Description: It's kind of crazy anyone would think, in the middle of a nearby volcanic eruption, that a good idea is to go back to the forest where one left their car and hope it's still there when one doesn't actually have its keys on hand. It's another when the mysterious Franziska von Valken banks on such a line of thought that someone would think this, all for the sake of some kind of friendly fight, one might assume. The sort of thing that happens only in Southtown... even in a time of crisis!
Next on the great big checklist of Howard Rust trying to get something of a regular life back on track in the midst of a series of the greatest natural disasters in history, something he has kept putting off probably out of fear of having to face the truth of it all. That... and who he encountered the very last time he was there.
Southtown hasn't gotten less, uh, ash-ier since the last time he's been here. It's managed to get progressively worse. A whole world of difference from when he was plucked away by Igniz and now - he's actually pretty surprised the whole forest hasn't gone up in flames.
Dressed in a largely brown-and-orange variation of his usual outfit and having significantly darker skin tone for reasons that continue to go unexplained, the aging American fighter grumbles as he trudges through the woods, the shining length of pipe already drawn and resting against his shoulder as he goes about the... afternoon? Evening? He has a few bandages from burn wounds sustained from a brief stay at the erupting volcano itself, and precious little time to sit there and lick his wounds when he wants to confirm whether his truck's been removed, looted, been beaten up by wandering fighters for bonus points, or any combination thereof, as a thick cloud of dust renders visibility an issue.
He now has on THREE flu masks, one atop another, as though it would help filtrate the fine particles out of the air and not strangle him to death just by wearing them as he navigates the woods towards that clearing, his presence given away both by rustling grass, snapped branches, and cracking joints that would like to not be flexed for a while (if ever again).
"With my luck," Howard grumbles aloud, "someone's just gonna be... gonna be waiting, right there, 'n," his grousing deteriorates into incomprehensibility.
The universe has been known to have something of a sense of humor from time to time. For some people, it's little more than the occasional passing irony of a strange situation that seems to have be created solely for their benefit or chagrin. For others, it's like they have a permanent case of bad karma, as if some cosmic entity goes out of its way to ensure that things just always seem to go wrong for them. However, upon invoking such an obvious invitation for trouble, well, can one be really too surprised when that call is answered?
As Rust rounds the final bend of thick ash-laden trees between himself and the clearing he finds himself greeted with a perhaps surprisingly undamaged vision of his precious vehicle. Though coated in a layer of grey soot from the volcanic rain the truck appears to be in one piece; the windows are unbroken, the doors still attached, the tires still inflated - even the hubcaps are present!
That is not the only surprise that greets the middle-aged man, however. Standing not far to the side of the dirty vehicle is a trio of figures that, at first glance, are obviously members of some sort of military. Two of the individuals are covered from head to toe in thick tactical plating, their faces concealed behind ominous-looking gasmasks, presumably to protect them from the harsh environemnt in a somewhat more sophisticated manner than Rust's triple-decker MacGuyver air-filter. Perhaps more notably, however, are the heavy assault rifles they carry in their arms.
The third figure among the group is devoid of armor but her appearance is no military in nature. Beneath the dusting of ash that rests on her shoulders, Franziska's uniform looks like something out of an old World War II museum, complete with the peaked cap and thick greatcoat that hangs loosely from her shoulders, almost like a cape. She appears to have no weapons but she also wears no mask, apparently unaffected by the ash and heat.
The woman is the first to notice him and she tilts her head to regard him with an amused look upon his arrival before turning completely to face him. The soldiers follow suit though their movements are much more rigid and precise, almost robotic as the snap to attention at her sides.
"Herr Rust," she says, greeting him as plainly as if they had met already. Her already warm expression molds into a radiant smile that practically assaults him with a palpable wave of friendliness and excitement. "So good of you to join us. I vas just tellink Diedrich here zat you vould be sure to come. He sought zat somethink like a little ash vould deter you, but he just doesn't understand zee fightink spirit." She waves a hand in the air dismissively with a faint smirk. "Anyvays, vere are my manners? You must be quite tired after valkin all zis vay? Vould you care for some refreshment? I have some vonderful tea und... ah... vat did zee call zem... oh right, tvinkies. I am not usually one to partake of such zings but zey vere actually quite nice."
One can see the light in his eyes when he rounds that final bend, pushing his free hand against a tree as he sees it. It is not because of a poor balance - he is extremely hesitant to see what has inevitably become of it. He would not be surprised if it had all of a sudden been nested by all the squirrels in the world, ever, or something especially ludicrous given his recent luck in a long string of misadventures.
Imagine his unbridled joy when he sees that, beyond that fine layer of dust and grime all over the truck, it's intact! No broken windows! He can still see hubcaps! No obvious signs of forced entry! He's so happy he could smile under the triplicate flu masks! (Which is really wincing, one side of his face is still kind of tender from a certain oversized ninja's flurry of punches to the face). Heck, there's even those three people he came by with over a week ago when he went out with a bunch of military-looking fo--
Wait... no. No, he didn't do anything like that.
His shoulders slump as that hand is moved from the tree and to his brow, as if to address the odd circumstance, a barely audible 'uhhhhhh' as the center figure, a woman dressed as... is she? That gets a second, awkward 'uhhhhh' that's a little easier to hear but still barely qualifies as audible when he's addressed.
As though the whole picture itself were somehow more worrying than seeing at least two armed guards of some military unit he's not sure he's seen before. He's seen quite a few in the greater Asian continent after all those run-ins with Shadaloo across two land wars.
"Uhhh," he finally says very clearly to the greeting, the friendly conversation, the musing about him versus dust (we all know who's winning that arms race between himself and fine dust particles), the general pleasantries, the invitation for... tea? Twinkies?
"Uhhhh." That's the fourth instance. He stands up a little straighter. "I, uh, ahhh." His eyes wander a little, as though checking to make sure he's not about to walk into yet another interesting ambush, or... maybe to make sure he's still in 2014? In Southtown?
He clears his throat. "'scuse me, sorry, ah, something's... something's in my throat." Through three different layers of flu mask? Somehow, yes. Why else would he be wearing three?
"L-Look, I, I hope you don't mind me... me addressing the e-elephant, in the... forest." He's not even sure if he should ask, given... everything.
"But... wh-what're you guys doing... waiting by my... truck?" He appears genuinely non-plussed. Off guard! As though somehow this nearly predictable circumstance has taken an immediate turn for the inexplicable, a certain wariness with equal weariness in what of his voice isn't muffled by the triplicate flu masks.
"I mean... tea sounds... nice, but, there's," he vaguely gestures uselessly in the air which is full of dust, soot, and who knows what else those tiny particles are made of... and what they'll do to his lungs. (What HAVEN'T they done to his lungs already?)
At Rust's flustered confusion, the woman's smile only broadens, her expression becoming almost motherly in nature despite the fact that he is clearly almost twice her age. Again, a feeling of peaceful joy washes over him, as if her mere presence were somehow reassuring. It is a subtle sensation but it is there, lingering in the air just as much as the ash and dust.
Franziska lifts a hand to her face to stifle an amused chuckle behind her glove, its smooth white surface still pristine despite the veritable storm of particulate matter floating freely about. She makes a placating gesture, holding both palms out towards him. "Nein, nein, forgive me, Herr Rust. Your confusion is natural, zee fault is mine. I spend so much time researching my fellow martial enthusiasts zat I forget sometimes zat we haf not met in person."
The woman turns slightly to motion towards one of the armed soldiers at her side. "As for zem, please do not vorry, zey are merely my bodyguards. Zey might look big und scary but zat is just to keep vould-be trouble-makers avay. Viz all zee... ah... social unrest at zee present it never hurts to be prepared, ja?"
Franziska smiles again and clasps her hands behind her in an at-ease posture. "As for my purpose here...." She closes her eyes and inhales deeply of the air around them, as if the intense smell of ash and ruin were some sort of intoxicating perfume. "Let us say, I am an.... admirer, of sorts. You haf earned quite zee reputation among certain circles."
She cracks her eyes open slowly, giving him a languid yet mischievous grin. "It would be a great honor if I could see your skills in action."
That sensation may well be why he isn't raising his voice, if there really is anything to raise his voice about. It's not like they're pointing guns at him, or anything of that sort. It's just... weird. Another in a long string of encounters and interesting circumstances he doesn't seem to know how to take, when years after the fact he ought to be used to this sort of thing by now.
It's hard to file away all the worries when they just keep piling up. There's always that lingering hope that maybe things aren't quite as odd as they seem...
"Uhh," is that the fifth 'uhh?' He takes his free hand to rub at the back of his head, touching at that... thing on his head which is so abominable that he is perhaps the far stranger of everyone gathered for thinking it belongs on his scalp, let alone to be touched (even with gloves on).
"It... it kinda is... wild, out there, yeah," he nods along, that's... probably reasonable enough, if anything's going to bring anyone out here, even though that's some heavy-looking rifles. He turns his head as if about to say 'but,' but is cut off as the topic segues into why she's there.
