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"I'm looking at you like you're a murderer." The last word is a strangled curse. "Ariel didn't kill. He saved people."
The pained laugh that escapes your throat is as dark and cynical as your soul.
"Oh please, Ricardo. You should know better than anyone else that I was always capable of murder."
You don't remember the specifics. Some heist you were supposed to stop, maybe a bank robbery, or was it a jewelry store? Everything becomes confusing after a while. Memories grow fuzzy, start mixing together in your mind.
There were three of them, two modded, one boosted. That, you remember. Low level criminals, it should have been an easy job. Stop the robbery, save the day, have a smoke and joke around at Hoots afterwards. Nothing but routine at that point, something you usually wouldn't have gotten involved in weren't it for the fact you were so close by, and the LDPD would never have shown up in time.
It was supposed to be easy. Life is never easy for you. That's a lesson you hadn't learned yet by then.
He came from behind, after you had the other three taken care of, one unconscious, the other two badly hurt. You never saw him coming, didn’t consider the fact there could have been a fourth lurking around, didn't pick up his thoughts nor the familiar static that radiated from him when he grabbed you from behind.
Strong arms. Not modded. Still stronger than you. Wrapped around your throat, holding you tight. No gun in sight. Thoughts unreadable, too familiar to the feel of the numbers, blocking your panicked probring mind. You should have realized they were closer to Ortega's static than the artificial one inflicted by the drug. You never thought you would encounter another epileptic out in the wild like that, a stupid thought that landed you in a stupid situation.
You had let your guard down, thought the fight was won. Sloppy. Reckless. You remember Ortega smiling at you, smiling at the cameras of the approaching reporters. You don't remember his expression when you were grabbed.
You never saw the face of your aggressor. He almost saw yours.
You don't know what he said, what he and Ortega were talking about. Your hearing had gone numb with adrenaline, fight or flight reflexes kicking in amidst the flashback induced panic that took over your mind, remembering other arms, other unreadable minds, dragging you away down a white corridor smelling of disinfectant and fear.
You do know he started pulling up your mask. You also know it didn't go much farther than your mouth.
Big mistake, letting unguarded fingers near your teeth, but you don't really blame him for not knowing that. It took them a long time to realize it as well, a defense mechanism you picked up only after your first escape.
After you decided you would fight back.
Biting down had been easy. Maybe not wise, but you rarely make good decisions when you're panicking. You remember the scream, the taste of blood.
You remember he let you go. You didn't.
You remember tearing flesh, bone grinding against your teeth, breaking it with a twist and turn of your head, or did you tear it off? Did you even do it, or was it just blood sticking to your tongue afterwards? You don't know. Maybe you just don't want to remember.
Turning around, punching, grabbing, slamming, until someone tried to pull you back. Blood on your knuckles, blood on the ground. Crimson red against gray concrete. A sobbing mess of a man at your feet, face reduced to red and pink. Scared eyes looking up at you.
Prey.
You remember the look on Ortega's face, when he finally managed to get you off of your aggressor. Face pale, eyes wide, watching as you spit out the blood? Severed fingers? In your mouth, drying blood running down your chin. The very first time he witnessed how despair could turn you into a completely different creature.
Not for the first time you wonder if you would have beaten that man to death if Ortega hadn't interfered. Not for the first time you reached the obvious conclusion: yes, you would. And it would be deserved.
Ortega had fried all the cameras he could when he saw what was happening, and there weren't that many around yet. Lucky for you. You wonder what kind of headlines they could have made with that, local vigilante turned rabid in the face of an unexpected attack, but for some reason it was never brought up in the media.
You suspect that might have had something to do with Ortega. It always does.
"That was different." The words are enough to snap you out of your reverie, past becoming present as Ortega's face lost the shocked expression from your memories. More scars, more wrinkles, more facial hair. Pleading. Almost brittle, despite the conviction with which he tried to say the words. Tried to make them real.
"Really?" You snap, grasping on the sliver of doubt you saw on the frown he tried to hide. "How can you be so sure?"
"You were desperate when it happened! You weren't thinking straight, you-"
"And what makes you think that's not the case right now?" You raise your voice, sitting up on the bed and ignoring the pain. Desperate, insane. You've certainly felt that way often enough in the last few years for it to be a viable excuse. You're not even sure it could be considered a lie.
"Because Ariel regretted the things he did!" He raises his voice to match yours, face hardening once again, eyes sharp as daggers as he fell back into his conviction that you aren't the same man he fell in love with.
It really shouldn't hurt as much as it does. In a way, he's right, and you know it.
