Description: Several days prior to her death, Empress Honoka had heard of an unusually colorful man waltzing through many of the defenses surrounding the Grand Ise Shrine in Mie Prefecture. She had met the man a few weeks prior, and hoped to use that prior meeting as leverage to figure out just what it is that's eating up so much of Howard Rust's attention.
For one Howard Rust, it's been a highly turbulent series of days. A world in chaos is not about to give anyone rest. For what's already famously transpired throughout the nation... things appear to have been silent with the so-called "Hero of Nepal" from those horrible land wars that ravaged the Asian continent. Given that he put his foot down on previous tyranny and hostile takeovers, some would have almost expected him to have already carved (...piped?) a bloody swath to the root of whatever truly spurred all this. There may or may not have been a small portion of the forces at the Empress' beck and call to keep tabs on where he is and what he's intending to do - he is still a foreigner that must leave Ezo.
There has been a noted lack of any real violence to attribute to him.
Disobedience, sure. Definitely that. Multiple people have already reported seeing him going... somewhere. He has not appeared to heed authority requesting he go some other way in the direction of being deported. (Rumor has it he'd already confessed at some office he is lacking certain paperwork - if that's true, he's already been staying in the nation illegally even prior to the... changes.)
This trail of interesting and kind of worrying behavior continues all the way into the Mie prefecture of Ezo. Guns may have been pointed at him, but almost no one would really have the courage to pull the trigger - if the things they've heard about him in battle against other armies in times past are true (and most of them, frighteningly enough, are), it wouldn't have done much good. For the most part those who care to still do their job to convince him to leave are trying to appeal to him with pleads to turn around and walk out peacefully.
He hasn't listened. Barricades haven't seemed to stop him either.
The boiling situation appears to approach something of a climax as he comes atop a building a ways away from the... activity around the Ise Grand Shrine's location, a building that serves as an overlook for tourists to take in the sights from a relatively safe distance. This is as close as anyone can get, and certainly far closer than anyone would probably want someone to come.
With his previous expertise from years of mastery of so many crafts, he out and out vandalizes a paid set of binoculars to face the way he wants them to, disengaging whatever mechanisms enforce payment for minutes of viewtime. By his side, a notebook and some writing utensils. Looking through the binoculars he has commandeered for whatever purpose, he stares with intensity at what goes on a ways ahead of him, his face intense, tense, and... in. Something. He has long since drowned out the shouts and the alarms with what is no doubt so many people breathing down his back to stop what he's doing.
The peacekeepers don't want a fight from him. He hasn't given them a physical scuffle... yet. Whatever it is he's looking for, whatever it is he's trying to accomplish... he seems intent on getting that taken care of, as the sky above glistens and shines an unnatural color for the time of day from the displacement of air and energies by the amazing vortex that feels like it is tearing apart the very world in front of them, even from this distance.
Every so often, Howard reaches down and pops open the notebook to write... something down. Whatever it is he's writing, it's something that takes multiple looks out to whatever interests him about the vortex so.
Japan had already barricaded off the mysterious anomaly occupying the Ise Grand Shrine -- and for public safety reasons, the Ezo transitional government obviously saw fit to keep all the safeguards in place to keep random citizens from finding themselves ripped from this mortal coil and crudely grafted into some other mortal coil in some other time and place.
And by "transitional government," of course we mean that the offices of the Empress expected each of the prefectures to keep operating as normal, under threat of really bad things happening. And 'normal' means reporting anything abnormal. Like a guy no one has the power to stop... finding himself at a scenic overlook and conducting multiple observations.
Sure. The prefecture is out a few hundred yen from the lost fees, and probably out a hundred times that figure for the property damage. If it were anyone else, it wouldn't be significant enough to notify the Empress personally. But it -was- enough for the Empress' administrative assistants to offhandedly mention the topic when she was walking through the office. And that... was enough for her interest to be piqued.
According to the new standard procedure, any time the Empress makes a trip, a number of her personal guard are in attendance. Ten, in this case, due to Howard Rust's notable reputation as a vanquisher of evils, and the new Empress's reputation as someone who will kill anyone to get what she wants. Reputations take on lifes of their own, however... and as much as the Empress knew her -own- reputation was... enhanced by the media, she also knew that the reputation of Howard Rust did not seem anything like the man she'd met on the docks of Southtown just a few weeks prior. Accordingly, she's opted not to wear anything which would distinguish her as the official Empress of Ezo, but rather, the same clothing she'd worn on that night. A dark grey dress jacket, pulled snugly across her shoulders, a white blouse and black mini-skirt. Her hair is different than on that night -- purple highlights now instead of red -- but she's clearly hoping to be recognized for her earlier persona if not the one she wants the country of Ezo to see.