He begins to wonder if maybe he's overreacting to the crap all around in the air, if she's able to breathe in that deep. That's still not something among anyone he knows would probably do in an environment like this, he thinks.
"Y'mean... like... carpentry?" He asks. He grimaces some. "I, I'm not as... as quick as I used to be there, after, ah... the invasion of 2009, but, uhhh," that's number six there.
He blinks a few times as he turns his head over to the pipe. Ol' Rusty, that shining thing he ripped clean out of some top secret research facility for reasons beyond the very concept of reason itself, as to why THAT particular length and not any of the virtually and totally identical ones he passed up in the process, when it dawns to them.
"Oh, wait. WAit, y'mean," he waggles a finger, "fighting, right, I," he clears his throat as he steps away from the tree, into the clearing, closer to the gathered as he rolls one of his shoulders to work out a very worrying, noisy kink that would make any arthritis care specialist recoil in fear.
He doesn't seem to be too inconvenienced by it, though.
"I... I could... go a round, sure," he nods his head slowly, as though the real reason for why he showed up here to begin with gets pushed away slowly to the back of his head, lowering Ol' Rusty from his shoulder and pointing it lower towards the ground, where the tip scrapes into the ash and dirt that have already come together in a dull tapestry of brown and gray.
"Vonderful!"
Franziska's hands reappear as she claps her palms together softly in enthusiasm, displaying an almost childish gesture of approval. At the very least, it seems rather cutesy for a grown women in a military uniform surrounded by armed guards. Her smile is genuine enough though and something about her just seems to make it hard to consider her a threat. It's almost like she's glowing with sincerity, radiating a purity of intention that is quite difficult to find in human society.
"I must admit, I haf been lookink forward to meeting you in person for quite some time now. It is alvays inspiring to find people who are able to take somethink and make it zere own. Zere vill always been zee worker bees, zee vans who merely follow instruction and do as zey are told. But it is so rare to find somevan vis zee drive to take it a step furzer."
The woman gestures randomly in the air, her hands and fingers moving about as she speaks as if unable to contain her energy with idleness. The soldiers see this as their cue to step aside and the pair of them retreat to stand near edge of the clearing, drawing attention to the dark black van nestled amidst the underbrush not far away.
"Ach, but before we begin... I haf not introduced myself!" Gripping the brim of her cap, she lifts it from her head and gives Rust a sweeping bow. "Franziska von Valken, heir to the family name."
Howard probably would have likened himself to one of those worker bees. It's always been something of a source of stability, the kind of life he grew used to even when he started craving the excitement of fighting after, uh, failing to settle into a proper routine as a high school teacher.
At heart, he's a working man. (A working man with occasional bouts of nigh-invulnerability to physical duress, but a working man nonetheless.)
It's not hard to liken her apparent enthusiasm to a lot of the students he's worked with over the years, both as a high school teacher and now as an assistant to the proper instructors of the Kyokugen Dojo (read: mostly punching bag). He doesn't appear to have much to say about her praise, perhaps from being preoccupied on getting out a nasty kink in one of his legs, and... ooh, his ankle usually doesn't stiffen up like that, either.
"Ah, right... ah, pleased ot meet you, Ms.," there's a half-second pause. Has he met a complete new low in forgetting a name within /two seconds/ of hearing it, when he was actually paying attention and hearing her name for real? Probably, "von Valken."
"I'm," curious as to why you guys actually thought standing around his truck until he appeared in this kind of weather was a good idea, but somehow it never comes to mind to him to really let that go on his tongue as he takes his turn to introduce himself, "Howard Rust," which she already knew. He extends his free hand as if expecting a handshake, but, given the bow... it's kind of an awkward transition for him to do the same.
A part of him still seems like he's not quite entirely all there with the situation, which is kind of an ordinary thing for him as he nonetheless physically straightens himself out, pops out his back, stretches out that leg once again... and bends his left arm inward, held horizontally, Ol' Rusty pointing down low and to the back. He bobs up and down on his feet once.
Exactly once, given that ankle starts to act up again - he'd have to give the more active fighting stance he's developed over the years a bit of a rest for the moment, it seems, as his feet scrape up against the dust accumulated on the clearing's ground. His energy, compared to hers, is a quiet, more reserved. Restrained?
He may well have built up his infamy as being one of the most physically (if not emotionally) resilient human beings out there on merit of restraining his personal energies, how he often typically favors more controlled numbers of strikes in a sequence... usually.
"A-After you, if... if you'd like," he invites, "if, y-you're ready." He coughs once, having somehow found a way to be invaded by /something/ past his triplicate flu masks, patting his chest loudly a few times. "'scuse me."
Franziska merely smiles at the extended hand as she straightens back up, finding apparent amusement in the sheer amount that her unusual etiquette and appearance have managed to fluster her target. It's hardly an unexpected outcome but never fails to entertain her. The majority of humanity simply seems incapable of operating on her level, so preoccupied with trival thoughts or worrying about what others might think to manage a clear and focused view of their own self worth; but she knows who she is and what she is capable of.
It is that supreme confidence in her own ability that has lifted her above the common rabble, an unwavering resolve in the face of all opposition that lets her stride up to a complete stranger and talk to them like they are old friends. It is the trait of a leader, an alpha, a hero... or maybe a sociopath. Whatever the case, Franziska's confidence is as apparent as her good-natured cheer.
"If zat is your vish, I shant be so rude as to turn down zee offer."
With a flick of her arms the woman flips the bulk of the heavy greatcoat resting on her shoulders into the air just long enough to allow her to deftly insert her arms into the empty sleeves as gravity pulls it back down around her body. She takes a moment to fasten a single button at the front to keep it from wildly flapping about but that is the extent of her combat preparations, a rather meager offering compared to Rust's full body shake down.
"If you are ready, zen... let us haf an enjoyable match, ja?"
Without waiting for his reply, Franziska shifts into an offensive gear, her hands coming up into a martial stance. If Rust has been doing his homework he may recognize the similarities in her pose to the Chinese form of baguazhang, one arm held straight out with the palm facing him while the other remains couched at her side, ready to strike out at any time.
The young fighter moves in an explosive burst of energy, darting across the gap between them with no hint of subtlety in her actions as she bears directly down upon him. At the last moment, however, she plants one foot on the ground and leaps into the air, casting herself in a parabolic arc that brings her down boot-first towards Rust's head.
COMBATSYS: Franziska has started a fight here.
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Franziska 0/-------/-------|
COMBATSYS: Rust has joined the fight here.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Franziska
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Franziska's Luftangriff.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|-------\-------\0 Franziska
In comparison, Rust's stance is... more his. The overwhelming preference to lead with his left arm even when he wields that pipe with his right hand. Observances of him at the Kyokugen Dojo proper may show more traditional martial arts stances being used, but this one is rather decidedly his own.
"S-Sure," he slurs the reassurance of a good fight. He could really go for one of those - he hasn't had any in a while. Just a good, clean fight, out in the middle of nowhere... in the company of an odd but not unpleasant young woman accompanied by guards with military-grade hardware...
...
Let's stick with the 'good, clean fight' part.
Her enthusiasm and speedy approach nearly catches him unawares. He leans into what he assumes to be a largely horizontal strike on up high, and he's almost right - her jump indicates she wants to go in even deeper than he first thinks.
He responds with a (not quite as quick) backwards hop that doesn't completely clear it, but spares him a head-stomp and instead redirects it to his upper-right arm with just enough push behind it that it sees him nearly drop the pipe outright thanks to the weaker grip in that hand with a wordless grunt.
It's one he recovers from skillfully enough, turning away with the momentum and lowering his arm as if to move with the motion the boot wants to boot him, with the small downside that it slightly telegraphs the intent to pivot back to face her with a wide backhand swing of the pipe, utilizing its reach to the fullest that swings for around chest level if she's standing on the ground.
Comparatively lower, naturally, if she has yet to touch back onto the ground after her attack.
COMBATSYS: Franziska blocks Rust's Random Piping.
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Rust 0/-------/-------|=------\-------\0 Franziska
Despite her slender build, Franziska is actually really heavy for some reason. Her body falls like an anvil as she unleashes her flying kick, rebounding skillfully off the deflecting shoulder to touch down on the ground before him in the span of a few moments. She falls into a three-point kneel to catch herself which brings her head directly in line with the swinging pipe. However, before she can get ruthlessly brained her free arm snaps up to catch the metal tube across the forearm. There is a dull thud upon impact, almost as if the weapon had collided with a brick wall and Franziska takes a moment to smile at him again.
"Excellent, Herr Rust. Your form is as interesting as I vas led to believe!"
Rather than rising to her feet immediately, Franziska leans against the arm that is supporting her and twists, pivoting her hips into a low kick aimed at the side of his knee. Her movements are graceful even crouched upon the ground but there is an obvious ferocity to the woman's style and the attack snaps out hard and fast offering no indication that she is holding anything back.
