Chapter Text
He was going to throw up.
No, scratch that.
He threw up.
On the carpet even. Couldn’t navigate the shitty motel layout quick enough to make it to the bathroom. The migraine was pounding on his head, and he couldn’t keep his shields up enough to block out the couple fucking next door. He scuttles along the floor like a drunk crab and fumbled for the bathroom door handle. He crawles to the tub and turns on the water, blindly trying to get the shower going, but failing miserably. He hugs the toilet bowl as another wave of nausea passed through him, and retched near violently as vomit threatened to make its way back up him.
He sits hunched over the toilet until the bathroom fills up with enough steam to make him sweat. He kicks off his boots, peels off his clothes and crawls over the edge of the tub. It takes him longer than he’ll ever admit to figure out how to get the water to run to the shower, but once it starts sputtering out the head he curls up into a ball and lets the water run over him.
He stays like that until the water runs cold, and he is left naked and shivering in the tub. He shuts the water off, stumbles back to the bed, being careful not to step in his vomit, and crawls into the sheets.
There wasn’t any sleep to be found, just restless tossing that made his brain feel like it was rattling around a skull three sizes too big. He needs a cigarette, he needs his head to stop hurting, he needs Ort-
No. He’s okay.
Escaped.
Unfollowed.
The Farm didn’t know where he was. If they did, they would have came and scooped him back up. He’d be back for another few years of Hell in their arms.
But he isn’t.
He’s in a shitty motel.
Alive.
In the need of a smoke, many years overdue.
He just needs to rest. Get his feet back under him. He’d go on a hunt for cigarettes later. For now, he’d try and sleep until the sun came out.
-
He doesn’t know what day it is.
Fuck, he doesn’t know what year it is.
That was on his agenda for the day. His head was still swimming, and even the dull light from the lamp was blinding him as if it was as bright as the sun. But he couldn’t spend another day cooped up. The walls were closing in, he needs to get out, to see the outside. Prove to himself he wasn’t dreaming, he was out. He was free.
The door creaks loud enough to hurt his ears, though that was probably due to the migraine. The sun felt like it was searing his eyes out of his head and he brought a hand up to shield his eyes as he looks out into the parking lot. Just a couple of cars, probably belonging to the employee and the couple next door. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stalks off towards the front the desk, cringing as the bell chimes when he opens the door.
The employee, a young woman, didn’t look up as he entered. “Welcome.” She says, disinterested. “Let me know if you need anything.” She doesn’t spare him a glance as she continues to flip through her magazine.
He walks passed her to the cigarette dispenser, and pats his pockets. Fuck. He was broke, didn’t even have change. He approaches to the worker and she wordlessly opens the cash register, handing him a few bills and change. The manipulation causing his migraine to worsen, and start pounding on the inside of his skull.
She was just double checking the count, that was all. Everything was accounted for, no big deal.
He bought his cigarettes, then considers it for a moment before buying a couple more packs. He shoves them in his pocket, and reaches around the top of the counter to snatch the worker’s lighter before shuffling back outside. He lites up a cigarette and took a long pull, and it tasted like heaven. How long had he gone without a cigarette? Years, at least. How many exactly? His eyes scan the parking lot again, coming to a stop on the newspaper stand.
He lingers in front of the office for a moment, smoking his- enjoying his cigarette, really, how long had it been since he had enjoyed something?- before making his way to the stand.
Carson City Times, fuck, so he was still in Nevada. He had been hoping he’d gotten a little more distance from the Farm, but that didn’t matter now. He needs a plan. Where was going to go?
If he was smart, he’d head east. Go through Utah, maybe find a cabin or something over in Colorado or Wyoming, or hell, even Montana. Live out his days in obscurity.
The thought made him angry. Hiding.
No, he doesn’t want to hide, not forever. For a time. Get things figured out. What he wants to do.
He’s closer to California than he is Utah. Los Diablos was only, what, six, seven hours away? He could hitchhike there.