She walks up as the man is ravenously writing down figures. Her guards stay inconspicuous, but ready to jump to their lady's defense at any moment. The Empress can likely take care of herself for a few seconds, after all.
A yo-yo snaps out from her sleeve. It's not a threatening gesture, but it is intended to grab attention. "I... hate to let you know, I ... never did get that dust mask. But it doesn't seem that one needs it, out here." A cheerful smile, an unguarded demeanor... just another friendly face, if that's all Howard Rust wants it to be.
Whatever it is that compels him, he's almost like he's possessed to do this. The comparative weakness in his right hand manifests when he has to write far slower than he might like. To keep the grip steady, to write down whatever sorts of details need to be put in print that just simply cannot be stated as word-of-mouth. It is somewhat a far cry from his meandering, oft unfocused... being. It often seems like he's not entirely on the up and up as to what's going on in the present, where friends, acquaintances, and strangers alike seem to be able to speak circles around him. He is far from the typical definition of a dashing, debonair hero.
He's positively dumpy, even now. Especially given that he is wearing yet another garishly colored variation of his clothing. Deep purples, pale celery, somehow a bit of orange in there. That horrible hairpiece, like a colorblind chameleon, is an even more eye-searing pinkish color. Assuming it's the same one - whether he has multiple, exceedingly foul pieces of 'hair' or not is one of those terrifying questions that could manage to shake the foundation of reality even further than the vortex of power and intrigue raging a ways ahead of them can.
This is digressing from the topic at hand, as the snap of a yo-yo would remind as the spinning object twirls through the corner of one's eye. The aging American man's neck cranes ever so slightly, as though hesitant to turn around. Fear? Relief? Or... the look of a man who might be bearing down to tell a younger child that he currently cannot play with them?
She smiles. His face, in comparison, is highly complex, a low hum as he shrugs one of his shoulders to relieve some pressure - a kink - that pops noisily as he sizes her up alongside those who escort her.
"The air," he starts, "c-can you feel it? I mean," now he seems to struggle to explain it as he takes his left hand and makes a series of obscure gestures that probably do not make much sense without context. "I... I never had a chance to, to come see, myself. To... to put what's been told in my own words." Those fighters with any sort of sensitivity to chi whatsoever - virtually almost everyone who has managed to bring themselves this far in ability and skill that calls upon such for their power - would each have a lot to say about what goes on in front of them. What it speaks, just by being... as if on a far more fundamental, primal level than just the immediate mundane worries of what destruction it might cause, or what colors it's turning the sky, and what it might mean for one's flight plans over the region.
"...'s harder to breathe here than... than back at, uh, the docks," he says, although there is no mask on his face. "Dunno 'bout... 'bout you, but," he shakes his head, lips pursed tightly as he finishes writing the latest... sentence? Poem? Picture? It's hard to say without coming much closer to see it himself, "feels like... like my lungs're just... squeezin'. Askin' me to, to come up for air, when... when it seems clear."
Was his hair pink last time she saw him? It had to have been darker than that, was her thought as the man with the toupee turns around to address her. She can sense the swirling confusion in his expression, the agitation that no doubt comes along with the feeling of suffocation. And yet, from his manic devotion to whatever's in that notebook, alongside it all seems to have come a clarity of purpose. This may be the man's normal mode of operation, Honoka realizes.
Honoka seems absolutely fascinated with his explanation of what he's feeling -- she too feels something odd in the air, but the young empress is more attuned to emotions than the subtle, underlying currents of energy flowing invisibly though the air -- currents the older gentleman can sense with much greater acuity than she. "I... Yes. It is... getting hard to breathe," she answers, a white lie to keep from causing discomfort. As she actually does want to see what's in that notebook. "Some things you just have to experience in person, I agree. Especially with..." She nods her head in the direction of the vortex, "... That, here."
