Match of the Millennium

Description: Rust feels an urgent need to get some paperwork to put some things in order. After a chance encounter, a warning, and a visit to a misunderstood past, he leaves with paperwork of a different, but perhaps more pertinent nature.

The world is falling apart at the seams. Howard Rust has seen it first-hand in two of the busiest parts of the world... acknowledging the crisis, doing what he can between interesting encounters and trying to follow what little leads he can with the Gaia Tournament growing ever more unclear about its progression, or its endgame...
And yet, there he is, spending an inordinate amount of time trying to get personal paperwork back in order after NESTS almost successfuly burnt away a lot of things he had on hand when Igniz snatched him away. Licenses, credit cards, some other forms of identification... it was kind of an adventure convincing people at customs in Japan that he was exactly who he said he was.
It's not even really a matter of squeezing this in while things are calming down. They are clearly not. It is only excalating, and should it escalate further... the whole exercise would be fruitless, wouldn't it? Between the social upheaval, the irrepairable ecological damage, and the infrastructure falling apart completely, does he even stand a realistic chance of finding some government office open to help him with any of this?
...What are the odds anyone would care about it so strongly now, in the face of everything?
The latest frustration is being given a Schrodinger's Cat of business hours for one nearby office. It's both open and not, across many different sources and references he's gotten. He's all but thrown up his hands, heading across several streets from said office to the first place that's still open - or at least, not closed, as the case may be.
'Le Petit Chien' Sidewalk Cafe, famous for its gelato as much as its teas. Its mascot, that dog eating an ice cream cone, casts an innocent air to an afternoon filled with the dread of sun-blotting ash and fine soot particles looking for a nice set of lungs to stay in. (This is why he is now wearing four layers of flu mask.)
Some place to pass the time. Get a drink. Too early for alcoholic drinks, but... something cold, something cool. The aging American man, his outfit hued some very strange shades of cyan and gray (all the way down to that horrible hairpiece), opens the door to the familiar but now empty echoes of a chime rigged to one's entry or exit.
"Hello?" He calls, as he looks inside - is there anyone there? "This place, ah... is it... is it open?"
...
...
...
He looks to the left, to the right, behind himself out the door...
"...then... then, uh, no one minds if I use the men's room... r-right?"
Might as well make the best of the situation.



Sometime Before The Present
---------------
'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.' - A. C. Clarke

"I can't but help but wonder... The Lute - did it have to be that, or did you merely chose it to be?" The room was dark but for the symbols etched in the curved stone surface of the Beacon's Heart.
She was always questioning. It's any wonder he put up with it. But this one was in earnest. When it came to his magic, her interests were never in doubt; her intents equally apparent. She wanted to expand her ability. The notes were precise, the pattern still adjusting, it wasn't finished yet.
"If it helps," this is less about being curious now and just being difficult, "It's sounding better than it did at first."
The runes flickered - symbols, sigils, and signs, each with crafted purpose, each part of the most incredible contingency she had ever heard of. If it failed, no one would ever know. Yet its purpose and the reach of its effect would also be an enigma to even those who might benefit from it.
"So... how many lives will it take?"
A pause.
"Tch. I better get busy."

Now
-----------
'The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.' - A. C. Clarke

The information about the office seemed conflicting when it was searched for, to say the least. Some of it was just out of date, authored in less tumultuous times. But other information seemed to change even as Rust got his fingers on it until little by little, there seemed to be only one specific window of time that he needed to be at the door in order to accomplish his goal.
And thus he found himself there. A plastic sign in the window of the door usefully notes that the staff are out to lunch. There is even a helpful clock on the sign that indicates they will be back at 1pm. The problems with this scenario are: it is 3pm. the sign looks sun-bleached and abandoned, the sky is the perpetual gloom of ashen overcast that umbrellas Japan every day, the street is empty but for a parked car that looks burried enough in grey residue that it has probably been there for days, and no one else seems to be about.
But maybe the office will open again later.
The corner cafe doesn't seem to be a vibrant hub of activity either. The outdoor seating is dusted in ash and has likely been that way for some time. No one is going to sit outside in conditions like this to enjoy a sandwich. The inside seems to be in a better state of affairs though it too, this moment, is quiet. Unlike the outside, it lacks the impression of being abandoned for weeks. The counters are dust free, the lights working, the red neon 'OPEN' sign humming its steady buzz. A ceiling fan overhead spins slowly and the chime rings cheerfully again as the door swings closed on its own hinges behind the lone customer.
He may not feel it. He really doesn't look like it. And he definitely doesn't even know what contest he has been entered into. But Howard Rust is a very lucky man. About one in one billion individuals will have the opportunity he will have. The question is whether the prize is a benediction or anathema. That remains to be seen.
What doesn't seem to be a problem is the lack of anyone suggesting that he not help himself to the men's room. Perhaps the proprietor stepped into a back room for a moment. Though the working condition of the restroom may be an issue.

It is one of the more interesting features of Southtown. A city composed of some of the toughest there's ever been. Typhoon season? (Usually) open for business. Civil unrest and bizarre cults? (Often) open for business. Horrible earthquake aftershocks threatening to shake wherever they strike to tis very core? ...Open for business. Sometimes.
He might not be the only desperate sap to try in these trying times, but as evidenced by probably being the only one willing to make the walk of several streets out in this air, precautions or otherwise for sake of stopping the immigration of infinitely small particles into his lungs... he's easily the one who seem to be stretching his chances the furthest.
Closing the door behind himself, the undeniably daft man appears taken in enough by the clear appearances of the indoors that he dares to finally get the excess flu masks off his face with a particular sort of relief.
A relief punctuated with a series of coughs, as though his lungs were rioting with the preference that he risk breathing in all that volcanic dust that's polluted the air out there. Waving his hand in the air to clear away what dust followed him inside, he ambles along towards the men's room with a certain spring in his step that suggests... hope.
Hope of maybe getting something to drink while holding onto the odd expectations that someone, somewhere, is going to open that office he absolutely needs to visit for any number of dull but important reasons for continued life as an expat in Southtown?
His left hand goes over his face as he approaches, covering his eyes as if to hide a sigh. His lips say it, even if his voice doesn't say it. Something along the lines of 'why do I even bother,' or 'it's not even going to open, is it, why am I here?'
He stops at those thoughts, lowering his hand and blinking listlessly, as if catching himself on a downer mood as he peers blankly forward towards the door--
'OUT OF ORDER,' it says, which he might have subconsciously processed when starting to head down that way before he really aknowledged it.
Damn it. Same thing every time, isn't it, one bad call after another you keep making....
...



Sometime Before the Present
---------------
She had already made her list, decisions that would affect the past future in ways that could not possibly be anticipated, in an instant as if the matter didn't merit more than a second's consideration.
"I just picked the ones I thought would be interesting."
A pause.
"/What/?"
It's the first time she'd sounded that incredulous to something he had said. One must always be ready for the unexpected from the living engima, but this was beyond anything she had expected.
"You did /what/?" Well, this makes things interesting. "Finding people these days is hard enough without you turning the monk it some kind of angry earth banshee."

Now
---------------
"Che."
Of course he can't be left alone in his misery.
"Must be closer than I thought."
The voice is female. And it belongs to the young woman seated at a table only three feet to the left of the door. If she had been there when he walked in, he would have known. She's leaning forward, elbows resting on top of the wooden table, eyes closed, head bowed, fingers steepled and partially propping up her head by pressing against the space between her eyes as if she's lost in a deep but troubling thought.
Where she came from and how she got there might be less interesting than other details Rust would notice in turning to look at the room. The cafe has been redecorated while his back was turned. Runework adorns the frame of the door he just entered - glimmering, red, indecipherable.
"I thought I could block it out long enough." She leans her head back, her thumbs pressing under her chin, her fingers still pressed together, eyes gazing at the ceiling. "But you're fifteen minutes late." Way to go, Rust.
The neon 'OPEN' light has gone dim and silent. The rest of the tables are pushed out of the way, their chairs resting on top of them in the typical fashion of a shop closed for the night, except for the one Ayame is settled at.
The girl lowers her face to look at Rust, right eye twitching at something before she glances to the side. Something is mumbled under her breath. "... abyss with that ... ... hair."
"I don't suppose you've found a Time Sphere, have you?" she asks, shifting her hand to prop her cheek as she rests one elbow on the tabletop now. "You've always found your way to exactly where you don't belong."
On the table is a small paper creature - an origami swan of immaculate construct sits regally atop a sealed paper envelope.
"I guess it doesn't much m-"
Her reply is cut short, her eyes closing, hands going to rest open palmed over her eyes as in a bid to assuage an unseen pain. She sucks in a breath then exhales slowly, lowering her hands to press firmly against the table as if steeling herself to focus on something other than what distracts her, eyes squarely on Rust now, avoiding straying irresponsibly high in their focus.
"Are you going to save the world again or what? I need to know if I should cancel my plans for next weekend."