Was that smart though? Heading right back to where he got caught the first time? Would they be expecting it? No, he’d have to be suicidal to do that.
Well, he was, but not like that.
They’d expect him to go east, wouldn’t they? Heading back to Los Diablos would be the stupidest thing he could do. Maybe that’s what he needs, do the unexpected. Sidestep their expectations.
He looks back at the newspaper, May 30th, 2018.
He’s just missed Ortega’s birthday.
That thought causes him to shake his head, and that leads to him to groan and press a hand to his eye. Felt like it was going to fall out with all the pressure in his head.
Thinking about Ortega was a waste of time. How many times had Ortega thought of him while he was gone? Probably none. Forgettable, unremarkable, a dirt stain on his perfect suit lapel.
Fuck. His eyes are tearing up.
The birthdays don’t matter. What matters was that it had been five years. Five years, three months, and two weeks since the Farm found him.
Five years.
Fuck.
He tucks the newspaper under his arm and retreats back to his room. He’ll think on it later, when his brain wasn’t trying to pound it way out of his skull. He’s done the things he wanted to for the day. He could rot away in his room for the rest of the day, guilt free.
-
His stomach was aching. Logically, he knew he was hungry. That if he ate, he would feel better. But the thought of eating anything just made his stomach twist more. He peeks out the window, the moon was risen, bathing the parking lot in a pale blue. The alarm clock on the table read 02:27. Too late to go out to eat, maybe there was a 24/7 delivery place open or something.
He rifles through the nightstand, pulling out take out menus from the local businesses around here. A wistful smile found its way onto his lips when he comes across Loretta’s. Ortega loved the Los Diablos branch. He wondered if it was chain, or if two different Lorettas were out following their restaurant dreams.
His mood suddenly soured as he realizes what he’s thinking. Ortega doesn’t matter, his favorite restaurants don’t matter. He needs to stop thinking about him, all it was going to do was hurt.
He grabs the phone off the receiver and dials a number. If he starts thinking about Ortega too much, things are bound to get complicated.
The phone rings twice, three times, before the line clicked alive.
“Hello?”
The voice makes him freeze. Tired, groggy. But oh so familiar.
Ortega. He had called Ortega.
His treacherous fingers and traitorous subconscious was out to get him. They typed in Ortega’s number instead of the restaurant.
Idiot. Fucking idiot.
“..Hello?” Ortega says again
For one dangerous moment he’s about to speak. To ask for help, tell him where he is, tell him to come get him. The phone trembles in his hand, would Ortega recognize his voice? Would he come to help him? Or would he had no idea who he was? Maybe he just wouldn’t care. He had never cared, the Farm, at least, had showed him that.
But why was he trusting the Farm?
They speak at the same time.
“Ricardo?”
“How did you get-“
Both of them go quiet. He can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The silence stretches on for an unbearable amount of time. The phone begins to rattle in his hands.
“Ry-“
He slams the phone back down on the receiver, hands shaking.
What the fuck? Was he an idiot?
Of course he was, what a fool he was, calling the man who he-
No. No. It doesn’t matter what they were, only that they are nothing to each other now. Ortega doesn’t care, he couldn’t, it’s been too long and he doesn’t care either. He’d gotten away from the Farm by himself, and he would figure out what to do without Ortega’s help.
The phone rang, loud and shrill, causing him to jump to his feet, as if he was being attacked. He scurries away from it, turning to face the far wall, as if the phone could be answered by just him looking at it.
For a long, terrifying moment, he fears the motel didn’t have a voicemail system, that the phone would just keep ringing until dawn. But it cuts off after a few more rings, and he doesn’t waste time before yanking the phone off the hook, pulling the nightstand away from the wall, then ripping the cord out of the wall port.
He wasn’t hungry anymore. Just filled with enough tremors to make crawling back into bed a difficult task.
Fucking idiot.
Fuck.