"Because he never meant to hurt anyone like that! Because it wasn't planned, it wasn't done in cold blood, because- because he lost control of himself." Ortega sits back down on the plastic chair, voice lowering the longer he went on, listing all the excuses you told yourselves throughout the years. You wonder if he ever truly believed them. You know you did, at some point. "You knew exactly what you were doing."
His voice is still sharp, and you're proud you manage not to flinch at it. It's not the words that hurt, but his expression. The tone of his voice. Hard, unreadable. The kind of grim determination that had never been directed towards you before. Not coming from him. Until right now. Until you fucked everything up. Like you always do.
He keeps picking at the ports in his hands, never truly staying still. The only thing betraying his nervousness. His eyes don't move. Still focused on you. Scrutinizing your every move.
"Saving people never did me any good." You say, falling back onto the bed, voice no more than a bitter murmur. You keep looking at his hands. It's easier than his eyes. "And I'm not doing it for no reason. I'm not killing innocents." Your hands curl into fists as your voice hardens. "The people I kill had it coming."
"What are you telling me?" His voice is filled with incredulity. You don't look at his face. "Are you saying you did that for the 'greater good'?!"
"What if I did?" You can't resist. You look him in the eyes. You look into his stupid brown eyes, raise your voice, try to ignore the hurt hidden in their depths. Try not to sound too much like you're pleading, try not to come across as desperate as you are. "What then? What if I told you exactly that? Would that change anything? Would it help you understand?!"
"I'd say you're crazy." He shakes his head, and you almost break. "You're insane."
You cover your eyes with your hands and hold back a sob. Breathe. In and out. You can deal with this.
You have to.
He's still there when you open your eyes. Still looking at you with that confused, upset stare.
Still looking for answers.
Fuck. He just can't leave you alone, can he?
***
It's been a long day.
You almost laugh at the stray thought that made its way into your head. Understatement of the century. Between convincing Ortega you are the same man he loves, watching him turn his back on you all the same, then getting interrogated by Steel in a completely fruitless conversation that was nothing but upsetting once you found out the truth.
That you really were abandoned in the end. And right now, the exact same thing is happening again.
A long day indeed.
You stare at the blank slate of the ceiling and try not to think about the only solution you can see to get out of this.
You tried feeling angry. Tapping into the resentment, the all-consuming need for revenge that has been fermenting inside of you through all these years. The thing that has kept you going when everything else failed. But the sad truth is that you can't afford to be angry forever.
For the first time in years, you find yourself hesitating. It's the same feeling of when you fought Ortega at the museum gala. That insistent, annoying feeling that you just can't do this.
Not to him. Never to him.
Even if he deserves it.
You can't hurt Ortega.
It's stupid. It's stupid, because you did. You did hurt him. Physically, emotionally. Probably mentally as well, if you could. If he wasn't just an annoying buzz of static in your mind.
It would be so much easier, if you could just reach into his thoughts. Find the right strings and pull. Make him forget. Make him let go.
But you can't. And isn't that part of the reason you love him, anyway?
Because you can't change his feelings, so they must mean something? They must be real, even if you aren't?
You just wish love was enough for him to stay. But a broken trust hurts, and thus demands more attention. It's not like you could blame him.
You deserve this.
You never thought you would have a happy ending. Part of you knew you would end up dead. Part of you hoped that would be the case. That someone would stop you before you went too far.
But not like this. Not now, when you barely started.
And certainly not going back to them.
That is the one thing you can't afford. The one thing you swore would never happen to you again.
You are not going back to that place.
You don't know how much longer you have until they come to get you, but you do know you must have gone through a dozen different plans by now. Most of them won't work. Some of them are just wistful thinking. Some of them feel more like dreams.
You keep dozing off, even if you don't want to. Looking out the window, you can see that it's still early in the night. You must have been at it for hours, nothing but pain and adrenaline to keep you awake. Sleeping is not an option.
You want to be awake when they come for you.
So you keep flipping through ideas in your tired mind, feeling them become more and more nonsensical as the hours stretch on. Most of them are not worth dwelling on, but there is one that you keep coming back to. It's desperate. It's stupid. Illogical.
Seductive.
It becomes more appealing the more plans you scratch and throw away.
You wouldn't consider yourself suicidal. Quite the opposite, you'd do anything to survive. You fought tooth and nail for your freedom and you are going to keep it. Stubborn. Spiteful.
You survive because you need to. Survive. Not live. You haven't earned that luxury, not yet. Maybe you never will.
It doesn't matter. You have things to do. Scores to settle. Wrongs to right.
But you can't do any of it if you get caught again.
You know you're not getting out of here in time. Not without help, and without your puppet, you're alone.
