Archive of Our Own ^beta

The hooves of the skeleton horse are the only thing that fills the silence of the barren wasteland. As far as Fit's hacks can tell, he is the only person wandering through the ruins of the former base.

He makes the horse stop as he reaches the top of a lavacast. Looking down, he has a perfect view of the cobblestone remains that once housed someone. He takes out his notebook — a bunch of crumbled papers with a leather cover to keep them together — and begins taking notes. He draws the scenery as best as he can, trying to take in as much detail as possible. Notes are written next to each of the areas that had any information worth mentioning. When the anarchist is done, he flips the page and starts writing on the back of it. Thinking carefully about what he wants to say, he writes a script for his radio broadcast in such a way that allows him to relay all the information in an efficient manner. He couldn't stay broadcasting too long in one single spot if he didn't want to be found.

This was the first thing Fit went back to when he returned to the wasteland, and what he continues to do to this day. The once family man needed something familiar to hold onto after losing everything in what seemed like the blink of an eye.

He was trying his best to stay afloat, for them.

Fit needs to carry on, to keep the memories of those he loved close to him because that is the only way they could continue living, through him.

So Fit worked. He wandered and researched and broadcasted and started all over again. At first it was hard. He wanted to give up and not think about the life he lost. To give into the madness that surrounded him and leave the burden of feeling behind.

But time continued passing, merciless and unrelenting for a man so broken.

Fit learned to look back to those memories not with fear, but with affection.

He learned to see Ramon in the eagerness to learn about everything around him, in the explosions heard far away but never fading, and in the googles he now always carried as a part of himself.

He learned to see Pac in the rising sun he was always so eager to greet, in the red roses he carried with him and in the Portuguese words that never left his vocabulary.

He learned to see his family in the everlasting memories that filled his heart and that would never cease to exist.

He was a changed man who no longer survived out of spite, but out of love.

As Fit finishes writing — the dramatic explanation of the events that led to the destruction of this base — he hears something. His head perks up, and he closes his eyes for a brief moment to focus on the sound. Fireworks. Elytras' sharp whistles as they cut through the air with precision. A group of people is approaching and his hacks help confirm it much later than he would've liked.

The man closes the notebook quickly, without sparing his usual glance to the drawings of his family that fill the first couple pages. He puts everything in his backpack as fast as he can before he gets on the horse and starts galloping away. If he was able to notice the group, then they also had noticed him.

If he is lucky, which is not a very common occurrence lately, the group of people will keep moving east instead of following him south. This is based on the assumption that he wasn't their target, which would be out of the ordinary.

The bald man continues heading south, and before a sliver of hope has the chance to shine it is crushed by the change in direction of the group. Of course, towards him.

It turns out, disappearing for a year from a server full of people who wanted nothing more than to escape came with consequences. People had noticed, they always did. Some wanted answers, some wanted to see him dead. The price on his head was something the bounty hunters were not willing to pass up and they let that show.

Fit spares a quick look to his communicator. Around six or seven white lines marked a perfect path between him and the bounty hunters. It is clear that they are going faster than him and that he will not be able to escape, so he prepares for battle.

Grabbing the axe out of his inventory and checking that his crystals are where they were supposed to be, Fit evaluates his situation. He will not be able to keep the distance for long, so he needs to act quickly.

The horse stops briefly thanks to his command, allowing him to hop down. Fit then lets the horse continue its path as he slides through uneven terrain down to a medium sized hole. Obsidian materializes in his hand in record time and he places it on the ground in front of him. He prepares the shield on his not dominant hand and crouches as close to the ground as he is able to.

His chances of winning this fight were low. There were a minimum of six fully armed fighters going after him and there was only so much he was capable of doing. Still, he was not going down without a fight.

Fit waited until he heard the soft thuds of feet hitting the ground followed by Elytra's closing. Although the hacks were very helpful when locating people, they were not perfect. The enemies didn't have his exact location, posing an incredible advantage for the historian.