-
“You look more tired than usual.” Wei says
“Oh, thank you for that. Always nice to hear such a compliment first thing in the morning.” Ortega replies
“You know what I mean.” Wei says, busying himself with the coffee maker, “Something bothering you?”
Ortega leans a hip against the counter, “I got a phone call last night.”
“From who?”
He doesn’t say it. That he heard Ryker’s voice on the other end of the line. He knows exactly what look Wei would give him if he told him that. He was a mess for a full two years after Ryker died. Saw him in strangers, heard him on buses. Even year three was rough, would talk to his ghost at diners before he evaporated into nothing. Even this last year wasn’t his best. Most days he was all right. But every once and a while, he’d be right back to day one.
But he checked the call log, it was still in his history.
Could’ve just been a wrong number, and he just thought he heard Ryker. There’s no way he’s still alive… right?
“I don’t know, that’s the thing.” He lies, “No one replied when I answered, just hung up when I asked how they got the number.”
“Huh.” Wei says, brows furrowing in thought. “And?”
“I called back, but they didn’t answer, so I looked the number up and it came from some Motel in Carson City, Nevada.”
“Nevada?”
“Yeah- so I called the motel, and they told me the number was for room seven, but that they didn’t currently have a guest staying there.”
Wei rubs his jaw as he thinks, “Strange.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you try calling it again?”
“This morning, yeah. But just cuts immediately now, says the numbers unavailable and to try again later.”
The coffee maker sputters out the rest of Chen’s drink before shutting off. He takes the mug and sips it, mind still considering possibilities. “What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know. But it doesn’t sit right with me.” Ortega says
That makes Wei smile, “I don’t think anything’s ever sat right with you.”
“True.” Ortega barks a laugh, “But I’ve got a hunch there’s something going on here. Just need to do a little digging.” Wei throws him a concerned look, and Ortega is quick to wave it off, “Don’t worry, I won’t do anything crazy.”
“I don’t think you can really promise that.”
-
He didn’t sleep well. Hadn’t slept well for… well, his entire life, if he was honest. But this was worse. He could only manage a few minutes at a time, and even those were riddled with flashbacks and nightmares.
And regrets. Why did he say anything on the phone? Why didn’t he say more? Why doesn’t he plug the phone back in?
Fuck. Whatever. It happened, so now it was just time to move forward.
The migraine was still there, not helping matters. He hasn’t had a migraine last so long since the nano surge, but he supposed after what he went through to get out, he shouldn’t be surprised.
He inches back the curtain and sighs when the sun streams through. So it was 8:16 in the morning, not at night. Good. He could find somewhere serving breakfast, maybe find a map and see if he could decided whether he was going east or west. Maybe find a way to get some painkillers, get back to being semi-functional.
Once again, the sun made his head feel like it was about to explode, but he stalks off towards the street anyways. The heat was impressive, but nothing like that in Los Diablos, the sweat clinging to his back had little to do with the temperature.
He only had to walk a few blocks before he found himself standing in front of Loretta’s. The open sign blinking on and off, the inside almost completely empty. The place was downright dingy, on brink of closing, no way it was connected with the one in Los Diablos. Good. That was good.
..Right?
He walks inside, the hostess’ eyes glazes over when she looks at him, “This way.” She says, grabbing a menu and leading him to the corner table that gave him a good view of the restaurant.
Maybe his migraine would go away if he’d stop using his powers.
But this was all necessary. Not like he could just let people remember him. No, he had to do this. He scans the menu, and tells the waitress what he wanted when she comes by, unable to block out her concerned thoughts for him. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. And maybe there was some truth to that. Malnourished too, she wondered if he was homeless, dirty clothes, but clean skin, so access to a shower but not a clothes washer. Lots of scars, maybe a veteran.
Perceptive little thing, wasn’t she? He snips the observations in half, the change in thoughts so abrupt that she gets a slight headache, and he urges her to hurry and go put his order in. She has better things to do than think about her customers, like see if she still had some painkillers in her purse for this growing headache.
