maskormenacelogs | if you're seeing things running through your head

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if you're seeing things running through your head

who: Ruka, Miles Edgeworth
where: Criminal detainment
when: June 09
what: Ruka was arrested for a murder she's convinced she committed but doesn't remember doing; Edgeworth is probably wondering why everyone in his life is getting arrested; someone is going to be emotionally compromised and it's almost certainly going to be Ruka.
warnings: ???

[ Ruka's been cordoned off into solitary holding for the time being. She doesn't mind that so much; it gives her time to think. Not that it's doing her much good. Ruka keeps turning the events over in her head, but they never become any clearer. She knows she was crossing a street one second, and the next she was somewhere else, weapon in hand, power active, and victim nearly at her feet. No amount of reaching back reveals to her when she picked up the gun; no amount of pushing forward tells her when she turned around. Those mental pages of memory are missing, and no amount of flipping around them will reveal the omitted text.

She thinks about what she's heard from her arresting officers, and the questioners, and the staff; what Jaime told her about the others. What she knows about herself, her case. Without being able to remember the crime itself, it's easier to compartmentalize, to compare, but... the only similarity is the timing, isn't it? Loss, repression of memory is something she's experienced before. It's felt the same way as this; she has this history. Her crime doesn't fit the pattern of the others; it fits the pattern of her. That's all there is to it, isn't it? Her heart, overburdened, spilled out that darkness, and took an innocent man's life with it.

(It's only when she thinks about him, broken on the ground, bullet hole in his temple and elsewhere from where she shot him, only when she remembers his face do her tears come back, that flood of sorrow and guilt, miserable agony. Self-hatred. Regret.)

When the door is unlocked and she's told an attorney is here to see her, she doesn't know how long she's been crying. Not long enough; but once she's convicted, she thinks, there'll be years for it. She spends the whole escorted walk trying to scrub the tears and the evidence of them from her cheeks. Ruka doesn't even realize she's reached her destination until she's made to sit down. She wishes she could at least be allowed to wash her face before this. There's no end to the regret that led her to here, this place, but Ruka doesn't want pity, or sympathy, even from whichever public defender assigned to her case she's meeting now.

Of course it's a public defender. Who else would need to see her, with a title like that?]

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[He's never actually seen Ruka's face before, he realizes; she looks, he finds, rather like he expected. Sad, and small, and a little strange. She's been crying - that's not difficult to see - and so he tries to be quiet and gentle when he settles in across from her.

And he speaks softly.]

Good day, Ms. Ruka.

[He lowers his head very slightly; it's half a bow, a gesture of respect and regard.]

I'm Miles Edgeworth. We've spoken on the network.

[ Ruka doesn't need to hear his name; she recognizes him from the first word. The color drains out of her cheeks even before she makes eye contact, her mouth dropping open for a quiet, inarticulate gasp of surprise. This is not what she expected. This is not what she prepared for.

Ruka stares at Edgeworth as if she sees a ghost--and, in her own way, she does. It's so much easier to look for how he differs from her memory, compared to the small screen of the communicator. Are his shoulders more narrow, or does the perception from youth distort them? What about his voice, his tone--how much age is there in his face, how do the years differ from one universe to another?

The rapid way her eye flits over his features is a subconscious, desperate search--for what she knows, and what she does not--that freezes in an instant.

After all, he can see her now, too.

Her expression tightens and her body stiffens, locking down in every visible and invisible way, and when she speaks, she speaks to the table, her voice strained to the boundary of offense. ]

What are you doing here?

Please do not misapprehend my purpose.

[He raises a hand in the universal gesture of peace. It's clear that she's frightened by his presence here, and it's not hard to comprehend why; suspected of this heinous crime, visited by a prosecutor, she would naturally assume he's come to pursue the case against her. Naturally, he would frighten her; after all, he must seem to her a threat.

But that's not why he's here. He tries to move quickly to assure her:]

This is not an official interview. You do not need to have an attorney present, though you are certainly welcome to request one if that would ease your discomfort. Everything said here will be off the record. I'm merely trying to determine what happened here.

[ Off the record, such that it can't be used in a court of law. Not an official interview, meaning, not sanctioned by his office? Conclusions crash into one another in her mind, and they are little comfort. He is not the prosecutor for her case; he's here because he wants to know what happened for his own sake--maybe, even, for hers.

He still doesn't know the truth about her. If she can just calm down, he never will.

Ruka takes a steadying breath, shaking her head. ]

It's fine. If it's same answer, anyway. I killed that man. [ The word sticks in her throat; she keeps her gaze fixed on the table. ] I've already confessed, and I'm going to plead guilty in court.

[He wishes Wright were here. He wishes it were Wright sitting opposite her. But Wright is imprisoned himself, for an inexplicable crime as well; this falls to him. And he doubts he'll be equal to this task...Though he might not have the genius for impossible cases that Wright does, he's often able to untangle a puzzle. He's all right with that. But when it comes to encouraging people? Inspiring them? Helping them find their spirit?