Yo-yo snaps out once more, before returning to her palm -- and then she snaps it back to her wrist where it belongs. "I'm... actually glad I happened to find you here. I thought it curious... and I'm trying to put together a report." Report? The young empress doesn't spend time elaborating on that. "You see, I can... feel it, but like you, it's hard for me to put it into words, per se." She steps closer, eyeing the notebook for a moment -- pointedly so -- but she flashes a guilty look back as she brings her eyes back up to meet the aged American's. "I'm sorry, I... didn't mean to stare. It just all seems so baffling to me."
It's probably even worse for him because he may never have had to really focus upon such to the degree he has. Even through the intensive training regimen to get a man who is not particularly inherently talented at externally manifesting chi, to put this into words for... whoever, or whatever he is doing it for, it clearly weighs heavy enough upon him that he's willing to chance the ire of a ready army to fight to keep someone from doing whatever they may against their measures to keep people out.
The way she appears to agree - to his reckoning, if there is a reckoning to be gleaned from him (and for a psion like Honoka, there is - he doesn't seem to suspect much about the claim of breathing difficulties). He continues to write... no, not idly. Purposefully. Interestingly... worryingly? Fortunately? He doesn't seem to overtly react to her approach to come look closer. His face remains a firm, perpetual near-frown of a man who seems to be staving off the dread of the world around him towards... this instance.
When she sneaks a peek, there is... a lot. It's not just scrawled English writing. Some of it uses Japanese lettering... or wait, maybe it's even Chinese? There are notes in parenthesis, perhaps as a guide specifically for other readers. He doesn't need them if he's able to write them.
A trick, to being bilingual. The ability to translate thoughts that might be hard to express in one language that's a bit easier in another. It's all very detailed, if somewhat... meandering. Like the way he speaks. All this, to be gleaned from that? He has some very interesting, choice words about one of the pillars according to that passage he just finished, when...
He shakes his head at her apology, not making any sort of sudden gestures that suggests she's unwelcome to look.
"This... this isn't for myself," he comments cryptically as he clears his throat. There's no accompanying cough like there usually would be. It is as though his lungs are confused about the proper action required to keep breathing in all this air, "and... and it ain't easy for me either, but... but, things as they are, I don't... I don't got time to second guess it. Don't got... got time for these people to say I, I shouldn't be here. They're, they're just doin' their job, but... but I got mine."
What exactly would his job be? This doesn't look like he's instructing anyone at the Kyokugen dojo, or anything of the sort.
Honoka turns the diagrams over in her head. She's okay with English -- one of the animal handlers had doubled as the circus' schoolteacher, and he's made sure all of his students kept their English proficiency almost as good as their Japanese. Never know when it might be useful, after all.
She continues with the 'simply curious' act, listening attentively as the man's spoken thought process continue to meander about in a seemingly aimless fashion. If you watch the aimless long enough, Honoka knows, patterns begin to form. And you can't deduce these patterns without listening. It's not until a few seconds after he's stopped talking that Honoka finally speaks.
"Mr. Rust... I can understand that you're writing that for... someone other than yourself, but I really must ask... are you writing it for the benefit of the people who are following you? Or the benefit of someone else entirely?" She adopts a concerned expression, tilting her chin slightly to one side as she peers into Rust's eyes for a closer look.
She really =is= concerned, after all. She's concerned that he may hold information that can solve her curious dilemma.
Who knows what good any of this could be for? This could just be a man discovering some sort of desire to do freeform poetry, and yet, for everything said about him... he seems to carry on this activity with utmost sincerity, for whatever good any of this could possibly do. Granted, a lot of hopes seem to somehow ride on him even when he doesn't seem the sort of man that should be dependable, the sort of man that could be counted on to do anything other than fix a bench, or... whatever his former Pacific High employers saw in him when they had hired him years and years ago to be a teacher at the Southtown chapter.
He is politely quiet when she speaks up to address him, even though it proves difficult to get lasting eye contact with him. Well, scratch 'politely,' given that he puts up the binoculars again to have another look out as the vortex continues to twist and turn, shifting the positions of those other patterns that have formed around it - the patterns that scientists believe are a match for the number of unprecedented disasters that have plagued four different parts of the world, as she asks those questions.
She finally gets her opportunity to look him in the eyes when he lowers the effectively stolen and vandalized property of the government that tries to keep things going even in the wake of, er, transition, and he frowns.