"What is--" He mumbles in that gravelly voice of his, turning around with one hand on the wall for no real discernible reason. He always deals with aches and pains throughout his entire body... but he didn't seem that much more hurt than usual coming in, as though his body had suddenly decided it is no longer the afternoon, but the late evening.
His eyes communicate the same weariness even before they set sight upon the source of the voice. His ears probably realized who that voice was, and might have just played a role in that sudden stop in his quiet query.
The change in room decor, all behind his back, sees that hand slump down with the sag of his shoulders. His other hand, now carrying a handful of flu masks, extends an index finger with a bit of a shake as if to lecture something. To point something out. He doesn't say it. He doesn't really need to, considering it's all over his face - 'how did you even get here?'
"Late?" For something that suggests ill timing, light suddenly shows up in his eyes. Was an appointment made for him? Is this mysterious young woman who he met in less than friendly circumstances, years ago, having changed vocations from ruffian to... whatever she was during 2011... to a government clerk?!
No. That's dumb. Dumb because you gave up a good living to suffer concussions--
He shakes his head. "Uhh... 'm... sorry?" He mumbles a confused apology, eyes shifting about as though wondering if he were hallucinating the cafe and still hoping he may have accidentally wandered into a proper office instead... aside from the whole... red things on the door there that look kinda like someone wants to celebrate the American Halloween many weeks early, or...
The dumbfounded look on his face about the mention of the Time Sphere probably says all. The shake of his head and the shrug are utterly unnecessary. (As is the pop in one of his shoulders, which communicates nothing.)
"I, I dunno what it is," he throws up the hand holding the flu masks at the rather acute mention of his penchant for just finding himself in all sorts of interesting situations just by whimsy or circumstance, "but--"
As her words are cut off, he thinks to approach. The breathing - he wonders if she's had to have sucked in all that disgusting air. Maybe he could offer... what, exactly? What can you offer, ground yourself to the very bone? He can't go anywhere involving an organized tournament or some sort of organized effort involving physical labor without someone getting a heart attack over health insurance costs, like some kind of old machine long in the tooth that needs to be replaced...
The depressive thoughts rob him of that sight of the origami swan, that shape of immaculate folding and a reminder of... interesting times that he played a pivotal role in, and yet, as she asks the question...
"I, I can't even get a damn thing done!" He throws his hands up, raising his voice with the expected frustration. "I just... I just got done bein'... all, run 'round in circles," he illustrates with his hand in a way that is not at all circular and should probably be considered flailing, "I mean, I, I kinda figure... Gaia Tournament, weird thing... weird people... seemed to, to mostly, well, cease to be after Metro, 'n then..."
He winces aloud. "Some guy sends me to... to Fuji, right? While it... it erupts, and... turns out the guy I, I fought? Wasn't... there for it at all. Back to just... square one, and--"
You've never really managed to get far through anything other than dumb luck, huh, something tells him, as he looks away. He shakes his head again, hand to his face... fingers against the bridge of his nose.
"I, I don't... I don't got any answers."



Sometime Before the Present
---------------
"Him?"
She had shrugged then.
"Maybe it's not fair for the old man given what he's been through."
A moment passed, a heartbeat of second-thought perhaps.
"But I put him on the list."
Now
---------------
"Too bad," she replies, there's a flicker of disappointment in those brown eyes that so often reflect little in the way of legitimate emotion when his expression makes it clear that this once he hasn't bumbled his way into the right place at the right time to set things straight by whatever strange powers the cosmos saw fit to bestow upon the aging American. The world really needs one of those fortunate accidents right about now.
Ayame glances to the side, "It'll have to be Plan B afterall then, I guess..." The attention she appears to pay seems to be limited during Rust's quick recounting of his experience with the Gaia Tournament along with some hazy details afterward.
Her right hand slips forward, nudging aside the swan. It keeps its balance in spite being moved a few inches, the girl's finger tapping lightly on the envelope. "I don't suppose you know who /would/," she asks back, focusing on the man's words, brown eyes studying him curiously for a moment before her expression shifts into a more relaxed mien, leaning back in her chair, arms folded in front of her. But for her expression of calm, there is also a tenseness about the girl, a strain as if trying to listen to Rust over a competing distraction.
"What else have you seen - what kind of impossible things have you witnessed? I doubt an exploding volcano was the strangest." She's more than attentive for a little while before she leans forward again.
A smell wafts through the cafe, seemingly foreign yet familiar to anyone who has spent days in the Springtime of Japan:
The unmistakeable scent of blossoming cherry trees.
Perhaps it's just the cafe's air freshener. A rustle is heard in the quiet, reminiscent of a breeze through trees, and the girl's eyes dart toward the runes glowing in the wooden frame of the entry door. One flickers then poofs, thin, whispy smoke drifting up and away before vanishing. A faint frown forms at the corner of Ayame's lips.
"Well, we can't all be perfect," she replies distantly as if responding to something Rust said earlier.

The man starts to pace about, his steps seemingly more irritable than his knees have ever managed to be for their owner in recent times. Everyone knows about those knees of his. If only he didn't keep pushing himself overboard to rack up that sweet overtime pay if he were younger...
...
The contents of the desk are cast aside, as is the matter of a Plan B as he seems... content? To keep pacing. Content is not the right word, when there is clear distress. Driven? That might be more apt. Whatever runs through him, eats away at him, seems to be best worked out by sheer motion, which doesn't seem to do much to help resolve his emotions - whatever they might be.
"B-Believe me, you're... you're not the first to ask," he says aloud, "uh... paraphrasing," it's more a wonder he says that whole word without stuttering or tripping up mid-word. "It... it got to the point that... Igniz asked me," among other events he doesn't quite care to recount, although the motion to one hand to clutch the top of his... hair... may have to suffice in its place, "or... or... what's-his-face... big... wrestling guy, just, crashed at my place, using my, ah, bathtub..."
This is absolutely not what she's asking for. No one is interested in hearing about how you can't seem to quite keep dangerous people out of your life, lest they get swallowed up in it like the late Quon Chen did...
...
The scent of cherry trees fills the air. Strong. Fresh. Breathable. His lungs compel him to hack once as though it were in denial of the scent, being so used to so much garbage in the air those lungs never thought they'd get to breathe that in through his nose.
It still doesn't quite calm him, as he turns to face her again, his facial expression hardly changing much from looking simply exhausted. (He almost always looks like that, as it is.)
"This... this isn't quite from the... the top, but," great, now she might have to deal with jumbling a timeline on top of making sense of when he jumbles his words, "the storms in, in Metro, they're... they're, crazier than... than anything, I, I don't know if what we saw's... even... physically p-possible." Or felt. He's been out in terrible weather before. Oregon had some very infamous storms in the mid-nineties he was out and working about during, after all.
He brings a finger to his chin, exhaling loudly. You never were good with names... that cost you a good promotion when you accidentally jumbled a would-be client for his construction company's contract work into a racial slur--
He starts waving that finger away from his face again, shaking his head. Names, names, what about names, he was never good with--
"Jiro." He speaks up. "Jiro Kasagi, uhh, I don't... I don't have the, the full... story on that, but... but he talked 'bout... uh... thinkin' it was 2007...? Yeah... 2007, was all... confused, 'bout... everything. I, I never, ah, had a chance to... to really see him with, ah, much of his friends who... who should know him, but... but it was like... he shouldn't've... beeen there, er, ah, at... at all."
He looks up, lips pursed tight as he seems even more at a loss for words. "I, I didn't know of him, ah, personally before, but... but the, the people 'round him? They seemed... confused, like... they said he died, and... and there he was, that's... that's... n-not all. Just before I--"
He casts a glance back towards the bathroom. He frowns... and looks back, picking up where he left off.
"Some... some guy jumped on my truck hood, uh, third one that day," that's not really an important detail, "Jiro, who... who I just picked up, said... said he wasn't human, and... and the way he moved, kinda," he illustrates the same way he did to Igniz, holding one arm out, waving it to the extent his shoulder lets him before it gets all sore, "except.. instead of... this, more like... he moved sorta... like..."
He abruptly moves the arm up and down to their high and low points, holding it there, "without... without the motion in between, and... and the way he just... kinda... naw, not kinda, really! Really caught... Jiro's chi, like, mid-air... never seen... anything like that, I mean..."
Now it's almost like he's telling a fishing tall tale. "Without him... t-touchin' it, like he, he willed it to just... turn 'round, strike him, never seen... anything... like that..."