As their steps got closer Fit clutched the end crystals in his hand, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He could not place them right now, as the sound and strong magical field would give his location away.

Taking a deep breath, he counted.

Three…

"You think you can hide from us, you idiot?! Come out if you want a fucking chance at living, bastard!" One voice shouted, it seemed pretty young.

Two…

The steps of the group slowed down, moving towards the hole. They had found his location and were ready to strike.

One…

Fit threw the crystals at the obsidians right as the group jumped to attack him. Moving as far way as he could, he activated two of the crystals with his foot while covering the rest of his body with the shield. A quick, sharp pain surrounded his foot for a second, but the rest of his body was not damaged thanks to the upward triangular shape of the explosion.

The same could not be said about the bounty hunters.

Two twin screams echoed through the barren wastelands. The two first people that had jumped to attack him — a very young looking guy and a middle aged woman — had been caught head on by the explosion, which burned the whole front of their bodies.

But the suffering of some did not stop the others. As the screams died down in the background, Fit stood up and braced himself for a new attack.

The diamond sword collided with the shield in an incredible show of strength before Fit quickly parried it to the side. Using the opportunity, he swung the axe with force, which ended up burying deep in his opponent's side.

The bald man did not have the time to remove the axe from the corpse when a new attack came from behind. He turned his body just in time to intercept the hand holding a dagger. Holding its wrist, he squeezed and turned it until the dagger fell from the enemy's hand; all while hitting the person with his shield on their neck and face multiple times. Fit used the hold he already had on the wrist and pulled, twisting his own body enough to throw the body of his enemy to the one behind him, knocking them both to the ground.

Leaning down, Fit grabbed the sword he had been attacked with before and used it to end the lives of the two enemies laying on the dirt. As he pulls the sword away from their bodies, he felt a hand grab the back of his cape and tug with force, dragging him through the ground and away from his previous enemies.

The first attack came as a kick that Fit blocked with the help of his shield. This gave him enough time to roll in the dirt and stand up, backing away quickly to avoid another swing of the netherite axe.

Fit almost didn't have time to react when another blow came at his direction. The shield was pulled up to protect his body and a grunt of effort accompanied the sound of the wood breaking.

As the anarchist ditched the shield — after the axe was pulled away — he received another kick to the stomach that left him breathless and toppling to the ground.

Quesadilla island had truly made him reckless. How could he have gotten so distracted and not noticed the man behind him? It was a miracle that he wasn't already dead.

His enemy, a strong man that seemed to have gone through the horrors, raised his axe high, ready to deal the killing blow. Fit protected himself as best as he could with the little time he had, holding the sword vertically between his two hands to block the blade.

An horrible screeching sound reverberated through their ears as the two blades collided. It was a matter of time until Fit got overpowered by the strength of the axe.

Ideas run through Fit's brain as he evaluates their different outcomes. The man smiles manically and opens his mouth as if to speak, when he is cut off.

An arrow buried itself in the skull of the man, right above his ear. The light leaves his eyes before the body has the chance to hit the floor.

The body falls sideways, taking the axe with him. This leaves Fit to gasp for air as the force of having to fight an axe off had not allowed him to breathe correctly. He looks around, trying to find the person that saved his life.

Of course, this did not mean he was safe in any way. The reasons the person could've had to save his life could vary anywhere from wanting to have information to wanting to kill him by themselves.

As the figure approaches Fit stands up ready to fight.

His stride is uneven, clearly favoring one leg over the other. A long black cape covers his body from head to knees. His hands grab the longbow like it is his lifeline, but he continues to walk, unafraid.

He had so many different chances to kill me, what does he want?

Fit decides not to attack. After all, the person saved his life and had not shown signs of wanting to hurt him so far.

He stops walking at a reasonable distance from him and the wind does the job of revealing his face as the hood is pulled down.

What?

Medium black hair flows gracefully in the wind. His face has more scars that he remembers, but the beautiful features are still the same. Dark void eyes stare at him with a look he doesn't have the time to decipher because Oh God Pac is alive.