COMBATSYS: Franziska successfully hits Rust with Medium Kick.
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Rust 0/-------/-----==|=------\-------\0 Franziska
It's an odd sensation, to be sure. He's not a stranger to encountering young women of thin frames somehow holding far superior physical strength and resilience contrary to their appearances. He doesn't know off the cuff as to whether he can account for what goes through his right arm as a matter of good timing and leverage for the block, or that she actually is one of those people who are far stronger physically than they let on.
His eyes probably say all between the spectrum of 'why does my right wrist suddenly feel sore' and 'that's a hell of a block,' and it's nothing compared to...
The look on his face when he doesn't quite think to move back his leg or lift in time to get struck in the side of one of his knees, going to a crouch as one of his eyes squeeze shut as a muffled vocalization of pain (...or approval?) as he twists to his left, pipe-wielding arm still facing her.
Misreading the soot pile he's standing on, that knee he crouches on goes in a little deeper than he anticipates, which is disorienting but not entirely flow-killing.
Pressing Ol' Rusty against the ground as he brings his left hand atop the makeshift hilt (always defined as 'which end he is holding onto at that point in time'), he kicks up with his less-kicked-in leg, swinging with his hip to bring the healthier leg outward in another wide sweeping motion, followed up by his slightly battered one in a secondary straight kick forward that snaps out in such a way that not only does it make that particular knee pop its joint.
It, for some reason, seems apt to propel him slightly backwards in the air.
"Better kick 'n I usually feel," he comments, although it's hard to hear, as though the conversational piece were a secondary thought behind stopping himself from staying pained and crouching for along.
COMBATSYS: Franziska blocks Rust's Girder Sway.
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Rust 0/-------/-----==|==-----\-------\0 Franziska
Franziska watches the strange series of movements that her opponent engages in with hawk-like focus, everything from how he uses his pipe as a make-shift stepping stone to the way his kicks flow together in a manner that only skilled fighters can manage. There is a strange glint in her eyes as she assesses his style but whether it is a sparkle of respect or amusement is difficult to tell in the heat of combat.
The first kick catches the uniformed fighter as she rises to her feet but once again the brunt of the assault is met by her arms which seem to be made out of steel from the way she seems to brush off the assault. This time she actually rides the momentum of the attack and pushes herself clear as the second kick lances out towards her, circling deftly to the side at the last moment to avoid catching his heel in her gut.
"You'll find I am a little more challenging an opponent zan zee students in your dojo, Herr Rust," she counters, still smiling.
As soon as his strange technique begins to propel him away, Franziska rushes after him, intent to keep the pressure up and maybe take advantage of the time he'll need to recover from such an awkward manuever. She doesn't leap this time, however, instead coming in low. She takes a final small hop to close the gap and lands on one foot, the other drawing back in a somewhat dramatic fashion as she gathers her strength for a powerful strike. After a heart beat or two she lashes out, her well-polished boot coming in from the side with the intention of hammering away at his other knee in an effort to cripple him further.
COMBATSYS: Franziska successfully hits Rust with Knochenbrecher.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|==-----\-------\0 Franziska
It's been said, sometimes, that striking Howard himself is a quick path towards possibly breaking the bones in one's hands, feet, or whatever part of the body one hurls at him because he's typically so difficult to injure to the point that striking him may well be similar to that of striking steel... or harder.
The uniformed young woman ensures the uninformed aging man catches up on her gets the 411 on the magnitude of difference between herself and his students.
As he propels himself backwards with the lingering ache on the foot that does make contact with those arms, he'd probably quickly append 'every other female fighter I've probably ever struck,' but he doesn't quite have the bandwidth or heart to correct her in wake of the fact that she's pursuing him with such perfect timing.
It's almost like clockwork. The very moment he lands, she gets her kicks in. (Well, singular, but one could get their kicks off of it.)
"Kfffkffhgl," an odd string of consonants hisses through his lips and doesn't quite get muffled entirely by the three flu masks he's layered in front of his face as his landing is deftly intercepted, forcing him onto his hip with that leg bent in a bit further inward than most people would consider 'comfortable' or 'not broken.'
Could she have taken him out in three deft, precise strikes, as he lies prone on his side to look up upon her? The look in his eyes, the way they dart, says plenty on its own. Extreme precision, a seemingly impossibly solid defense.
On his end, well, both legs speak for themselves, one responding a bit more favorably to flexing than the other, but only just so as nasty pain courses through the other leg, left with only the option to largely maybe roll to one side, or...
"Y-yeah, that... that... sounds 'bout right." Feels. Feels about right, he should say. He doesn't want her to stay on top of him, but standing back up is kind of an issue. (Two issues.)
He still, however, has his arms... and his head.
It seems like a thing of desperation for him to suddenly thrust at Ol' Rusty with his right hand into around chest level, especially as he puts his second hand on it after the fact. It's like he's asking for another demonstration... isn't he? How much evidence does he need to learn more about how solid her defensive capabilities are against mere strikes? Even the impact itself might seem a touch... weak.
He's counting on it, in this instance, teeth grit under the layered flu masks as he twists and thrusts after that initial poke to try and hook that end of the pipe into her clothing, somehow, to hoist her up off her feet and fling her some indiscriminate distance away from himself so maybe he can stomach the pain, tell his body that yes, it's going to stand up because he damn well demands it to, and - if nothing else - give him some breathing room to do that sort of convincing.
A lot of convincing. That second hit to the leg is not exactly the sort of thing most people get back up easily from...
COMBATSYS: Franziska interrupts Wrecking Ball Swing from Rust with Eisenkorper.
- Power hit! -
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Rust 0/-------/--=====|===----\-------\0 Franziska
Franziska's bright, almost heavenly, smile seems to distort as her foot collides with Rust's knee. The satisfying feel of the crunch as the joint bends at an unpleasant and entirely unhealthy angle casts a momentary darkness over her features, twisting them into an insidious mockery of her upbeat and cheerful nature. She liked that feeling, enjoyed the muffled cry of pain from her victim as he collapsed under the bone-crushing strength at her disposal, and in the brief moment her darker side is plain to see in the disturbing grin she sports.
By the time the aging man hits the ground, however, the look is gone, her features once more molded into a beatific mask of benevolence. She drops back into her combat pose but there is an air of arrogance about her now that mingles with her aura of calm, her movements haughty and loose.
"Well, Herr Rust, how vill you fight now? I have heard of your legendary... durability but... hmm?"
Before she can finish, the pipe comes up suddenly in an almost amateurish desperate thrust. Really? That's his answer? Franziska frowns slightly, her brows furrowing but despite her cheerful nature, mercy isn't one of her virtues. Clenching her right fist, she concentrates and the air around her begins to crackle and distort with raw energy.
Before she can unleash the strike, however, something happens that she did not expect. Fully believing that the pipe was meant to strike at her, something which she could have easily shrugged off, the woman finds herself being hoisted up and over as the weapon digs into the lapel of her greatcoat. Hissing in annoyance, Franziska lashes out even as she is lifted up and over, her fist impacting against Rust's chest with a deafening explosion of psycho-kinetic force.
The officer goes flying, even her armored jacket doing little to take the brunt off the masterfully applied flip-toss and she lands in an undignified heap on the ground several feet away. Her face strikes the ashen ground first, whipping her head back with a disturbing crack and earning a sharp whimper through clenched teeth. Franzika lies face-down in the dirt for a few moments, her fingers digging into the soft ground as she focuses on the searing pain shooting through her spine, but eventually she starts to push back to her feet.
Howard doesn't quite comprehend what just happened in the last few seconds when he gets that lift on her. He just feels the scraping of his back against branches and small rocks embedded in the ground, and a huge plume of ash in his wake from when he's blasted. There's that ringing in his skull - that ever familiar feeling when certain people strike him.
One of his knees spasm for some reason, perhaps related to that earlier disabling strike to one of his knees prior to this.
When his senses come back to something that resembles focus, he tries to sit up, the bent leg protesting immensely in pain. It's enough that he pays it some heed, grimacing under the masks as he sees the distance between the two of them now. She's face down away from him, he's... all the way over here. She's well out of his swinging range.
He sighs aloud, rolling his head back... "how... how do I fight now, huh," he asks, her question that she asked prior to that explosive punch parroted. He speaks as though he were looking for an answer himself. He blinks a few times as he feels something knotting up in his chest. He coughs again.
With his free hand, he punches at it a little harder than most people would. Any phlegm or other irritants inside would end up on the inside of his masks. How does he even breathe through them?
"W-Well," he starts, trailing off into nothing as he attempts to sit up... the first knee, already bent, buckles and stiffens, refusing to move.