"I, I don't have time to play moral high ground!" He throws his left hand up, damned near tossing the thing he claimed for sake of this outing as he shouts with such intensity that those armed guards may grow especially worried. He doesn't presently pay the numerous eyes upon him from behind any outward heed. His eyes, though, they say a lot.
Frustration. A touch of guilt? It's very deeply buried. No, smothered. It's there, but he's not letting it stay rooted in him. A purpose. There is some confidence, even with the complex stir of emotions and stresses (and the pop of one of his elbows), that he is convinced he's doing... something of worth.
"Look, you, you want a copy, that's... that's not a problem," he says as he faces away, scribbling down some more things at a speed that one might wish were faster given the urgency that something about what's before them be solved, "I, I don't have... have a problem with, with anyone... seeing this, readin' this, that's... that's why I'm friggin' here," he continues to grumble aloud, exhaling loudly with a snort.
It's hard to tell if he knows exactly who he's talking to now, or is just so absorbed in what he's doing that the thought beyond the familiarity of the dockside talk hasn't crossed him.
"It's... it's for anyone that, that might be able to do something with this, 'cause... lord knows... how many people're they gonna let get this close. This close, to say for them, themselves."
He coughs once at last, his lungs deciding that yes, coughing is a great way to relieve the pressure of nothing other than the underlying currents of the world going nuts. A mere cough is not going to move the overpowering forces of nature that bear down heavily upon him, even from this distance.
Honoka listens quietly. She can read his frustration, his agitation... she knows he's stressed out about something, and overwhelmed by the sensation that there is not much time. The young empress resonates with that view in particular -- she's been feeling a similar pressure to get something done. Ever since that obsidian giant of a man met her at the amusement park in Southtown, and gave the Ainu woman a taste of the world-altering power that might become hers soon. If only she and Sakura had been successful, she might have a jump on her rivals... a better position to barter against the insane power wielded by a man in Metro City. The single confrontation did leave Honoka with some sense of world-altering power... and now she finds herself here, waiting just outside the maelstrom of some ephemeral energy she has only the vaguest sense of, amidst a political insanity of her own awkward creation.
Insanity that is hinted at by the notion of playing moral high ground. Honoka knows what that suggests, and actually takes a step back -- is the man threatening her? A quirk of her eyebrow shows her hesitation, but as the man's frustration seems to be just that, and she's not actually under attack... well, Honoka places a hand on her chest, breathing an obvious sigh of relief. Because really, who =wouldn't= be scared by an outburst like that?
Her guards had started to climb up from their vantage points, but as Honoka slowly closes her eyes, the guards stand down. The cue she sends through both body language and her peculiar abilities is simple: Situation normal, stand down.
She may not have any idea what's scribbled, but she knows she's been given license to make a copy. Frowning slightly for a moment, she realizes... that's probably a good time for a technological device she'd rather not employ. She reaches into her jacket's inner pocket and withdraws a slender smartphone, holding it up tentatively for view. No tricks, just that phone -- and a pause for permission. "That's... very generous of you, I appreciate it. But I don't want to slow your work, it sounds very crucial... and I agree completely, I think everyone who's allowed here should be aware of... what's going on. Would it okay if I record video?" The tentative request, the overly cautious demeanor... she's being very careful to avoid confrontation with a man whose encyclopedia entry would easily span several pages.
"'s... 's better if, if I find a... a scanner, or... photocopier," he murmurs vague words that don't quite seem to say one way or the other how he feels as he visibly considers - only vaguely - what's being said. Still, even if he is far more receptive to the energies of the world than she is just by their individual natures of how they draw power, it's not hard to get a sense that this is a pitbull grasping very, very clumsily at being a bloodhound.
Grumbling aloud - unclear if it's towards her or just his general situation, as the raging undercurrent of stress and emotions that flares briefly that could probably put even the most acute psions on edge as to getting a solid grasp upon it - the aging man flips back two pages as he finally casts a look over his shadow towards that thing she's holding up even after he already gave a vague answer. Is he about to give a clearer one?
"M-Might be a, a li'l hard to see, make clear," he sounds almost apologetic for it as he holds up his binoculars again to the flare and surge of the vortex's energies, like a small part of it were in a flux as the vortex slowly and steadily grows in size. He slaps his hand down on the book not defensively of its contents, but perhaps the boiling feeling of maybe something he might feel is a bit... off. Wrong.