Alone. The one thing you always craved. The one thing you always loathed. You fought so hard for your independence, and in the end it is going to become your downfall.
It would be poetic, if you weren't so afraid.
That is the pathetic truth, isn't it? It's not like anyone would know.
You can afford to admit that in the privacy of your own mind.
You are terrified.
That is why you keep looking around the room, searching. Searching for a way out. Searching for something.
Anything.
Anything to convince yourself this isn't your only option. Or at least to make the job easier.
Make it less messy. You'd hate to give the janitors more work, they have nothing to do with this. Then again, this is a way of keeping your freedom, isn't it? You're not afraid of death. Not as much as you are of them.
There's not much of a difference, dying and getting caught. Your plans stop mattering either way. The difference is one of those is quicker. Merciful. If you're going either way, you'd rather end it on your own therms.
Besides, they want you alive.
And you have never been good at giving them what they want.
You don't realize you had already been scratching yourself until you see the red lines going down your arm when you start to lift it up. That wouldn't be enough. Your nails are not long or sharp enough to do any kind of significant damage.
Your teeth, however...
You've felt the taste of blood in your mouth more times than you're proud to admit. You know how hard you have to bite to tear flesh. Break arteries. Make a mess.
You just never thought you'd ever do it to yourself.
For a moment, you feel almost giddy. Maniac euphoria that curls in your chest and wraps around your heart, squeezes it until it hurts.
You're doing this. You. It's your decision. Your freedom. Your life.
The ultimate escape plan.
They are never landing a finger on you again.
You think you might be smiling as you bring your wrist to your lips. It's a slow act, almost reverent. A silent worship as your lips touch scarred skin, eyes closed in mock prayer.
It's over.
The thought sends a cascade of relief crashing down on you so strong it almost makes you laugh.
It's finally over.
You open your mouth, lips pulling back to reveal teeth, canines pressing against skin as you brace yourself for the pain-
-and you bite down on nothing, hard enough to make your gums hurt and your teeth clink together as your arm is suddenly yanked away from you with enough strenght to pull you forwards on the bed.
"¡¿Qué carajo crees que estás haciendo?!" Ortega's face is uncomfortably close to your own as your eyes snap open, pale with worry and something akin to desperation, voice raised in distress. He's holding your arm hard enough for it to hurt, and you can almost smell ozone in the air. No doubt his mods would have flared up if they weren't deactivated.
"What the fuck are you doing here?!" You answer in kind, trying to twist your arm free from his grip in panicked instinct, desperately throwing your mind at him hard enough to leave you dizzy. Trying to make him let go. "I thought you left!"
You thought Ortega would have gone home by now, knowing how his argument with Steel went. You never expected him to come back, much less decide to check in on the security cameras. That's the only logical explanation you can come up with for how he managed to catch you in the act so quickly.
Watching you. Of course. If not Ortega, it would have been someone else. Always watching.
They never let you go that easily. Why would the Rangers be any different?
"¡Gracias a dios volví antes que hicieras algo estúpido!" He's speaking fast, breath labored and hair out of place. Probably from running all the way here. For you. "¡¿Qué carajo estabas pensando?!"
"That's none of your fucking business!"
"¡Me dijiste que dejarías de hacerte daño!"
"I didn't promise shit- let go of me!" The last words tear themselves from your throat in a scream, voicing the command you tried to impose on his mind.
That finally gets Ortega to listen. He lets go of your arm as if it burned him, taking a step back, still too close. Or at least close enough.
"Lo siento- I'm sorry, I didn't-" He doesn't get to finish the phrase. Your fist is already making contact with his face.
You punch him hard enough to make his head snap backwards, a hit you feel from your knuckles to your shoulder as you watch Ortega take one, two, three steps back. He's cursing loudly in a mix of english and spanish, hands instinctively going up to touch the new bruise, and that's when you see the open door behind him.
The door is open wide, offering you an unobstructed view of the corridor beyond and the two nurses standing near the doorway, a man and a woman. You hear them gasp, rushing in to check on Ricardo, because of course they would. You don't need to read their thoughts to understand the way the woman glares at you is anything but friendly.
He probably left the door open when he ran inside. Too worried to care about privacy. Worried enough to pick up medical staff on the way. To make sure you would be ok.
You have a hard time wrapping your head around the fact that Ortega still cares. Even after knowing the truth. Even after you ruined everything. Even after walking away and leaving you to rot.
So you focus on yourself instead. On the adrenaline making your heart rate accelerate. On the headache building right behind your eyes. You know that trying to impose your will on Ortega will never work, the dampeners making your rash decision an even more painful one. It had been impulse, pushing against the dampeners, trying to sink your mental fingers into the impenetrable static in front of you in a desperate attempt to make him let go. All you got for it was a headache and the nausea you try to push down as you close your eyes and take a deep breath.
