Chapter Text
Porsche’s life changes on a nondescript Tuesday in February.
Tuesday nights aren't a big draw at the bar so Yok usually has them open a couple hours earlier so they don't stay open (and empty) too late into the night. That’s not typically a problem for Porsche but on this particular Tuesday, he’d been in the ring trying to scrape a few extra dollars from his body well into the wee hours of the morning and then stayed up to give Porchay a ride to school, which means he's barely managed 4 hours of sleep by the time he needs to be up again for a grocery run so he can start dinner.
He chooses to blame the lack of sleep for what happens next.
Porsche settles into the couch to watch some TV for a few minutes after dinner and it's a bad idea. He drifts off accidentally and is startled and confused to find Chay standing over him yelling about his alarm and getting dressed. Porsche reaches blearily for his phone, sees the time on the alarm and all but sprints out of the couch. He’s still running late ten minutes later when he’s jumping onto his bike.
As a matter of fact, he blames both things, the running late and the sleeplessness, for the fact that he doesn't notice the other bike trailing him. He blames them for the fact that he doesn’t realise until it’s too late that the other bike has overtaken him and is blocking the exit of the alleyway he actively tries to avoid, except when he's running late enough that his smile will not save him from Yok's wrath. Even his reflexes, honed by years of fighting, is barely enough to ensure he has space to skid to a stop before he slams into the other rider. The bike over balances with how suddenly he breaks, dumping him hard onto old, tore up asphalt.
He blames both things for not realising that another bike has pulled up behind him when he jumps up, whipping off his helmet to get in the first guy's face for pulling some reckless bullshit, and he blames both things for him getting tasered by the asshat behind him.
Fucking Tuesdays.
***********************
Porsche stares at his mangled reflection in the polished chrome of the desk for lack of anything better to do. He has a small cut above his left eye and an impressive bruise forming high on the same cheek from where he hit the ground, but apart from that he's in better condition than he would have expected at the beginning of the night.
Porsche sighs out loud, glaring at the dark eye of the camera watching him from the corner of the room. He knows this is all a part of the game, the waiting. Hoping to psych him out or some shit, but given that he isn't even sure who has picked him up, he's trying his best to be patient… not a quality he's particularly known for.
There is a bottle of water and a pack of gum sitting at the end of the table that he has not touched, even though he's fucking parched and thinks the gum could give his irritability some kind of outlet. He'd fucking kill for a cigarette but they took his pack along with his lighter (and the small switchblade he always keeps on his person) when he was searched before they tossed him in here.
He knows they want him to think they are Bangkok P.D. but he's smarter than that. They were all armed with Berettas and while some in the metropolitan police could afford them instead of the M1911, not this many. Not in these numbers.
That thought sends the worry he's been trying to control spiralling, as he pictures Chay getting home from school later today to find a permanently empty house. Porsche's breathing picks up as he thinks about what the future would look like for his 17-year-old brother alone and feels the walls starting to close in on him.
"Ok, so you drag me here to just leave me sitting here holding my balls while you watch?! What kind of fucked up, kinky shit is this?!" Porsche shouts, glaring at the camera.
Nothing happens. The door remains stubbornly closed. He doesn't even hear anyone moving outside.
"I'm not worth anything!" He tries again. "No one's going to give you a payday to return me. If kidnapping's your gig you made a fucking mistake!"
Still no response. Porsche huffs, throwing himself back into the chair and crossing his arms. Fucking fine. He can wait.
*********************
He doesn't know how much time has passed when he jerks back to awareness, but it feels like hours going by that tight, achy feeling in his head that says it has been way too long since he's had any water. Porsche thinks it's probably early afternoon now and he had been taken on his way to work last night.
In that time he's walked the borders of his cage enough to know that the walls are sturdier than they look, no cheap plaster to be found here. He's tried to pick the lock on the door, saying fuck you loudly to whoever was on the other end of the camera, and when that had failed he'd thrown himself against the door enough times that his whole left side is now a vibrant shade of purple-ish blue. He'd thought about ripping the camera out of the wall, but it was just high enough that he couldn't pack enough of a punch to damage it when he tried on his own, and the god-forsaken chair and table were bolted down.
Porsche sighs, rolling the tension out of his neck and back as he pushes up from the floor where he'd bunked down for whatever sleep he could get. He stretches languidly and considers peeing in the corner just to spite his captors but thinks better of it.
He'd probably just be left in the room with the acrid scent of piss to stew in.
