#again sorry for the fifty fucking paragraphs of author notes

[poppyknitt]

Can’t Slip Now...- A JSE egos au story

(A Darkness and Desperation story)

TRIGGER WARNING/DISCLAIMER:

This story contains heavy mentions of CHILD ABUSE, PHYSICAL ABUSE, and a fair number of other things related to those, such as an abuser manipulating people into thinking nothing bad is happening, etc. Please do not read this story if you get triggered by abuse or anything related to it, regardless of how much of it is needed to trigger you. I don’t want anyone to have any issues with anxiety and/or ptsd-related panic attacks or episodes as a result of my story, so please, please DO NOT read past this warning, as, i kid you not, the abuse literally starts in the first paragraph.

Marvin woke up, and realized he’d slept past his alarm before his mind properly registered the sound of his mother yelling at Jameson drowning out the noise of his youngest brother’s sobbing pleas. As soon as he understood what he was hearing, he shot up out of bed, and quietly darted out of bed and down the hallway. Henry, Chase, Jackie, and Shenny were all huddled together by the corner of the hall, since Chase was clearly having a breakdown, and Henrik wasn’t really much better.

Shen exchanged a knowing look with him, and hesitantly nodded, giving him the okay to try to intervene again, even though they both knew Marvin’s concussion hadn’t finished healing. He ran into the dining room, and immediately started desperately yanking at his mother’s arm to try to get her to let go of James, as she was choking him.

“Mom! Stop! Leave him alone! Don’t hurt him!” He yelled, even though he knew he wasn’t going to stop the crazy bitch by trying to interfere like this. Jackie was peeking in through the doorway with eyes as wide as the moon, obviously wanting to join his younger brother, but being too scared to do anything.

His mother suddenly snapped her attention to him, and he realized all too late how royally he’d fucked up. Next thing he knew, he’d been flung across the room, and he smashed painfully into the glass cabinet his mother kept a lot of meaningless porcelains in for no reason other than wanting to look much better off financially than she really was. His head slammed into the back of the cabinet with the sickening noise of a skull cracking, and his hearing was overtaken by agonizingly loud ringing. It didn’t take long for him to start registering the severe pain ripping through his body, but it was short-lived, as he felt something he’d been unaware of slipping away.

…

….

… Was this what death feels like? Was that why everything hurt so much? Was that why he couldn’t hear anything, not even the screams and sobs of his brother? Was… that why his vision was slowly fading away?

…

….

Silence. Darkness. All his senses failed. He couldn’t even feel his body anymore.

So… This is it, huh? Just like that, this is how we die? A horribly failed attempt to save James… got us killed?

… Why? Why does she hate us so much..? Why… does she hate our brothers so much..? What did they ever do to deserve this..? I’m the only one who hurts people… I’m the only one who kills… Why didn’t she just abort us all if she didn’t want us..?

…

… This really is the end for us, isn’t it..? Killed by our own mother… God… We didn’t even get to say goodbye to our brothers…

…

….

…..

No.

Not yet.

We can’t give up.

We have to pull ourselves together! We have to get up from this! We have to survive. For James. Chase. Henrik. Jackie. Shen. We can’t let them down. We have to be strong for our brothers. They need us. They can’t go through this alone.

Get up. Get ready for school. Have Shenny drop Jameson off at preschool for us. We have to save our energy as much as we can if we want to survive this. We’re gonna be late, but that doesn’t matter. We can hide our wounds with magic. We’ve done it before. This isn’t any different.

…

….

He opened his eyes, making a very small noise of pain. He looked around, to see his mother gone- most likely off to work now-, Shenny trying desperately to wake him, as Jackie did his best to comfort their younger brothers, all of which were either having a panic attack, sobbing uncontrollably, or just entirely catatonic.

“Marvin!” Shen exclaimed when he saw his eyes open, and hugged him. He winced, and Shen quickly let go, apologizing profusely.

“...issokeh…s’okeh...don’ apol’gize… y’re scared…” he mumbled, his words slurred heavily, “...wh’re’s th’cr’tch’s…”

“Crutches..? N-No, M-Marvin, you can’t go to- to school like this! Y-You need to go to the hosp-” Shen began to protest, but he shut up when Marvin glared at him for suggesting he go to that cursed place that claims to help fix people.