Whether he realizes it or not, Rust is a veritable font of information. Ayame never interrupts the man inspite his meandering narrative, never rushes him in spite his stammering dragging out the recounting even longer, so one must assume she's taking it all in even if there isn't a glimmer of surprise to be found in her expression.
It is only after his fades while conveying his wonder at the strange man's power that she even speaks at all, eyes back on the man, focusing somewhere near the level of his broad chest.
"Jiro Kasagi died in an unfortunate incident in China some years ago."
The tone is matter of fact as if there is no wonderment at Rust having conversed with and fought alongside a dead boy. "That he died is a matter of public record. The how is not particularly important."
She lowers her face, closing her eyes, "I don't know anything more about the one you faced than what you know yourself. Where did you see him-" she pauses, then shakes her head, "It doesn't matter. He could be anywhere. What did he tell you?"
She'd listen long enough to get the gist of what could be conveyed before waving her hand absently. "Let's not speak anymore of him." before falling quiet.
She stares at Rust then for several seconds. Long enough for it to become awkward. As if maybe she's waiting for something else out of him. But the instant he shows any intention of speaking, she'll interrupt.
Another rune on the door's frame fizzles and evaporates into smoke. The scent remains strong, the whisper of rustling leaves coming and going, sometimes seeming as if coming from just outside the cafe, othertimes feeling and sounding so very distant.
Ayame's hands press against the table then, the girl frowning as if annoyed.
"Time is running out."
A third rune fizzles with an audible snap and pop, like a kernal of wet wood being put to the flame.
"Haven't you figured out what this means at all? What else have you seen? What else have others told you? What are you doing going around trying to put paperwork in order-"
How did she know about that? She pushes herself to standing.
"None of that matters now. /Think/! Or has all that fighting addled your brain! You met a boy from the past. What else?"
Another misplaced sound - one that is all together foreign these days - the laughter of a child, distant and full of mirth.
"Time is running out." she repeats, raising her voice - the glance she casts toward the vanishing runes. Is that fear?

Public record... well, that'd explain a lot of why something felt off with the name even without not knowing the guy personally. If he weren't so preoccupied then, maybe he'd have spoken up, but, that sort of 'what if' isn't even on his mind.
There are plenty of others. What if he didn't stay when the opportunity presented itself to get the hell out of Southtown during the invasion? What if he didn't even leave his construction job to begin with? What if...
"Wh-what'd he tell me?" He speaks up, looking an entirely different direction as though something else were suddenly occupying him. He looks back over his shoulder as if he were being guided along to something he wonders she might already know about - he was always one of the slower ones in his group of friends, always a bit late to the draw, a bit late to the joke...
Met with that stare, it is a truly awkward - possibly even hostile moment, with what the air seems to be full of. Something far more hostile than just whatever particle-sized matter creeps in courtesy of Mt. Fuji and the eager winds to carry its expulsions about.
Time is running out, she says. You'll probably never renew some of the things that absolutely need renewing before they expire, that whole burning of just about everything on your person at the time be damned, she... no, she doesn't say that.
"Wh-what do you mean--" Of course he has to ask that, shaking his head as though a stock animation being rinsed, reused, and recycled to the utter utmost, both palms facing upward with flu masks dangling off one of his hands, eyes wide with... well, emotion. More aware.
Hard to say that's an improvement. As she stands, growing more firm with her words, he doesn't shrink, he doesn't quite stand down.
Time is running out. Who's laughing? How does she know... who or what the hell does she mean by what he's been told--
"What the hell have, have I been told?!" He asks, as though she might already know. "Th-they find me in the middle of... of nowhere, tell me to go... to Metro, for a fight--" No, that can't be it. He's already ruled out that bit that saw him go to Mt. Fuji. What. Else. Was. He. told?
Time is running out. His hand goes to his forehead again.
"Cripes... I don't, I don't have time for-- if, if I had a god damn nickel for... for every time some, some asshole comes outta nowhere," he raises his voice to intercept whatever urgency there is for him to speak up and /think/, as though he were on his own roll, "n-not just any asshole, some... some crazy one like I just, just talked about, sayin'... stuff like, like... don't you tell me about the, th-the god damn time!"
He throws his hands down, probably so he can throw them up again as he faces her.
"Putting on a, a big thing 'bout the... the people of the world needing us, or... or to help 'em, or fight 'em at... at their... full whatever, talkin' 'bout some kinda end of the road, or some..."
He exhales loudly in clear frustration. Of course you wouldn't remember, you almost never remember much of the fine details when it counts, and hey, time's running out... of course you'd forget, you probably came to the wrong place again...
...Forget...
...Time...
...Place?
"..."
His expression softens. He blinks once, as though all the very urgency of the situation were bleeding out the holes in his head that are his ears. He visibly deflates, the bravado of aggravation dissipating.
"Place... that time forgot. That's... that's... where the, the guy who... who accosted that kid, and me... said he'd... he'd be." Did he really say that? Can you really, honestly say that someone would say something like...
Yeah, he did. He sure did.
He rests a hand on the wall again, bending it at the elbow to lean that against it as it pops, breaking eye contact with Ayame at a time that he probably shouldn't show any relaxation, what with... time... running out...
"D-Does that make any sense to you, some... some kinda... place time forgot, I don't--" Is that something he should've thought about sooner? A place that time forgot?



As Rust takes longer and longer to work through his thoughts verbally, his lone audience seems to grow more impatient. Arms fold at first, mouth curled into a faint frown. Is that a bead of perspiration rolling down her right temple? The cafe's air circulation seems to be functioning... it's not that hot in here.
"Coming apart at the seams," she murmurs softly, eyes flicking to the door then back to Rust. A reference to him?
There is a twitch in her right eye before she closes both eyelids and breaths in then exhales slowly, all the while Rust's stream of consciousness continues to be spilled out for her consideration.
Another sigil expires. Just what are those even for anyway?
"Come on already," her voice a glower as she stares at Rust again. She's definitely sweating. A fever, perhaps? Who knows what contagions are carried by the foul air outside.
A gentle breeze pushes a crisp, dry autumn leaf across the floor. Someone should sweep that up. The strawberry-blonde glances at it before snapping attention back to the insufferable man, a soft exhale escaping her lips.
"I know it's not good enough."
This was definitely not spoken to Rust who might not even hear it as he stutters his way through the incomprehensible events he has endured since the latest round of disasters began. She taps her foot rapidly, fingers digging into her folded arms as the seconds tick past.
The second to last rune flickers then fades. Are those a few snow flakes that drift down from the ceiling or ash? If ash, then why do they melt away as they touch the floor?
Rust remembers where the man said he would meet them and Ayame glances at him with a scowl, "It will have to do. I- I need to, ah, get going-"
Now she's stuttering. Is it contagious?
"Take that," she waves her hand toward the envelope on the table before brushing past the man rather impolitely, heading for the door. "It has a-"
Her hand reaches for the door, palm open, moving to press it open and make her egress to the ash crusted, dark streets outside with the urgency of someone who has lost something important and just now realized it.
The bell to the door chimes -
Only, it isn't the door's bell at all.
It might take a moment for the eyes to adjust to the bright daylight that surrounds the two. Afterall, they were just standing in the interior of a cafe with windows caked by soot located downtown in a city that has been perpetually overcast for weeks. And now? Now it is a bright Spring day.
As the eyes adjust to the sunlight, the two are found standing on a stone path lined by huge, blossoming cherry trees in both directions, their branches and the ground beneath them covered with a blanket of pink and white.
The ringing sound of bells is heard a second time right next to Rust where Ayame stands, facing forward along a path, frozen in place, cheeks paled. In her right hand is a long wooden staff about the length of the metal one he has had the misfortune of being struck by on occasion. Her long red-blonde hair has been done up with a weave of braids along the sides of her head. Dangling from the woven lengths are a number of small decorative bells.
For her top, a comfortable, white, kimono with long, billowing sleeves. At her waist, a crimson red hakama that descends to her ankles.
Other than the bells in her hair that ring lightly when touched by the breeze, Ayame makes not a sound, just staring forward along the path, her right hand gripping the staff she has planted against as if needing its support just to stay upright, her left arm resting against her side.