Fit's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, an unexplicable feeling fills his chest and makes its home at his throat and he can't breathe but Pac is here and he is alive and Fit wants to cry.

His body feels weak, but he takes a deep breath in and stands straighter despite the pain in his chest. The sword almost falls from his hands and onto the ground, so Fit makes it dissappear into one or his inventory slots before speaking.

"Pac?"

"Wha-"

They both speak at once, but Pac stops speaking as soon as he hears his name.

"How do you know who I am?" He utters, coldly. One of his feet takes a step back and his body adopts a more defensive stance. "Who are you?"

And with three simple words, Fit's world comes crashing down.

Pac is in front of him. Pac is in front of him and he doesn't remember who Fit is.

"What do you- P-pac it's me, it's me!" His voice breaks, but he's not in the right mindspace to care. "I thought you were dead… what the hell happened?"

Pac's face morphs into one of complete confusion before it returns to being tough. "I asked you a question, how do you know who I am? I don't know you." He grips his bow tighter.

"How do you not… no… did that son of a bitch do this to you? I swear I will-" He stops suddenly as another thought enters his head. "Wait, how did you even end up here? What…" Fit continues talking, but Pac tunes him out in favor of paying attention to how the bald man comes closer and closer.

Just as Pac starts backing up Fit catches up to him and grabs his face with a gentleness the scientist hadn't felt since before he ended up here. He watches as Fit studies him from head to toe searching for any injuries.

The anarchist had dreamt of this moment so many times and although it is nothing like he imagined it is okay, because Pac is here and they can fix everything later. Together, like they always did.

But this is too much to process for Pac, especially in such an open space. He deviates from his original plan and hits Fit hard in the head with the back of his knife.

He doesn't catch him as his body falls to the ground.

…

Calloused fingers make their way up and down Fit's shoulder, caressing it in such a loving way it makes him not want to open his eyes.

The soft spring breeze that occasionally envelops his body only adds to the calm atmosphere. Fit thinks he could stay here forever.

"Fit… Fitche, wake up." His calm is interrupted but not in a bad way. A grin makes its way to the bald man's face before he even opens his eyes.

Pac is looking down at him, handsome as ever. His silhouette is highlited by the sun rays, some blocked by the leaves of the tree they are resting against.

It makes Pac look ethereal.

Hugged by the arm that isn't on Fit's shoulder Ramón sleeps soundly, his meathead covering his eyes from the light. Richarlyson is sitting on the other side, focused on the drawing on his sketchbook.

Fit lifts himself up from Pac's lap using his elbows. The brazilian smiles and cups one of his cheeks with his hand.

They get closer, as if attracted by an invisible force.

Is this what true happiness feels like?

As their noses touch, the smile disappears from Pac's face and his eyes are overtaken by a coldness that makes Fit's heart shiver.

It's like time stopped, the sun dimmed, and spring turned into a terrifying winter.

"Who are you?"

Fit's eyes open with an urgency that he immediately regrets. His head hurts like hell and it takes him a while to feel ready to open his eyes again.

It takes him little time to notice his hands tied behind his back. His legs, however, are free. It appears the restrictions are more of a precaution than an actual attempt at stopping him.

When he does open his eyes, he sees Pac. He sits cross-legged a few feet away, next to a campfire. His body is leaning forward in a position that is definitely not healthy for his back. The black haired man doesn't seem to be bothered by it, instead, he carefully studies the contents of Fit's backpack.

The historian takes the time to observe him. Pac's features are rougher, as if the passage of time had taken a greater toll on him. His face is littered with different types of scars, from the slash that cuts through the corner of his upper lip to the lightning shaped mark that rises from his neck to touch his jawline. His hair is longer than he remembered, going a little past his shoulders rather than stopping at the base of his neck. With the cape having been left to the side, Fit can see the great amount of weapons — in its majority long ranged — that the Brazilian kept with him at every moment. The bald man can't see his prosthetic from here, but remembering the slight limp from earlier he can assume it's not in an optimal state.