"Wh-whatever you do, get... get the images out," he mutters, his voice tone wavering from irritation to worry and back, at those last words, to something approaching defiance. Defiance at her, or defiance... at himself?
"I, I don't... I don't know if what I got is worth shit! But," he continues through clenched teeth as he leans a bit forward, adjusting the sights idly with a finger on his left hand to whatever degree of sight he needs to feel any sort of satisfaction, "if, if I can just... get the right idea, 'n, 'n get it out..."
Honoka repeats, "A scanner... or photocopier." She closes her eyes for a moment. She could easily explain that she's reaching out, touching the mind of one of the guards she's been keeping close to her for the past few weeks. She could -- but won't. In the grand scheme of things, presenting someone of this manic state of mind with -more- information, while at the same time trying to tease out more of his own original concepts onto the page, is self-defeating. The fact that it would show, definitively, that she's far more than just some random girl who's crossed paths with him twice is just a side benefit, really.
"It's showing most of the detail, I think..." responds the young woman as she holds her smartphone high enough to capture the images. She'd turn the pages for him, but again, doesn't want to impede progress. "I'm sure there's some image enhancement feature that can make this video sharper." Digital artists of the world would slap their head if they heard this, but no one's perfect.
With her right hand holding her phone over Rust's shoulder, she reaches up with her left hand and slowly removes a silver chain bracelet wrapped about her wrist. It bears only the logo of the Republic of Ezo -- a hasty creation, but one that she feels important to her.
Mr. Rust. I... have something that should keep you free from police entanglements in the future. As long as you're in this country, anyway." She smiles faintly, holding the bracelet up for inspection for just a moment -- understanding full well that he's probably moving much too fast to make that reasonable. "This... bracelet is effectively a 'get out of jail free' pass. If you have one of these... you're untouchable. If you're ever challenged, wave this, let them get a good look... and they'll let you go on about your way. You are -far- too important to the world to be mired up by... technicalities." She unclasps the bracelet, and her gentle, helpful smile would indicate that she could just as easily hand it over to him as clasp it around his wrist on his behalf.
An idea occurs to her, at this point, evidencing itself only by the slight twitch of an eyebrow. But aside from that twitch and her reassuring gestures, there's no context to what that idea might be.
Immediate disruption of progress doesn't seem to be an immediate concern of his, given that he's already turned the pages back a bit for sake of recording. He gives a generous amount of time per page to ensure what's written there is clear enough to be picked up from however many angles, and however long, the Empress herself decides to scope out the pages. Could what he's written down really be worth anything, of any use to anyone who would theoretically be in the know? His own fighting talents are already well-recorded as using the breath of the world internally to make himself, occasionally, nigh-invulnerable to great physical duress... supposedly. His track record in public televised fights is not particularly stunning. Well, maybe it is, from another point of view, considering what he supposedly has accomplished on the global scale.
It is likely grasping at straws with thin tubes of ink and lead going through their cores and protruding out a given end of these grasped straws, but it's not for a lack of trying on his part to make sense of all he can just from attempted meditation on the subject. He is, in a sense, almost a representative of the everyman who also wants to just get a grip on everything going on that's out of their complete control. When he's satisfied with the time allotted to let her capture what she can on her device, he's already trying to write a few new things - a few new Japanese symbols, probably his attempt at shorthand to communicate whatever it is he's trying to convey within the time allotted. (Given the injury to his right hand, it's only barely faster than doing it in his native English.)
When he's addressed, he looks over his shoulder (the wrong way, the video phone gets a good look at his nose for a little while oh my word are those skin pores clogged with utter yuck), before looking back over the other shoulder to where she's holding something up... at which point he stands up, putting the book and the current new scribblings down in plain view for her to capture as he raises his free hand.
He lays it down gently upon the hand that holds the bracelet, where for the first time he clearly looks her in the eyes without wavering on some other subject, but he doesn't loom forward threateningly. He speaks suddenly, as though the revelation her words carry don't weigh as heavily as they might...
Or... perhaps he... may have actually been aware?
"I, I need you to understand," he says, clearing his throat, "'scuse me, I... I need you to understand. Even, even if you weren't... givin' me the good grace," his face does not show wasted motion or emotion. He is speaking about as clearly as he can manage given the overwhelming, overbearing feel of the vortex that swirls so far behind him. Yet, it feels close. The way things twist and turn to the naked eye there, so far away... the promises of dangerous unknowns leaking into the world, to envelop it as it unravels...