He lites up a cigarette, then rubs his forehead. How long had he been here? At least three days, probably longer, he had spend a long time just laying in bed, the tv spewing nonsense when the trucker he hitch hiked with dropped him off here. At the time, he didn’t care which was he was going, as long as it was away. He should get moving soon. It was dangerous to spend too long in one place so soon after his escape.
He’d spend one more night here. Get a move on in the morning.
When the server returns with his drink, she also sets down a bottle of pills. Just the ibuprofen from her purse, probably wouldn’t touch his migraine, but he’d try it anyways.
“Is there..” his voice is thick and raw, he hadn’t used it in any real capacity in a long time, and he found that he didn’t recognize it for a moment. The acid from his vomit only made things worse. “Is there somewhere I can get a map?” He asks
“Sure-“ her mind lit up with the image of a corner store on the other side of the block. Has a gift shop on one side that carries maps and knick-knacks, “there’s-“
He stops listening, her mind already filled in the blanks, no need to listen to the words. “Thanks.” He mutters when she fell silent
“No problem, I’ll be right back with your food.”
He shook out a few pills and washes them down with his drink, then went back to smoking his cigarette.
The corner store would have a map, should have some pain killers too, just over the counter things, but they’d make a dent in his migraine. He’d figure out more when he got there.
-
Ortega was leaning on his bike at a gas station just off the exit of the freeway to his mamá’s ranch, waiting for the pump to finish. He’d taken a long weekend to go visit her, since he wasn’t able to come down for his birthday last week. A small time villain, Strike, had done a lot more damage during a bank heist gone wrong than any of them were expecting. It had been a good team building experience, at least, with the new guy on the team, Herald. Ortega had learned exactly how much they needed to work on team building exercises with both him and Lady Argent.
While not a complete disaster, there were a lot of moments that could have gone better. They were lucky the PR team was so skilled, brought that mess down from a clusterfuck to a close victory for the Rangers. The resulting fallout made him and Wei swamped in paperwork for an obscene amount of time. He hadn’t been able to escape for the birthday party his planned, but at least he could take a long weekend to visit her now.
He sighs, thinking about how it would’ve been solved in an hour if Sidestep had been there. No paperwork would have been needed, probably wouldn’t have had half the casualties. He closes his eyes, five years, three months- he stops the thought in its tracks. He isn’t supposed to be counting the days anymore. He therapist would be proud of him for stopping himself before he reached the answer.
His mind goes back to the phone call.
Was that Ryker’s voice on the phone? No way. It’s been five years. Why would he be calling him? Dead people can’t call their old boyfriend’s. Wishful thinking. It had to be.
He’d never gotten a phone call though. Always in person. Always in a crowd or with his back turned. Sometimes he could talk to him, until he asked how he survived, and Ryker would tell him he didn’t, and the illusion would be over.
It’s been a while since he’d seen him. Thought he was doing better, but recovery wasn’t always a straight line.
Even if he hallucinated Ryker’s voice, someone still called him from that motel. Then wouldn’t call him back. If it was truly a mistake, why not answer the call back and explain? Why disconnect the phone number? Something wasn’t right here.
It was a mystery.
He abhorred mysteries.
The nozzle clicks closed and he replaces the pump, fingers drumming on the gas tank as he thinks. His wasn’t expecting him until late, and Carson City was only a two hour drive from here. An hour, with how he drove. He could go knock on room seven’s door, see who called him, face to face.
Dangerous.
Stupid.
But intriguing.
He put his helmet back on and turned his bike towards the freeway.
-
Nothing had touched the migraine. He wonders if there was a pharmacy nearby, get something with some actual strength behind it, without destroying his liver as fast. He’d do that in the morning, find a pharmacy and then a ride. He stared the map a little longer, was it better to go to a big city, get lost in the people? He wouldn’t stick out as much there, if he went to a small town, he’d be easier to spot once someone tracked him down.
And if went back to Los Diablos, he’d have access to his old contacts. But then he’d run the risk of the Rangers finding out he was alive. That’d be almost as bad as the Farm finding him.
