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[dragony]

WHO: Ruka & Katurian.
WHERE: The streets, the City.
WHEN: Tuesday, June 5; dusk
WARNINGS: Violent imagery and human death. OUR FAVORITES.
WHAT: Like many ImPorts, Ruka doesn't have a very good track record. Katurian applies white-out.
WORDS: yes

---

Spring was finally passing into summer, and the City was as lively as ever. Music drifted from storefronts and apartment buildings and the passing traffic, a disjointed medley of upbeat numbers; the sidewalks bustled, with couples and families and roaming high-school hoodlums, hurrying this way and that. Nothing strange about it. For Ruka, it was a day like any other, wrought with things to do and too little time (and far less energy). A trip to the post office in earlier hours, a detour to three different electronics stores to scope out prices on computers, nostalgic take-out.

She got a lot of strange glances, as young as she was and looking the way she did, and she brushed the majority of them off. It was the usual way of things.

It wasn't like anyone was following her.

Comments

[goryteller]

Katurian could not recognize the anger -- at least on any conscious level -- but when he watched Ruka's face shift into it, he could feel it in his bones. He could feel it resonating along his tissue and muscle and sinew. It was an anger that reverberated, that kicked the ground out from under him.

He stood up and began to take off his costume.

Under the layers, he wore a black-collared shirt and dark pants. He left the gloves for last, removing each and every item without his exposed fingertips touching the fabric. They didn't have much time. His eyes caught the tennis ball, its bloodied form resting on the ground not far away.

"We can't stay here. I have a place where we can wait, w-where-- where I can explain, if you're willing to listen. Come with me."

It sounded too much like a demand, and that's because it was. He paused. Winced.

"Please."

[dragony]

It was dizzying; she'd never tried reading an object carrying just this much of anything. Blood stains and murder weapons carried powerful emotions, and she knew that well, but this wasn't one moment of hatred, or a single degradation. This was possibly dozens of moments, all crammed together and stacking, multiplying in the threads of fabric. The pounding in her skull was getting worse.

The air was cold against her teeth, whistling in the inhale.

"Okay," she said, struggling and unable to find her own voice beneath everything she felt. On the ground not far from where she crouched was the second knife -- her attacker's, first used to threaten her. He must have dropped it in the beginnings of the struggle, for its exposure to blood was minimal. Without thinking she reached for it, lifting it up with pinched fingers on the blade. It was a simple folding knife, somewhat dulled along the edge, the logo on its side faded from wear.

Careful not to touch anything else lest she leave fingerprints, Ruka stood up once more, and glanced at the body. She should probably feel grief, or a choking back of tears to lodge in her throat, but it was hard to feel anything of her own while her heart struggled under the weight of the mask. A step, a turn, and her gait was almost casual as she went to retrieve her neglected bag. To spare the plastic, the blade punctured through styrofoam and into what was probably chicken, judging by that texture of resistance. She pushed it with her palm against the pointed end of the handle. Her hands were shaking. With effort, she took the mask into her other hand, shoving that into the bag beside her gloves.

Dusk dragged into twilight, the shadows growing tall through the alleyway. Everything was hued in purples and oranges, painting the dead man's face with a warmth and liveliness he would never feel again. White earbuds snaked out of the collar of his jacket, tinny with music too quiet for Ruka to hear. She wondered how long it would take for the music to bleed out and the battery to die, as well.

The bag came up with ease, only a little bit of pavement grime sticking to its base; Ruka's bare knees were dirty with dirt and small specks of gravel. "Which way?"

[goryteller]

Katurian raised his hand -- a quiet wait -- before kneeling down to scoop up the bloodied tennis ball, his fingers slipping between the razor blades. (And they contained razor blades, and he died in agony.) He took the ball and his costume over to the side alley where he had planted his bag hours before the crime. In went the tennis ball. In went the bundle of clothing. In went the knife.

At the bottom of the bag was a small, plush lion.

Later, Katurian would discover that his blood-soaked clothing had rubbed off on the soft fabric, bestowing the lion with its first stains, its slow shift from pristine to worn.

He took the duffle bag up on his shoulder and stepped back into the main alley. He watched Ruka carefully. He watched for signs of psychological shock (those seemed obvious enough, just listen to how she breathed) but he also watched for signs of betrayal, a knife planted in his own shoulder blade.

"I know this is difficult." His gaze shifted from Ruka to the dead man. "But you're going to be all right."

He glanced over his shoulder.

"This way. Five blocks." A pause. "Do you need my hand?"

