maskormenacelogs | shatter every false impression

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shatter every false impression

who: Ruka & Miles
where: Cape Canaveral Hospital
when: Some time after this.
what: When your first in-person meeting was as bad as "girl who is convinced she's a murderer and man who is convinced she's not argue about it," the second meeting can't possibly be much worse. R...ight... no this is going to be a travesty.
warnings: Emotions are a serious problem afflicting millions of Americans every year.

It's just a small breather. A break, Ruka tells herself, with fingers against her carotid artery and the rapid pace of her own heart like artillery fire under her skin and in her ears. A chance to catch her breath. That's all.

On the one hand, she's glad that nobody ever takes the stairs, even in such a busy building as Cape Canaveral's general hospital, so she doesn't have to worry about blocking anybody's passage while she recovers. On the other hand, if she took the elevator like literally everyone else, she wouldn't be half so winded as this. A trip starting on the first floor, ascending to the third, returning to the first, and climbing once more to the fifth floor of the building, to eventually be followed by another back to the ground floor... it's a great deal more work than she anticipated. True, the segregation of departments makes perfect sense to her; it's merely inconvenient, when one cannot take the easy way of things. If it had been one trip each way, she would be fine, she thinks, but back and forth so many times... it's getting too much for her heart to handle.

So, a breather. A rest, leaning against the wall of the stairwell, somewhere between the third and fourth floors (or is it only second and third? She hasn't kept track well enough to be certain). When it doesn't feel like the organ will simply force its way out of her ribcage, she'll ascend the final two or three floors, pick up the prescription she needs, and then allow gravity to take away some of the burden for that five-flight descent. She'll be fine enough in a few minutes.

And if not, well... if there's any place to fall into cardiac arrest, it's hard to find a location more convenient than the middle of a hospital.

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It was idiotic of him even to come here. Completely idiotic. What were doctors going to do for him? They don't know anything about this...nonsense, this idiocy. They practice medicine, honest medicine, real medicine, not this foolishness and mumbo-jumbo, this quasi-mystical illogic. Doctors belong to the world of reason and rationality; but he's been banished to the realm of superheroes.

Most days, that's just enough to cause him a bit of frustration, perhaps enough to make him roll his eyes. Today, though - today, it's enough to make him scream. It's enough to make him feel like he ought to just let his knees fold in so that he can fall down the stairs and bring an end to it all. This isn't a superpower, it's a damned curse, and there's no help for it; three people, now, three people he's hurt; would that he could cut off his hand before hurting another, would that he could cut off his head - He just wants it to stop -

He clatters down another flight of stairs. Rounds the corner; someone's sitting there. Normally, he'd stop and offer help, but like this he's afraid he'd destroy them. They're breathing and alive, conscious, not in pain; that's enough; he's not going to disturb her. He's just going to leave her be. Better for her that way.

So he doesn't even speak to her. Instead, he just pushes past, not making eye contact, steering as clear as possible; his foot (shod) brushes for a fraction of a second against hers (likewise shod), but that shouldn't be enough to do damage.

It's nothing she expects, but it's nothing she isn't used to. With her powers working the way they do, the emotions of others manifest within her just as strongly and as naturally as the workings of her own heart; second-hand becomes first-hand. It's a manipulation of feeling, just the same.

This is the moment: the sound of hurried footsteps has Ruka looking up from where she rests, and the overwrought rhythm of her heart is forgotten in the moment of recognizing the man so quickly racing down the stairs. There is something wrong. From the look on his face, the speed of his steps—there is something very, very wrong.

Later, she won't be able to explain rightly how it happened, or how such a thing should have been possible. Her powers worked by touch, skin contact to nonliving things—only very rarely to people as they lived and breathed; how his work are a mystery to her. Until this moment, what his are is a mystery. This is the moment: physical contact, and for one split second Ruka feels as though the floor drops out beneath her, feels as though she's going to fall—and it's a sensation she's so used to. Like falling overboard: someone aware of such a thing, used to such a thing, will take their breath and hold it before they hit the water; someone taken by surprise, shocked, unprepared for the collision, doesn't think to gasp for breath until they're already deep in salt water.

As it is, guilt is familiar to her. The weakness of her body that stole a carefree youth from her brother, that could only have helped to drive absent parents even further away. The weakness of her heart that abandoned those weak spirits who needed her, that left them to years of suffering and decimation while she ran from her responsibilities. Her cowardice, her weakness, her incompetence—all those she could not help, or would not, brought back to the forefront. Every responsibility she's failed to carry; every harm she's caused.

It doesn't feel like drowning, because she doesn't struggle to breathe.

Later, she'll wonder where she found the strength to stand, when her legs were shaking before this. Maybe it's adrenaline, maybe it's concern—maybe it's complete disregard for whatever pains her, when there's someone else suffering more.

(Maybe it's guilt, naturally born in her fragile heart.)