“No. no hosp’tle. don’trus’ th’ docs… they’ll jus’ scol’me f’r bein’ weak...”

“...”

“S-Sean, just get the crutches… we don’t have much time left, we’re all gonna be late if you stall us by arguing with his stupid bullshit again-”

“Last time this happened, he stumbled into class and collapsed! This time it’s even worse than just a concussion, you know that, right?!”

“Sean! Seriously! We’re more likely to get help for all this if we just let him carry out with whatever ridiculous idea he has.”

Shen sighed in annoyance, and rolled his eyes, “Fine.” He summoned some strings, and they quickly zipped off, going to find the crutches and bring them back. It didn’t take long for the strings to pull them in, and soon enough, they were all heading out. Shen held James in his arms as he walked, while Jackie walked ahead of them with Chase on his shoulder and Henrik holding his hand. Shen had to separate from them halfway to school, since he was responsible for taking James to preschool today.

After about ten minutes, Jackie was a long ways ahead of him, and the distance between them only increased as they got closer and closer. By the time he arrived at school, Jack was in class, as were Chase and Henry. He was the last one to get into the building, as it was probably around 8:50 AM, and classes had already started. He didn’t make it any farther than passing the office door, though, and collapsed on the ground.

…

Thankfully, a girl he recognized (but couldn’t remember why, due to the loss of blood accompanied by a severe concussion) rounded the corner soon after he fell, and immediately noticed him lying on the ground, his body beaten and bloody, with quite a few shards of glass still in his flesh, because they were buried so deep that removing them without a doctor there would surely kill him. She screamed out of fear and concern, and ran off, probably trying to find a teacher.

She came back after a few minutes, and pointed the custodian she’d found to him, but by then he had lost his hearing to the screeching sound of ringing and false voices in his ears, and couldn’t tell if anyone was talking. He saw more adults come up to them, one of whom immediately called 911, while the others tried to figure out how to get him somewhere safer or something. He closed his eyes, knowing he’d failed to tough it out like he had all the previous times his mother decided to direct her aggressions onto him.

…

….

…..

He must’ve blacked out, because he woke up in an ambulance, with paramedics trying their hardest to stabilize his condition enough to get him into the ER before he died. He didn’t get to stay awake long enough to know if they managed to do anything, though, since he fell back into unconsciousness less than a minute after regaining it.

…

….

…..

Beeping. That was the first thing he registered. Slowly, but surely, though, his senses all faded back in, and he realized he was in the hospital, and there were nurses and a doctor or two in the room with him. Panic set in, and the first thing he did was try to tear out the IVs in his arms, but the nurses noticed immediately, and rushed over to him, restraining him from getting the hell out of there. He started crying, his mind a mess of panic and confusion, as he could no longer recall any events that lead up to him being here. As far as he was aware, they were holding him here against his will, hell, probably even holding him for ransom until his brothers found a way to give them money, and it was still two weeks prior, when he got the first concussion.

They wound up sedating him after he refused to stop thrashing around, even as the other nurses and doctors ran over to try to calm him down.

—————

The weeks he spent recovering in the hospital were hell. Every waking moment was spent either panicking, crying, or feeling nothing at all, except a burning desire to just run back home, and pretend none of this had ever happened. He’d regained the memory of trying to save his brother, but nothing else.

After the sedative they’d used on him wore off, he remembered sitting up in bed as one of the nurses kept an eye on him in case he tried it again, and bursting into tears, sobbing out that he wanted his brothers. He knew they couldn’t grant him that, but he couldn’t bear to be alone in the hospital room with a nurse. At this point he didn’t even remember why he was so terrified of hospitals, doctors, and everything else that involved medical attention. It had just become instinctive for him to try to get away from them by now.

He remembered the nurse coming over and trying her damnedest to comfort him, though.

“Hey, hey, calm down, sweetie, it’s okay… You’re gonna be okay…”

“I want my brothers- I-I wanna go home!” He’d sobbed, shaking uncontrollably as the nurse kept trying to calm him down.