Using Ol' Rusty as a support, he pulls himself up slowly. It's almost sad to watch, a man who might be so desperate to not be taken out of the fight so simply and easily trying in vain to--
No, he gets up. It's not graceful, but he's standing up and putting weight on that already bent knee in this equation. His lips press tightly against one another, under those flu masks, as he flexes his foot to stand on the tip to straighten that out. That's one. What of the oth--
The other leg, more visibly damaged than the other, strikes out into the air in a kick that echoes the sharp snap of a stiff joint that he flexes out into a looser form. A form somewhat more properly aligned... and then again, and then one more time, flexing his knee inwards as it is raised.
He stops using the pipe as a crutch to stand up as he puts it on his shoulder, kicking that leg out one last time down low to stretch it out.
"...I'll fight on my feet," he speaks clearly as can be, "I don't... don't got time to, to lay around."
There's a palpable edge to his voice that might even be unfamiliar to what Franziska is used to hearing from people she engages with as he points Ol' Rusty forward towards her, before lowering it down to the side.
"I got... I got work to do after... after all this, y'know." He rolls his neck once. "A... a whole lot."
There's still some visible weakness in those legs. A bit of shuddering, a little errant twitch. It's impossible to make the pain of it all go away with the snap of his fingers, to the degree of injury she managed upon him then.
It's as though he simply chooses to dispel the notion he can't stand, as he catches something of a second wind while waiting for her to get up in parallel - if she's going to.
COMBATSYS: Rust gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////////////////// ]
Rust 0/-------/---====|===----\-------\0 Franziska
It takes several seconds for the young woman to rise back to her feet, her body moving by inches in small doses. Each segment of the journey from prone to standing is laborious, her fingers twitching visibly from the small spasms that rock her body as every nerve in her spine screams in protest at the abuse of being forced to move at her command after the terrible impact only moments before, but their protests fall on deaf ears.
Franziska pulls herself upright with a soft grunt and finally turns around, only now revealing the extent of the injury she suffered from the unexpected assault. A massive gash runs down her forehead, the skin split neatly apart in an almost surgical fashion from her left brow to just underneath her right eye. Blood drips from the bottom edge of the wound down the side of her cheek and a similar crimson color can be seen upon the jagged edge of a small stone by her feet as she takes a step forward.
"Vell said, Herr Rust." Franziska's voice remains as cheerful as ever and her smile returns a moment later. "Zere is indeed a great deal zat remains unfinished in zis vorld. Each of us must play our part, ja? Far be it from me to impose upon your time needlessly, however..."
She closes her eyes and inhales deeply of the dirty air yet again, sucking a deep lungful of ashen mist in as if it does not bother her in the slightest. There is another silent pause as she stands there quietly, almost statuesqe, and then something amazing begins to happen. The blood weeping from the terrible gash upon her brow slows to a trickle and then stops altogether as handily as if a faucet has been turned. Even more extraordinarily, the two halves of the wound begin to move, slowly but inexorably pressing themselves upon the other until there is naught but a slender line of dried blood where once a grave injury stood.
Franziska's eyes snap open and she exhales gently, her breath distorting the air around her almost like a mirage. A trick of the heat? She doesn't exude the same sensation as one manipulating the energy of the world might but there is a palpable sense of -something- that lingers around that slender woman.
A corner of her lips twists upwards ever so slightly in an amused grin, as if she's just let him in on some private little joke. "I sink zat we can make a little more time to play, hmm?"
COMBATSYS: Franziska gains composure.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|==-----\-------\0 Franziska
Between the two of them, there is no shortage of gut-wrenching, even disturbing sights to behold that speaks to the individual masteries of their own bodies. For one Franziska von Valken, the way her injuries all but disappear before the naked eye. A sight that would demoralize lesser fighters alike as they find their hard-won clean blows - however many they could get through her virtually perfect defenses - as all may well come to naught if given but a moment's respite.
Standing opposite of her, a ways away, Howard Rust, who himself rises from debilitating injury not with the out-and-out handwave of whatever impact those accurately-struck blows may have had. There's still a shakiness in one of them, some sort of unsteadiness, as though it were bound to buckle on him if he so much as flexed it out of that rigid, straight stand.
"I... I could," his eyes narrow slightly, "go... 'nother round. Two. Maybe... three," he murmurs out vague math in his head as he seems to size up this particular quality of hers. He has encountered so many throughout his years that seeing something like this does not appear to weigh on him like it might others that struggle to overcome her undeniable talents. He breathes in whatever air actually manages to get in through the triple-layered flu mask as he rolls his left shoulder once to work out one of those kinks.
However many 'rounds' he decides, to what measurement of time that actually translates to in real terms, he takes forward. It appears there's a bit of a stumble when he first steps forward, but he gradually catches speed as he draws closer. It never quite goes over that of a slow jog. (He doesn't seem entirely capable of going much faster than that even when he's in perfect health, as it is.)
The fact remains, to move like this after both knees took what punishment they did is nothing short of remarkable, and a good reason why he's known for what he is now.
As he approaches striking range, a washed-out light gathers around his left leg from roughly the knee down, casting a flickery shine upon the surrounding dreariness of the ash-filled forest clearing as he swings that left leg down towards where Franziska stands in a single, quick, lower kick--
No, more than one. A lot of them, in a repetitive striking motion that strikes with such strength that it threatens to scatter dust, dirt, and who knows what else is underneath absolutely everywhere. Each strike's impact, ground or Franziska's shin, is loud, repetitive as to stand as much a threat to one's eardrum health as it does whatever that foot may strike. It is like a relentless jackhammer, wreathed in chi that just barely manages to be externally manifested to any particularly respectable degree.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Franziska with Jackhammer Kick.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|====---\-------\0 Franziska
Delight practically dances in Franziska's eyes as the man she had thoroughly disabled rushes down upon her yet again, apparently unphased by blows that she has used to shatter the ancient stones of the castle where she spent the days of her childhood. Even now, if one were to return to those lonely and forlorn halls, they would find evidence of the countless hours of experimentation and training that molded her into what she is today, almost like fossils from a previous point in history. Whether it be fighting spirit, some special technique, or just plain stubborness that can explain this phenomenon, there is an exhilaration that comes from facing a worthy opponent that cannot be acquired from any other activity that she has partaken in.
The woman moves to meet this attack, her personality and combat style providing little patience for subtle manuevering. She takes a single step forward as Rust draws within range and her leg snaps out to meet his own. Their shins collide at entirely unpleasant speeds, dull crunching noises filling the air each time hardened flesh and bone meet. Franziska's movements are powerful and sure but for each successful interception, two or three of the lightning-quick kicks slip past her guard to strike at her exposed lower body. When the final blow lands it is she who stumbles backwards, her cheerful smile somewhat marred by a wince of obvious pain.
"Hrnn... considering you could barely stand a minute ago, you still seem to haf some... kick left in you." She grins at her own terrible humor while bouncing slightly on the tips of her toes to make sure he didn't hit anything too vital. "Allow me to return zee favor!"
The officer takes a step forward and spins, pivoting completely to the side as she lifts her leg off the ground to deliver a text-book side-kick at Rust's midsection. Despite the restrictiveness of her uniform she seems to have no difficulty performing the manuever, moving with the same fluid, yet explosive bursts of motion as always.
COMBATSYS: Rust fails to interrupt Strong Kick from Franziska with Brick Stacker.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|=====--\-------\0 Franziska
The observation is met with a (triple) muffled groan, as though perhaps the words in question might sting more than the lingering, many aches that go from the knees down as he draws his striking leg back to stand firm.
After another quick shake-out. It's hard to say if it's the lingering smoke, or if the pant leg is coming short of being scorched from the whole sequence.
The promise to return 'zee favor' is met with a raised hand that might accidentally betray his very intents as she spins to cock that leg up to move into the kick. For almost anyone else, the very notion of going up to someone's leg moments outstretched from being extended is an exercise in breaking ribs and - depending on the person in question - risking so much worse, like puncturing so many things with those utterly shattered ribs.
He does so, one foot planted firmly a bit too close to her one standing leg for comfort, all but throwing himself inside as he raises his free hand up high into the air. The work glove might even blot out Franziska's vision for that critical moment in time where his side plants itself against her leg before she can extend it...
Her curious but undeniable stability proves to cut - or flex - both ways. Just as she has revealed the defensive applications of both mastery of body and defensive stance alike to her fullest advantage...
He, too, finds himself forced to respect a moment later her strength when it is being used to strike. His body weight up against her will not, and does not, stop her from fully extending that kick as his left hand swings downward for her head.
The ground kicks up around the ankle of his further back as she extends that kick without compromise or delay, hand sweeping downward into thin air that may well displace some air into her face as he bends against his left side with one eye shut, the other wide, and a yelp that is hardly censored nor quieted by the three-layered flu mask on his person as he is pushed out of arm's reach with a small hill of earth now gathered around his ankle.
"Mmmhgphgdlgrl," comes the closest possible translation to conventional human tongue and socially accepted concepts of 'language' and 'communication' that terminates in a single cough as he straightens himself out, the violated balance of his stand being addressed more readily than matters of re-doubling an offensive anew.