You sink back into the bed, blood pumping in your ears, limbs restless, body anticipating a fight that will not come. In the background you can idly hear Ortega dismissing the nurses's care, a bit more fiercely than he ought to when one of them insists, redirecting their attention towards you. He's still having a hard time convincing his brain to function in one exclusive language, spanish words slipping and mixing into his english phrases and making him need to repeat himself once or twice. You must have really rattled him.
You're saved from going down that line of thought when one of the nurses starts adjusting you on the bed, lifting up one of your legs that had fallen over in your little scuffle. You can't help the hiss of pain that leaves your lips, and part of you resents the way he moves you more carefully afterwards. It's the man, older, more experienced, immune to Ortega's charms and slightly annoyed at the rough way he handled you.
You can't pry much through the dampeners, but you can pick up little pinpricks of emotions here and there. You don't bother numbing your powers despite the building headache, you already feel helpless enough as it is. Closeness helps, as does touch, and you know the woman joined him in his care by the irritation she radiates at you. Young, probably fresh out of college, a fan of Charge. She's not happy you punched him, that much is clear, and she doesn't do much to help.
They're both nervous, the woman more so than her colleague. Afraid you'll lash out at them, but Ortega did his best to reassure them. Despite still feeling jumpy, you force yourself to relax. It's not their fault. They're just doing their job, no need to make it harder than it has to be.
It's easier, focusing on others. Paying attention to their numbed feelings, answering their questions. The way they examine you is uncomfortably familiar, but you push that feeling aside, let them check your arms and your knuckles. They don't treat you like they did at the Farm. In their eyes, you're just another patient. They don't know what your tattoos mean, they don't care, even if there might be some passing curiosity.
They still look at you like you're human, instead of a broken tool. That helps, even if just a little.
You can't afford to cry right now, so you use the little energy you have left to build up your pokerface once more. The adrenaline is gone, leaving nothing but bone-deep exhaustion in its wake. You feel raw, fragile. Cracked, like glass put under too much pressure. You wonder how much more you can take before you break once and for all.
The mask hurts, but you put it on anyway. Steady your breathing, hold back the tears. Watch as the nurses wrap up, their job done, turn their back on you and walk away. They aren't as good a distraction as Spoon would be, but you miss their presence all the same.
That leaves you and Ortega.
Funny how most things seem to end like that nowadays.
He closes the door with a sigh, and you finally get a good look at him when he turns around to regard you. He looks as wretched as he did last time he was here, although maybe a bit more disheveled. You can see dark circles beginning to form under his eyes. There's an angry red bruise blossoming on the left side of his jaw, already beginning to swell. That's going to turn purple come morning.
You can't help but feel somewhat proud. You always hit harder with your left arm.
"I'm not apologizing." You say, because you aren't, and you're happy you manage to keep your voice steady.
"I know you won't." He admits, wincing slightly as he runs his fingers on the side of his face. Not the first time you punched him for crossing a boundary. You doubt it's going to be the last. "I know you don't like being grabbed, but it was an emergency."
"Did you consider I didn't want to be saved?" You snap back, and this is starting to sound way too familiar.
"That's why it was an emergency!" He retorts, lowering his voice with a deep breath. "You're not arguing your way out of this."
"Seemed like I was." You mumble back, lacking the heat you wanted to have behind your words. Too tired get mad, you couldn't hide behind an argument even if you wanted to, and god knows you really, really do.
You watch as he walks across the room, sitting back down on the plastic chair by the side of your bed. "Why are you staying?"
"Because you're a danger to yourself."
"You already have cameras set up, I don't see the point-"
"It's either this or you're getting restrained." He cuts you off with an apologetic look, and that is enough to shut you up.
"I don't know why you care." He shouldn't. Your life would be so much easier if he just stopped giving a fuck about you.
"I don't want to lose you." His voice is way too soft. You look away from his face.
"Odd way of showing it. You know I'm not going to stay here much longer." You pull at the sleeves of the hospital gown. Too short. It shouldn't matter anymore, but it still makes you uncomfortable. "They'll be coming any second now."
"They're not going to get you." The conviction in his voice makes you want to laugh, but all that comes out is a mocking scoff. "Is that why you..." He doesn't finish the phrase. He doesn't need to.
"It doesn't matter." Your voice sounds harder than you thought it would. "It's not going to change anything. You already made up your mind on what you'd rather happen to me."
"Just sleep, Ariel." He sounds as tired as you feel. "You need the rest."
He makes it sound so simple.