It'll have to do, she seems to say. Far as he knows, that's the only thing vaguely resembling a true lead he has in between fumbling about as he does, pushed forward by some misguided belief that he can cling onto some level of normalcy in life even when he keeps getting wrapped up in... well, this! The mention about time falling apart at the seams might've been lost in the sea of muttering and grumbling and grasping at straws... was it?
"Well... uh, hope that... did something like... helping," he doesn't sound too convinced for his part as he gets off of the wallas she gestures vaguely towards the envelope, at which point he points vaguely as if confused on the point when that's probably the main thing of interest anyone should really be taking on point--
He physically fumbles picking up the letter. It's a wonder you can even hold a screwdriver in that hand any more sometimes, something reminds him. He comically juggles it into his grasp where he succeeds at last by pressing it against his chest as though he were inches away from dropping expensive china, turning his head towards her as she presses against the door. His mouth hangs open as if to say something. Does he have a question? Well-wishes? Some interesting but ultimately obvious observances over matters of wood polish?
The blinding light that follows puts a stop to that. Eyes unadjusted to such brightness after being surrounded by clouds that herald an endless downpur of rain, to clouds that threaten an eternal dusting of ash and soot... his eyes probably have forgotten what the sun looks like.
He should've looked out the window more on the flight from North America to Japan.
When they get around to adjusting a few seconds later - not quite, he's still squinting, using the envelope as an occasional shield against the bright UV rays...
He dares to take a step forward, and finds himself unsteady when the ground under his feet is not that of the cafe, but the uneven grooves of a stone path. Why he would have the expectation that the floor would still be what it was when suddenly confronted with a lack of a roof... or soot... is anyone's guess.
He blinks a couple of times when he has the gumption to really open his eyes a bit more to take in the shapes that break the light. The trees... the bells... his eyes open a bit more as he looks in a direction away from Ayame to take them in. The other hand, the one with all the flu masks, scratches the back of his head as though conflicted as to whether or not he should ask the entirely obvious.
Wait, maybe she... he turns about to all but throw his head to the other side to ask, when he catches a glimpse at her-- wait, that's not... no, that's her hair color, but... the way she's dressed, like she's a--
He points a finger as if he's about to vocalize his thoughts, but lowers it. The stuff that spills out of his mouth just from some combination of confusion, awe, and/or possible early onset dementia probably speaks for itself.
"Uhh... is that... that you?" He stammers as he asks of the young woman near him, as she stands silent to look down the path before them, eyes wandering to take in the colors and... everything. "We were just, uh... where's..."



Rust is the first to break the silence between the two. The only person on sight - the one he had to take a closer look to confirm any recognition - stands silent until he speaks. He gets a reaction though it might not have been the one he was expecting as Ayame turns toward him, eyes widening as if he'd startled a stranger.
"Gah!"
She takes a step back, recoiling as if in mild disgust. "You're here too??" Her left hand lifts to quickly palm her face as she shakes her head, sending the hair-bells chiming before breathing in and releasing withheld exhale of mild exasperation. "Of all the..."
Her hand drops to her side before she hefts up the staff in her right hand, no longer needing it for support as she glances at the long, rounded stick quietly. "Well," she muses softly, "Could've been worse than this." She seems to have recovered quickly, though her tone is contemplative. "I mean, some people got dinosaurs. I would put our odds of surviving this in tact fairly high."
The girl shakes her head before wincing as the bells chime again. "Tch. Here," she holds out the wooden staff for Rust to take, "Take this, it's important."
She won't take no for an answer and the moment her hands are free, she immediatley busies herself with the bells in her hair, fingers deftly attacking the ribbons that keep them there to start taking them out one by one. "If I had to listen to these every time I moved my head then I'd be wishing for dinosaurs before long."
The first couple bells are removed and dropped uncerimoniously on the ground as she continues to speak. "The reason you saw Jiro Kasagi in spite him being dead is because you encountered someone displaced in time. Which is probably going to be more relateable now that the same thing has happened to us."
A couple more bells are dropped, ringing one last time as they land on the stone walkway and bounce to the side. "I think they're a side effect and not the goal - pockets of..." Her right hand disengages the effort long enough to wave vaguely, "- strangeness. You never know when you can get caught up in one. People from the past, ghosts, spirit possessions... The world is getting less certain by the day."
The last bell is dropped and Ayame reaches out her hand, clearly wanting her staff back. "The strange one you encountered, he's part of the group behind this. He isn't alone. It isn't clear how they are doing it, but the disturbances are strongest near the four major disasters. I've heard of some special objects of interest - Time Spheres, I guess? Whether they were made by the group or merely sought by them I don't really know but they have a lot to do with what is happening around the world."
She pauses then, her expression shadowed for a moment, "The whys behind their actions I don't know anything about. But less mysterious seems to be the endgame of their ambition, based on the patterns surrounding each of the disaster areas and the phenomena people are encountering, such as ourselves..." She shakes her head, deciding to not finish the thought about their apparent goal.
The trees lining the stone path are ancient. This is no young cherry orchid but rather a forest clearly centuries old. Ayame waves her hand in one direction, "Well, might as well get this over with - no telling when we'll be back to normal or what it will take... I can only guess as to the rules. First time this has happened to me. Others seem to get stuck like this more often." she mutters. "Che. Suppose you'll get to see what kind of living hell I had to grow up in. Won't that be special."

He nods slowly, as if maybe a little exaggerated, eyes widened as if to say in some sort of comic timing 'uh, yeah, I'm... here too.' (Great, now his facial expressions are stuttering?!) His expression dims a little as she palms herself, throwing a hand up as if to protest that he's just as confused as she is.
...Given his track record, maybe it's better to say she's as confused as he typically is?
He takes the lead in confusion at mention of dinosaurs... wait.
He snaps his fingers. "Shit... right... Mick talked 'bout," he's interrupted by the offer of a stick. It's taken in the hand that also now has four flu masks dangling off of it after another in a series of awkward delays as he wordlessly watches her remove those bells on her head.
He thinks to pick up the bells she drops as she narrates, for whatever reason they might appeal. It's not like he can hear them all too well, given what torture he put his eardrums through in his younger adult years at a construction site. His attention visibly wavers in focus between what she says and what goes on around him as she talks about displacement in time. The only real cue he's listening at all is the nod of his head at mention of the whole Jiro thing.
"Makes... sense," he mumbles, as though completely re-evaluating what those two words typically mean when linked together in a sentence deep down.
When her hand extends for that staff back, he obliges. A nasty kink in his elbow protests the flexing. He pays it no mind, instead choosing to relieve some pressure in his shoulder as he hands that staff back.
He is mercifully free of insipid, dumb commentary about the hows and whys of all this nonsense with the natural disasters. He counts them on the hand with the flu masks. The volcano here... uh, what was 'here' that is now not... the storms... the ice? And... over in... Paris?
His ability to do simple arithmetic confirmed, he nods along with most the rest of it. There's one strange stand-out moment where he takes in a deep whiff of the air, manifesting in a snort. It's... such a great improvement compared to the stinky, muggy air of Metro and the dry... well, let's not use flowery words. The air in Southtown is damn near unbreathable if it isn't already. He sighs loudly as he seems to consider where they're standing now, interrupted as Ayame suggests they get it over with.
He blinks a few times at mention about a 'living hell.'
"That... that bad? I... I dunno," of course he doesn't know, he wasn't there, but the beauty of the trees and the cleanness of the air - the latter, especially, might be a point of bias at this time - is probably coloring his opinion.
"L-Look, uh, I... I'm not a, a complete stranger to... ah, Shinto shrines, but, 'm just sayin'," he says as he peers out towards the path, "is there... is there, any... custom, I oughtta be, y'know, adhering to here? Some tradition? Like, do I... do I walk a certain way here, do I... do I leave an... an offering, somewhere, or..."
"I mean," he speaks up, "ah... just, just to be safe," as though now suddenly frightened by the idea that failure to comply with the traditions and customs of whatever shrine they are now visiting in Ayame's past might unseal some mighty dinosaur god hidden here for years, after all that's been said in the last few minutes.