It might have provided some small measure of comfort if Rust were able to somehow know that he isn't the first person to fall for the trap that his opponent's pretty face and graceful demeanor have set. When considered with common sense or reason, her deceivingly slim body simply shouldn't be able to exert the sort of power and strength that she seems to possess. She lacks the musculature necessary to drive someone of his build back so easily, lacks the stature necessary to wield the proper amount of leverage that would be needed to physically displace the earth; and yet there is no denying that she just casually thrust him away with all the delicacy of a pnuematic piston.
Ofcourse, she also realizes what he just tried to pull on her which only makes it more amusing. Franziska smirks and clucks her tongue in a chastising manner, shaking her head back and forth slightly. Her leg remains hovering in the extended position only inches from his gut, the young woman's body easily holding the awkward pose even as she rotates her torso to peer at him.
"Ah, ah, language, Herr Rust."
Flowing casually into her next attack, Franziska lowers her aloft leg and leaps in the same motion, spinning about to swap the role of balance and attack between her limbs. Her other leg, which is now airborne as she spins in place, snaps in visciously from the side in a hook kick aimed to drive her heel into the back of his head, which will be followed rather quickly by stomping it straight into the dirt as her iron-will inexorably pulls the oustretched leg back to the ash-covered ground should he fail to do something about it first.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Franziska's Fierce Combo.
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Rust 0/-------/---====|=======\==-----\1 Franziska
The aging American man visibly dares to show weakness in that passing moment where Franziska turns to chide him prior to moving in with that next vicious sequence intent to keep him on those metaphorical ropes he might dare yet to lean against, his left hand up against his respective struck side as opposed to any sort of meaningful defensive stance as she comes in.
"Sorry," he murmurs out as though he were actually apologetic for his choice of... consonants? It seems oddly lacking in the same jest her chiding might carry in that particular comparison.
Her outstretched leg as she comes at him is met with, in something that's not quite a flash, still not a blur, but almost as though an expectation, raises his right arm with the appropriate directional lean of his upper body (and the equally, if not moreso, appropriate grunt of sheer exertion at twisting the muscles of his now tender side. This should be enough to displace her balance as he reaches upwards with his left hand--
It isn't, not quite. Her heel largely wrapped around his upper right arm instead, the downward pull ensuring that he's the one who stays in the compromised position even if he may have avoided a worse-case scenario, right arm sharply guided downwards with loud protest in his shoulder for moving so quick, leaning against that side as he presses the pipe down into the ground to halt himself from being brought completely low.
It still forces him into a kneel, at which he is reminded that his knees aren't on friendly make-up terms with the rest of him as one of them strikes against the soot-coated earth. Just like that, even on what could be considered a successful defense, he's back to being bowed and seemingly being made sport of.
His left hand, once clumsily groping for thin air (well, twice, now), moves inward to wrap itself around her currently standing leg, around knee-level, to hoist it upward and stand back up to try and lift her off her feet and - grip successful or otherwise not put a stop to - stands back up with a pivot of his body in the beginnings of what would be a one-armed giant swing were he inclined to do more than swing about half a full circle before letting her go, possibly for the pain coursing through his left side more than anything.
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Franziska with Medium Throw.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > //////////////////// ]
Rust 0/-------/--=====|=======\====---\1 Franziska
Well, it looks like someone finally got tired of her overtly aggressive combat style and went back to the thing that worked for him last time. Franziska's carefully wrought assault performs its task admirably, entangling her opponent and driving him down to where he should be less of a threat. But his desperation or perhaps determination to put up a good fight manages to catch her off guard as he takes advantage of the small opening in her defenses present with only one leg solidly on the ground.
Hefted bodily into the air, Franziska's eyes go wide momentarily as the first wave of instinctual panic and vertigo from being unexpectedly tilted kicks in and is summarily repressed by her hardened combat nerves. Even as she is spun about, her arms come in against her body, wrapping protectively over her head incase Rust decides to use her as a baseball bat.
Instead, she finds herself going for another short flight across the small clearing. The landing is not quite as rough as last time but no less unpleasant as she spirals uncontrolled into shoulder-first impact with the back of the lone vehicle resting stoically nearby. The entire frame rocks back and forth a few times, the shocks absorbing the majority of the kinetic energy with the rest being directed into her bones.
Franziska hisses in annoyance but regains her footing much quicker this time thanks to the her quick reflexes. She takes a moment to brush the soot from her clothes, kicking a small cloud of grey dust into the air, before wordlessly moving to rejoin the fray, apparently intent on staying up close and personal. She is less fancy this time, avoiding any elaborate kicks or spinning strikes. Instead, her fist simply winds back as she runs, putting all of the momentum she can build in the short distance between them into a single straight punch.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Franziska's Fierce Punch.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////////// ]
Rust 0/-------/-======|=======\====---\1 Franziska
It's not going to go up in the annals of history of being one of the most skillful turnarounds the world has seen... or maybe those two guys over there with the heavy rifles might've seen. Who knows what they might've seen in their time in regards to the myriad of probable reactions to that maneuver she may have pulled on countless others.
In the wake of her release, he stands his ground, rubbing at his face with his free hand as if to get the dust that's in his eyes. The only place this dust isn't settling is that... thing... on his head. It is as though it is the only thing the volcanic ash refuses to coat in its dispersal throughout the world from its violent expulsion from deep inside the earth.
When she starts hissing, that hand's away from his face to something approaching more battle-ready, left forehand now facing her instead of keeping his forearm towards her as he gives ground to step back, finally bringing his foot out of that little hill of gathered dirt from when he got shoved back moments before.
It's not a bad call on his part, as she flings that single, straight, no-nonsense lunging punch.
His open hand thrusts into it as she draws near, and this time, there is no give on his part. For that moment of impact, his hand holds steady as the kinetic force passes through into the rest of his arm with only the briefest shudder. His feet do not move back. He doesn't move back. It's this particular exchange that makes the (visible) differences in size and weight more believable, his size and mass appearing superior to hers from the outside.
A moment later, that hand draws back slightly before reaching out for her wrist, to renew her forward momentum to drag her forward into his outstretched left leg with a turn to try and spin her off-balance on top of the tripping motion, where he comes in with another backhanded pipe swing - much like the beginning - to try and make the best of what he hopes to be compromised balance to make it easier for that swing to land to appreciable effect, wordless outside of a single kiai if he can get through that whole sequence with her in tow.
COMBATSYS: Franziska fails to interrupt Armed Pipe Combo from Rust with Eisernes Kreuz.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ///////////////// ]
Rust 0/-------/-======|====---\-------\0 Franziska
As her fist connects with Rust's oustretched palm, a look of smug intensity washes over her features. She was expecting that, nay counting on it. She waits for an instant, letting the feel of the recoil from striking his rock-hard defense travel through her arm and disperse before moving into the next segment of her attack.
Franziska's other hand swings back, the perhaps now familiar sensation of building energy gathering around her tightly clenched fist as she prepares to unleash the real source of her mysterious strength on the durable fighter. It is that short moment of vulnerabilty as she gathers her psychic might that is her undoing.
Rust's powerful grip latches onto her outstretched arm, dragging her forward by the wrist with uncharacteristic ease. Seeing that she will soon be in a very unpleasant place, the German attempts to bring her strike home but the clever footwork spins her about, her psycho-charged fist flailing wide of its target.
The pipe, on the other hand, is dead on. Franziska recoils as the length of metal smashes her across the temple, which combined with the trip, drives her down into the dirt at his feet, leaving her momentarily dazed.
It's not quite as wide as it might appear.
The man legitimately grimaces (unable to be seen under the masks, of course), and flinches to tilt his head back to avoid a face full of a well-trained, possibly even deadly psionic punch even in the middle of his combination attack. The hairpiece on his head flies up slightly from the displaced air of it all.
There's a muffled whistle as he may well realize on the spot how close he was to taking that on the chin as she comes out at the disadvantage between the two of them. Some semblance of momentum swings back in his direction. One of his knees has a sudden twinge of pain he ultimately disregards.
He'd think to ask her if she's all right, if she's still good... but that'd be selling her short, wouldn't it? He exhales loudly as he shakes out his left arm to flex out the sting of catching that first punch prior to the most recent exchange. The things he keeps putting his left forearm through, more for the sake of keeping his pipe-wielding arm as strong as it can be through a fight...
Drawing back Ol' Rusty, he extends his left hand forward out of habit anyway, maybe to mostly gauge the distance between them as he takes a step back to put the two of them more in 'pipe swing' range more than 'get punched in the face' range, an intact branch cracking under one of his boots as he circles for a good three steps.
There's a single, cursory jab at thin air as if to further gauge this as one of his eyes shut suddenly from something getting into his eye before drawing back the pipe once more, nodding his head once in some level of reassurance, and brings Ol' Rusty in both hands as he thrusts it forward in a forceful, two-handed lunging swing to try and get in another prod at her with the assumption she's ready and raring to get back up and keep at it - he sure is, for the time being.
COMBATSYS: Franziska instinctively blocks Rust's Fierce Piping.
