of play." Why he'd have to justify himself to the gunners that surround them is anyone's guess, other than perhaps to just hammer the point home.
This rather strange choice of words to say 'okay, god damn it, I'm done with this' aside, he takes in a deep breath as he casts another glance over to the grievously injured Frank. He casts a look back towards Rolento. For the few times the two have encountered one another, in spite of... pretty much every reason to the contrary as popularly advertised in American media on the ongoing War on Terror...
For the same madman who famously sieged Metro, there seems to be a firm understanding as to the real importance as to what has to be preserved here as the rain starts to grow ever more violent again outside as the pounding of the storms against windows that shudder and shake are quick to remind them. This isn't the first time the two of them were caught in the middle of a storm (this one more literal, the last one far more metaphorical).
Howard doesn't think he could drag Frank anywhere else in time were he to be bleeding to death right then and there, and yet, by letting him fall into their care, that silent consent in allowing Rolento the ability to perhaps fund another siege upon the city down the line...
Rather than shake his head and cast all sorts of disbelieving, disgruntled faces, he looks to Rolento head on and extends his right hand for a handshake. Firm. Like two men of some importance coming to some understanding.
"J-Just... make sure I'm there when he, he comes around, uh," he clears his throat, "when he came to after, uh... after our bout..."
That's probably a story better for another time.
"..." Rolento simply stands there, grip upon his own baton tight. The mild creaking of well-worn leather echoes into the air. A wildness is seen in his eyes. A flash of the demon he keeps chained, in the savageness inflicted on Frank for such a meagre slight. Indeed, that has always been the case. Even at his most calm and reasoned, there is a sense of a rabid dog, eyes always on your throat, ready to tear it out and choosing not to. But what might trigger that? The wrong word? Slouching? Shrugging? His men could list off dozens, some of the beatings ending in comas, and there seems to be no particular trigger... outside the lack of absolute perfection.
Rust is not perfect. Far from it. Every stutter and slouch makes Rolento want to backhand him, and beat out of his placid form the absolute excellence that his impossible standards demands. ...But he does not. No. Respect, yes. If it was not for that respect, they would never have met all those years ago.
"What is it that brought you to this bank?" Rolento finally says, while motioning to Frank. In moments, two soldiers have shifted to grasp him beneath either arm and drag him through the water in the direction of a side door. "Did the poor state of construction entice you to check for survivors?"
Rolento then pulls out a small remote. Idly, he presses the button. Without warning there's a deafening explosion, shaking the entire bank and blowing out the damaged windows. His men stagger and fall into the churning water, shouting in alarm. The huge vault door clangs to the ground and then slowly falls over with a SPLASH.
A few moments later his disoriented troops step past the white-hot melted joints, the Jaws of Life churning into action and ripping open the cage door within, granting access to the interior.
"What is in that bag?"
"Frank and I," Howard clears his throat, "'scuse me. Frank and I-- we were, we were trying to... to fortify the area from... floods, lookin' for... well, what you said, and--"
An explosion rings out, and the American man is interrupted mid-explanation to utter another foul word lost to the eardrum-battering explosive symphony, free hand to one of his ears - he nearly drops the other two things he's carrying on the reflex to cover the other ear. Even having been surrounded by loud bangs and blinding flashes for a while some years back, some things still catch him by surprise.
He takes a moment to re-compose himself, speaking a bit too loudly to overcompensate for ringing ears. "Look, every... every so often, some places'd... 'd still be open, for some reason, and... and I was hoping to..."
He hesitates ever so slightly to mention. This /thing/ under his arm, so wrapped in plastic. It took him hours to put it all together, to wrap all the plastic just tight and to be compressed even further in the air seal bag that holds it all together. As many layers of protection as he could cobble together on short notice as to best protect what's inside from the rains, from the winds, from the floods, from anything and everything...
He exhales loudly, perhaps encroaching on the very limits of Rolento's patience for an explanation if he hadn't already crossed it before, as he holds it upwards to take it from his armpit to his right hand.
"A check," he finally explains, "from... from the Gaia Tournament. I won the round, but," but? "Some... some things happened just, just leading up to this, I... I don't have ID, don't have... don't have my cash card... credit cards... wh-what you see on me? 's... all I got on my person, after, well, some people got a, a hold on me."
Please don't make me unwrap this damn thing, he thinks to himself, as he knows he can't cash it in here. "Just... just had the hope that, that this bank still, uh, still had someone runnin' it--"
How dumb or desperate can this man be, looking at this place from the outside in? Looking for refugees is one thing, but expecting a bank to still be running?!
Rolento didn't look back at the explosion. He didn't even blink. Despite a piece of random metal hurtling past, ripping a gouge into his cheek that slowly begins to bleed. His intense eyes remained unblinking on Rust throughout, unfettered by the fact that such a reckless display could have easily lead to his death.
"So that check is from the proprietor of this suspicious tournament...? Give me the bag." Rolento suddenly asks. He holds out his hand, beckoning for the man. ...Well. It's probably not likely he wants to steal it or anything, but he doesn't give a reason. And from the look on his face, he has no intention to. That was an ORDER, not a subject to be debated.
"What?" No, he heard it, he can't fake having his ears ringing. Especially not with the extended hand, there. He wants HIS lifeline to getting what he needs to a) get out of here, b) get back out of the country somehow to volcanic ash-choked Southtown, c) maybe pay off a few outstanding debts and otherwise consider that really bitchin' new home entertainment set, d) win that auction on E-Bay for that really rare VCR tape he's been trying to locate for months...
...
...e) Frank and maybe Smalls are now at the mercy of Rolento should he suddenly decide to change his mind.
Howard hands over the bag after that moment to collect himself and his understanding - and also a fraction of a moment's pause as to consider whether or not he should point out that he's bleeding from the face.
There is a few moments where Rolento's eyes begin to narrow. A slow stiffening, that seems to give the impression of a King Cobra coiling for the strike. He had never holstered his proverbial weapon, hilt still grasped tight, but when the bag is handed over it is if all that vanishes. Sheathing the weapon over his shoulder, a knife seems to manifest between deft fingers. Holding the aggregated plastic between two fingers, he slashes out a single time. This probably terrifies poor Rust, but when he yanks the slit open, the check is pulled free, completely unharmed.
"..." He looks at it closely, before folding it carefully in half and then placing it in his front pocket. Turning away, he sloshes through the water, ignoring as it passes his boots. Men stand at attention as he enters the massive vault area where men remain at attention in salute.
Twenty seconds later he strides back out. Within his hand is a stack of money, fanned out before Rust and then offered. Holding up a finger, he digs into his pocket and pulls out some change. Carefully, two quarters, a dime, and three pennies are settled into his palm, and the remainder is given over.
"I shall hold on to this check. It holds banking details on the owner of this tournament. ...That has value in my investigations. Holly Wood will escort you to the medical pavilion. If you wish egress from this cities' state of affairs, every three hours a helicopter takes civilians to a drop-off point near the United Nations. If you wish to stay... there is plenty to do."
With that, Rolento turns to stride out the front door. An endlessly busy man, after all... but the sneering, hulking form of Rolento's third in command, wearing a crimson suit, would jerk a thumb at a nearby door and lead him in the direction of the tent. Within is Frank, and about six skilled-looking doctors, three of whom are tending to his friend. Two other civilians are present, seeming stable. It seems he was not lying about his work for those in Metro City...
What Rust chooses to do next is up to him, however. Where is a hero most needed in a world falling apart at the seams...?
Log created on 19:59:27 08/30/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 12:53:34 08/31/2014.