Chapter 3: Fix-It Man
The hand-painted sign looked almost professional in the weak January sunlight. BEN'S FIXES - CHEAP & FAST. Ben had spent two hours on the lettering the night before, his MacGyver Mind guiding each brushstroke to maximize legibility while working with salvaged paint and warped plywood. Not pretty, but functional.
He propped it against the garage's roll-up door at 6 AM, before the neighborhood fully woke. His breath misted in the cold. The sign felt like a declaration—or a target. Advertising meant visibility, and visibility meant questions he might not be able to answer.
But staying invisible meant starving.
Ben went back inside and fired up the space heater he'd jury-rigged from a broken unit someone had thrown away. The garage was still crude—concrete floor, exposed insulation, tools organized on salvaged shelving—but it was warm and dry and his. More than he'd had a week ago.
The first customer arrived at 9:17 AM.
Ben heard her before he saw her: the squeak of wheels struggling over uneven pavement. He looked up from organizing his wrench set to see a woman in her fifties pushing a hand cart loaded with what looked like a washing machine motor, wrapped in a trash bag and secured with bungee cords.
She stopped at his sign, breathing hard. Her coat was thin for January, patched at the elbows. Her hands were red and chapped from cold or chemicals or both.
"¿Arreglas cosas?" she called out. "You fix?"
Ben straightened, wiping grease from his hands onto his jeans. "Yeah. I fix things."
She approached slowly, the cart's wheels protesting. Up close, Ben could see the hope and desperation warring in her expression—the look of someone who'd been disappointed too many times to trust easily but had run out of other options.
"Lavadora," she said, gesturing to the motor. "Washing machine. Se rompió. Broke yesterday, middle of washing. I do laundry for people. For money. Without machine..."
She didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.
Ben's MacGyver Mind activated the moment she pulled back the trash bag. The motor was a standard model, maybe fifteen years old, belt-driven. He could see the problem immediately: a wire had fried where it connected to the capacitor, probably due to voltage fluctuation. Simple fix. Twenty-minute repair if he had the right gauge wire.
Which he did, salvaged from another dead appliance.
"Let me look," he said.
She helped him lift the motor onto his workbench. It was heavier than it looked, and she handled her end with the practiced ease of someone used to physical labor. Ben grabbed his multimeter and started testing connections, though he already knew what he'd find.
"¿Cuánto cuesta?" she asked. "How much?"
Ben paused. His MacGyver Mind supplied the answer: replacement wire cost him nothing since he'd salvaged it. Labor for this kind of repair ran fifty to seventy-five dollars in Chicago. With his supernatural diagnostic abilities, he could finish in twenty minutes instead of an hour.
He looked at her hands again. At the thin coat. At the way she stood—weight shifted to one leg, probably chronic pain from standing too much. She did laundry for half the neighborhood, she'd said. Which meant she couldn't afford to not work, couldn't afford the repair, but had no choice except to try.
"Five dollars," Ben said.
Her eyes widened. "Five? Is... is it bad? More bad than I think?"
"No. Simple fix. Wire burned out, easy to replace. Five dollars for the wire."
"But... but labor?"
Ben shrugged, turning back to the motor to hide his expression. "First customer. Gotta make a good impression."
He felt her stare on his back as he worked. His hands moved with the precision his power granted, stripping the old wire, threading the new one, crimping the connections. The motor wasn't pretty—years of use had left it dinged and faded—but the repair was solid. Twenty-three minutes start to finish.
He tested it with a direct power connection. The motor hummed to life, spinning smoothly.
"Good as new," Ben said, disconnecting the power. "Well, as new as a fifteen-year-old motor gets."
Mrs. Rodriguez—she'd introduced herself while he worked, her English getting stronger once her nerves settled—stared at the motor like it was a minor miracle. She pulled a small coin purse from her pocket, counted out five dollars in crumpled singles and quarters.
Then she did something Ben didn't expect.
She kissed his cheek.
"Buen niño," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Good boy. Eres un ángel. I tell everyone about you. Everyone."
She meant it. Ben could hear the sincerity, see it in the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. This wasn't just a repair. This was her livelihood restored. Her ability to feed herself preserved. Five dollars to him was worth fifty to her—maybe more.
"Just doing my job," Ben said, uncomfortable with her gratitude.
She helped him load the motor back onto her cart, then paused before leaving.
"You need anything," she said, "anything, you come find me. Three blocks, blue house, address on cart. I clean, I cook, I know everyone. You need something, you ask."
She left, the cart wheels squeaking into the distance. Ben stood in his garage doorway and watched her go. His hands were shaking slightly.
These are real people.
The thought hit him like cold water. Not characters. Not plot devices. Real people with real problems and real consequences. Mrs. Rodriguez wasn't a vehicle for his character development. She was a woman trying to survive, and his choice to charge five dollars instead of fifty had just changed her day, maybe her week.