He checks the time, a few restaurants should still be open. He’d go and get something to eat for dinner, bring back some left overs and nurse his headache a little more then get ready to leave. He’d decide on whether he was east or west on whichever way the person who picked him was going. Leave the decision to someone else.
-
Ortega pulls into the parking lot, cut the engine to his bike and kicks out the stand in front of the office. He pulls off his helmet as he enters, making sure to run a hand through his hair with a charming grin that made the girl behind the counter bite her lip.
“Hello! Can I help you get settled in?” She asks
Ortega leans on the counter, glancing down at her name tag, “I’d love that, Stella. Tell me, you get a lot of people passing through here?”
She giggles, blush rising on her cheeks just from his smile, “Not particularly. Mostly just truckers or people hitch hiking.”
“Huh. You must see a lot of characters then.” He replies
“Like you wouldn’t believe!”
“Oh yeah?” He prompts, “Seen anyone interesting lately?”
“Oh my- there was this lady a few weeks ago, must have been modded, but the way she moved? Like a looney-toon, it was so strange!”
He laughs along with her, tries a couple other questions, but she only talks about people she saw weeks ago, none recently. Nothing that would help him with his mystery caller. “So, how much for a room?” He asks. She tucks the hair behind her ear, eyes sparkling, as she tells him the rates. He’s on the far side of thirty, but still got it.
“I can put you in room three-“ she says
“Wait, sorry,” he flashes her a grin, “seven is my lucky number- any way I can get that one?”
“Sure!” She rings him up and then spins around to get into the key cabinet. Ortega notices it before she does- the key for room seven is gone. His eyes dart down to the master key sitting next to the keyboard, and he snatches it just as her eyebrows furrow and she turns back around to check the computer. She types a few things and frowns.
“Something wrong?” Ortega asks, he thinks he got his hands out of sight in time, but better to make sure.
“No, it’s just…” she hesitates, “There’s no one staying there, but I think it’s off limits right now for…” she clicks through a few tabs, “Looks like it’s closed for renovations.”
“Renovations?”
This felt familiar. When he went to clear out Ryker’s apartment, the ancient landlady had said something similar. Step wasn’t actually renting the apartment, but he had her thinking it was locked up in renovations for years.
Maybe it was really closed for renovations.
Or maybe there was a telepath staying there.
Maybe Ryker was staying there.
He feels his hands start to get sweaty. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, but there was too many things that seemed like something Ryker would do. What if he was here? Against all odds?
“Yes. Happens sometimes, with old building like this. If you want, I can set you up in room six? There’s already a couple in eight, so six is the best I can do.”
“Six is fine, thank you.” He says, then thinks for a moment. “Say, has anything strange happen around here lately?”
“Strange?” She repeats, “Like what?”
“Like things disappearing or people getting sudden headaches?”
He can tell she thinks it’s a strange question, but when he smiles so sweetly at her, she blushes and answers “You know, yeah. Anne had to leave early the other day from a headache. And the register was short for the first time in a while, but that was probably just someone with sticky fingers. Don’t exactly have the best coworkers, if I’m honest.”
“Who does, right?” He says, she hands him the key to his room and he smiles at her as he leaves. He beelines to room seven, knocking on the door, but there’s no answer, no movement in the room. He presses his ear to the door, listening for a long moment before knocking again.
He had to know. Had to.
-
The knock freezes him to the core. He didn’t sense anyone with the intent of approaching his door. He throws his mind out, but his powers slide off the static brain outside.
Static.
His heart threatens to burst out of his chest, the Farm was here. He’s been here too long. He wasn’t in good enough shape to fight, the only windows were next to the door. Fuck. What was he going to do?
He inches off the bed, being careful not to make any noise. There had to be something he could use as a weapon. He hears a key slide into the lock. Fuck, there wasn’t any time.