He dares to be a stable anchor in this whole picture.
"I'd... I'd be back here whether anyone... liked it or not, with... with as many friends... acquaintances as I can rally, if, if this is the place." The place for what? He feels he doesn't need to elaborate - it should be obvious at this point that this vortex may well be the very heart of everything going on, and yet...
"I... I don't support a, a lot of what I've seen. Heard. I, I know I don't got the whole story on... how... why. I stopped playing ball with... the permits after... look. I'm, I'm getting off the point here."
He shakes his head as he stretches out one of his legs to work out a kink he had really let set in for far longer than he normally allows it to, thanks to his work so far. "I... I let some things slide that... that I shouldn't have." He doesn't look ready to elaborate. It's in his eyes - the guilt. The guilt he's been forcing back. No, definitely forcing back. "This, this whole thing, 's been... one... complex... mess, after another, but... but I'm glad, you get it, I, I only really... really, truly got it recently."
Everything he'd been shown and told, walked through a hiccup in time and space... the same general experiences with the great large, dark-hued man of stone, a taste of unimaginable strength and power with the absolute promise that an even greater power looms that he dares to challenge.
It's gratitude. Measured, careful gratitude, but one that carries the weight of a disagreement that cannot possibly disappear in full. This is the man who willingly stood against Vega, multiple times, and large numbers of soldiers who at the time were not used to fighters. In recent years, the average army force is far better equipped, far better trained, to deal with people like him. He would not get away as easily if he were to pick a fight with Honoka's forces right here and now (for a given value of 'easily'). Some of the men here may well be trained in some anti-Rust measures that give them a small edge for survival - he has his physical weaknesses that are all to well known by now.
"A-After this, things... things might not be so, uh, cordial," he chances a complex word, "I, I can't turn a blind eye to... to everything that's... that's happened, but," he nods his head, "while... while we got the whole 'is there an after' thing in the air, to this..."
He'll take the bracelet, if she allows him after all he's said on the subject, "I, I accept, and, you got my thanks for... for understanding why, uh, I... I walked through all these... blockades," he vaguely gestures, "broke one of your, uh, park viewer things... ahh, stole that pen from the office..."
Why the hell does he seem to feel more guilty about that than out and out civil disobedience of military zones and public property destruction?!
"And... the whole thing 'bout still being here when," when he doesn't have his papers in order!! He doesn't have to say it out loud for that to be what he's about to say, as he scratches the side of his head, as he trails off without finishing the sentence.
Honoka may be given ample time to read the pages -- and she's thankful of that -- but the erratic feedback she's getting from the old man's thought patterns is just enough to turn her head into mush if she doesn't give his words her full attention. Which means that when Rust quiets down, she's able to read... and become enlightened as to the elements of the puzzle she =didn't= get. The scribbled notations of locations, of events around the world draw the most interest from her -- her intelligence network has its set of information, but reading first-hand accounts from someone who was actually in Metro City when all this craziness was going on proves to be most enlightening. It's too much information to grasp in one sitting, of course, but that's why she's recording this and not trying to digest it fully.
And then... Rust sets his hand upon hers. This... effects an instant response in the Ainu woman, as her look of helpfulness turns into a look of... worry? Concern? She didn't think she'd be getting feels of this kind from the man...
And then, on hearing her words, the emotions displayed in her eyes become much, much more resolved. Dread. Fear. The man who'd faced numerous challenges against numerous regimes and emerged victorious, has her by the hand. He has her full attention to say the least, her eyes quivering with the barest notion of control -- the only thing quelling her fight-or-flight response is the realization that struggling against Rust could prove to be her undoing.
How did this slip by her, she asks herself. Did she =let= herself be fooled, did she let herself believe that the old guy didn't know anything, that he was so singlemindedly focused on his task that he didn't recognize the woman from all the news broadcasts, when his entire point in documenting these events revolved around broadcasts exactly like hers? Foolish, she chided herself... this entire notion was absolutely foolish, and now she is going to die.
Or... maybe she won't, she rationalizes, as she actually listens to the man's words. He would be here even if he COULD go anywhere. He's telling her, in effect, that the helpful trinket she's offering up... is not even necessary. It's a gift, to him, sure... but he accepts only if it makes her feel better, not because it necessarily makes him feel better. What good would a trinket like this do to a man like Rust?