The weight of that settled on him like physical pressure.
He'd helped someone. Actually helped, not as manipulation or con or strategic positioning. Just... helped.
It felt good. Terrifyingly good.
Ben went back inside and added Mrs. Rodriguez's five dollars to his cash box. Seventy-three dollars total now. Not much, but more than yesterday.
The second customer arrived an hour later.
The bike was a disaster.
Ben looked at the mangled frame, the bent wheels, the chain that had somehow wrapped around the rear axle in a configuration that defied physics, and felt his MacGyver Mind struggling to find a solution. This wasn't broken. This was murdered.
"Can you fix it?" the kid asked.
Tommy—he'd introduced himself with the confidence of someone used to talking his way into and out of situations—was maybe ten years old. Skinny, with bruised knuckles and a split lip that was a few days old. His coat was too small, his jeans ripped at both knees, and he kept glancing over his shoulder like he expected someone to appear.
"That depends," Ben said. "What happened to it?"
"Fell down some stairs."
"Bike fell down stairs."
"Yeah."
Ben raised an eyebrow. Tommy met his gaze without flinching, but his left hand was tapping against his thigh—nervous tic.
"Must've been a lot of stairs," Ben said.
"Like twenty."
"Twenty flights of stairs."
"I live on a hill."
Despite himself, Ben smiled. The kid was a terrible liar, but he had commitment.
"And you want me to fix it for two dollars and..." Ben looked at the handful of bottle caps Tommy had dumped on his workbench, "...these?"
"They're special bottle caps."
"They're from Budweiser."
"Limited edition Budweiser."
Ben picked up one of the caps. Standard issue. Not even clean.
His MacGyver Mind ran calculations. The frame was bent but not broken—could be straightened with heat and pressure. Front wheel needed the rim trued, which required a proper stand he didn't have, but he could improvise with a fork mount and chalk. Chain was a tangled mess but intact. Pedals were toast—one was missing entirely, the other cracked through the spindle.
Three hours of work, minimum. Possibly four. For two dollars and bottle caps from a kid who was clearly running from something.
Ben studied Tommy while pretending to examine the bike. The bruised knuckles. The healing split lip. The way his eyes tracked every sound from outside. The too-small coat despite January cold. And most telling: the desperation in how he clutched the handlebars, like the bike was the only thing in the world he owned.
This kid needs to run fast.
The thought came unbidden from his Danger Intuition—not a warning about immediate threat, but a recognition of ambient wrongness. Tommy lived somewhere dangerous. Had someone dangerous in his life. And the bike wasn't just transportation. It was escape.
"First customer discount," Ben said. "No charge."
Tommy's eyes went wide. "What?"
"I said no charge. But you gotta stay while I work. Can't have you claiming I did it wrong if you're not here to see the process."
"I... yeah, okay. Yeah."
Ben rolled the bike to his workbench. The frame straightening would be the hardest part—needed to heat the metal without warping it further, bend it back true without cracking the welds. He fired up his improvised forge, just a steel basin with a propane burner underneath, and while it heated, he started on the easier repairs.
Tommy watched like a hawk tracking prey. Asked questions constantly.
"How'd you know to take that part off first?"
"What's that tool called?"
"Why'd you use that instead of the hammer?"
"How'd you learn all this?"
Ben answered mechanically, most of his concentration on the work. His MacGyver Mind showed him each step, his hands following instructions downloaded directly into his nervous system. Heat the frame here. Pressure there. True the wheel by measuring the gap with chalk on the fork. Improvise a pedal from a broken one he'd salvaged plus a bolt that was slightly wrong but could be made to fit.
Three hours became four. The sun was setting, cold seeping through the garage walls despite the heater. Tommy hadn't moved except to get closer when Ben told him to watch a specific technique.
Finally, Ben rolled the bike back. It wasn't pretty. The paint was scratched, the frame had stress marks where he'd bent it, the improvised pedal looked like exactly what it was. But the wheels spun true. The chain ran smooth. The whole thing was structurally sound and rideable.
"Holy shit," Tommy breathed.
"Language."
"Holy shit," Tommy repeated, grinning. He grabbed the handlebars, tested the brakes. "It's perfect."
"It's functional. There's a difference."
"No, man, it's perfect." Tommy looked up at him, and something in the kid's expression made Ben's chest tight. "How'd you know that would work? The thing with the pedal?"
"Practice."
"That's bullshit. Nobody just knows this stuff."
Ben shrugged. "Some people do."
Tommy studied him for a long moment, then climbed onto the bike. It fit him better than Ben expected—the kid was small for his age. He did a few test circles in the garage, getting a feel for the rebuilt machine.
"Why'd you do this for free?" Tommy asked, not looking at him.
"First customer discount. I told you."
"Mrs. Rodriguez was first customer."