She grabs the guardrail, emotional input a muddle beneath her bare hands, and leans over the side. If he hasn't stopped, he'll be at least a floor below her now—and if he keeps running, there's no way she can catch up.

"Miles Edgeworth!" She shouts down the stairwell, hoping the shock of being recognized might slow his steps. She doesn't know what's wrong, but it can't be coincidence. "Please stop."

The voice is far more familiar than the appearance; he turns, looks, realizes who it is. Ruka. Normally, too, he would stop and inquire what has brought her to the hospital; he would determine the truth, determine whether or not to worry, and take appropriate action. God, that he were equipped to help her now.

He's not. He can't. He can't risk anything.

"I - beg your pardon, please." Even to his own ears, his voice sounds shaky and weak. "I must be off at once. There are - appointments - all of that."

That he answers her is a good sign, though not by much. Whatever it is that has him in such a state, she thinks, is not something that has a complete grip on his senses. He could have ignored her and kept going, without response, even after recognizing her. He could escape her scrutiny with ease. But even for that, she does not miss the tremble in his voice, the way he reaches for some excuse to shield himself. Like her, he's the type to pretend nothing is wrong as far as he's concerned, even if it's obvious to everyone who gives a second glance—though most never bother giving more than a first.

Her hands hold tighter to the railing. She knows him, or at least, knows the potential of him, of the pieces that comprise the man hesitating on the stairs below her now. She knows enough to know she can't press him blindly—he'll leave without excuses, and would there be any chance to figure things out if he does?

"That's not what has you running so quickly." She leans a little forward, and setting her jaw tight and trying to keep concern out of her expression. It's not yet time for that. Instead, she has to prove that enough is wrong that even he'll be forced to acknowledge it.

"You wouldn't kick a girl while she's down without so much as an apology if you were only running late, sir."

"I didn't - " he protests, then clamps his jaws down on that. He's not going to get drawn into an argument. An argument would just result in him tarrying, and, God...The longer he stays, the higher the risk that he'll do it again, do something wrong again, hurt someone again. He needs to get inside, into his room, and lock the door; he needs to hurl himself to the bottom of the ocean.

So he just stops his protest. He just bows. He says to her, forcing something reasonably cordial, "I give my sincerest apologies. Please do forgive me. But I really must be off."

If she tries descending now, he'll take it as his own cue to exit; if she tarries too long in thought, or finding the answer, he'll likewise flee. It might be a little strange, being so concerned about spooking a man twice her age, but these are hardly ordinary circumstances. He's only giving her an apology because he wants to placate her enough to make an exit without her kicking up a fuss.

All the more fool he, she supposes.

"I wish I could believe you," she says, instead of accepting that apology. "But for a man so dedicated to the truth, you certainly have a tendency to avoid it, don't you?"

Her gaze doesn't waver. "What happened?"

He doesn't know why this is happening. He doesn't know why she's...pursuing this. Is she worried he's ill? That he's descending in a hurry out of some upset over some poor diagnosis? That is not entirely incorrect - but there's more to it, more which keeps him from being able to stay any longer in good conscience.

So he says, urgently, his voice breaking just a little, "If you call me later over the network, I'll...I will tell you then. Just not...now. I'm - in a great hurry right now."

It hurts worse to hear his voice sound so weak than it was to suffer the reminder of her old failings. This is a new one: a new guilt. Unable to help, and in that inability causing more harm. If he knew anything beyond the surface of what she's told him, maybe he would be more honest—maybe he would listen to her. If he could understand her meaning, when the words were too cowardly to come right out and say it, maybe that would be enough. Maybe, maybe, she thinks, but history shows that it never matters. No matter who it is, or how close they are, or how well she understands—it never changes anything.

She only wants to help, but what use is she to people who don't want it?

"Alright," she says, but her words might as well be I'm sorry. It doesn't matter if she knows, so it doesn't matter if he tells her. It doesn't matter, she reminds herself, if he lies to her, or ignores her, or forgets her entirely all over again. She knew that from the start. "I won't."

Even if she doesn't know what else is wrong, or why he's here, it wouldn't be right, to let him leave as he is. Would it? He never told her his powers, explicitly, but she can put the pieces together. She's an empath; she readily knows her own emotional state, and when it's external forces affecting it. He's the only external force here. When he broached the subject to her before, hypothetically speaking, his only concerns were whether people could be harmed, and if that harm could be done unintentionally.

Can she let him go the very path he dreads, without at least warning him?

"But your hurry can't be so reckless as it is now," she adds; though the thoughts had felt long, the pause is short, nearly intentional. Ruka turns her gaze to the side, rather than look down on Edgeworth while she says this; it would feel too cruel. Her voice still carries down, and still, they sound more like apology than anything else. "A river that runs too quickly will sooner leave its banks and flood villages, than it will to reach the sea. The same is true for you.

"Ground yourself."