“Your brothers are with your little brother right now, sweetie. They’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”

“W-Why are they with Jamie..? H-He’s not hurt, is he..?”

“... Your little brother was brought here due to serious injuries resulting from a couple of boys getting into a fight with him shortly after you were stabilized and put in this room. He’s okay now, but he has to stay in bed for a few days, and then he can go home, alright honey?”

“... N-No- D-Don’t let him go home with-without me- H-He- M-Mom might-” He started to protest, still sobbing, but a little less hysterically than before now.

“I know you’re worried about him… Your older brothers told us what happened. Don’t worry, we have it under control. Considering the overwhelming amount of evidence of abuse the officers who arrived at your school with the paramedics gathered from the statements they got from the adults on scene, and later from the staff at your brother’s preschool… I don’t think she has much of a chance of getting away with this.”

“S-She’s getting in trouble for this..?”

“Yes. You boys are going to be out of this situation soon, I promise. Now… Is there anything else you need, sweetie?” He knew she was changing the subject to get his mind off of the topic she knew was only bothering him more, but he didn’t care. He was too exhausted from crying so much to care.

“...what day is it..?”

“... Tuesday. You were out for nearly an entire day.”

“... okay…”

“You sure that’s all, sweetie?”

He nodded, though, he knew his expression and demeanor weren’t very convincing.

“... Okay… If you need anything, I’ll be over here by the door, okay?”

“... okay.”

After that, the head nurse decided that since the nurse who helped calm him down was the only person in the hospital he trusted, she would be assigned to keeping an eye on him, and helping him out with things like refilling the IVs or bringing him some food when needed. But, considering that he had a panic attack any time anyone else tried to interact with him in any way aside from bringing food, that may have been for the best.

… The trial was a whole other mess of a story, honestly. He remembered being brought out from the hospital to testify against his mother, but somehow, she managed to convince everyone that he was an ungrateful little liar, and all those reported injuries he and his brothers had gone to school with were just the result of them being wild little boys that liked to roughhouse. Ha. As if a fucking 11 year old boy would intentionally throw his little brother into a goddamn glass cabinet full of porcelain.

The trial wound up with the court siding with his mother, and she was allowed to go home with nothing but a stern talking to about ‘teaching her sons not to throw each other around’, while Jackie started lashing out and screaming that she was a fucking unstable psychopath and they should be arresting her for hurting his brothers, not letting her go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. The guards had to put him in handcuffs and drag him out of the courtroom to keep him from trying to kill the jury members.

Jameson was kept in the hospital for the trial, and Chase and Henrik stayed with him, since James was 5, Chase was 6, and Henrik was 7- all far too young to be allowed in the courtroom during such a heavy court case. And it was a good thing they were, since as soon as they found out that the court let their mother walk, and had instead wound up putting Jackie in juvenile for several months under the charge of attempted murder, Henrik had another panic attack, Chase had a mental breakdown, and Jameson went catatonic.

… God, this was all his fault, wasn’t it..?

-related topics, even if it’s only heavy shit. I do not want anyone to have any issues with panic attacks or ptsd-related episodes as a result of my stories, and I also don’t want you to suffer for any reason just to see this story, so please, please heed my warning, and do NOT read past this warning, as the abuse literally starts in the first paragraph.

Marvin woke up, and realized he’d slept past his alarm before his mind properly registered the sound of his mother yelling at Jameson drowning out the noise of his youngest brother’s sobbing pleas. As soon as he understood what he was hearing, he shot up out of bed, and quietly darted out of bed and down the hallway. Henry, Chase, Jackie, and Shenny were all huddled together by the corner of the hall, since Chase was clearly having a breakdown, and Henrik wasn’t really much better.

Shen exchanged a knowing look with him, and hesitantly nodded, giving him the okay to try to intervene again, even though they both knew Marvin’s concussion hadn’t finished healing. He ran into the dining room, and immediately started desperately yanking at his mother’s arm to try to get her to let go of James, as she was choking him.

“Mom! Stop! Leave him alone! Don’t hurt him!” He yelled, even though he knew he wasn’t going to stop the crazy bitch by trying to interfere like this. Jackie was peeking in through the doorway with eyes as wide as the moon, obviously wanting to join his younger brother, but being too scared to do anything.

