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The world is spinning when Anathema drags himself back to consciousness. It takes him a second to realize that it’s not just because of the drugs in his veins; the world is actually moving. The dull roar of an engine agitates the headache brewing between his temples.
A vehicle. Why? Where…?
Instinct has him trying to push himself upright but he quickly discovers that he already is, back propped up against a cold metal wall. Something heavy encases his arms up to mid-forearm, wrapping around his hands so tightly he can’t so much as twitch a finger. Chains rattle when his legs jerk in panic. He’s restrained, trussed up like an animal to slaughter, he’s-
“Calm the fuck down, kid,” says a tired voice.
Anathema’s gaze snaps upwards. Charlie, he thinks, but that’s not right. Same hair, same intense eyes. But the man seated across from him is older, taller, sleeker. Wearing a red-brown suit in a cut that Charlie would never be caught dead wearing.
“Hollow Ground,” Anathema says, tongue stumbling over the name. He hasn’t had a lot of practice vocalizing anything except screaming as of late.
“In the flesh.” A bleak kind of smirk spreads over his face as he spreads his arms wide in display. “And you’re Anathema. Been a while. Seven years haven’t been kind to you, have they?”
“Fuck you,” comes the automatic reply. Seven years in the Farm wouldn’t be kind to anyone.
“Hmm, pass.” Charlie’s brother settles back into a position that looks almost comfortable, legs crossed and arms resting on a metal bench bolted into the wall of the van. Anathema’s gaze flickers over the interior, trying to find any hint, any clue? Hollow Ground is LDPD, so-
“You’ve got nothing to worry about,” Hollow Ground says, dragging Anathema’s attention back to him. He does that well, command attention. “Charlie held up his end of the deal. That means you’re free.”
Free? It takes Anathema a while to remember what the word means, and then every emotion threatens to burst free of him at once. Free? It almost sounds like a joke.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Hollow Ground agrees. Something brittle slips through his cheerfully bland tone, rouses Anathema’s suspicions though he can’t quite figure out why just yet. “Ah, little Charlie making deals and negotiating. Mom would be so proud of him. He insisted, you know? He’d only agree to give us what we wanted if you would be released.”
What they wanted. Unease settles in Anathema’s gut; he remembers the deal Charlie talked about the last time they spoke. The last time Anathema had seen him, when he’d-
“So,” he says, swallowing down on the vague nausea that threatens to overwhelm him, “the Rangers are-“
Hollow Ground’s sharp laugh interrupts the thought before Anathema can finish. It’s bitter. Derisive. Makes Anathema feel like he’s being hunted.
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Hollow Ground’s eyes radiate a familiar kind of emptiness, one that Anathema’s seen frequently in the mirror. One that Anathema last saw Charlie wear, that last day they spoke, that last time he’d seen Charlie. He had been tired, pallid and gray like he was a collection of ash rather than a person. Like he’d crumble at any touch, no matter how gentle.
“He didn’t turn them in,” says Hollow Ground, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice when he continues is the most defeated that Anathema’s heard anyone sound, “He turned himself in.”
The rattle of the engine is the only sound in the air.
“He what?” Anathema hopes his voice isn’t as weak as the rest of him feels.
“You heard me.” Hollow Ground laughs again, a short bark. Anathema would almost dare to call it close to a sob. “He renegotiated behind my back. I don’t know what the fuck he said, but it was convincing. Evidently.” Hands move hopelessly. “You’re free, LDPD drops every ongoing case involving the Rangers. And Charlie goes back to the Farm. Happy ending for everyone.” The bleak sarcasm is almost tangible.
Anathema can hear his own blood in his ears. He’s been numb for so long that it takes him a while to recognize the heat coiled in his throat as outrage. Hollow Ground is Charlie’s brother, his family. And he let him-
Family had been the only promise the Rangers had ever made. To him. To all of them, when they had joined. Family looks out for each other. Family keeps each other safe.
(but did they, in the end? didn’t they leave you both to rot?)
No. Anger. Wrath. Push away the doubt, let the rage overwhelm him. It’s safer than retreading old insecurities, safer than wondering if he wasn’t even worth an attempt.
