You could confess to being Garrett Helton X right now and end it all. It's always a temptation around him. Like moving your finger closer to the flame, feeling the heat but not the burn. Not yet.
But you could. It's your choice.
One you choose to put off for the time being.
You need somewhere to look that's not him, so you look over at the board. Tangled webs, threads going back and forth, and a black silhouette with a question mark in the center. Hollow Ground. The mythical kingpin of Los Diablos and the one that killed Marshal Hood, Ortega's mentor.
Dangerous. Possibly fictional. A name or a title? One individual or several in succession? Hard to tell when nobody knows their face.
Not a topic for a conversation you want to start with Ortega right now, he'd try to rope you in to help. Instead, your eyes settle on a different photograph. It's not connected to anything else, as far as you see, but it's heavily wrinkled. It's a familiar look; Ortega must have crumpled the picture and then smoothed it out. Probably more than once.
"Who's this?" you ask, leaning in to take a closer look. It's a stocky Black man with graying hair. You don't recognize him, but the style of the picture is familiar. This is from a byline. Is this a reporter? In pen, Ortega has scrawled: "Vernon Browne, LD Confidential."
"An asshole," Ortega groans. "A retired asshole."
"I like him already," you say, picking up on the chance to lighten the mood.
"You wouldn't. He's a reporter. Was a reporter." There's a twitch on his face that you know well enough to interpret as pain. "After you…died, he kept badgering us. Me."
"I don't get the feeling that ended well." Not from the look of it.
"I punched him. On national television." You're not sure if Ortega is embarrassed or proud about that. "At your funeral." A soft laugh. "I quit the next week. Think they would have fired me otherwise. For being 'unprofessional and irrational.'" The quotation marks he makes with his fingers are sharp like daggers.
"I had a funeral?" You can't help the words slipping out, even though the question reveals more than you want to. Of course, they would have a funeral for you. Just because you never thought you were worth more than being tossed on the garbage heap doesn't mean they thought the same. They had thought you were worthy of respect.
"Of course you did." Ortega looks a bit offended by the implication. "I told you that when I met you again in that diner."
"You surprised me." You rub your forehead. Surprised is an understatement. Shocked, more like it. "It was a bit of a blur."
"I know." His face softens. "And I can understand the confusion. I mean, we didn't have a body for either of you, but that doesn't mean we were just going to forget."
"Either of us?" It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but Ortega is already filling in the blanks.
"You and Anathema." The pain is still fresh on his face. As it is in your gut. How could you forget about Themmy? How wrapped up in yourself are you? "They told us all the bodies were burned to stop possible infection, so we didn't have anything. And then that asshole shows up to drag up—"
"Dragging up what?" You have frozen solid, but you keep the faint smile on your face. Don't let anything show. Good thing you've got practice by now.
"He was a conspiracy theorist." Ortega looks away. "Started ranting about all sorts of nonsense. I can't remember half the things he said, just that he did it at the wrong time."
"Thank you, I suppose." You're not sure if that's the right move, but it feels right.
"For making a mess at your funeral?" Ortega blinks a little too hard.
"For caring enough to make a mess." Is he tearing up? You need to change the subject fast.
"That's always been my talent," he admits. "Even before I joined the Rangers."
"Speaking of which…" This is a good moment to broach this subject. "I know this isn't my place to say, and I'm not really up-to-date with everything that's happening here, but…" You pause briefly, exaggerating the hesitation. You need to sell this well. "Is something going on with the Rangers?"
"What are you talking about?" Ortega looks relieved to leave the past behind for now.
"I can't be the only one noticing that you don't work as a team anymore. You're off on your own investigations, Herald's mostly running press interference, Steel's got his marshal duties, and Lady Argent…" You give him a quizzical look. "She's working with vigilantes?"
"She is," Ortega admits with a grimace. "I can't say I approve, but with Steel busy upgrading his armor, she goes her own way. I can hardly fault her for it."
"Because you used to do the same." You caught his look; there was no mistaking it. Once upon a time, you were the vigilante. Now you're a villain far too interested in learning more about Steel's upgraded armor. Too bad you can't ask without looking suspicious.
"And I'm too busy to be there for her."
"What are you doing that's so important?"
"Working on the same project I've been working on for years."
"Oh no…" You hide a groan.
"Don't give me that look; you know Hollow Ground needs to be brought down." He gives you a careful look, judging your response.
"Hollow Ground has been your obsession for as long as I've known you. Isn't it time to let go?"
"How could I?" Ortega asks, face grim. "They killed Marshal Hood. John was my friend. He deserves closure."
"He's dead; he won't care one way or the other." You never met Hood; the former marshal died before you arrived on the scene. "You're the one that's risking your neck." Hollow Ground has been running the Los Diablos criminal underground for decades. They are a legend. A myth.
Most people would claim they don't exist at all, that it's just a title used by the current top dog. Chen is one of them, which is why Ortega's crusade has remained a lonely one.
"I can't let this one rest," Ortega says, and you know it's true. Too stubborn. Too invested.
"Don't you think that if the city really wanted them taken down, it would have happened by now?" You can't count the number of times Ortega clashed with the mayor back when you were still a hero. Chasing ghosts was not cost-effective.
"Not this again…" The groan is familiar, as is this argument.
"You're naive, Ricardo." If there ever were a true statement, that was it. "Hollow Ground gives stability to this city, and as long as they do, the law's not going to bother."
"Which is why I'm doing this on my own." He keeps looking at you, daring you to disagree.
"Which is why you're getting nowhere."
"Want to help me?" The question is light, almost teasing, but you can see in his eyes that he's serious.