"Pretty bad," comes the curt reply with no further elaboration as Ayame starts forward along the path. Apparently her idea of 'pretty bad' includes the picturesque scenery, the fresh, clean air, the bright sky overhead, beams of light punctuating the shadows beneath the trees as the two move along the path.
Ayame is quiet though until Rust speaks up. In the direction they move that distant sound of laughter can be heard again - the same as the distant echo back in the cafe, whenever that happened to be.
At the man's fretting Ayame doesn't respond at first but he might catch her glancing at him sidelong as if trying to figure out what to do with him. "Hmph," is the answer he gets at first, as if she finds the idea of trying to answer him beneath her. A rude response given Rust's interest in deference for whatever the customs may be for visiting the location her wardrobe suggests they are approaching.
There are other sounds becoming audible now. The sharp clack of wood on wood. Words exchanged in levity. The scratch of a rake through the dirt.
After a while, the stone path widens into a wider avenue. Ahead a massive torii gate stands over the path with large trees on either side. "Well..." her tone is begrudging, but there's a softer side to it as well. It has been years since she has given thought to the subject he has broached. "There are a few things to know."
She moves toward Rust with her next step in a bid to direct the man to shift his own postion more toward the edge of the widened stone walkway, "Don't walk on the center of the path when approaching the gate," she states, her tone voice quiet.
Her pace seems to slow the closer they get, however, but she never comes to a complete stop. Along the way, she has shifted to gripping the staff with both hands, holding it at an angle in front of her as if to have it in a position from which it can be moved to quickly defend her from a sudden attack but there doesn't seem to be anything remotely threatening in sight.
Only at the base of the massive torii does she come to a stop. In front of them are the sounds of activity but no one seems to be visible. Ayame clenches her jaw, her breaths coming shorter then.
Visible on the other side of the torii is a wide open courtyard, the ground covered in patches of grass but mostly bare, packed dirt. Further along the path is a walled off area, the building behind it looking more like the actual shrine Rust mentioned possibly approaching.
Sucking in her breath, waiting for a long, uncertain moment, Ayame finally steps through the torii into the courtyard. Passing through the hallowed entrance would peel back the veil that was hiding the sources of activity. Figures become visible, first as whispy outlines but quickly solidifying into tanglible forms. A woman sweeping fallen blossoms, her hair long and red, dressed similiarly to Ayame's current garb, glances up periodically from her labor with a soft smile, eyes settling on the other two present in addition to the two new arrivals.
Another is a man, his hair well groomed to medium length, blonde, clothed in simple brown hakama and matching tan kimono top. In his hand is a wooden staff not unlike the one Ayame is maintaining a deathgrip on. The other is a small girl, five or six at most, hair the color of the girl at Rust's side, dressed in a simple white outfit, tiny hands gripping a much smaller staff than the one held by the man.
She swings the staff from overhead to down, stopping just shy of hitting the ground. The man watches her form, speaks words that are easy enough to hear yet impossible to decipher, then performs the same gesture as the girl, clearly demonstrating the proper motion by way of example.
The girl pays rapt attention to the man then tries again. Sounds of praise come from him and the child responds with a beaming smile before repeating the motion of swinging the staff from overhead toward the ground in front of her, still stopping just shy of hitting the earth as demonstrated by the man.
Ayame stares at the display for a while without comment before finally shaking her head, "Time sure seems to distort the way things really were," she mutters with a dismissive grunt, turning away to look toward the shrine itself.

"I, I'm serious," he says sincerely with the 'hmph,' not raising his voice out of ire although the look on his face speaks that maybe he feels like he ought to. Some baseline respect for the local culture - that was a necessity for back when he worked at Pacific High. (Also, again, sudden paranoid fear of emerging dinosaur deathgod.)
When she gives way to highlighting some of these things, he obliges a little exaggeratedly, taking a hurried step to the side as guided - maybe a little too quick, as though under the watch of some sort of angry parent or another. It's probably kind of silly even for a time like this.
As they grow ever closer to the torii, he steps a step ahead of her, as though taking him a second to notice she stopped. He takes a step back as she puts up an entirely defensive posture. It's on his lips to ask - what's wrong? He peers out past the torii, squinting as though wondering if she sees something he doesn't.
When she gathers the courage to go inside, he follows. For being the more foreign element, there's a certain sort of ease that belies all the worries and confusion that goes by. The woman who looks up to them is met with a quick bow from the aging American man, whom appears absolutely and entirely out of place. Maybe it is in the hopes that his intrusion in what he assumes to be time goes by as smoothly and without incident as possible.
As a young girl and a man go about what appears to be some sort of practice together, Howard tries not to stare upon it. He does recognize that some traditions need not be seen by outsiders (perhaps out of fear of penalty by sudden dinosaur god), largely silent until Ayame speaks again.
He follows her gaze over to the shrine for a while, lips pressed together, nodding his head at... nothing in particular. He flexes out one of his knes to work out a pop.
Then, he has the audacity to speak at last.
Something that isn't the obvious dumb question.
"I, I wasn't... happy with my home as a, a kid either," he speaks up, as if cutting to the chase - going past the obvious questions of who that must be, who that might be. Did he already piece that together? Could he have a triple digit IQ score after all?
He scratches the side of his head as he takes in the whole sight of the shrine, all the way over there, standing by Ayame's side without facing her.
He exhales loudly. It's a much longer sigh than usual. He is probably content to be able to breathe in so much clean air at once.



Rust's words provoke immediate attention as Ayame turns toward him as he had just spoken a Golden Truth. Her earlier reluctance to even answer his heartfelt question melts a little while the practicing demonstration continues off to the side. "You... you didn't?" Her left hand relaxes from her staff to lift and rub at her cheek absently though her right maintains a tight grip.
Time passes strangely here - if anything about chronology in a 'pocket of displaced time' can be considerered /not/ strange, anyway. The pink trees outside the courtyard shed their blossoms for green leaves. The cool, crisp spring air warms as the season rushes into Summer as the seconds tick by. The practice session they spied upon was finished months... perhaps years ago. Figures flit about the courtyard, moving too fast to be seen for longer than an instant then gone, going about their daily lives in this quiet sanctuary away from the demands of urban life.
Another scene plays out before their eyes - the girl has grown a couple years, hands gripping a staff longer than the one she was using last time. Again the man steps through drills with the wooden weapon. The girl's movements are smoother, more controlled, and the routine more complex than the simple swing she was learning to master at six. The woman sweeps nearby once again, loving eyes on the two.
'Do you remember why our family style is built around the staff?'
The patient voice of a caring father.
'Ours is to protect and defend, not to draw blood or maim.'
The father smiles in affirmation. The daughter beams.
"What-... what would you different if you, you know..." Ayame looks away from Rust then, "What kind of father would you be?"