Not so cordial. The threat is real, she understands. Her guards had, quite naturally, raised their guns, ready and willing to open fire. Simple or not... their Empress is being touched by a very unpredictable man.
And then, in the span of a heartbeat... the pressure is gone. The rough texture of his glove leaves her, skin clammy from anxiety now once more free to breathe in the air that's not oppressive at all.
She stands dumbly for a moment, listening to his words... and still recording, she'd realized absently. And why is he holding his hand out? Oh, right. She places the bracelet in his open hand, eyes returning to their default size and shape as she begins to process what was just said.
He said 'your' park viewer. And he thanked her for giving him a free pass on the destruction of public property. He wasn't fooled for a moment.
"... Right," she says, for lack of any words at all, while holding an open hand back to her guards -- an overt sign to stand down. She can feel comfortable doing that, now.
Drawing in her breath, she steps back away. The need for recording further is moot, as one of her assistants is bringing forward a laptop computer and a scanner. "As the saying goes, Mr. Rust, you are a gentleman, and a scholar." She takes two more steps backwards, and notes, "My... assistant will help you with documenting the notes. We... will get the information out there."
She feared Rolento... and now she fears this... Rust. Rubbing her hand subconsciously, she steps back. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Rust, and if you need anything else... -anything- else... please let us know."
It is perhaps telling - and that much more frightening - when he doesn't visibly shrink from the guns pointed at him. For all that's going on through him, he may not be able to truly appreciate in full how frightening a man like him really is when he is not letting himself play by the polite rules of society.
Stay within the lines. Obey the speed limit. Don't trespass here. Get your medical insurance paperwork filed. Keep all relevant licenses and cards up to date.
The willingness to suspend these limitations and margins he's almost always adhered to, in the name of what he himself believes is the greater good. The sort of hubris that sees the devil-may-care attitude of Takuma Sakazaki be asked about by authorities just about all the time at the Kyokugen Dojo, the gumption that truly shakes and moves the world in the wake of his strength when he dares to bring it to bear alongside like-minded fighters. A man now blatantly telling a nation's ruler - and some of their finest soldiers standing beside them - what this all boils down to.
Is it cooperation and acceptance with the grudging agreement that there are bigger fish to fry?
The way Howard himself sees it - or perhaps rationalizes it - it's now everyone's fight. Not everyone is going to agree. Not everyone is going to put aside deep-seated grudges and years- or even generations-long grievances. He himself had to witness what happened when he let Rolento fully have his way in Metro City, even when it was for the sake of a few of his friends (and those refugees Rolento had been tending to), even with the rationalization that defeating him probably would not have stopped the robbery of those funds outright... and everything to come.
He does little to outright reassure the Empress and the people who now serve her in a new nation born of the violent, turbulent death of the old - there is nothing he can really say as he turns his back to the lot of them, sitting back down to pick back up the book... no, he puts it back down, so that more observation and recording of it could continue as he takes another moment to view the mess and meditate best he can.
The lines are drawn, but this nation is, for the time being, hers. Maybe he is banking that some level of stability will hold for at least as long as it takes for him to gather people in the know, people able to stand and fight, and return here if this is going to be the future site of the events that determine the fate of space and time alike.
For now, the best assurance he can give as he takes in a deep breath to shrug off the incredible, crushing forces of the world's energies being twisted, contorted, manipulated to some catastrophic effect at a magnitude he almost certainly will not be able to understand on his own beyond what educated guesses he can make...
His reassurance, if not in word or in gesture, is in that he is going to do his best to record his thoughts and feelings of what he actually can read of the screaming, overwhelming energies of the world when he can see through his own inner stresses and turmoil... in the hopes, however meager or otherwise, that he can convey it in a form useful to someone, anyone the world over, and do something with it.
"Thanks," he finally dares to speak, back turned to the lot of them for the promise of support and assistance. There's no guarantees or certainties left in a world that is turning itself inside out in fits of space-time paradoxes popping up and natural disasters having left irreparable scars upon the Earth and human society itself, but at least even in a moment of tension...
Everyone involved, in the end, just wants to do what they can to see the world not end, even in desperate bids to make sense of it all such as this.
Log created on 17:49:57 09/28/2014 by Honoka, and last modified on 10:32:36 09/29/2014.