He tilts his head, looking contemplatively at the idle bottle of water. He strolls over to the table, taking the bottle into his hands and sitting heavily on the corner of the table as he examines it. He's thirsty, but he doesn't trust that the water hasn't been tampered with. He'd like to think he'd be able to tell the difference, somehow be able to see if the seal had been damaged, but he has no clue. He looks at the closed packet of gum, then over his shoulder at the camera, making up his mind.
Never let it be said that he's not the pettiest motherfucker when he wants to be.
It takes him a minute to figure out that if he stacks his shoes on top of each other and stands on them, he’s just tall enough to reach the camera on his tip toes. It takes him another minute of scratching around with the bottle cap before he gets it hooked into the plastic case well enough to pry the camera open. He smiles.
***********************
It’s not ten minutes later that the door finally swings open. Porsche scowls.
Two men come in first, flanking the door, guns drawn. They are clearly security for the next man that walks in. He’s tall, probably taller than Porsche, and well-dressed in a dark blue suit with a white shirt unbuttoned to his mid-chest. He walks into the room like he owns it, stride long and graceful. Another man runs in behind him with a chair that is placed on the other side of the desk. The tall man keeps his dark eyes locked on Porsche, face impassive as his little servant wais deeply and scurries off.
Before the man sits, he walks over to examine the now-destroyed camera. Once Porsche had gotten the case off, he had taken great pleasure in not just ripping the wires out, but also in covering them all in gum. The pack sits at his side, mostly empty. He’d made the decision that if the gum was drugged, this was worth it.
The man looks at the carnage, then turns his disapproving gaze unto Porsche.
“Was this really necessary?” he intones.
“Got your attention didn’t it?”
The man smiles, walking back over to the desk and opening the file folder he’s carrying as he sits down.
“Porsche Pachara Kittisawat. 23 years old. Mixologist at Hum Bar. Currently in your third year at Uni but, oh-” the man looks up at him with fake sympathy. “-seems like you’ve been in your third year for a while.”
Porsche bristles. “What the fuck is this?” he growls. “You kidnap me to tell me my own fucking life story? Tell me, does your little folder say whether it’s boxers or briefs? No really, I’m interested, how deep does this file go?”
The man just smirks, completely unruffled. His calm is starting to freak Porsche out.
He reaches into the folder and starts throwing a bunch of pictures unto the table, they’re all shots of him. Coming and going to work. Getting take out. Dropping Chay off at school. Porsche stills when he comes to those shots.
“Only caretaker for a younger brother. Porchay isn’t it? Unlike you, his grades are actually something,” the man continues.
Porsche feels the blood drain out of his face. Anyone following him as closely as these guys clearly were would see Chay, he’s more than half of Porsche’s life, but Chay’s just a kid. The room seems much quieter than even a second ago. Porsche can hear every breath he’s taking, feel every minute change in the atmosphere of the room. He looks up at the man, a cold shiver working its way down his spine. He hates this asshole. Would give his left arm to be able to wipe the floor with his smug face.
“What do you want?” he grits out.
“Your life seems pretty boring, Porsche, and it would be if not for your little extracurriculars. Isn’t that right, Phoenix?”
Porsche’s eyes fall back to the table as the guy starts throwing out pictures of him in the ring, facing off against various fighters. The last picture, however, isn’t one of him fighting in the ring, it’s of him kicking the shit out of one of Booker’s guys last week. Booker organises most of the fights and Porsche is pretty sure he's connected to all manner of crazy shit. Fuck.
Porsche hangs his head and just breathes through the pure animal fear coursing through his veins. He hadn’t meant to fight them, had just stumbled on them terrorising some girl. His response had been almost instinctive. When no one had come after him for it, he figured they were too embarrassed to tell their boss who had handed them their assholes and he had just started to breathe easy again.
He grasps the edge of the desk, feeling his hand go numb with how tight he holds it before he raises his eyes to the tall man on the other side whose expression is now cold enough to chill ice.
“I see that I finally have your full attention,” he says.
“Look,” Porsche starts leaning forward, going for as much charm as he can muster up. “I honestly don’t even know what happened, ok? I heard her crying and I just acted. I-I meant no disrespect. You can tell Booker that I’ll forfeit my winnings from my next fight, ok? Hell, my next 3 fights.” Porsche doesn’t like to beg or bargain with these assholes, but he likes them having pictures of Chay a lot less.
The man’s cruel face drops into a deadly smile.