Fit looks up back to Pac's face only to see him staring back at him.

The brazilian stands and the warm light of the campfire casts his shadow across the walls of the cavern. His eyes don't have the charismatic shine that identified him.

He looks intimidating, but Fit isn't scared. He doesn't know who did this to Pac, but he swears, whether it was Madagio or the Federation, that they will pay. No one has the right to take the light away from anyone, much less a person so full of life and love like Pac is.

Pac crouches in front of Fit, studying him closely. "You know," he begins, "I came to find you because I heard rumors you were able to escape from this place." Despite his appearance, Pac's voice stayed the same as Fit remembered, the only noticeable change being his Portuguese accent sounding more heavy. "I see you got up to some interesting adventures, Fit."

Fit never thought that hearing his name be spoken the correct way could cause such an unpleasant feeling. He had gotten so used to hearing the affectionate "Fitche" from Pac's voice that hearing it any other way just felt completely and utterly wrong.

"Do you truly not remember us?" Fit asked, incredulous. He kept his voice neutral, a shield against the insanity he was living. "The island, our kids-"

"Wow, wow, wow. I'm gonna stop you right there." Pac interrupted him, laughing like he just heard the funniest joke ever. "Kids? I guess spending too much time here truly scrambles your brain, man. I'm not who you are looking for."

"If you are not who I'm looking for how do you explain me knowing your name?"Fit asks, trying to hide his desperation. "Ask me anything about your past. You told me about the orphanage, Mike, the stealing, the prison…" He watches as Pac's eyes widen and his smile loses its edge. "…Cell."

Fit's head hits the wall behind him as soon as that name leaves his mouth. Pac's hand squeezes his neck.

The black strands of hair cover most of his face, casting a shadow that only makes him more terrifying as he whispers. "Say that name again and you won't live to see another sunrise, got it?"

Fit admits he shouldn't have said that. The shock and haze in his mind didn't allow him to be as rational as he would in any other situation. He felt so desperate in his intent to make Pac remember him that he didn't stop to think about how those words would affect him. Still, he was surprised by the Brazilian's reaction. Pac, even though he was strong, was the type of person to cower or panic by a mention like this. He didn't expect this violent and calculated reaction.

The bald man nods carefully and Pac removes his hand.

"Now, you are going to tell me who told you this, and what are your intentions." Pac sighs, running his hand through his face. "Não tenho problemas suficientes já não?" He whispers.

"No one told me this Pac, you did." He takes a small break to swallow and recover from what happened. "We met on Quesadilla island, we were great friends! We dated for months and trusted each other enough to tell each other this kind of stuff." Fit stops for a second, as if preparing for his next words. "Then I found out you were fucking dead! I stayed for hours next to your grave before I got sent back to… back…" Then it clicked. "You… you didn't lose your memories… you're not the Pac I know."

This was a completely different dimension.

And before he even had time to process the death of his lover, Fit found himself grieving again. He had truly believed that the person in front of him was his Pac, that he was alive and that he somehow had ended up here with him.

The momentary happiness of realizing that no one had erased Pac's memories was quickly overshadowed by the fact that, well, he was dead.

Fit always had that slight hope that Pac was able to escape the island and had built the grave to confuse the Federation, it helped him be able to keep going. Having that hope be confirmed and crushed again in a matter of minutes only made him more miserable.

Now everything made sense, the heavier Portuguese accent, the more aggressive attitude, not remembering the island nor the kids.

It made sense, yet it hurt so much.

Fit looks up to see Pac's expression. Black eyes stare back at him, a slight frown and a risen eyebrow urging him to speak.

He sighs.

"Yes, I did leave 2b2t for a year." The anarchist's voice imitates his inner feelings breaking slightly as he speaks. He clears his throat and continues. "I was sent on a mission to retrieve information on an island. A bunch of crazy shit happened there, and that's how I met you. I ended up not completing my mission and as a punishment I was sent back to this dimension. The last thing I saw from you before I returned was your grave."