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Rust 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Franziska
For a normal person, getting clobbered upside the head with a length of pipe would be a telling blow. For Franziska, it did little more than ring her bell pretty good. The estimation of her remaining fighting spirit is fairly accurate but still falls short of the sheer unmitigated tenacity inherent to the creature that he now faces. If her ability to physically will her injuries away wasn't evidence enough, she renews her efforts yet again as the pipe comes crashing in.
Her head lifts up from the dirt, hawkish eyes narrowing slightly as she surveys the scenario that faces her in the split second before she even begins to rise. Rust's arms wind back and she reads his intentions like an open book, playing out the inevitable movements that will follow in her mind as his weapon is prepared for another strike. Her left hand presses down into the soft earth, fingers splayed apart around her palm for the best possible balance even as she rises on the opposite knee.
Almost like they had choreographed it, Franziska's right hand whips up in a single decisive motion, putting it directly into the path of the incoming pipe. Her fingers snap shut around the slender metal tube the moment that it touches the soft fabric of the glove, ensnaring the weapon like a snapdragon latching down upon its prey. Rather than stop the forward motion of the attack, however, she uses it for her own purposes and allows the momentum of the strike pressing into her hand to physically lift her off the ground with no further effort on her part.
Now on her feet, she shoves the pipe sideways, throwing its course off the center line of the thrust in an attempt to make Rust overextend himself. Regardless of whether he is skilled or cautious enough to avoid such a mistke, she's already where she needs to be - right in his face. Still coated with a thick layer of ash from the ground, her left hand darts forward, hammering away at the spot directly over the elder man's heart. The attack is short but intense, delivering a burst of incredible kinetic force as her fingers come together to create single focused point of attack.
COMBATSYS: Rust blocks Franziska's Herzschlag.
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Rust 0/-------/=======|====---\-------\0 Franziska
When she makes that masterful catch of the pipe and that shove, he does the one thing she might not directly be anticipating from him in this situation, as both his hands are caught on the pipe and - with her impending, lightning-quick approach - she is much too close to swing it with any reasonable expectation of force for the effort.
He just lets go of the pipe with only a minimal downward input to ensure it doesn't roll too far away with the movement. This does not change the issue that she's coming in with her left, facing against the arm he usually chooses not to defend against, as his left hand tightens into a balled-up fist.
He swings his right elbow onto the oncoming strike in what is, in reality, an intercepted strike from his part as evidenced by his right hand also being a fist.
It spasms open immediately at the point of impact, nerves going through his elbow all screaming in a word that seems to have almost completely lost meaning to him, for how much mundane aches and injuries he lives with on a daily basis.
Pain. It doesn't need to hit home to reflect how narrow a miss this was from its intended target, the man grunting aloud, eyes widened and quickly narrowed at the lightning-fast blow meant for the heart. His entire body locks up, overcompensating for that single point of injury. His joints start wanting to go entirely rigid, as though afraid to flex in fear that the nerves would have to communicate further as to what just went on through the two of them.
"Hell of a... a punch," he murmurs aloud, hard to hear as he bends a knee loudly as a precursor to let the rest of his body know that, yes, he's moving, he's not going to stand there and let disoriented nerves get the better of him as he steps in closer to /her/ until the two have no real sense of personal space between them any more, unclenching his left hand to move into her coat around abdomen-level, as the weaker grip of his right hand (a bit weaker still, thanks to working out that sensation it has to deal with while his nerves get themselves back to something resembling working order) against her collar as he moves to hoist her up and turn behind him to try and slam her down into the ground right behind him, should she allow him.
COMBATSYS: Rust knocks away Franziska with Not-Strong Throw.
- Power hit! -
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > ////// ]
Rust 1/-------/=======|=======\=------\1 Franziska
What is becoming an annoyingly familiar sensation grips Franziska at the same time as Rust's weakened, but apparently still quite functional, hands. Her feet leave the ground despite her rather forceful insistence otherwise, her hands abandoning the attack in an attempt to wrestle free of the powerful handhold that her attacker has found in her greatcoat but her efforts are too little, too late.
This time, she has absolutely no control over the trajectory of her fall, no time to brace for the bone-shattered contact as her body hits the ground as if she were dropped from the roof of a ten-story building. There is a miniature explosion of ash and dust as the willowy officer slams into the ground, physically deforming a small crater in the layer of gray snow that has settled over the landscape. Unlike snow, however, the tiny particles do little to soften the blow.
A horrendous crack resounds through the battlefield, a sound that any fighter willing to take their craft out of the training rings and into the streets will recognize instantly, as Franziska's arm shatters. For the first time in the short bout she lets out an unrestrained cry of agony, her feminine voice filling the air with a shrill scream of surprise and pain. Instinctively, she clutches the wounded limb with her other hand but this earns another, somewhat lesser, outburst and she clenches her teeth, rolling over onto her back to stare up at the sky with wide dialated eyes.
"Ah...hahaha... ha... an excellent attack... Herr Rust. However, I am afraid..." She hisses sharply, sitting up in a sudden burst of motion that she actually manages to follow through into a swift rise to her feet. Her arm dangles loosely at her side, clearly useless, but despite the intense pain she must be experiencing she manages to smile as naturally as ever. "Zis vill make my performance from here on somewhat less zan top form. A moment, if you please."
Without waiting for his reply, not that she could do much to stop him if he chose to press the attack at this moment, Franziska reaches into her coat and slowly slides her ruined arm out of the sleeve. Perhaps the adrenaline has dulled her nerves by this point because she hardly seems to flinch as she delicately tucks in elbow first back into the sleeve, providing some measure of support to keep it from flopping about wildly and causing further harm.
Once that is done, she takes a deep breath and then turns back to face him, still smiling. "Zere, zat should suffice... let us continue."
COMBATSYS: Franziska gains composure.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Rust 1/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Franziska
The explosion of so much /earth/ from the impact is stunning enough that even Howard finds himself standing back, as though he might've just been short of shy of shelling himself with a bomb - to say nothing of the gutwrenching screams of pain that escapes that great cloud of impact. It gives the man pause.
"Are you--" He starts to ask her if she's all right, even after that visible display of injuries simply... ceasing to be from earlier, but is quickly cut off with laughter and compliment... and the increasingly clearer sight of her arm being as injured as it looks...
He's not a stranger to fighting with a broken bone or several. The Kyokugen school is one of the most physically demanding there is, and suffering injury is not just commonplace - on some level it seems almost expected, as the school strives to push its practitioners to greater and greater heights. To push the human body to be faster, stronger, and more durable than believed possible through finding the extreme upper limits, and pushing further past them yet.
For its financial woes and high student dropout rates, the theory is sound, the results undeniable among those who make it... but it remains a small, small number indeed, a path filled with disappointments and... uh, injury. Lots of them.
Even being a man who had inherently lived by the idea of putting aside all those aches and pains accumulated over the years to work long days, years before he even came to Southtown...
"Ma'am," he speaks up, his face reading much less of smiles. It is genuine concern, even seeing what she has proven capable of doing against accumulated injuries, as he reaches down and picks up Ol' Rusty in his right hand. His left rests on his wrist, squeezing it slightly in some attempt to calm the twitching feelings going through his right arm down.
"T-Take it from me, sometimes... sometimes you gotta know when to, to call it a day." He flexes out one of his knees, full of those kinks - the second one that had elicited a much stronger reaction, a much more severe injury.
The smiling is not lost to him. She, no doubt, follows a lot of his same creed, a lot of his same approach... and yet, seems to be willing to take it even further, even with the whole arm issue. Does he walk away? Should he walk away?
He gestures with his left thumb towards nowhere in particular. "I, I wouldn't want to... to take your safety, or... or anyone else's for granted. Not at, at a time like this," he clears his throat, once again proving how useless that triple-layered flu mask has been against stopping whatever irritants from coming into his throat. "Uhhh," which number of 'uhh' is this again?
"Even with... your, your friends." He's been seeing more guns out in the open than he has in years, in a country that's been famous for its strict gun control. He should probably be more worried about this than he /is/, even moving past matters of how well bullets have historically done against him (which is to say, not very well at all).
"But... if, if you wanna go one more," he takes in what breath he is somehow able to behind those masks, taking Ol' Rusty in both hands as his right forearm shakes a bit more as it still works its way through what it took to the elbow moments before that nasty toss...
One more, then. In respect for her well-being - even with ample evidence that her safe range for 'well being' and 'not well being' is highly skewed, he moves in at that jogging pace, drawing Ol' Rusty down low. It is probably an easy tell for what he intends next.
When he draws near, he swings the pipe upward with such speed that the gleam of the misnomer-granted Ol' Rusty streaks through the ashen air, in a two-handed uppercut swing that is utterly heedless of her displayed durability, of implied near-invincibility in her defensive stance and abilities short of those slips where he caught her off-balance, unawares.
Both hands guiding one another, between an already weakened right hand from a nasty injury to his palm and wrist from 2009 and an off-hand that doesn't quite swing as well, he swings with about as much fervor that matches the real concern for her continued health.