God. Wright does that. Wright did that for him, so many years ago; he's done that for so many clients across the years. Edgeworth is...He is not someone who can do that sort of thing.

But he must try.

So he hears that, and he withholds judgment. Instead, quietly, he asks:]

Why did you kill him?

[ If it were Wright opposite her, or him sitting beside Edgeworth on that side of her table, he might not know what to make of her expressions, of the secrets rattling around in her head. Especially not the ones that would have become so obvious, the moment she looked at their faces.

Though her work is imperfect, she has spent years in the effort of locking away her heart.

As it is, Ruka knows she can't get away with the same story she told Jaime, the same one she intends to tell in court. He won't for a moment believe she killed Yomiel without prompting, simply to test if imPorts had the potential to return. She made the mistake of allowing him to know her better than that.

Not the whole truth, but she knows she cannot escape with falsehoods and fabrications alone. Guilt weighs too heavy, and even if he is not the same man, she can't bring herself to commit that harsh a betrayal.

Her hands curl in her lap. When she speaks, her voice has grown soft, but the words are still heavy with shame, and the sorrow of guilt. ]

I... ... lost control of myself, again. I suppose that's the ... the easiest way to say it. I didn't hate him; I didn't have any reason to hurt him. But... I did.

[He's quiet a moment, watching her. He cannot suggest to her that she might have been mind-controlled like the others. If she has a half-competent attorney, he will encourage her to use that excuse - but Edgeworth cannot in good conscience suggest a legal defense for her. Even if he has not come here in a prosecutorial capacity, he is still a prosecutor, and will not supply argumentation to the defense.

But he has to think that this is the case. He cannot think her a murderer. And the girl is quite mentally ill - even putting her on trial seems to him cruel.]

Please go on. Tell me all the details you remember of the incident.

[ Her head shakes, just briefly, at his question--but if she says she doesn't remember, she'll be lumped in with the near dozen cases she's heard about from Jaime. He didn't have any reason to lie to her, or to convince her to do whatever it takes to avoid a guilty verdict, to avoid imprisonment. And if she says she does, what happens if her story contradicts the facts of the case? She doesn't know how, or where she got the weapon--she's never even held a gun before, let alone fired one. If it weren't for the fact she used to practice archery, even after she lost her left eye, she would wonder how she managed to land one bullet, let alone twelve. But if it's off the record, then...

It's obvious from her hesitation that she has to consider exactly how much she tells him, and how to tell him, but it's now that she finally looks up. The tension remains in her face, and her one eye is bloodshot. ]

It's like the other times. I've felt... Mmm. Think of it like a cup, full to the brim. If it's left alone, it can hold more than capacity, you know, because the surface tension will keep it together. But even if it's only half-empty, and you knock it over, what's contained inside spills everywhere.

[ It's a habit of hers, to describe herself in terms of objects--one she never quite notices, but speaks clearly to her self-perception. ]

I don't remember what it is, that tipped me over. I don't even remember seeing him. I get black spots in my memory like this, sometimes... when it's something I don't want to remember. It was a short time, I know that much. Maybe I ran into him when I was crossing that street, or... maybe something happened, after that. I know I got that gun from around there. It's not mine, and I didn't have time to get it from somewhere else. I'd never seen it, before. Maybe I stole it from that guy.

[ Again, she shakes her head, helpless. One of her hands lifts, and she taps two fingers against her temple. ]

I shot him, here... and eleven times, after that. At some point, I was in danger of being hurt, but, I don't know if that's before I killed him, or after, anymore. It doesn't matter; even if he had, he didn't deserve what I did.

When I saw... when it was over, I dropped the weapon, and my defenses. I was arrested there beside him. He was already dead. He probably was, I think, from the first shot.

[ She shrugs her shoulders, looking away--putting Edgeworth on her blind side. So she can't see his reaction, and he can't see hers. It's so much more than she ever wanted to admit. ]

That's all.

[He's quiet a moment. No; her story is too consistent with the others'. It clear to him that she was taken over by this creature, this manipulator, just like everyone else. The acquisition of the gun from nowhere, the memory lapses, the inexplicable motives -

But how to convince her of that? Is it even his place to do so? He's no defense attorney - no hero, to come in and give her courage.]

Have you had any training with firearms, Ruka?

Archery. [ She says it with a small inclination of her head, as if this were an affirmative answer. ] Even after I lost my one eye. My accuracy is much better than you might assume.

As for firearms, specifically... I wouldn't say formal training, but I've learned enough, I think. [ She thinks of Eridan, and his inability to tell when she doesn't care about a topic, and of friends before that. ] I could make that shot again, if that's what you mean.

Edited (excessive a's) 2014-06-17 01:08 (UTC)

Hm.

