Chapter Text
You're putting your long brown hair into a messy bun when your mom comes in with a serious look on her face.
"Sit down," she says. She looks tired, like in her bones. It’s the kind of tired that comes from being broke and broken and running out of options.
"Your father left me a lot of debt," she starts, and you can already feel the "but" coming. There's always a "but."
"But?" you say, because you're helpful like that.
"But I found a way to fix it."
She says it like she's won the lottery. And then she tells you she's sold you. Just like that. “I sold you to a group of investors who are very interested in what you have to offer.”
You think she's joking, but she’s not joking.
"Mom, are you fucking serious right now?" you say. (You don't normally curse at your mother, but desperate times call for desperate measures.) "You can't just sell me. That's like... that's illegal. That's kidnapping. That's—"
"It's a binding contract," she says, and she pulls out a stack of papers that look very official and very real. "They're coming to pick you up in an hour. Pack a bag."
You want to run. You want to scream. You want to call the police and tell them that your mother has lost her god damn mind. But somehow you find yourself upstairs in your room, throwing clothes into a backpack like you're on autopilot. Your hands move on their own. Your brain is still trying to catch up with the reality of what's happening. By the time you hear the car pull up outside, you've packed a backpack with basically everything that matters to you.
The car is a black sedan, sleek and expensive and completely terrifying. Four guys get out, and they all look at you like you're a problem they've been hired to solve. The one with sandy hair and tired eyes seems to be in charge. The one with dark skin and a scar running down his face is standing slightly behind the leader, watching. The blonde one with cold, pale eyes is practically vibrating with barely contained aggression. The one carrying a leather notebook looks apologetic, which is somehow worse than the others.
The sandy-haired one steps forward. His name is Ray Garraty. Your mother had mentioned it in passing, like she was introducing you to your new guardian instead of selling you like livestock. He looks at you with something between apology and resignation, like he's already lived with this guilt for a long time.
"Hi," he says quietly. "I'm Ray. We need to get going, but first, do you have everything you need? Your phone? ID? Clothes?"
"Yeah," you say, because what else are you going to say? Your voice sounds smaller than you expected it to.
"Okay. We're going to be driving for about four hours, so get comfortable. We're not going to hurt you. I need you to understand that."
You look down at the backpack in your hands. You've already packed everything you own that matters: clothes, your phone (which you're pretty sure they're going to confiscate anyway), your favorite book with pages so worn they're falling apart, your entire life compressed into twenty pounds of fabric and zippers. Your fingers are shaking when you grip the straps.
The one with the notebook, Richard Harkness, introduces himself with a nervous sort of politeness, offering you a small apologetic smile as he writes something down. You can't see what. Probably something like ‘Subject appears compliant. Height: [estimate]. Build: [estimate]. Emotional state: traumatized.’ His glasses catch the light when he moves, reflecting it back at you so you can't quite see his eyes. He's got dark hair and the kind of careful posture that suggests he's spent most of his life trying not to take up too much space. When he looks at you, there's something almost apologetic in his expression. It doesn't help. It actually makes it worse.
"Let's go," Ray says, more to the others than to you.
You drive for four hours. The route takes you through increasingly unfamiliar territory, out of your town, away from anything you recognize. You sit in the back seat between Harkness and the boy with the scar. His name is Peter McVries, and he presses himself against the window like you're contagious. He's got the kind of face that was probably beautiful before whatever happened to create that scar, and now there's something in his expression that suggests he doesn't really care what he looks like anymore. One of his eyes seems to look slightly off-focus, like part of him has already left his body. He won't make eye contact with you. Every time you try to catch his gaze, he shifts, turns his head,and finds something more interesting to look at out the window.
"Where are we going?" you ask.
"Somewhere safe," McVries says quietly, and he doesn't sound like he's lying, but he also doesn't sound like he believes it. His voice is thin, almost whispered. "Or something like that."
Barkovitch drives with one hand, the other resting on the steering wheel with the casual confidence of someone who's never had to worry about anything in his life. The radio is playing Taylor Swift in the background. You only recognize it because the popular kids at school always play it. You’re more into deep music with actual meaning, like Lana Del Rey and The 1975.
Finally, you reach your destination. It's not like, a regular big house. It's a mansion. The kind of place that only exists in movies, in the fever dreams of people who've never had to worry about money. It's all white columns and manicured gardens and probably has more bathrooms than your old house had rooms.
"Welcome to your new home," Ray says. It's not a threat the way it would be if Barkovitch had said it. It's just sad.
You get out of the car on shaky legs, and that's when you see them.
There are more guys waiting on the porch, and they're all looking at you like they've been anticipating your arrival the way you might anticipate a package in the mail.
The first one is leaning against the railing with a cigarette burning between his fingers. His skin is tan, and his face has the kind of bone structure that suggests he's been through things. His eyes are flat and empty in a way that suggests he's made peace with whatever horrors he's seen or committed. This one is Collie Parker, and he's smiling at you the way a shark smiles at something that's just bled into the water.
The second one is practically vibrating with energy, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he might explode from sheer enthusiasm. His name is Hank Olson. He's got shaggy black hair and a face that's trying very hard to be charming, but there's something wrong about it. Something that suggests his enthusiasm is less about excitement and more about the prospect of something to toy with, like a cat with a mouse. He looks at you with the kind of hunger that has nothing to do with food.
The third one is watching quietly from the shadows of the porch, leaning back against the wall like he's not even part of this. Arthur Baker, though everyone calls him Art. He's tall and broad-shouldered in a way that makes you think he could probably hurt you if he wanted to, but he's also got this stillness about him that convinces you he wouldn’t actually hurt a fly. He's dark-skinned, with eyes that are assessing you the way a hunter might assess their prey. The scariest part is that you can't tell what he's thinking. You can't read him at all.
The fourth one is standing slightly apart from the rest. He has pale blonde hair that’s cut short, with an expression that suggests he's somewhere else entirely, lost in thoughts you'll never have access to. His name is Billy Stebbins. He's got the kind of physical build that suggests he could probably walk forever, effortlessly, and there's something about the way he's positioned himself that makes you think he knows something the others don't. He's watching you with an intensity that's almost clinical. When your eyes meet his, he doesn't look away. He just keeps staring until you have to break the contact first.
All of them are looking at you like you're the most important thing that's happened to them in months.
You're still trying to process everything when Ray Garraty steps forward. He moves slowly, like he's trying not to startle you, and when he reaches you, his hand extends in a formal greeting. His palm is warm when you shake it, and his grip is gentle.
"I'm... I'm sorry about all of this. I know that doesn't mean anything, but I am."
You don't know what to say to that. You don't know what to say to any of this.
Behind him, Hank Olson’s grin is so wide it looks like his face might split in two. "Oh man, this is going to be amazing," he's saying to no one in particular. "Wait until you see the house! Wait until you see the setup! This is going to be the best—"
"Shut the fuck up, Olson," Collie Parker says, not looking up from his cigarette.
And that's when Art Baker steps forward.
He doesn't say anything. He just walks up to you slowly, his tall frame blocking out the light, and reaches out to touch your face with one massive hand. His thumb brushes your cheekbone so gently it's almost tender, and somehow that's the scariest thing that's happened all day. Because tenderness, here, in this context, feels like a threat. It feels like a promise of something you don't want to know about.
"We're going to take good care of you," he says. His voice is deep and calm and doesn't contain a single note of reassurance.
And you realize, in that moment, that you have no idea what you've been sold into.