Chapter Text
Madagio’s office has looked the exact same since the day Fit first walked into it.
It’s cold, not enough to warrant a coat but to just bring a chill to the skin. The floors are pale and white, the walls all glass and rimmed with white liners that frame the entirety of the room.
There’s no frosting to it, however, no opaqueness to muddy the figures inside or out– Just clear flat walls of crystalline glass.
The effect always makes Fit feel like he’s sitting in an aquarium tank. A tank filled with nothing but Madagio’s desk and drawers and titular man sitting center stage, flicking through his file with long tipped nails.
Fit sits across from him, always out of place in his little corner of purity and snow-white modern aesthetic with his muddied boots and scuffed and warping jeans.
Madagio flicks a hand towards him, a simple raised finger to signal for a moment of silence while he pursues his papers.
He’s heaving a file onto the desk, marked with a number and several copies of something that Fit can’t decipher.
Fit thinks, were Madagio to die, all that’d remain of him are his files. Certifications and records and bills and receipts, that’s all that’d be left of him.
There’s an amusement to thinking of him popping like a party balloon, showering all of his past-due’s to the dirt.
Though, at least he’d have something to scatter. Money , perhaps. All Fit has left is his son and a debt.
His apartment is barely his, and even if it was, it’d be nothing to write home about with the floor space being as wide as a couple arm spans.
His car lies almost dormant on the street, used only when Fit needs to run to the store or to these exact meetings– And considering how often he’s traveling with Madagio across the country for jobs, that time is almost never.
Though, none of that holds weight to him. What does, however, sits on two ends of a balancing scale; Ramón on one end as his point of pride and his debt his greatest shame. One moment he’s borrowing enough cash to pay off his rent for a month, the next he’s in too deep to pull out without crashing his world down around him.
A flat white envelope stops at Fit’s front. The desk is the same shade, a near perfect match were it not for the overheads betraying it’s edges with shadow. Fit gives it, then it’s sender, a glance.
Madagio raises a brow, “Open it. Or don’t, I suppose.” And his indifference betrays the contents immediately.
Madagio rarely has any flippant opinions on anything but Fit’s payment.
He digs his finger between the paper seal, ripping it open, pinning it in place by his prosthetic claw. Low and behold, a paystub and his check are nestled together inside.
A wash of relief runs over him– Fit had just returned from a long trip in the Flordia Keys, running interference and protection for some rich governor-elect that made his teeth grind–
The same one that landed him in the E.R. for a couple days nursing a concussion and a near-death experience with some pissed off political gunmen. Someone got a lucky shot off on his body armor and sent him face first into the pavement.
Security detail work was hard, often violent, and Fit hated it with a burning passion.
Since returning to Quesadilla, he’s been mostly stagnant, trying to stave out the time till Madagio felt ready to pay him for his work. As he usually does.
Thank fuck that the time is now. Rent is coming up and Fit knows he doesn’t have the funds for it. He turns over the paystub, running his eyes over the numbers–
His brows knit, a slow sinking sensation burrowing into his stomach. A highlighter is run through a number and percentage, a stipend taken out of his gross income. Fit’s not the best with numbers, but he knows for a fact that the simple 300 has now morphed into 700.
“Did the interest–?” He asks, voice strangling out into silence.
Madagio waves a hand, “I have to collect it somehow. It’s easier if it comes out of your paycheck.”
Fit tries not to make it too obvious that he’s grinding his jaw into dust.
How stupid does he think Fit is? Madagio offers him harder jobs with higher rewards, then in the same breath increases the interest on his growing debt so he’s being paid the same anyway.
The money is slim as well, just enough to wager groceries or rent and send a fistful of cash through the mail to his son. Never enough to live comfortably. Never enough to feel stable. He used to think he was crazy for feeling like it’d been on purpose, but now he’s certain it is.
It’d occurred to him several times to try and turn down the jobs. He had, once, put his foot down on a job that’d take him out of the country for months, where he wouldn’t be able to return to Ramón if he needed it.
And, much like Madagio does, he complied with stipulations. Fit spent the next three months in the dark about his job, not a single message coming in about alternative jobs he could do, even something small. Any chance he got to get in contact gave him the same reply; There’s nothing else right now. I’m a busy man. I have other clients.
It was the first time Fit’s account had dipped into the red, with credit debt building fast, and he’d all but broken down in the man’s voicemail inbox, begging for any sort of job and a promise that he’d be grateful for whatever came. His next assignment came less than a week later. Lucky him.
The message had been clear; Don’t say no to Madagio. His work here ends when he says so and not a moment sooner.
Which leaves him with the frightening question that's keeping him up at night; Why make his life harder if he’s paying him the same anyway?
