2020-05-07 - if you want

One fine, fair day in early May, Ruiz finds himself in Addington Park for whatever reason. It's work-adjacent, so maybe he's on his way to or from the office. Maybe he's getting some fresh air. Maybe he's gonna eat lunch and watch the carousel. The reason is relatively unimportant to the young woman that approaches him here, in public, amid a crowd of people - kids, parents, everything one would expect at a midday park.

She's easily overlooked. No, it's more than that. She's intentionally flying below the radar of most people - hell, she's flying below the radar of most people who get paid to notice things. Her clothes are nondescript, her appearance is unremarkable, and her approach is such that she just seems to materialize in Ruiz's vicinity. Sure, she has that spark, but so do a lotta people in this town, so even that seems somehow subdued, less a beacon and more a far-distant star on the horizon.

She stops about a yard from Ruiz, hands in the pockets of her sweater, and she asks, "Do you know who I am?"

The police captain, in contrast, is not hard at all to spot. Nigh two hundred pounds of swarthy Mexican, in a podunk whitebread town like this? He sticks out like a sore thumb.

Just now, he's smoking off the last dregs of what looks - and smells - like a kretek. The stub of the thing's held between thumb and forefinger, elbow draped against his knee as he slouches in one of the benches overlooking the pond. Phone in his other hand, he's scrolling through his Friendzone feed and chuckling to himself at some stupid meme someone's posted. He's dressed in uniform today; black on black, the GHPD's seal at his shoulder and those fancy captain's pips on his collar. Long sleeves that don't quite hide the ink scrawled across the knuckles of his right hand.

At the voice, he ticks his eyes up, thumb pausing on his phone's screen, expression blank as he studies the girl. After a few seconds, "Nope."

She waits through the once-over, not moving, not going anywhere, not reacting. She just looks at him while her question remains unanswered, then nods when the reply comes back to her. "My name is Megan Keene." This is probably where she should pause and allow that tidbit to have its moment in the sun, but the girl's obviously got an agenda. "Five months ago, you went to an insane asylum. And forgot about it completely." It's not quite a question, but there's a lilt at the end there, like Ruiz is welcome to deny this if he wants to.

The cop's silent for a while in the wake of that. Tiniest twitch at the corners of his mouth, and a deepening of crow's feet at the edges of his eyes that suggests he probably recognises that name. Then he goes for another drag off his cigarette, and blows smoke away from the younger woman before murmuring, "Okay." What little good humour he had earlier, vanishes, and his phone's switched off and shoved back into his pants pocket with a little grunt as he re-situates himself on the bench. "Why don't you tell me where you're going with this, Miss Keene?" A glance at his watch, then a flick of dark eyes back to hers. "You've got about six minutes."

"Until what?" Presumably, she means to answer his question, but yeah. She looks around for a second, at the people doing park-things, then back to Ruiz with a speculative squint. Also, she looks at the part of the bench where Ruiz isn't sitting. Pointedly.

He's parked himself right in the middle of it, the asshole. Knees sprawled apart, taking up space like a boss. But she could probably fit herself in on his left, if she were really inclined. "Mm," is all he says to that look; half grunt, half reluctant assent. Not like he moves a muscle to accomodate.

"Until my break's done," is his eventual answer to her question, with a glint in those dark eyes that suggests it might not have been the first thing that came to mind. He's armed, of course, with a nasty-looking gun in that duty rig. A taser, too, and handcuffs and a radio. And the way he's watching her, like he's half expecting this to come to blows.

She's not so inclined. If he takes the whole bench... well, Megan just keeps standing there. It looks weird, and a couple people walking by glance their way, but no one's gonna ask 'cause cops.

What she is inclined to do is laugh a short, hoarse sound that leaves her, cynical and dismissive of his answer. "So you have got six minutes. That might be rough." She hasn't got a watch. Or a gun, taser, radio... truth be told, there's not a goddamn thing in her pockets, either, except the hands that she leaves stuffed there.

Seriously, she looks squarely at the bench-hogging pig (ahahahaa) and says, "I can give you back your memories of that place if you want them."

Well, she can stand there if she wants. He doesn't seem terribly bothered, though he is starting to get a bit of a crick in his neck from gazing up at her. "Creo que me las arreglaré bien, querida," he murmurs, dark eyes crinkling up at the corners with the rough-sounding chuckle that sits in his throat.

Then his cigarette's finished off with a long drag, and the thing tossed onto the ground at his feet. Obliterated with the heel of his boot, slow and meticulous; his eyes never leave hers. Perhaps he has some idea of what she was coming to, as there's no surprise whatsoever in his expression, when she speaks next. Just a pause of maybe ten, fifteen seconds before he answers without so much as flinching, "I don't."

There's no response to the comment en espanol. See above re: she has an agenda.

Ten or fifteen seconds is a really long time in the middle of a conversation. Megan's eyebrows climb after about four seconds, and she leans her head forward expectantly after about ten seconds. Hum de dum. Oh there! She nods, unsurprised, and her smile is... sympathetic? Pitying? Something along those lines, definitely the facial expression equivalent of a condescending little pat on the head. "I don't blame you. It's brutal. Some people are better off with the blinders on. If you change your mind, I'm at the little hotel down by the boardwalk." Her one-shouldered shrug is tinged with apology, and she leans into it on that side, swiveling on her heel so she can start off across the park toward downtown.

To do whatever escaped mental patients do all day.

And see above re: the cop's an asshole. She can stand there, and she can wait for him to deign to answer her. He might even have been weighing his options carefully before replying; or he may not. He doesn't move a muscle when she leans in expectantly like that, and he doesn't move a muscle when she quips back at him, and turns to go. Gun's still right there, inches away from his hand. He could draw, probably, and put two rounds in the back of her head before she knew what was happening. He could do this. Or could he?

"Disfruta tu dia, Miss Keene," trails her as she departs, in tandem with those dark, sloe-lidded eyes.

The girl doesn't come back. She keeps walking.

The thought comes back, though - in English? In Spanish? The translating is done on some sort of fundamental level, hooked into the speech center of his brain so that the intent of her thoughts is unfailingly clear regardless of language. And it's not just that it's in his head; the thoughts are tattooed in the firing of each and every synapse, occupying his thoughts wholly and entirely for the duration. << When you think about this moment later, remember just how EASILY I can get into your head. Because I can give you that back, too. >>

One by one, an infinite number of tiny electrical currents convey a cold, concise certainty while that connection remains. She can do this, reroute the path of memory, and she can do it whether he wants her to or not; it's important that he knows that, that she conveys that to him, that she's allowing him to make this choice instead of just fucking with his mind whether he wants her there or not. Because she can do something else, too. It's there in the background static of that thought: she can make HIM more powerful, him SPECIFICALLY.

But only if he wants her to.

And then the flip switches off, the crackle ceases, and Ruiz's head is wholly his own again, just the faintly metallic whiff of ozone that lingers in his imagination anytime and every time he thinks back on Megan Keene.