“You think I work for Booker? Tell me, Porsche, does this operation seem like it’s on his level?”
Porsche eyes him carefully before looking over at the two guards still flanking the door, once again holding their berettas. Yeah, Booker’s men carry revolvers when they can afford guns.
“Not really, no.”
The smile slips into something more genuine but no less dangerous.
“I wasn’t sent by Booker, Porsche. I wasn’t sent by your debt collectors. I wasn’t sent by anyone. I’m here to offer you a job really,” tall guy says, leaning back and seemingly settling into a comfortable sprawl.
“Offer me a job,” Porsche repeats, disbelief dripping from his voice. The guy shrugs, face contorting into a fake 'considering' expression.
“Offer may not be the right term. That insinuates you have a choice in the matter.”
There is a throbbing starting low in the back of Porsche’s head that is keeping time with his heartbeat. He’s scared and confused and doesn’t have a single fucking clue what is going on.
“You see, the company I work for recruits people with…. special skills. The kind of skills that are hard to teach and train. Skills that make you a survivor. We recruit these people and make them even better. Ensure they can put these skills to the best use.”
Porsche is sure he must have hit his head really, really hard when he was taken. That’s the only explanation for this. It must be a delusion. An incredibly complex, fucked up delusion. Porsche opens his mouth, dry lips cracking as they pull apart from each other.
“And what if I say no to this job?” he asks quietly.
The guy tuts sadly and throws out one final picture. It’s of one of Booker’s guys being dragged from the River, neck held at an unnatural angle, police milling around the scene.
“That would be an unfortunate choice,” the guy starts, voice compellingly concerned. “ See this young man was found this morning, dead after an apparent assault last week, and it seems that you are the primary suspect. Oh I'm sorry-" the guy chuckles lightly, "-I mean you will be the primary suspect.”
Porsche grabs the picture, fingers scrabbling at the table for a moment before they get a good hold. He stares at it, looking for something that says it's fake or staged. Something that shows it’s manipulated.
“I-I didn’t. They were both alive when I left them. I wouldn’t- I mean I've never-”
“Sh, Sh. It’s ok. I know that and you know that. And if you come with me, the police will know that too. If you don’t, Porchay will see you in 25 years with good behaviour if you’re lucky, but I wouldn’t count on being lucky. Turns out this guy was a corrupt cop. You know how Bangkok P.D. gets when it’s one of their own.”
Porsche thought he was panicking before, but it's nothing compared to what he’s feeling now. He pushes away from the desk, flinging himself bodily out of the chair. He paces for a minute, forcing his breathing to slow and pushing hard at his eyes with the heel of his hand until he can no longer feel the tears gathering behind them. 'This can’t be real' are the only words that keep cycy through his head, but that’s not helpful because it can, and it is.
“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” Porsche whispers, his voice has gone gravelly with the weight of the fear behind it.
The man in the blue suit just shrugs again, face impassive. “The company I work for is elite. Highly selective. When we choose someone, we like to ensure their commitment is unquestionable.”
Porsche just stares at him, feeling lost. He wants to hit this guy. It wouldn’t even take much. A little misdirection and he could be over that table with his fist deep in the man’s abdomen. He could even take out his two guards with a couple of well-placed kicks. ‘If they weren’t both armed’ a voice that sounds curiously like Chay reminds him.
“What about Porchay? What about my brother?”
Blue suit leans forward. “The company has top-of-the-line benefits. Health insurance, free tuition to any college his little heart is set on, here or abroad. It even has a nice stipend. College can be very expensive after all,”
Porsche stares at him, his dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. That sounds impossible. They’d just send his little brother to school? For free? He tries to picture it, Porchay heading off to school in Hong Kong or Korea. Maybe even the UK.
“I can’t,” he stops to clear his throat. “I can’t leave him. It’s not safe. You don’t understand but he’s not-”
“Oh, you mean your debt collector issue? Consider it gone. A sign-on bonus if you will.”
Porsche doesn’t know what to say. None of this makes any sense, but even his drunkest nightmare couldn’t hold a candle to this. He stands rooted to the ground, unable to think, unable to breathe.
“This is a finite offer you know. If you have to think this hard maybe I should just-” he goes for his phone, thumbing it awake and Porsche is jumping at him immediately.
“Wait! Wait! Ok, I’ll do it,”
Blue suit smirks again, the look of a man that always knew he was going to get what he wanted and Porsche feels his stomach twist and his throat tighten. What the hell did he just get himself into?