His words feel acidic on his tongue; “Thank you.” Thanks for the fucking pennies.
Madagio sits back in his chair, clearly pleased, “You’re welcome. You did good work in Key Largo, and I’m thrilled to hear our friend the governor elect is back to making speeches without fear.” He gestures flippantly towards the computer screen, “Though, of course, the hospital made quite a fuss about the payments. Thankfully, they’re no longer a problem either, I paid the accumulated sum.”
His eyes slide over Fit.
He forces out another, “Thank you.” It’s gruffer than the first.
Fit finds it curiously difficult to be sympathetic when he knows those funds are going straight back into his debt. He should’ve just walked it off.
“And, you’ll be pleased with this–” Madagio begins, leading with a grin, “You’ll be back on the field within the week. We’ve already patched you through to a new job along the coast near Jersey.”
Fit’s brows pinch into thin lines of concern, “The hell is happenin’ in Jersey?”
“Security transport,” Madagio explains, “Our friends need some help transporting precious cargo from Atlantic City to Philadelphia.”
Friends. Fit can smell the trouble from a mile away. “What friends?” He pushes, uneasily sat with Madagio’s vague description of the job.
This isn’t a debrief and personal security lends him to very sketchy and potholed information about his clients, but friends is not a way Madagio has ever described their precious clientele.
He sighs, “I wish you wouldn’t ask.” And before Fit can spout angrily that he has to , Madagio continues, “Friends in high places with lots of money. Does that settle your curiosity? I’m sure you’re smart enough to connect the dots.”
And, unfortunately, Fit is. “I said I wasn’t gonna do any more criminal shit.”
Madagio pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the space between his brows, “Fit, we cannot keep having the same conversation. I’m tired of the tantrums. I’ve tried to accommodate your suggestions and I’m telling you, now, again, that it’s not going to happen.” He settles a glare towards him, “There’s no work in this world that doesn’t come with a moral stipulation. I’m doing what we need to in order to get by.”
Fit really fucking doubts that considering how goddamn plush this whole room, the whole building, is.
“If you keep asking, you get nothing. And we both know how that ends up.”
Fit’s face burns. His jaw clicks shut.
“It’s an hour drive. Maybe more considering traffic. You sit with them at the pick up, stay with them till drop off. Firearms provided. It’s a sticky situation, they’ve had a lot of issues with interceptions from cops and internal insurrection. You’re going in as an unbiased third party.”
“To be a target. ” Fit hisses back. Because these guys will expect the same folks they’ve seen since their scuffle started and Fit will be a new face that draws fire.
Madagio shoots him a look, “I’m providing body armor again. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“The body armor did shit for me last time!” He barks out, fingers curling around the arms of the chair.
“Don’t forget your place, Fit.” Madagio reminds him coolly.
“Reasonable danger is one thing. There’s no fucking reason why we need to be working for these guys, you know I’m not gonna make it out unscathed, man–”
“That’s neither my problem nor my burden. What happens on a job remains your fault alone, and I won’t hold myself responsible for your slip ups.” His eyes burn through Fit’s skull, like glaring through to his mind itself, “I’d figured you had a stronger sense of survival than that.”
A cold sweat starts to bake on his skin, “I do, but–”
Madagio waves his hand, flippant, “Then sink or swim. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re the one with the debt, Fit, and if you die, I’ll simply find someone else to carry it. I’d hate to lose a good worker, though.” He’s already focused back on his screen, scrolling through a spreadsheet and Fit boils.
“I get it.” Fit grits out, hands in white-knuckled fists, “ Alright ? I fucking get it.” His paystub crumples in his grip.
It shouldn’t surprise him anymore. Madagio already sits in a comfortably gray legal area and holding Fit’s payments over his head isn’t a problem for him– He’s made it clear Fit’s inability to work is only important insofar as how much extra paperwork he needs to get done.
Faced with it though, Fit knows it’s a whole other beast. That his superficial care is real and blatant and he should’ve known it from the beginning. He should’ve known.
Madagio withdraws from his desk with a sweeping motion, stuffing his file away, “Good. I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll debrief and I’ll set up your tickets. And, Fit–” He puts his palm flat on the tabletop, stopping Fit as he moves to stand, “We won’t have this conversation again.”
Not a question, but a statement.
He swallows with an audible click. “We won’t.” Fit echoes.
“I’ll see you back here tomorrow. 3 o’clock, sharp.”
Fit’s head buzzes as he steps out of the office, practically drifting down the front steps and back out into the street. The shifting sky has dipped the temperature considerably, a cold breeze cutting right through Fit’s flimsy shirt and jeans. Florida hardly dips so low in temperature and he misses the warm drowsy nights he spent watching fireflies spinning through the summer air.