Ruka is difficult to understand at the best of times. Now, with his mind racing and twisted in panic, he doesn't have any damned idea what the hell she's trying to say. He jerkily reaches up and pushes a hand through his hair, trying for patience, trying for calm, trying for kindness - because Ruka's timid, and unhappy, and it's hardly a mystery that she has some strange regard for him and his opinion of her. That struggle - for patience, calm, kindness - are enough that instead of snarling at her, he gives her nothing worse than a taut, miserable -

"You'll have to clarify your meaning."

But his agitation is plain.

Ruka doesn't mean to be vague. Though she barricades herself from others, the masking of meaning is not a deliberate shield. In matters of the heart, it's difficult to be specific without being without heart, but perhaps that's what he needs now.

She keeps hold of the railing, but even as she moves to descend, she talks, keeping her attention fixed on the man below. The one-handed grip is tight, and the steps cautious, but the stiffness of her shoulders and the hard line of her jaw cloak that tremble.

"You asked me before if someone could harm people, if their power affected emotions. Even accidentally."

She rounds the corner; at the top of this straight of stairs, she stops—she's unwilling to get too close. It's not fear of his power that holds her back; guilt will always eat at her heart, after all. She's much more fearful of the consequence, if drawing too close pushes him away.

"Powers that affect emotion are ruled by them. If your feelings control your actions, then you can't control your power." She saw it with Eridan so many times, how his hopelessness would become so great as to pull the whole block down with him. How many times did she have to cross into that despair to pull him out, and protect those people around him from his poisonous moods?

"If you can't get your heart under control—" No, that's a verbal shorthand he might mistake for a literal problem with the organ— "If you go running into that crowded lobby, as unsteady as you are, you'll do nothing but hurt them with that power."

It hurts to lay him accusation like this—it hurts to betray the secret of his power, that he tried to keep even from her, hurts to say the words without sympathy, without understanding, without offering help. It hurts, knowing even if she did, he would never accept it. (Nobody ever does; it doesn't ever help.)

She can't show him hurt; instead, the tightness to her shoulders and to the sweep of her hand through the air, gesture stiff for the splint binding two her fingers together, is one of frustration.

"You are too dangerous for such a reckless escape. Is that clear enough?"

He used his power on her.

He stares at her a moment as that realization hits him. He used it against her. He'd felt a light brush of his foot against hers, and he hadn't thought anything of it. But he'd used it against her. She's speaking in riddles, saying nothing directly, and so it takes him a moment - but he hurt her.

He finds himself stumbling back suddenly. His back hits the banister; he slides down, numbly, until he hits the ground. His hands come up to his face. They're shaking, he realizes distantly; he tries to make them stop, but can't. He tries to slow his breathing, too, but it all feels like it's at a great distance, and he doesn't know how to control himself from this distance. Everything feels as though it's beyond him. Everything feels out of control. He feels lightheaded.

There's no stopping it. There's no putting a stop to it. He is a monster. He is uncontrollable and on a rampage. If he were to die, would that put a stop to it? Or would they not even be able to handle his body, given how poisonous it is, how destructive he is?

He ought to apologize. But what apology would ever be sufficient? And words...Words escape him. He's too far away from himself to even be able to speak. All that comes out of him is a low, unsteady noise of anguish.

Her heart plummets as he falls, and it's a strangled, sharp vowel of distress that escapes—too distracted to get titles right. Ruka doesn't think about what she'll say, or what she'll do, if there's anything she can do, because she's taking steps two and three at a time in a rush to the bottom. No arm to the wall, no hand on the railing; no room for concern beyond the need to do something. Her knees hit concrete with bruising force before him, and the heels of her palms brace against the ground near his feet. Even for as short she is, how frail, she can't allow herself to tower over him. Not when he's like this.

"Shh, shh..." Soft noises, attempting comfort—but how much can she do? It's not like he knows her, not like their hearts are in balance, she's not young enough to for naive gestures, they're too removed in age and status for treatment like comrades, he doesn't know her, he has no reason to trust her, and less to listen—

"It's okay." She can't keep over-thinking this. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. You're not trapped. You'll go where you need to be. Everybody will be okay. I'll make sure of it, alright? Nobody's going to be hurt. I promise."

Ruka's voice is low, steady when she speaks, paced for slower breaths. Though she reaches for kindness, she has to fight to keep her voice from wavering. No matter how much she tries to twist things up in her heart, she can't change anything. To him, she may be just the same as any other imPort, as any other kid in the world, but to her, he's her father. So, even if her memories are useless to anyone else, and her feelings stupid in the face of reality, and this loyalty and caring misplaced and unwelcome, there's nothing she can do about that.

"I need you to lower your hands," she says, careful to maintain her tone—it may hurt worse than anything for her to see, but her feelings don't matter as much as making sure he's okay. "Okay? Let them rest. All you need to do is pay attention to your breathing. In, slow. Out. Slow. And over again, alright? In... and out..."

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shatter every false impression

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these keep getting longer im gomen

i love you

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