It's a swing of equal parts might, purpose, and care to go for that 'one more' he just mentioned, with... well, it's not the same pipe that fought against the likes of shadowy soldiers, Orochi cultists, renegade elemental guardians, Shadaloo armies, or Vega himself...
It is, however, the same man behind it all the same, himself and that length of pipe acting as one as they weather through... weather, mostly, in recent days, come to think of it.
COMBATSYS: Franziska instinctively dodges Rust's Legendary Chin Shattering Pipe EX.
[ \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ < > /////////// ]
Rust 1/-------/=======|=======\-------\1 Franziska
The look of worry and concern in Rust's expression and tone is not lost on the woman. She knows that most people would look at something like a broken arm as a game ender, a crippling injury, a time to call it quits. For the average human the sheer pain of such an experience would be enough to hamstring any hopes of continuing to fight, banishing even the mere fleeting idea of engaging in any sort of physical activity, much less stepping back into a brawl.
But she exists on another level than the average man. Franziska von Valken is the first and only of her kind, a testament to the purity of her lineage, and the capabilities of her perfect genes. Pain a transient experience and one that she learned to master through long years of torturous experimentation and scientific trials. Her arm will heal in short order, perhaps not as easily as the cuts and bruises that accumulate through normal fisticuffs, but much faster than any normal person could ever hope for. Until then, she simply has to adjust her strategies.
"Truly, Herr Rust, I am touched by your concern for my well-being," she says, meaning every word of it. He has no reason to care about her, some random woman who accosted him in the woods for the sake of starting a fight. Most people probably wouldn't. It might just be sympathy or pity for her injury but if that were the case then he probably would have walked away right there.
But he doesn't. He displays something far more important than concern: respect. Even as his weapon comes up, his shoes kicking yet more particulate matter into the already murky air, she can see that he isn't holding back. Good. Let him see what she's really capable of.
She drops into her combat stance as he runs, turning sideways to favor her injured arm away from the path of any attack he might launch. Her other is extended outwards, palm slightly tilted towards her opponent in preparation for his onslaught. There is a streak of color as the pipe is swung like a golf club with incredible force and it is met by another equally bright flash of white as the woman reacts. Her gloved hand glides down to meet the rising metal baton and she moves with fluid grace, almost casually guiding it sideways, rolling its smooth surface across her flattened palm as Rust puts his might into the blow.
It only takes a soft touch to alter the trajectory of a swing. Despite the brutal offensive nature of her style, her roots in Chinese martial forms have impressed upon her this simple concept and it is one of the basic secrets behind her ability to shrug off what should be devastating blows. Franziska hardly seems to move, her torso rotating only ever so slightly to accomodate the motion of her uninjured arm and the swing goes wide, blasting past her stationary form by little more than centimeters.
Her smile never falters, even as the sheer force of the blow sends a blast of wind through her long pale tresses, fluttering them out behind her like a short cape in a momentary breeze. She closes her eyes as the unorthodox weapon passes her head, the same knowing, almost arrogant smirk working its way onto her face. She gives him a small window, a brief moment to realize what has happened; her way of thanking him for not looking down on her.
But that is the full extent of any mercy she may have lurking within her heart. Franziska's eyes snap open, her pupils dialating into tiny pin-points of black soulless awareness as she focuses her full attention on the man standing before her. Her senses focus through a lens of pain and adrenaline, synapses firing with packets of information at a level of intensity that even she rarely achieves.
Franziska takes a single step forward, her heavy booted foot crossing deep into the personal space of her fellow combatant. And then she follows through, lowering her body to check her shoulder square into his chest. It is a simple movement but the force behind it is staggering, akin to being hit by a car that has been compressed into a very small woman-shaped package. She throws everything she has into the assault-step, wielding her mastery of positioning, leverage, and the strange force that seems to fill her with an inhuman level of power.
COMBATSYS: Franziska successfully hits Rust with Blitzkrieg.
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Rust 1/----===/=======|=======\=------\1 Franziska
Let him feel what she's truly capable of, may be a more apt descriptor of what happens as she puts that little touch necessary to redirect the blow to be somewhere other than her person. For that tiny window allotted between a subtle evasion and a vulgar attack, there is that subtle change in his left eye that goes from a narrowed focus to the single word that probably runs through his mind, a paltry sum when one measures what must be going through hers as she readies her next assault.
'Huh,' he thinks.
He turns slightly to his right with what little time he has to act on what little cues he has to her next blow. His chest is there to remind him as she puts hard shoulder to roughly equally as hard chest, which buckles enough that softer lungs wheeze everything they have out a mouth covered by three flu masks.
That's before factoring the kinetic force that is transferred in the tackle.
His feet give out under him, upper body bending backwards to a degree that might warrant a 'tsk tsk' from a chiropractor as he falls onto his seat. He'd be clearing a greater distance has he not thrust Ol' Rusty downwards into the ground to halt his momentum much further, but that does nothing to mitigate the actual blow that he's suffered.
Wordlessly, he wheezes further as he pulls himself up, bringing his left thumb against the flu masks as if to let out the air and bring in fresh-- no, he stops that idle gesture right before he so much as makes a crack. Even in the heat of the moment, he remembers why he's wearing three of them on top of one another!
Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't when it comes to his lungs versus the fine, granular matter of garbage that keeps getting in the air. It's just gotten even worse here as time went on. (Not that it's particularly safe or pleasant anywhere in many places in the world...)
Staggering a ways back towards Franziska, he pats his chest with his left hand that is some vague communicator of 'there's something in my lungs,' 'I'm tough and I can take it,' and/or 'ow that kind of hurt.' Well, if the third really is part of that, maybe he... shouldn't be patting his chest like that...? A twitch in his eye is all that needs to be said about that particular idle habit-born mistake.
Shaking his head once to pull himself together, one more good, solid hit to his torso might be all it takes to force him to come up for clean air, where there really isn't. It is less him being battered and now growing more to be like him suffocating under injuries as air becomes a precious, precious commodity. And yet, he draws ever closer to her...
Moving in back into striking range about as quick as he can manage between issues of oxygen and injury alike, he crouches down with a clenched fist. The familiarity of one of the more prominent Kyokugen strikes wears itself well as it's thrust upward, strong enough that it carries him a short ways off the ground.
If she doesn't resist the strike or get out of the way, it threatens to carry her up far higher...
COMBATSYS: Rust successfully hits Franziska with Crane Launch.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|=======\=====--\1 Franziska
The execution is exactly as any competent Kyokugen practitioner can, and should inflict. The tutelage (also, beatings... also also, kind of using him for free home appliance/plumbing/electrical repairs) has paid off, and it shows. A straight line can be drawn between his raised fist, extended arm, down to the one leg kept fully straight. For his take, he emphasizes a more controlled force to not carry himself up too high, touching down with a crouch.
This is for what comes next.
Leaping off the ground into a higher altitude generally observed in most situations as he sends all those fine particles placed about packing, Ol' Rusty is gripped into both hands as he sticks them somewhere into Franziska's clothing, somehow, somewhere.
The 'hooking' made, he turns in mid-air, spinning. He increases in speed and force with every rotation, somehow maintaining his place in the air as the whole world whirls around him. If he has anything to say, it can't be heard over the wind shear. It's already hard enough to understand him under those damn flu masks, and he's entertaining the thought of putting on at least two more.
At some point or another, the speed will be far too great to keep hold of her. With one last flick of his arms, he casts her off in whatever direction she might fly in the wake of it as he winds back down, falling into a simple, skilled crouch with Ol' Rusty held outwards.
Thanks to the hits he took to his torso, a part of him, in one of the exceedingly rare moments such a thing can happen despite having practiced this very technique for /years/, feels like throwing up. Given that there is distressingly little space between 'mouth' and 'where puke can go,' there is a hurried grasp of his hand to his throat as if to say 'no, don't vomit.'
Perhaps the fact that he isn't immediately concerned for Franziska's well-being in the wake of that might... be at least some amount of faith he's not about to accidentally cripple her for life, or something of the sort, as he remains crouched.
Ah, but her arrogance has its price. With one arm already disabled, Franziska's ability to deal with any sort of grapple is just shy of non-existent. Her style simply isn't designed for such contests of leverage and manuevering, relying on the convenient abundance of raw power that she possesses thanks to her little understood natural abilities.
When Rust ducks down to prepare for his strike, she does the only thing she can in her situation, dropping into a defensive stance and bracing herself against whatever impact might be in her future. Again she finds herself experiencing the less pleasant aspects of being a bird with clipped wings. The centrifugal motion as his technique picks up speed serves not only to build momentum for the coming launch but to disorient and dizzy the victim. If Rust thinks his stomach is churning after being at the center of such a manuever, it's ten times worse for Franziska.