"Nah, I... I really didn't, growing up," he narrates, clearing his throat again as he pats his chest. "'scuse me." He still doesn't quite face her, but the frown at the corner of his mouth suffices in place of a full, head-on view of whatever his face might show.
He lets it linger on that for a while as time continues to flow the odd way it does, abruptly starting and stopping. He doesn't add all that much other than... okay, he rolls his shoulder again. Maybe it's the change in air pressure with the seeming passing of... seasons? Years? Having only one locked joint abruptly show up in such a long time is a marked improvement.
Until Ayame, herself, asks that question that he might've been able to give more thought to had someone he was intending to propose to didn't up and cheat on him. He grimaces at the vague reminder... he probably would be a dad by now if that didn't come to happen some years back.
"Uhh... part of me would... kinda say now, I, I wouldn't know until it, ah, happened," he mumbles aloud as he watches Ayame's development go on between them, "uh, educated... guess, I'd... I'd say... probably a lot like... my dad."
He nods his head. He snorts once. Beginning of laughter? Maybe he never imagined saying that until now.
"Y'see, uh... my mother, she was, ah... she was a fighter. Her mother was kinda famous. One of the... the best of her time, she'd say. Her mom." He scratches the side of his head, as though implying he's not sure how much he'd take that at face value. "My dad, well... I think... I think he kinda envied that, like... for a while, he wanted to get into that, but... he got... he got hurt really bad, when he was, ah, younger."
He shrugs. "I'm... I'm not even sure how they... ah, they got together, now, let alone... y'know, decide to have me. The two were... th-they were very different."
"She, well... she wasn't nice. Really... really, violent. N-Not exactly a beloved person 'round my hometown... it got... it got bad enough they, ah, well, went their ways. She, she got arrested at some point, so... so my dad got custody."
He shakes his head. "K-Keeping in mind he was hurt, actually... so hurt, he... he couldn't really get a job. I grew up poor, and, ah... kids at school, they... didn't like me much, 'cause, y'know, her son. Iii... got into... into a lotta scrapes."
"He... he didn't want me to, in his words, 'grow up... a thug like your, your mother.'" He puts on a rare smile. It is kind of rare. It often seems like he can't put on much of a face other than differeint shades of grimaces, sometimes. "Well, y'know, I... I realy liked fighting, but... but as I grew up, had to, to support the both of us, and... well, started... workin' construction, ah, earlier than was... legal. Through... most of high school," he continues.
"You... you wouldn't believe the... the number of times... I beat him up."
He lets that hang for a bit. This is absolutely not the sort of thing one may hear about a parent-child relationship. One where the child very readily overpowered the parent.

"But... but he never... never put me in a, a foster home, or... anything, no matter... what, he just... he just, endured. All of it." He pats his chest a bit. "He, he couldn't really... get a job, but, but he did know a li'l 'bout... putting things together, I... I learned a lot from him, without... y'know, realizing it. Barely... brought in, uh, much to support either of us, aside from... well, welfare."
He snorts once.
"You... you don't know how... how upset he was, over the phone, when... when I told him that, that I lost my job at Pacific, to... to, y'know, fight. To fight full time." Ostensibly, to be an instructing assistant at the Kyokugen Dojo as a good launching point for further refinement and so that he wouldn't have to change his work visa to say he was anything other than an instructor, because renewing it every so often is a pain in the ass as-is.
"Sometimes he, he says I'm just being... someone's thug, but," he trails off from there.
It is as though, even as his father is in their twilight years, the lingering differences of opinion between them haven't quite been smoothed out. They probably never will, and yet, for the question as to how he'd be as a father...
"I'd, I'd like to think if I got to be a dad, I'd be, well... as good as he is." Not was, is. "I'd, ah... got... big shoes to fill... I think."



As he speaks, Rust has Ayame's undivided attention. At first she seems to be listening out of idle curiosity, or, perhaps, she's just paying some level of feigned polite attention. But as he continues on in his halting way, her stance pivots little by little to face the man directly, the deathgrip on her staff relaxing slightly, brown eyes fixated on the older American as he pours out the biography of his family life.
It must have been two completely different worlds, he and she. Poverty, harsh conditions, a father who never seemed to approve, a mother who was persona-non-grata in the small hometown. The family she turned away from has land, a legacy that makes them beloved in the region, and care for one another.
Summer passes to Autum, the leaves shifting from green to yellow to brown as the sky becomes gold and the clouds illuminated by the setting sun take on the hue of cotton candy. The figures resume their lives at unfathomable speeds while Ayame and Rust stand in the courtyard unseen.
Howard Rust declares what kind of father he would hope to be and Ayame finally looks away, closing her eyes. "I don't understand." comes her response. No taunt, no chiding, "How you could turn out this way." Isn't there only one outcome of the childhood Rust had? Isn't such a rough upbringing the inevitable path to being a lowlife, selfish brute?
The two are alone in the courtyard. A chill wind blows now, heralding an oncoming Fall shower. "Come on. We don't want to come all this way into the past to catch a cold," she murmurs, moving toward the shrine at the center rear of the courtyard. Outside of the wall is a small trough filled with water and a wooden, long-handled scoops resting across it. "Here," the visiting miko explains to her touring partner.
"Like this." She reaches for the scoop with her right hand and draws up a full scoup of water, a portion of which she pours over her left hand. The scoup is switched to her now damp left hand and more of the water is poured over her right, "You have to cleanse your body and mind before we can go any further." she explains. The scoup is returned to her right hand where she pours the remaining water into her left hand, held in a cupping shape, before lifting her hand to her mouth to drink out of her hand. She swishes the water in her mouth before spitting into a small roped off circle of dampend dirt to the side of the water basin.
She exhales softly, looking at the ladel in her hand, "It got a bit tiring doing this everytime you had to go inside and clean the place," she states though she doesn't sound like she's remembering it with an entire lack of fondness. The ladel is dipped into the water again then lifted up so that the water pours down the handle and over her hands. The ritual complete, she places the scoop across the edges of the trough where she had picked it up and then glances toward Rust expectantly.
If he seems stumped, she would roll her eyes and explain the process slower so that he could do it, but otherwise her thoughts seem elsewhere.
"I've never been back..." she remarks thoughtfully. "Since I left, that is. And now, at the end of all things, I can't fathom why. Maybe... I'll do it differently next time..." she blinks, then shakes her head, looking away from Rust as she waits for him to finish the cleansing process. "Would have to remember though..."
She glances back at Rust and inspects him quickly, "Don't lose that envelope," she remarks out of the blue, seeming to remember it for the first time since they got stuck here. She seems less concerned about the flu masks than he is.

The whole story probably puts things into clearer focus as to why he might be so hell-bent on getting his paperwork replaced - the ability to maintain what life he does have, even if so far it hasn't... quite... worked out as well as he might have hoped. (The recent Gaia Tournament prize money windfall aside.) Why he's willing to take such insane assumptions and chances that some government office is going to be open, somewhere.
That, or maybe he is just deluded out of the desparation to reclaim some semblance of normality.
"Sometimes, y'know, I don't... either," he concedes so much humbly as he rolls one of his shoulders again, following her along with the agreement that yeah, catching a cold wouldn't be a great way to get lost in time and space.
Coming across the trough, he watches with his eyes lit up, pointing a finger as if to excitedly say that he actually does know what she's doing, nodding and mouthing a 'right, right' in one of those special instances where he seems to actually be 'in' with what's going on. Unlike... a good eighty percent of the time, where he seems to be behind on reading his lines on a metaphorical script.
He goes through with the ritual about as well as anyone who has watched it for the first time can hope for, flu masks and envelope he's carrying set inside that strangely-colored gi top he's wearing... (why on earth does he wear such dumb colors?)
He makes an odd face with the part with the water in his mouth, as though there were some sort of element in the water he weren't expecting. Or maybe he's actually secretly a demon and burning the roof of his mouth by doing this, his legendary stone skin not encompassing the inside of his body.
...Or not, as he at last spits out the water.
"I... I could imagine," he imagines out loud... but one of his eyebrows cock at mention of a 'next time.' What next time?
He never gets around to vocalizing it as she mentions to him not losing the envelope. "Huh? Oh, uhhh... y-yeah, I didn't, I--" Shit, where did he put it? His hands search his gi top until they come across the touch of paper, holding up the envelope out one of the folds...
"What... what stops you from... from going back now? I mean... was there, ah, was there a... fight, or..."