As soon as the door swings open, he launches the lamp at the opening. The man behind the door has the reflexes to raise an arm, but the body of the lamp is made of glass, and shatters on impact. He doesn’t waste time, he tackles the man out of the way, he goes down hard, weighs more than Ryker would have thought, and he barely dodges out of the way of his arms before the man can get a hold on him. He rolls off and starts sprinting across the parking lot.
“Ryker!”
A name.
His name.
He doesn’t have a name at the Farm, just a number.
He spins around to look at the man.
And it’s Ortega.
Ortega.
Standing at the edge of the parking lot.
Blood trickling down his forehead from the lamp.
He doesn’t know what to do.
Flight, fight or freeze.
He’s frozen.
-
Ryker stands completely still in the middle of the parking lot, staring at him like he’s the one who’s the illusion. He’s skinny, face is gaunt, skin is ashen, like he hasn’t seen the sun in years. He hasn’t been eating well, he’s lost almost all the muscle mass he’d gained from when he was Sidestep. His hair was shaved, just a few days worth of growth from a buzz cut. Old, but new to him, scars on the right side of his face, thick and gnarled.
Were they from the fall? The scene flashes so clearly in his mind. Ryker falling, almost in slow motion, but hitting the sidewalk too fast. There wasn’t as much blood as he would have thought, but it started pooling immediately. He heard the bones in his arms snap as he tried to catch himself. He had smacked the right side of his head on the sidewalk.
Ryker was staring at him, still as a predator, but he could see the fear in his eyes from here. He raised his hands slowly, open palmed, afraid if he took a step towards him, he’d bolt. “Ryker…” his voice is as soft as he can make it while still being loud enough to be heard. “It’s me, it’s Ricardo.”
Ryker’s eyes don’t leave him, “You’re here?”
“Yeah- I’m here.”
“You’re not.” His voice is shaky, thick, like it hasn’t been used in years. “You can’t be.”
“I am.” He says, “Come here, I’ll show you.” He takes a step forward and Ryker takes one back, so Ortega stops, thinking, how to convince him? “You tackled me. You felt me, I’m real. I’m here.”
The office door opens, but the worker just walks by with the trash. Ryker presses a hand to his head, he already looked rough, he must be redirecting everyone’s attention from them. He must have the migraine of the century.
“Come here, Rye. Take my hand.”
“Did they send you?” He asks, “How’d you know I was here?”
“No one sent me. No one knows I’m here. You called me. I thought I heard your voice on the phone and I’m paranoid, I came to check it out.”
“You drove eight hours over a phone call?”
“If it meant you might be on the other end of it?” He asks, “Of course I did.”
Ryker still doesn’t move towards him, but he lets his gaze drop as he presses his hands to forehead. Shoulders are bunched up to his ears, tension throughout his body. They stand in silence for a while, until Ryker starts laughing. Broken, manic, sounds insane.
“You would drive eight hours over a fucking hunch.” He says and then looks back at him, seeming to relax a fraction at the fact that Ortega didn’t move while his eyes were off him.
He sends Ryker an uneasy grin, and holds out his hands, inviting Ryker to come closer. The other man hesitates for a moment, but then crosses the parking lot to stand in front of him. Ortega doesn’t move, waiting for Ryker to reach out for his hands.
He assesses him one more time, like he’s waiting for Ortega to to jump at him. He slowly puts one of his hands in Ortega’s. His fingers are cold, long and thin, nails broken down into nubs, knuckles bruised and cut up. Ortega drops his gaze to their hands, letting Ryker set the pace. The last thing he wants to do is spook him, send him running away, far enough that Ortega would never find him again.
Suddenly Ryker’s in his arms, face pressed into his neck, arms wrapped around his waist, shivering against him. Ortega runs his hands down his back, he feels so fragile, he can feel his spine through his shirt, feel his ribs, he’s lost so much weight. His hands go through his hair, so short, so much shorter than he used to wear it. The tears blur his vision, he can’t stop them from running down his cheeks.
Ryker’s here.
I’m his arms.
Alive.