Amazingly, she manages to keep the contents of her stomach from ejecting all over the place like some kind of awful sprinkler as she is whirled about, maintaining her poise and dignity through sheer force of will. Even when she lands, cartwheeling like a tumbleweed across the ground, each impact sending lightning bolts of pure intense suffering through her body that radiate outwards from the ruined mess of her arm, she doesn't cry out again.
Franziska comes to a stop on her side several feet away having accumulated enough of an ashen barricade from tumbling across the ground to eventually stymie her forward motion. She lies on the ground, still but not motionless, her chest rising and falling in gentle peaks and valleys as she breathes heavily. Her hat lies somewhat further still, even its stoic grip upon her head having finally reached its limit, and her youthful pretty features are revealed from beneath the shadow of its dark overcast for the first time. The look on her face is not one of pain or angery, but child-like awe and amusement. She looks like she's having the time of her life!
"Hahahaha! Ach... truly it has been... how long? I cannot even remember the last time I was pressed so hard."
She kicks her feet suddenly, clearly trying to rock herself back to her feet despite lacking the strength to even make it upright. Perhaps realising that it is time to act in their capacity as her minders, the two soldiers suddenly reappear behind Rust, their guns slung over the hefty armored shoulders of their tactical gear. Without a word, they step past him and help the woman to her feet, much to her chagrin, but when she swats them away and falls straight back down to her knees, she becomes a little more pliable to their silent but insistent aid.
"Nein! Ach, have it your way." She jerks her head to the side towards Rust and the two large figures help her hobble over to where her opponent stands, her good arm looped over them for support. "Today's match belongs to you, Herr Rust. I sink I haf another good punch or two left in me but I vould seem my cohorts disagree," she says. Her brow furrows slightly, either from pain or some supressed thought, but the corners of her thin lips remain uplifted like her spirits and the darkness in her expression passes quickly. "Perhaps, some ozer time, we can share anozer friendly match; assuming zee vorld doesn't burn down in zee mean time, ja?"
COMBATSYS: Franziska takes no action.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|=======\=====--\1 Franziska
He can't even find her when he thinks to look over his shoulder to where she might have landed. It's her laughter that gives her away.
It's her laughter that gives way to some other feeling in his throat - surprise, possibly. Horror? Blearily and wearily, he pushes himself up to something that passably resembles standing up.
Coughing once as he navigates the passive-aggressive nature of the contents of his stomach and lungs all at once as to whether or not they are going to clear themselves out or not, there is that all-too noticeable difference between them. Her joy of having such a battle, so jubilant and vibrant in its feel, compared to how muted his presence is about the whole thing. He came in looking a bit weary. He looks... well, not quite as weary as maybe he ought to.
There's a turn of his head as those armed guards move past him from behind - a well-ingrained reflex, for all he's been through - following them as they move to help her up, as Ol' Rusty moves to be shouldered again, a bit of a tap as if to check and see how said shoulder is doing.
Said shoulder is doing terribly, it says in its own way, a little jump in the joint that makes him look as though cringing. He lowers the pipe back down again, as she concedes. It seems more relaxation rather than a simple lowering to some other sort of readying stance for what might come his way next.
"A-Another time? Sure, I'd... I'd be," he clears his throat again, "'scuse me, something just... just keeps jumping in my," he nods his head once, lips pursed together invisibly under the face mask. He never finishes his sentence, as is one of his really bad habits.
He stands up straighter, "I'm... I'm, more 'n good for callin' it a day," aside from the fact his day now consists of getting a certain number off his truck, finding a locksmith that can replace his car key, crossing his fingers that this place doesn't go ablaze because he knows nobody in their right mind is going to drive a tow truck out in the woods like this...
Those drifting thoughts are a reminder of what he told her straight-up - he's got things to do, and the two of them look and seem especially punched out, in their own ways, as he wheezes a breath out as he leans against his less injured side to take some pressure off his left.
"'s, a... a good fight," he seems to be at a loss to what else to say, if maybe because he's not certain if he should voice... questions, free hand scratching at the side of his face, but sometimes, that is all there is to be said, isn't there? That's what made life in Southtown exciting. All the different fighters of walks of life, of innumerable styles, of... curious manners of dress (he's not one to talk, that thing on his head voids his right to criticize, ever)... and access to armed guards.
"'Nother day, sure." He doesn't even entertain the thought of the world burning all the way down, even with the weary tone of voice, as though some baseline level of denial of the fact this could well happen. All the horrible disasters, back-to-back...
He takes a few steps towards her and her armed escorts with a visible limp and drag in one of his knees, thrusting Ol' Rusty smoothly through the torn toolbelt pocket he's made into a makeshift sheath for whatever reason, extending his right hand towards her - assuming she can spare the care of her escorts to do the same.
It may just be well that he accepts the random appearances of strange people coming up to want to fight him as reassurance of a very twisted, odd sort that things will eventually get back to normal, to whatever that may ever entail for him or Southtown at large.
COMBATSYS: Rust takes no action.
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Rust 0/-------/----===|=======\=====--\1 Franziska
"Vonderful," she says, expecting his response to be nothing less. The certainty with which she seems to believe they will meet again says something about her own thoughts on the end of the world. Like him, she has far too much left to accomplish before such a thing can be allowed and as with everything else in her life, she's not willing to compromise on the matter.
When the hand is extended her way, Franziska pulls herself upright for a moment, displaying her fierce stubborness and pride once again. Despite her injury, she looks much less worse for the wear than Rust on the outside, if perhaps a great deal more exhausted by their encounter. Her particular brand of combat does not lend itself to efficient use of energy, relying mostly on whatever fuels her intense strength and resolve. She releases her grip on the soldier long enough to grip Rust's hand firmly and return the gesture. The texture of her glove is soft and smooth, almost like a second layer of skin. Something like that must be quite expensive; an odd choice for battle attire. Yet another small tidbit of information that may provide a piece of the puzzle that is the enigmatic woman before him.
"A good fight, indeed. You live up to zee tales of your exploits, a rare trait." Letting go, she inclines her head and then puts her weight back on the soldier as they robotically begin to haul her towards the concealed van in the undergrowth.
Without turning her head to look back at him, Franziska closes her eyes and smiles, calling out, "Until vee meet again, Herr Rust. I vill keep zee twinkies nice und fresh, hahaha."
His grip is not quite as firm when the handshake is delivered, even with the differences in their size and mass. The reason is already well-known - and yet, he still manages to keep a solid enough hold of that pipe to deliver strikes with respectable, even tremendous force.
Nodding his head once, he backs away and simply raises a hand in a quick wave. Sure. Some other day. It's an oddly casual sort of way to say goodbye to someone who clearly appears to be of some great import, of some influence somewhere, of someone he just met.
His left hand goes to his right shoulder to give it a ginger rubbing as aching nerves catch up with the subsiding tide of adrenaline that pushed the two of them so. He wonders inwardly how much he's been lifting today for it to ache like that, among other such mundane everyday thoughts that tend not to make for all that exciting conversation material out loud.
Keeping the twinkies nice and fresh... dammit! He could probably go for one of those...!!
...Maybe another time, he figures with a snap of his fingers, as he limps along to his truck to consider the logistics of whether or not that, given his amazing windfall from that one match in the Gaia Tournament, he should just cut his losses for the short term and just buy another damn truck.
...Then there's the matter of getting a new driver's license...
It's one small thing after another, those little worries creeping back up to wash out the tastes of the obscure and strange encounters to drag him back down to the reality of life when he's not stuck in another odd outing that goes well over his balding scalp and the atrocity that rests upon it.
His knee pops loudly. Maybe it is saying good bye, except it is a joint, and joints do not talk. They flex, lock up, ache, and seem to be in a competition as to which one can grow inflamed faster compared to each other. He pays them little extra mind, for now.
After practically dragging the young officer across the clearing, the soldiers pull open the rear doors of the large van, its monotone black exterior bringing to mind all sorts of comparisons to every conspiracy theory ever concocted. If Rust is still watching he may catch a glimpse of something a little more interesting that the paint job, however. Seated on a two rows of benches aligned opposite each other within the van's exterior are no less than half a dozen more of the bulky armored troopers.
A pair of heavily armed body guards; odd, perhaps but not unreasonable, all things considered. A full military tactical squad armed to the gills in a black van? That probably raises some questions. Unfortunately, he will find no answers. As the vehicle pulls from its hiding spot in the woods out into the clearing, he will find that it is utterly devoid of any identifying markings. No tags or inspection stickers adorn the completely tinted windows. No military or governmental insignias are affixed to its metal frame. Perhaps most telling of all, it bears no signs of any liscence plates either.
The heavyset vehicle glides past Rust almost noiselessly, its fine-tuned suspension easily navigating the rocky and uneven terrain of the forest's weathered trail. The only sound of its passing is a faint hum of the engine and the crunch of ash and grit beneath the tires and even that fades to silence only moments after it rounds the small bend and vanishes into the trees like a phantom.
Log created on 19:10:26 09/10/2014 by Rust, and last modified on 21:34:23 09/15/2014.