The courtyard is empty now now and a light shower begins to fall as Rust completes the ritual and Ayame reminds him about the envelope. She taps her foot while he searches as sprinkles of water alight on their shoulders. As he produces it, she nods once, "Don't lose it," she repeats before nodding back toward the entrance toward the inner courtyard.
Turning that way, is quiet at Rust's question for a moment, as if maybe ignoring it will prompt him to shift to another topic that she is more inclined to speak on. But she finally speaks, "I happened across some paperwork... they were going to send me far away. They were going to get rid of me like... like..." Her voice cuts off and she steps forward, picking up the pace as the rain intensity builds.
Moving through the gate leads to the inner courtyard. A shrine rests here, its traditionally sloped roof spilling water down along the sides. Trees border the walkway up to the shrine itself, providing limited protection from the building storm but the leaves are brown and dry and the rain causes them to fall steadily along the path only to be crunched underfoot as the two move.
"I left before they could," she replies, elevating her voice as to be heard over the splashing of water and rushing of wind through the leaves. She moves under a length of the roof that extends out over the ground like an awning, keeping an enclosed area of dirt safer from the elements. She doesn't lead Rust to the steps that actually go into the shrine itself, holding up beneath the awning instead and turning to watch the rain fall through the trees.
"Do you think memory is a blessing or a curse," she asks Rust suddenly, planting her staff against the ground and leaning a little against it. "Does it weigh you down or strengthen you to remember what you have been through, what you have done, what has been done to you, where you could have done better, where you made your mistakes..."
She sighs softly, falling quiet for a while. When she speaks, her tone is different. "There's a chance that those responsible for causing all of these disasters will succeed in their goal. If they do..." Her voice fades out, eyes straying toward where drops spill from the awning above to splash against the loose dirt, dampening it, gradually forming small puddles. "Well, if they do, almost no one will know what they have done. We will end up reliving our lives, probably much the same as we already did once... the same as we possibly have multiple times."
The air begins to chill, the rain fading, the clouds in the sky moving swiftly, as days pass the two by once again. The leaves on the trees fall, then appear in piles, then the piles themselves are gone. Flakes of snow behind to fall as Winter settles in. "We'll make the same choices, perform same mistakes, experience the same failures, leaving the same things undone, the same words unsaid. For most of the world, it won't even matter, since-"
Her voice cuts off. Two figures have joined the two beneath the awning to the left of Ayame. The girl glances to the side at their wispy forms as they gradually solidify into the images of her parents huddled close together, her mother leaning her head against her father's shoulder, his arm wrapped around her, as the two stare out over the blanket of snow now covering the shrine's inner courtyard.
"...it will be hard," her mother murmurs, the words whispered yet unusually audible.
"...too smart for the schools here. It hurts to send her away, but think of the opportunities... we can't burden her with our family's obligations if they would only weigh her down..." voices her father.
Ayame stands as frozen as she was when the two first arrived in this place outside of time, staring at the two that seem unaware of the presence of Rust or their own grown up daughter as they share a quiet moment this Winter's afternoon. The thunk of Ayame's staff breaks the silence as her right hand goes limp and her arm hangs against her side.
She turns toward Rust finally, Ayame's left hand lifting, two fingers rubbing at the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes. "I... see..." A long breath is taken in then exhaled slowly without her saying another word.
Finally, her brown eyes open and focus on Rust at last. "What you need to understand... is that time as we know it will be looped back on itself if those people succeed. Almost everyone will not notice a thing but... nothing will be entirely the same as we remember it either." She falls quiet then, letting the man process what she's said and whether he's going to believe another word she says after making such a statement.

Odds remain in favor of at least one other instance of panic in making sure that he still has 'it' and isn't about to magically lose it through a convenient new tear in the gi top, but this is a single small certainty that can be - for the moment - hasn't lost it. With luck, they won't have to backtrack through the universal space-time equivalent of Ayame's embarrassing childhood photos later for any other possible thing of importance that he just may (in)conveniently drop in a moment of ignorance.
If she keeps quiet on the question, he doesn't seem too insistent about pushing too hard - they are going through the equivalent of her embarrassing baby photo albums. Even with the heart-to-heart chat about his own upbringing, this is... a place out of the proper phase of time and space. Chewing the fat about the past could be the worst thing they could do if, and this is a big if, there were a sudden deadly dinosaur emergence, as he often casts a look back over his shoulder while they move forward... one of the leaves that fall free from the trees in the storm bounces strangely off his, er, adorned scalp, as though this piece of old, forgotten nature lost to time refuses to ever intersect in the same theoretical, paradox-filled point in space and time as that thing on his head.
Rust stops at the steps proper as Ayame appears to deviate, halting his advance as she speaks about it - leaving before they could. He goes to stand next to her in that patch of dirt next to her, about in time for her to ask the question. Memories... a blessing, a curse? She segues into that question before he can think of much to say about her feeling of being... betrayed? Shipped off? From when he first met her, he could only wonder what produced such a bad apple (at the time).
He rubs his left hand against his opposite shoulder, casting a glance out to the weather that has overtaken the shrine, placing the gloved hand under the cloth of the gi top to give it a bit of a massage as he nods his head to something that is not at all a yes or no question.
"Uhh... I, I know it's, ah, kinda trite, but... all... all of that, 'cause..." There is probably another long-winded, meandering explanation using all sorts of colorful examples incoming. He might just be entranced by the view. He hasn't had much time to really visit places like this in recent years.
The official answer should probably be taken as 'all of that, 'cause... ooh look I'm distracted by your pretty childhood home.'
Entranced until she speaks up again about the nature of what they're up against. If they succeed, earning a sharp look as if to say 'wait no I've been listening all along,' to be taken away from the sullen beauty of the rainy landscape. Reliving their lives? Repeating?
...Could it have happened before? He goes silent as she continues to illustrate the feeling of futility of it all. Some sort of endless, repeating cycle of the same... choices, mistakes, failures, things undone, things unsaid...
"Uh, wouldn't that, that mean that they... also fai-- what's wrong?" The turn of her head speaks louder than just about anything, somehow, as he looks over his shoulder to where she's looking, his speculation about the nature of these people causing an endless cycle - albeit with rather long runs within these cycles - to stand and watch what it is that captures her attention.
It doesn't need his commentary. Even when he stretches a leg out, he stops well before he can pop out his knee. His knee, for once, seems to be in agreement to that circumstance as he lowers it back down, enduring the tension in that leg a little longer in respect.
Removing his hand from his shoulder, he's not sure what there is he could say to her upon seeing something like that. Hell, if he saw anything like that about, say... his mother, back from when he was really too young to remember all that much outside of the broad strokes she kept repeating... what would there be to say? Would it fundamentally shake him to the core of his understanding of his own upbringing under a single parent who basically could not get work, and yet wouldn't dare let his son go into foster care, and almost everything that comes with it?
The subject does not appear to be dwelt upon for long. He doesn't push her on it, but as she speaks as though an authority on the whole matter...
It doesn't take him nearly as long to process that as it probably should. Maybe he should take the extra time, and yet, as he lowers his hand down to his side...
"H-How do you... you really know all this for sure?" Granted, with all the horrible things that have happened, back to back, in recent weeks... would anyone want to continue living as they are? The loss of life to disaster and loss of livelihood from all that's happened is something only a statistic could encompass, and yet even that number would be but a heartless mere summary that could not begin to communicate the depths of it. (Could that be what the enemy is counting on...?)
He speaks up again, shaking his head as he holds up his hand, "n-never mind that, how the hell do we..." stop it, of course, that's what he means to say, but he doesn't need to be allowed to speak that in full for that to be comprehended.