“Don’t you care about him?” Anathema snarls, wrists straining against his restraints. If he weren’t so weak, so drugged, he’d melt through them in an instant just to wrap his caustic hands around Hollow Ground’s neck. “Charlie’s your brother! And you’re letting him walk back into the Farm?”
Back into years of black empty cells, of could voices and needles and tests. Years of forgetting what sunlight feels like. Years of understanding that rescue would never come.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Hollow Ground says calmly. “How about I ask you a few, hm?”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. His voice turns dangerously soft in a single sentence, flat in a way that sends chills running down Anathema’s spine.
“Do you think I care about you? About the Rangers? Do you think that I wouldn’t trade you, any of you, the whole lot of you a hundred times over if it meant Charlie would walk free?”
Something breaks in his glare, like a crack in a glacier. “Do you think I hate my brother enough to take away the first choice he was allowed to make for himself since the day I pulled that mask off his face?”
There’s nothing more to be said in the face of that. Anathema keeps his silence, and Hollow Ground uses it to compose himself once more. Anathema watches from the corner of his eye; is this where Charlie learned to put on a mask? Because he can see no trace that any emotion had ever slipped past that facade.
The quiet lingers. It’s like the interior of the van is submerged in stasis, the passage of time only evident through the period flare and lull of the engine.
The van rolls to a stop eventually. Faint static erupts into the air, chattering that might resolve into words. It’s too distorted for Anathema to make out, but Hollow Ground tilts his head as if in acknowledgment. A headset? Mods? Anathema eyes the numerous studs and rings in Hollow Ground’s ear for a moment, before he realizes that it doesn't matter.
Hollow Ground leans forward and unlatches something by Anathema’s legs. Tension releases and he finds that he can shift his feet again. Slowly, heavily, but they’re no longer chained down. His hands remain restrained, but then again, that was hoping for quite a lot.
A prod on his shoulder, none too gentle, snaps Anathema back to attention. Hollow Ground is staring, unimpressed. “Out. You’re not the only one who’s been stuck in that van for too long.”
Fresh air is strange. It stings in Anathema’s lungs, though perhaps that is because Los Diablos isn’t known for its pristine air quality. Still though, the stench is not the chemical sterility of the Farm.
He doesn’t recognize his surroundings, but that’s not much of a problem. A dingy alleyway, tucked around a corner and hidden from the main streets. He’ll be able to find his bearings soon enough. The van—LDPD standard, no identifying markings—blocks the entrance to the alley and Hollow Ground still leans against its side, just waiting. The folded arms and neatly crossed ankles are all Charlie.
“The drugs should start wearing off in another hour or so,” he says casually, pulling out a lighter and cigarette. “You should be able to melt your way out of those cuffs then. What you do after that is not my concern anymore.”
A quick flick, a pale flame, and the cigarette is lit. Strangely, it makes Anathema feel better. Charlie had never smoked. His self-indulgent method of destruction of choice had always been alcohol.
“You know,” says Hollow Ground vaguely, into the air, staring at something beyond Anathema’s sight. Memory? Fantasy? “Charlie said you were the best of them. That if any one of the Rangers didn’t deserve the Farm, it was you. That you were the best of them all.”
It’s not true. Anathema had shouted at Charlie for even considering the deal. For entertaining, for even the briefest moment, betraying his family. Their family.
And Charlie had stood still, silent, serene. And he hadn’t said a word in his defense.
Anathema hasn’t seen him since that argument seven years ago, when they were both shadows of the people they used to be kept together with only the thin wires of desperation and hope. The last words between them had been his own growled voice: “Chen was right, we never should have trusted you! You’re not worth them, you’re not worth anything!”
Anathema hasn’t seen him since, and Charlie will never know that Anathema went to sleep that night sick in his own head over the fact that he thinks he would’ve accepted the deal if they gave it to him, first.
Hollow Ground straightens. “What you do from now on is not my business anymore,” he repeats, low. “But if there’s any fucking decency in you, don’t prove Charlie wrong. Let him have that, if nothing else.”
He climbs back into the van without another word, doors swinging shut with somber finality. Anathema is left with nothing but old guilt and a freedom he never earned.