[dragony]

She shook her head, but from the way it wobbled in the wake, her lie was obvious. Ruka had never been any good at accepting help offered to her so plainly. A blink, a swallow, and a tightening of the muscles in her legs and shoulders followed. She was trying to seem rigid, unyielding, to belie the eddying turmoil trapped within her now. More of her true self was breaking back to the surface, but the rest hadn't gone away.

"Let's go."

[goryteller]

He hesitated at her denial. He could see it, the almost mechanical tightening of her muscles, the buzzing energy under her eyes. This was a girl he had tried to save and perhaps betrayed, and this was also a girl who had seen too much death and was now seeing even more of it.

"Right."

--And it was his fault.

"Right," he said with a measure more strength, throwing on a quick smile. He turned, the bag snug under his arm, and led.

[dragony]

It said many things about the City, that a man could scream in such miserable agony so near to dozens of others, and not one Samaritan or rubberneck would intrude upon the scene. If there had been witnesses, they were long gone; when they exited the alley, the passersby seemed oblivious of the crime. Nobody halted them; nobody followed.

They were watched, of course -- or rather, Ruka was. for all his faults and dangers, Katurian still passed as an ordinary Cityzen, clothes and features mundane and unremarkable. Her colorful, damaged appearance earned a number of long looks and distant stares.

For Ruka, that was just the way of things; it wasn't any different than the looks she'd gotten earlier that same afternoon, or in the week before, or the week before that. A part of her would have been more concerned about her situation. Would, if nothing else, demand that she halt where she stood and call the police; whatever Katurian was going to tell her could be saved for after a sentencing or pardon.

Would have, had she the strength for it. Between the tumult of feeling and her already sapped energy, she was too weary for private thoughts. Splitting focus between putting one foot in front of the other and not losing sight of Katurian was strenuous enough.

[goryteller]

Katurian was unused to the looks. With his everyman features, he had grown accustomed to slipping away in the crowd. He had the ability to lie about being a natural citizen -- and he had, multiple times, when he needed to bridge the gap into their mundane world. When he needed to be trusted. The crowd's reaction was so startling, so unfamiliar, that Katurian couldn't help but wonder if he was sprinkled with the tell-tale copper of the dead man's blood.

And then it clicked. The bright green hair. The eye-patch. A universal danger danger to all those poor normals.

He sent a worried glance back to Ruka. A silent probe. Are you all right with this?

[dragony]

The scene of death was moving farther and farther away; the blocks were long, and the crocoite of the sky was fading, swallowed up by the deep purples and blacks. The streets were no emptier than they had been, and so the attention no lessened.

Ruka didn't notice Katurian's unease until she caught his gaze, his expression pulling at the corners of his eyes. She shook her head -- once again showing signs of dizziness. "It's fine," she said, quiet. "Don't worry about me."

[goryteller]

The dizziness did not go unnoticed. Katurian pursed his lips, the words on the tip of his tongue, but rather than make some great plea, he merely stopped where he was and extended a hand backwards towards Ruka.

An offer.

He did not care about what the passerbys would think.

[dragony]

Her steps staggered and halted, in the moment following his gesture. She wasn't so exhausted that she was going to collapse, she thought. It wasn't that bad at all. But she was so tired, and her heart was so heavy in her chest that it caused her feet to drag. She closed her eye, tilting her head away, as though not seeing the offer was enough to negate its existence. Ruka didn't want to be anybody's burden. She was tired, and tired of holding people back. But if this were true, she thought, then...

Whatever happens, I want you to know that I'm on your side.

Her hand wrapped around his without strength, as though nothing more than a weight left in his palm. She was cold, and clammy, her skin soft from its constant shelter; between that and its weakness, he may well have been bestowed a mollusk, freshly torn from its shell. Her fingers trembled where they fell against the back of his hand.

[goryteller]

He was going to make her tea once they arrived at the apartment, he told himself. Something calming, something with mint or ginger to ease her nerves or ease her stomach. He had nurtured boxes of tea himself, curled up in that empty place, scraps of pillow and fabric littering the floor around him. He had steadied himself a hundred times.

Katurian was, by his nature, a quick walker, the nervous energy carrying him from building to building in a blink of an eye, but he made sure to adjust his pace for Ruka. He did not slow dramatically. His steps were not in slow motion. His joints did not bend like a door easing open in a draught. But he slowed, moving easily through the streets like a gentle dancer. With the death in the air, with this person to protect, he was in his element. This was how it should be.

This was why he found Ruka in the first place.