Cars whizz by him, headlights flicking on as the setting sun casts long shadows across the streets.
I can’t do this anymore.
The thought comes to him, bubbling up under the tumultuous storm of anxieties.
It’s a rare admission. Often, he’s too stuck in his old ways of bludgeoning through all his problems like the soldier he used to be. Saying he can’t means he’s giving up– And giving up means you’re not surviving.
But he can’t. Fit can’t keep doing this. Each month his debt grows higher, his pay feels lower, and the checks he sends to his son are dipping into his savings– He’s already done the mental math. He’ll be in the red sooner than he’d be free of Madagio, it’s just a matter of how long that is.
The jobs are exhausting. The hours are brutal. His work has him hurting others most of the time and the rest of it is him being hurt. How much longer till he goes somewhere he won’t return, either mentally or physically?
Fit runs a palm over his head, twisting down the sidewalk towards his beat-up truck. He has to get home. There’s no chance of thinking clearly when he’s sat outside Madagio’s office– the place has a fuckin’ aura.
He slides into the front seat, jamming his key into the ignition. The engine rumbles to life and Fit paws over the passenger compartment to stuff away his crumpled paystub. He’ll cash the check later, when he’s not seconds from a spiral.
His fingers tug the compartment open and a pile of papers spill across the seat.
“ Y’gotta be–” Fit scowls, shoving bank statements and instruction manuals he hasn’t seen in years back into the opened slot. He’s about to call it a day and slam the thing shut with all the anger he can muster when he notices a smaller card still strewn on the carpet.
He strains his back, leaning over to pick it up–
Tazercraft Inc, written in typeface with neat, clean, letters on one side. A logo of intersecting letters plastered on top is raised with flat blue and green colors.
The plastic glimmers in the low glow of streetlight, nearly blotting out the image of machines and prosthetics being cast molded.
It takes a minute of squinting, but Fit remembers the company as one he’d done a job for through Madagio ages ago. His stomach twists, remembering it’d been the beginning of his jobs growing more dangerous as opposed to the easy, legal, security positions he’d been given before.
He flips it over. Over the blurb of text describing the company is a scrawled number, done over several times with blue ink.
The startle has him nearly dropping the card– Fit remembers this number.
He remembers crimson blood spilling down his client’s cheek. Remembers that his eyes were bright and focused as if he didn’t even feel the pain.
It could’ve been the shock, but he seemed as clear-headed as he had been before the shots popped off into the gala, his brows knitting as he shoved the card into Fit’s hands–
“ If you need anything– anything– you call me.” He’d tried to hand it back, but the man had been insistent, “ If I lost Richas tonight, I don’t know… I don’t know what I would’ve done.” He’d croaked, “ Please, take it.”
And Fit had. He’d shoved the card into his pocket and ferried the man into the ambulance before the nurse glared any more daggers his way.
That was… years ago. He’d simply forgotten it, never thinking to cash in lest the man change his mind or, even worse, complain to Madagio about his lack of professionalism by taking advantage of his near-grieving state. Somehow it’d ended back up in his car and in the far back of Fit’s priorities.
The card sits heavy in his palm. His words echo in Fit’s mind.
Anything?
There’s no way this man could pay off his debt. He knows that– It’s too high now for even Fit to imagine saving– But he does remember him having a son.
If there’s any sympathy left in his heart for kids, there has to be some kind of exception he can make for Ramón. If Fit can assure his safety, at least this, then he could continue. He can keep going if he knows the kid’ll be okay–
A startled laugh spills from his lips and he throw the card onto his dashboard.
Christ. He’s lost it. He used to bunk with soldiers who talked about signs from above, and Fit knows those all fell through the minute shit got tough. He’s not about to be another sucker.
Fit shuts the compartment and shifts gears, reversing out of the parking lot.
His eyes flick to the card over and over again. He gets to his apartment and, against his better judgment, brings the card in with him. He’s forgotten. Fit chides himself, tossing it on his bedside table, Let it go.
His nightly routine starts early. Fit makes dinner, he eats in front of the TV, scrolling through different channels to see what pops up this early in the evening (and it’s nothing good).
He washes up, cleans up the apartment and takes the extra time in the shower to enjoy the hot water before it runs out. His shoulder doesn’t hurt as much anymore and the bruise has long since faded to a yellow stain, which is good news.
None of it stops him from googling the company on his phone the minute his head hits the pillow.
Tazercraft Inc. From the brilliant minds of Pac T.W and Mike Link. Front runners in international prosthetic design and marketing.