It's a wonder she changes subjects so quickly and seemingly requiring little more than to be left to release a soft sigh to get over processing something that has upended one life-changing misunderstanding.
'We'll tell her in the morning.'
The murmur of her mother is the last thing heard before the figures dissolve back into the mists of time. If he is looking close enough, he might notice the slightest twitch in the girl's right eye, the tension in the way her lips press together for about three seconds before bleeding away, replaced with an intense concentration on Rust himself.
"Don't worry about that," she replies when he asks how she knows - really knows - what she is telling him now. The Winter sky overhead rushes onward with them, days passing by in seconds, ticks of an unseen clock rushing the season on with incomprehensible speed. "I don't... think we have a lot time left together. And I don't know how to stop them. I don't have your... gift for saving the world." Her tone has shifted. There's tenderness there, for perhaps the first time in years.
The light of the sky dims, the sun sinking down behind the trees, making way for the coming of night in that eternal cycle that has existed since the beginning.
But the night does not come.
No stars. No moon. No silver glow that has always lit the path of those who wander at night. A small paper lantern dangles from the awning now, casting its warm glow on the cold earth below. Ayame and Rust are standing in snow, a few inches deep, just enough to bury their ankles. The cold is bitter, each statement made now is accompanied by a puff of mist from their mouths.
"That envelope contains a single slip of paper. On it are a pair of coordinates - latitude and longitude."
It doesn't seem so cold now. In fact, there is a certain uncomfortable warmth about them. The shrine vanishes as do too the trees. Only the stone wall remains, its surfaces blackened. Snow no longer covers their feet. It has been replaced by a blanket of ash half a foot deep that seems to stretch for eternity.
"If no one can stop them... when the end comes... you will have a choice to make."
The horizon is the dread dawn of the end, an unnatural crimson casts its pale light across the field of dead cinders that the two stand in now.
"If you decide you want a chance to remember... what you know... the next time through..."
There is a rumble - it exists too far to be heard from here unless it was truly gargantuan in source. A wind blows now, stirring up the dusty char around them. Rust might need one of those flu masks afterall but Ayame seems undisturbed.
"Then go there."
She breaths in once, then exhales, half closing her eyes. The glow in the horizon is now the burning golden orange of flowing lava rushing toward their location.
"Whether this is an opportunity... or a curse... I cannot say."
She glances over her shoulder to approximately where her parents were last seen. The wind whips at her long sleeves and crimson hakama now turned black in the dying light of the end times.
"For me..." She swallows once, her voice breaking finally. "If I can remember just one thing..."
She looks back toward Rust then. A tidal wave of lava is fast approaching but the girl seems stoic; accepting of the burning fate rushing toward them.
"Good luck. The world has never been kind to you... I... I wasn't very nice either, I'm-..."
The wave of lava crests overhead, ready to crash down over the two of them. "Sor-"
Rust is in the cafe.
Alone.
The ceiling fan is still spinning lazily overhead. The tables and chairs are still stowed. The 'Out of Order' sign still hangs from the bathroom door. The lights are still dim and the neon 'Open' sign currently turned off. Outside, ash continues to fall; a gentle, deadly snow.
On the only clear table near the door a small paper crane flaps its wings once then becomes still.

For everything that he's seemed to go along with, with some sort of blanket acceptance of the greater portion of the weirdness around them, his mouth hangs open slightly, his shoulders slumping as if to say... if she doesn't know how to stop them, what makes her think he has the beginnings of an idea? He's been largely running around like his head's been cut off between one disaster to the next, to say nothing of all the little issues that come in between with NESTS having burnt away a lot of important items for living in polite society, like... the paperwork he hoped to get re-filed today.
Some days into the future? Yesterday? Beyond the desire to get them done he can't quite put his finger on his sense of where he is in regards to events any more, irritation and the beginnings of protest melting away to confusion, worry... and possibly even despair, even as she mentions that gift he seems to have.
For whatever reason, he's been a common element in the overturning of a lot of ill schemes on the world scale. It shouldn't be a surprise that people really turn to him in hopes he has some concrete idea, some magic silver bullet, some kind of miracle he keeps hidden in that length of pipe he always carries around. (Up to - and including - deciding to crash for a while in his bathtub.)
Silently, even as she focuses her gaze on him, his own wanders away off to the horizon, the nip of winter chill gathering against his tired, overworked, achy ankles... no, wait, that's snow. He kicks out a foot to make sure it's not about to fall asleep on him. He shakes his head as the precursor to some clarification or explanation that doesn't come, to a young girl that might need his guidance and reassurance above all.
That envelope contains...? His gaze returns to her. Latitude and longitude coordinates, to....? He mouths the question without saying the words, as the numbing sensation soon replaces itself with that itchy, dry air as one of his hands reach for the envelope to be sure it's there (it is, thank goodness). He blinks a few times as the beautiful colors of a once standing shrine is replaced with the appearance of... ash. Soot. Dust. Black. Everything is black.
He can feel his very lungs starting to suffer as he breaks into a coughing fit, fanning himself with his other hand, full of those flu masks, as the change of scene from a tour of the seasons to the fiery, final destination of their stay in this place in time and space.
Even so, the words come in clear - if everything fails, and he wants a chance to remember what he knows... go there.
"This... ah, shit, this is," it comes to him in a rush. This is what's become of the place now, isn't it? Nowhere to go back, nowhere to... reconcile, for her? The air is uncomfortably familiar from when he foolishly followed instructions to scale Mt. Fuji for a false fight. Putting two and two together, he is not the picture of reason as Ayame considers the full summation of her situation... and the world's, alongside this aging man who she first met as an authority figure standing up against her antics at a job he no longer has.
For her... if she can remember just one thing...
He gets a hold of his breathing long enough to look her in the eye as his gaze shifts over to the encroaching wave of fire. Memories of that encounter on the island in that place of such great importance during the King of Fighters 2011... it's like staring down that elemental fury, one he survived only for the grace of those he stood next to.
The world has never been kind to him. She wasn't...
"D-Don't talk like this is--" It probably is. Even if he were strong enough to shield her, would he be strong enough to survive such incredible heat and pressure as the two are inevitably smothered under the molten rock? Ol' Rusty is drawn in his right hand, as though it would make any sort of difference, as though if he were desperate enough, he might part the ocean of fire...
"I, I won't let--" Is it his choice? Scraping Ol' Rusty against the ground, through the ash, there's a little spin of his wrist as his skin fries in the presence of being this close to such heat that would have already killed ordinary people a few times over.
He swings the pipe in an upwards arc, a forward movement carrying him towards the wave as though it would have made much of a difference...
Suddenly, a ceiling fan explodes in a shower of sparks, utterly smashed into multiple unrecognizable shapes as the destroyed fixture scatters its remains all over the cafe, the tip of Ol' Rusty having smote a completely harmless fixture of the cafe. His breathing is labored, his skin still stinging as though scalded. His eyes slowly open, blinking several times as he casts any number of worried, hurried glances about. Where is... where am...
Just... the tables, the chairs... now a few things in glass shattered apart, including a neon 'Open' sign that has now been dislodged thanks to a piece of scrapped ceiling fan. Outside, that dreary gray landscape he has braved in his dire quest to replace destroyed credentials so he could attempt to pick up where he left off in daily life...
His nostrils flare as he looks to the 'Out of Order' sign from the bathroom door... after that, he recognizes that he doesn't really need to visit that room any more. That's, uh, not exactly how he would have had that particular issue resolved, but...
Ol' Rusty is sheathed after another long, tense minute to comprehend everything that just passed, that hand soon digging into that gi top to find... the envelope. His expression is entirely blank, as though his facial muscles have yet to catch up with the racing thoughts and the fast heartbeat that threaten to leave them behind.
A small paper crane flaps its wings once, creating a subtle noise for its lightweight construction and inability to even move the air in that single gesture. He takes a few steps towards it, his entire body creaking from how he seized himself up in those final moments with her.
He picks it up gently, carefully... gingerly. The way she showed him a window to the existence of things that are... wonderful, beyond understanding of the mundane world. The fact that such things exist... sacred, and abominable. As a fighter, he himself taps into the latent energies of the world to grant him his superhuman resilience, his enviable might. He is as much a part of those frightening, but captivating energies as much as anyone else with the talent and ability to do so...
She showed him a miracle.
If there's one to be found, now it's his turn to show another one to the world, like he did alongside...
Alongside...
He waves a finger while still holding the paper crane. Maybe... it doesn't need to start, exactly, with himself. Not when, over the years, across so many close scrapes, odd coincidences, and maybe even divine interventions...
This miracle is one he's not going to pull off alone.
To put it more accurately, not even once did he pull anything of the sort alone, ever. Now...
Putting down the crane on the table where he found it, he puts on the flu masks, one atop another in a humorously inefficient and honestly dangerous fashion, he opens the door back out to the rain of ash.
He'll have to tough out the heat, the darkness, and all the ash far longer than anyone should, but maybe, no, definitely... he has the beginnings of a gameplan.

Log created on 22:08:41 09/13/2014 by Ayame, and last modified on 01:29:13 09/21/2014.