[He adjusts his glasses. He doesn't buy that.]

What was the make of the gun?

[ The question clearly catches her off-guard. ]

The make?

[A nod.]

The caliber. What sort of gun was it?

I...

[ She doesn't know. Nothing technical like that - she can only remember the weight of it in her hand, and the way it looked before she dropped it. The color, the shape--the way the red light reflected off the barrel. ]

... I couldn't tell you something like that. [ Her arms cross, defensive against her ribs. ] Twenty minutes with a pencil and paper, and I could show you well enough.

[But he gives a small nod.]

Please do.

You'll have to be the one to request it, I think. [ Even with her arms crossed, she gives something of a shrug. ] I didn't bring a sketchpad.

[Another nod - and then he turns to the guard behind him.]

Sir, might I request that she have paper and a pen? I'm Prosecutor Edgeworth.

[The name-dropping might perhaps be a bit dishonest, but the man nods and, a few moments later, Ruka gets her pen and paper. He gestures towards it.]

If you will.

[ Though she watches the exchange with a cold look, she makes no comment to the pulling of strings or the throwing of weight. It might not be protocol, but--so long as Ruka can keep her heart steadier than it was, that so brought her here--there was nothing to fear from her.

Miles Edgeworth was one of the last people she would ever wish to harm.

She sets to work without a word, gaze moving only between the paper and her right hand as she goes. Her occasional pauses are punctuated by the shaping of her hand in a grasp, as though trying to form the weapon out of air, before resuming. The pen is poor for the task, so her lines aren't quite as thin or as thick as she wants, but she can only do so much with the type bought by the hundreds.

The minutes pass. The shape of it comes easy, as do the details; she still can't remember where she got it, or from whom, and though she only beheld it for a few seconds, the memory is a burn, visible whenever she closes her eye. It's a little more difficult than the monsters she's used to, but at least she doesn't have to draw the interior of the police car from memory, too.

Finally, satisfied, she puts down the pen, and rotates the paper to push towards Edgeworth. A few matters should be immediately clear. The first of that is, either she does work like this professionally, or is in training to do so, for what she produces with the limited time and rough materials is remarkable. The second is that there is no mistaking that this is the murder weapon. The proportion of the barrel to the body, the distinct shape of the handle, the unique grooves and placement of parts--everything matches that of the weapon connected at the scene.

She can remember that much, at least. ]

[He looks at the drawing a long moment once it's done. Then, finally, he says to her:]

What was the recoil from the gun like?

[ Her brow furrows, and her arms cross. ]

That part's all a black spot. I didn't want to remember it, so I don't. I can't tell you that.

But you know about recoil. Correct?

Yes. I know what recoil is.

And yet twelve shots in his head.

[Edgeworth shakes his head.]

The skull is a very small target, ma'am. Someone unused to handling a gun would find it hard to hit even at close range. Someone unused to handling a gun hitting it twelve times when struggling against the considerable recoil from a medium-caliber gun - the odds against that are immense.

But not impossible.

[ She rolls her shoulders. ]

I know what I did. The officers that arrested me did so immediately after witnessing me do it. I don't understand how this is a difficult situation for you to understand.

[He shakes his head firmly.]

A near-impossible murder committed without motive. I find it hard to believe.

And yet, here we are.

[ Let it never be said that Ruka is not obstinately stubborn. ]

Do you not intend to even investigate this matter? You lack a memory. Do you really believe your guilt is a foregone conclusion? Not even worth examining?

This isn't the first time.

[ There's a high crack to her voice, and the way her expression twists into sadness is one of pleading. Guilt radiates from her body like light from a burning torch. ]

Maybe I didn't have the motive to kill that man, specifically, but it isn't about him. The boy I tried to kill before, it wasn't about him, either. Poison doesn't have a motive, and neither does fire, except to burn.

But I'm still human. [ Her lower jaw trembles for the words, and though she tries to blink them back, tears build up at her visible eye, and roll in a thin line down her cheek. ] Even if you can't understand it, I'm dangerous. I can't... just because you can't understand why, this is the truth. I didn't want to hurt him. I've never wanted to hurt anyone. But, because I've done this unforgivable thing, I have to face it.

I killed him.

I'm guilty.

[Edgeworth isn't without compassion. He looks away. But he doesn't retreat from this, either, doesn't flinch or compromise: after all, there is one thing that matters to him more than anything else, and it's not feelings. It's the truth.

And so he responds to her plainly, simply, and straightforwardly.]

I don't believe that.

And what good is that? Your disbelief?

[ Sorrow, and anger, and a heart so far past breaking it feels like little more than glass shards and dust in her chest. ]

Who does that protect?

[His voice is quiet. He doesn't look at her. He just says:]

We shall see.

[ She turns her head, putting him on her blind side, so the scrub of her cheek is less obvious. ]

I didn't ask for your help.

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if you're seeing things running through your head

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