They look different now. Mike’s hair is pink– Fit almost hadn’t recognized him– And Pac looks a lot more calm, his hair longer and the bags under his eyes having vanished.
Memories come back to him in blurry waves. Fit remembers meeting them briefly, along with their son. He spies very few images of the kid though, when he scrolls through the results. Probably because of the incident that’d happened that night.
The company made some very bold decisions that month, sacrificing a lot of their workforce after a scandal involving embezzlement and cut corners. Nothing malicious, as far as Fit understood, but simply a mistake that cost the company and many people thousands of dollars.
Fit’s thumb passes over an article talking about recalled prosthetics and broken, burning, products. Bad year for the company.
Madagio’s debrief had made him wince, and his own prosthetic felt wonky for a week afterwards, like he was waiting for his completely mechanical design to pop a lithium battery like a primed grenade.
In response, a huge section of their staff had to be fired and cut off. Anyone a part of it, who even knew of it without informing superiors, had to be removed. It led to a lot of angry ex-employees. Which led to a lot of threats.
Their first foray out into the world again after the scandal had been the fundraiser gala. A huge, rather fancy, outdoor event where mingling bourgeoisie and their ilk chatted about their chosen charities and auctioning off items. Fit had been personal security for the family, Mike, Pac, and–
“ Richarlyson. ” Fit says under his breath, the name slowly fading into his memory once more. The kid had been sweet, a creative mind with tons of energy and absolutely no fear. He’d been hanging off Fit’s arm for a lot of the night, since he’d been a glorified babysitter while Pac and Mike did their rounds within view.
Fit was a silent man, he didn’t talk to the actual CEO’s beyond polite nods. But he does remember rather fond laughs when they saw him trying to wrangle Richas off the buffet table.
At some point in the night, Fit could barely remember when beyond knowing it’d been after the festivities started to die down, someone started taking shots into the room from an outdoor balcony exit.
Whether it’d been intentionally aimed at his targets or not, Fit had shuffled Richarlyson out of harm’s way and gotten him to other security before running to find others.
Looking back, Fit grimaces at the thought. He’d been younger, stupid, and trustful.
Fit had gotten Pac and Mike out of the main entrance when he saw the people he’d entrusted with the kid’s safety running out behind him. Without Richarlyson.
Fit forces his grip on his phone to ease up, peeling his fingers off the corners. He doesn’t know what he’d do if someone had even tried that with Ramón. Maybe it’s why he dove back into the building.
He’d made it back in time before the kid got badly hurt, thankfully. Whatever gunman had been there, his potshots into the air only managed to break windows. Richas was smart enough to crawl under a table, and despite the cut up fingers from shards on the carpet, he was fine.
He was coiling the kid up in his arms when the gunman made it to them, and Fit had stood his ground, put himself between the two.
It was Pac– of course– who’d run after him and caught a single bullet graze before officers managed to take the man down.
Fit hadn’t considered his part in it all as heroic by a long shot. Pac did more than him, in his opinion, and had taken the actual wound between them that was meant for Fit– but Pac insisted that everyone else would have and did leave Richas behind. He put himself at risk, spurred him into action, and of course–
“Take it.” Pac murmured, still weeping blood. His voice is barely audible over the pouring rain and blaring sirens, “If you need anything– anything– you call me.”
Fit twists the card back and forth. He looks to his phone, where he’s paused over a more recent image taken of the two company owners, strolling around in nice suits with a thriving business.
Pac has a new scar on his cheek, right under his eye.
Before he even realizes it, he’s tapping on the link and suddenly he’s on the guy’s Instagram and there’s like two rows of images of just him going to the gym and Fit closes the app faster than he’s ever done anything before. He slams his phone into the mattress, face down.
Fit wipes a hand down his face, eyes darting to the alarm clock . The numbers blink back 1:00 AM. He hadn’t realized he’d been searching for that long.
He eyes the card on his bedside table. He definitely can’t call now, even if he was going to. Which– Admittedly, he still doesn’t know if he will.
If he calls and Pac simply doesn’t remember him, then he’s fucked. There’s a chance he doesn’t even pick up– Who answers calls from unknown numbers these days?
Fit hadn’t even given Pac his number. It might not even go through. It’s a comfort, in a way. He shouldn’t risk it. He forgot. They all did.
He turns over in bed– The room goes dark with a simple click of his lamp. There’s work to be done and he’s spent way too long indulging in some fantasy. Fit’s responsible for his own lot in life, no one’s coming to save him. He might as well throw the card away.
Even then, with his phone resolutely put away, his mind whirls with memories of that night.
He thinks of Pac and Mike and Richas until he falls into blissful sleep.