Damn. Kid was sharp.
"Fine," Ben said. "Because you need it more than you need to owe me money."
Tommy stopped circling. Met Ben's eyes directly.
"You're weird," the kid said.
"Probably."
"Good weird, though." Tommy pedaled toward the exit, then paused in the doorway. "Thanks, man. Like... really. Thanks."
He was gone before Ben could respond, racing down the alley fast enough that the bike's improvised pedal probably wouldn't last a week. But that was fine. If Tommy came back when it broke, Ben would fix it again.
The garage felt emptier after the kid left. Ben cleaned his tools methodically, putting everything in its place, trying not to think about bruised knuckles and split lips and bikes that got thrown down twenty flights of imaginary stairs.
He'd helped someone again. Someone who needed it. Someone who was running from something Ben probably didn't want to know about.
The satisfaction was there, warm in his chest. But so was the awareness of how thin the line was between helping and interfering, between using his powers for good and creating consequences he couldn't predict.
Ben locked the garage and headed toward the corner store for dinner. His cash situation had improved—two more customers that afternoon, actual paying work—but he still bought the cheapest options. Ramen. Canned soup. Bread that was a day away from going stale.
The store was the same one where he'd tested his illusion power. Same tired cashier, though she didn't seem to recognize him. Ben paid with legitimate money, careful to avoid her eyes anyway.
He was heading for the exit when someone walked in, and his breath caught.
Fiona Gallagher.
She looked exactly like she had the other day: hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, work uniform rumpled, exhaustion radiating from every line of her body. But where Frank had made her look angry, now she just looked tired. Bone-deep, soul-crushing tired.
Ben froze halfway through the door. His Danger Intuition pulsed softly—not a warning, just awareness that this was a decision point. Leave now and avoid interaction. Stay and... what? Talk to her? The girl whose story he knew, whose pain he'd watched unfold across nine seasons?
Fiona didn't notice him. She moved through the store with practiced efficiency, grabbing items fast: discount bread, dented cans of soup, generic mac and cheese. She did mental math as she went, lips moving silently. Got to the counter and started counting change from her pockets.
The cashier rang it up. "Twenty-two fifty."
Fiona counted again. Came up short. Looked at the items, trying to decide what to put back.
Ben's Silver Tongue stirred. He could convince the cashier to give her a discount. Make it sound reasonable, logical. Or he could—
No. She'd notice. Would question it. Anything that seemed too convenient would trigger her defenses, make her suspicious of him later.
Ben did something simpler.
He walked past her, close enough that his shoulder bumped hers. She turned, annoyed, and Ben stumbled, dropping a twenty-dollar bill.
"Shit, sorry," he said, bending to pick it up.
Fiona stared at the bill on the floor between them.
"That's yours," Ben said, straightening. "Must've fallen out of your pocket."
"No, it didn't."
"Must have. It's right there."
Their eyes met. Hers were dark, calculating, trying to figure out his angle. Ben kept his expression neutral, fighting the urge to let his Silver Tongue activate. Just a guy who found money. Just a simple mistake.
"I didn't drop that," Fiona said.
"You sure? Because it's not mine."
A standoff in the middle of a corner store. The cashier watched with the bored disinterest of someone who'd seen every kind of human drama and cared about none of it.
Finally, Fiona bent down and picked up the twenty. Held it like it might bite her.
"Thanks," she said, the word clearly costing her something.
"No problem."
He left before she could question it further. Walked two blocks before letting himself breathe normally again. His heart was hammering, and he couldn't entirely explain why.
Because she's real.
Not a character. A real person, struggling, too proud to accept charity but desperate enough to take it when framed as coincidence. He'd just given her money without asking for anything, and the weight of that felt different than fixing Mrs. Rodriguez's washing machine or Tommy's bike.
This was Fiona Gallagher. The girl he'd watched for nine seasons. The girl whose future disasters he could prevent—or make worse.
Ben's Danger Intuition pulsed again as he walked back toward his garage. Not loud, not urgent. Just a soft hum of warning he couldn't interpret.
He stopped at the corner, looked back toward the Gallagher house two blocks over. Lights in the windows. Movement of shadows behind curtains. Real people living real lives, about to face traumas he remembered like scenes from a movie.
Helping people felt good. But helping people he knew the future of? That felt like playing God with incomplete information and powers he barely understood.
Ben turned away and headed home. Added "moral complications of foreknowledge" to his growing list of problems that had no good solutions.
The garage was cold when he got back, but he'd learned to tolerate discomfort. He ate ramen straight from the pot, too tired to care about proper meals. His body ached from four hours of bending metal and truing wheels. His head throbbed faintly from the earlier MacGyver Mind usage—not bad, but present.
Worth it, though. Mrs. Rodriguez's tears. Tommy's grin. Fiona taking the twenty with reluctant gratitude.
Worth it.
Maybe.
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