Some time ago, the wastelander would not have shared this information with anyone so quickly, even less with someone he technically just met. Now, Fit is not afraid to do so. What would Madagio do? Leave him stranded forever in the middle of hell on Earth?

Pac hums, taking in the information with slight skepticism. "So, basically, you have no idea how to get out of here."

Fit notices how Pac doesn't mention anything about his counterpart's death. He guesses it makes sense, ending up trapped in the wasteland of humanity desensitizes you to any kind of stuff that doesn't directly affect your present. It strips you of your hopes and makes you question the very basic understanding of what it means to live. After witnessing and causing so much death one can only make themselves move forward before the actions catch up to cause insanity.

"If I knew how, we wouldn't be having this conversation," Fit voiced. "How did you even end up here anyway? Couldn't you use the same method to escape?"

Pac sighed and sat completely on the ground instead of crouching like he was doing before. "I… was working on a teleporter, something that could get us from one place to another in an instant, so we could unite our bases! You know?"

Fit nods, and while Pac gives his answer, he takes his time to analyze the way he is being restricted. It is a simple but effective knot around his wrists. Fortunately, Fit's prosthetic detached both at the wrist and at the elbow. It was an addition Ramon made for the last version of his prosthetic just so he could attach other types of tools like his chainsaw arm or the potato cannon. It seems that it comes in handy in more ways than one.

"Something went wrong with the coordinates and I ended up here. I've been trying to get out for too long now." His shoulders sag as he finally lets himself be a little vulnerable. "This place really gets into your head, no?"

"You get used to it," the bald man utters, like a mantra repeated too many times. Behind his back, the prosthetic hand is detached, therefore facilitating the rope to slide right off his wrist. He attaches the hand right back and continues to hear Pac speak.

A scoff escapes Pac's throat, but he continues. "I tried to find you to see if you could tell me the way out… I'm sorry for treating you like this. I've trusted people here before and it was not fun." He runs his hands through his hair, pulling it back. There, even through the differences in his appearance, Fit could see the real Pac. "Everything is so weird, and when you reacted like that I didn't know what to do." His soft tone of voice no longer instilled fear, but rather the vulnerability that his Pac was never afraid to show.

"It's okay… Pac. I understand. This place breaks people, I'm glad you are still you after all." The anarchist gives him a broken smile, wanting to make him feel better. Even if this was not the Pac he knew and he still felt uneasy, it was still Pac, a version of the person he loves.

Fit would do anything in his control to make Pac feel happy, no matter what.

"I'm sorry about, you know, what happened there with the other me." Pac whispers, and allows Fit the small mercy of not having to reply to that when he continues speaking seconds later. "I should untie you now, can you turn around?"

The bald man slowly removes his hands from behind his back and showes them to Pac, shrugging slightly. He doesn't know what kind of reaction this Pac could have.

A loud laugh escapes the Brazilian at the sight. "Escolhi o certo, hein" he tells himself, and Fit can't help but wonder what that means.

Jumping to his feet, the black haired man looks down at Fit and offers his hand to help him stand.

Fit grabs it, letting go of it as soon as he is stable on his own two feet to avoid thinking much about it. He doesn't think he can handle much more of this today without breaking again.

There's an awkward moment where both of them look at each other without really knowing what to do. Pac cleans his hands against the cloth of his pants and looks around the cave.

"I guess I should leave now, find a safe space before night comes." He nods to himself before he hesitantly steps away and around, grabbing his belongings.

Fit thinks about what will happen after this. They will both go their different ways and face their own challenges alone. He might never see Pac again. Whether it is because he goes back home or the opposite, he doesn't want to know. Fit ponders and notices that he doesn't think he could easily go back to how things were before, not after this.

His body acts before his mind and Fit finds himself calling his late partner's name. He speaks before Pac turns to see him completely.

"What do you think about working together? I could help you get around here, maybe we could find a way for both of us to go back where we belong." The wastelander winces internally at his own words, but stays firm in his place. Who could blame him for wanting this to last longer?

"Yeah… I would like that, Fitche."