His hand gripped back, reassuring.

[dragony]

One step in front of the other, the other in front of the one, and repeating; it was as much focus as she gave her surroundings. Holding onto Katurian's hand meant she wouldn't lose him at an intersection, and that she needn't take a great deal of care to the rest. Gray sidewalk shifted in dull colors beneath her feet, tinted with the oranges of street lights and the neon reds and fluorescent pale blues of storefront windows. In his dark clothes, the colors didn't seem to touch Katurian.

The pain behind her sockets was as regular a throb as her heartbeat; perhaps its symbolic and literal functions had combined, and the blood her heart struggled so much to move through her body was tinctured with his.

How many lives had ended, looking at that face? How destruction had he wrought, with his heart that flooded? How much more blood would be spilled before she would be satisfied?

The streets stretched on, vibrancy fading into quiet distance, and gave no answer.

[goryteller]

The apartment complex he led her to was a brick building, four stories tall and with a haphazard garden in the front yard. A tulip, here and there. One sunflower. Grass that would skewer you if you tried to sit down on it. This was his old home and now it was his new home, a secret place where he retreated during the day to make his costumes and plan his missions. He takes her up one, two, three stories, careful to move at an easy speed, careful to never let her hand go.

The apartment itself was sparsely furnished. The living room had wooden chairs in place of a sofa.

He took her to the chairs.

"I'll make some tea," he breathed, speaking quietly as though afraid of interrupt the silence.

[dragony]

If nothing else, she was grateful for the short height of the building; ascending even ten flights worth of stairs would have been far too much for her today. Some small part of her realized there probably was not an elevator, if they were taking the stairs in the first place. At least it meant she didn't have to explain that she wasn't allowed in elevators.

Once inside the apartment proper, Ruka set the bag on the floor near to the chairs, glancing around the room. The room was small, and so thinly furnished. It mirrored the lonely flowers outside. Now released of its burden, her free arm twisted itself behind her back as though it needed to hide from the light.

Her voice matched the quiet. "Which way is the bathroom?"

[goryteller]

Katurian gestured with his left hand, a tired, half-hearted flick of his wrist. He eased the duffle bag down to the ground. It would smell soon, from the blood. He'd need to clean it.

"Over there," he added, though he didn't need to. His head ached. The sound of the man gasping, gurgling, drowning in his own blood began to fill his ears once more, and it was dizzying, all-encompassing, too much.

He swallowed, hard, before turning into the kitchen. He did not check to see if Ruka made it to the bathroom.

[dragony]

Her steps were unsteady on floor, the footfalls of her shoes quiet. Though there was temptation, she did not brace her weight against the walls as she went; to open the door, she covered the heel of her palm to the ends of her fingers with the edge of her sleeve. Stretching the fabric to protect her skin.

Inside, the door closed and locked behind her quietly. She exhaled. She inhaled. She took a quick inventory of the small room, and walked those few steps. With as much dignity as she could muster, she dropped to her knees with illness, residual gravel once more digging into her skin.

Idly, between the spasms and the roil of emotions still pounding through her veins, she wondered how long it would take her to get home from here.

[goryteller]

In the kitchen, Katurian made tea.

The familiar motions -- sliding the teacup out of the cupboard, filling it up with water, bringing that water to a boil -- helped ground him while his ears screamed with tortures and death rattles. Now and again, he paused, struggling to hear Ruka over the thunderous soundtrack of his own thoughts. If it were another moment, another time, Katurian would have worried he was losing his mind.

When he finished, he brought the two cups into the living room, his index and middle fingers curled gingerly around the handles.

[dragony]

She operated the faucet handles with the edge of her sleeve, but she hesitated with the soap. Well, she thought, if there was some other death lingered there, it wasn't going to be any lessened for waiting. She washed her hands quickly, but it could not kill the feelings contaminating her body. Infection, as it were, had already taken root.

Rinse, spit, repeat; the cold water numbed her hands and made her teeth feel like icicles. A weak attempt to wash the taste of bile from her mouth, but it was better than nothing.

Why had she grabbed the mask like that? What had she been expecting? She was no longer certain; it seemed like it could not have contained anything other than what now rattled down her arms and legs, but surely she must have thought it would be something different. It was hard to focus.

Drying her hands on the sides of her skirt, Ruka finally wobbled back into the living room, where Katurian was already armed with tea. Two cups. "Thanks," she murmured, and took seat and cup both with a forced rigidity. She really needed to put her gloves back on; even the handle carried traces of Katurian's heart.