His mother suddenly snapped her attention to him, and he realized all too late how royally he’d fucked up. Next thing he knew, he’d been flung across the room, and he smashed painfully into the glass cabinet his mother kept a lot of meaningless porcelains in for no reason other than wanting to look much better off financially than she really was. His head slammed into the back of the cabinet with the sickening noise of a skull cracking, and his hearing was overtaken by agonizingly loud ringing. It didn’t take long for him to start registering the severe pain ripping through his body, but it was short-lived, as he felt something he’d been unaware of slipping away.

…

….

… Was this what death feels like? Was that why everything hurt so much? Was that why he couldn’t hear anything, not even the screams and sobs of his brother? Was… that why his vision was slowly fading away?

…

….

Silence. Darkness. All his senses failed. He couldn’t even feel his body anymore.

So… This is it, huh? Just like that, this is how we die? A horribly failed attempt to save James… got us killed?

… Why? Why does she hate us so much..? Why… does she hate our brothers so much..? What did they ever do to deserve this..? I’m the only one who hurts people… I’m the only one who kills… Why didn’t she just abort us all if she didn’t want us..?

…

… This really is the end for us, isn’t it..? Killed by our own mother… God… We didn’t even get to say goodbye to our brothers…

…

….

…..

No.

Not yet.

We can’t give up.

We have to pull ourselves together! We have to get up from this! We have to survive. For James. Chase. Henrik. Jackie. Shen. We can’t let them down. We have to be strong for our brothers. They need us. They can’t go through this alone.

Get up, Peter. Get ready for school. Have Shenny drop Jameson off at preschool for us. We have to save our energy as much as we can if we want to survive this. We’re gonna be late, but that doesn’t matter. We can hide our wounds with magic. We’ve done it before. This isn’t any different.

…

….

He opened his eyes, making a very small noise of pain. He looked around, to see his mother gone- most likely off to work now-, Shenny trying desperately to wake him, as Jackie did his best to comfort their younger brothers, all of which were either having a panic attack, sobbing uncontrollably, or just entirely catatonic.

“Marvin!” Shen exclaimed when he saw his eyes open, and hugged him. He winced, and Shen quickly let go, apologizing profusely.

“...issokeh…s’okeh...don’ apol’gize… y’re scared…” he mumbled, his words slurred heavily, “...wh’re’s th’cr’tch’s…”

“Crutches..? N-No, M-Marvin, you can’t go to- to school like this! Y-You need to go to the hosp-” Shen began to protest, but he shut up when Marvin glared at him for suggesting he go to that cursed place that claims to help fix people.

“No. no hosp’tle. don’trus’ th’ docs… they’ll jus’ scol’me f’r bein’ weak...”

“...”

“S-Seán, just get the crutches… we don’t have much time left, we’re all gonna be late if you stall us by arguing with his stupid bullshit again-”

“Last time this happened, he stumbled into class and collapsed! This time it’s even worse than just a concussion, you know that, right?!”

“Seán! Seriously! We’re more likely to get help for all this if we just let him carry out with whatever ridiculous idea he has.”

Shen sighed in annoyance, and rolled his eyes, “Fine.” He summoned some strings, and they quickly zipped off, going to find the crutches and bring them back. It didn’t take long for the strings to pull them in, and soon enough, they were all heading out. Shen held James in his arms as he walked, while Jackie walked ahead of them with Chase on his shoulder and Henrik holding his hand. Shen had to separate from them halfway to school, since he was responsible for taking James to preschool today.

After about ten minutes, Jackie was a long ways ahead of him, and the distance between them only increased as they got closer and closer. By the time he arrived at school, Jack was in class, as were Chase and Henry. He was the last one to get into the building, as it was probably around 8:50 AM, and classes had already started. He didn’t make it any farther than passing the office door, though, and collapsed on the ground.

…

Thankfully, a girl he recognized (but couldn’t remember why, due to the loss of blood accompanied by a severe concussion) rounded the corner soon after he fell, and immediately noticed him lying on the ground, his body beaten and bloody, with quite a few shards of glass still in his flesh, because they were buried so deep that removing them without a doctor there would surely kill him. She screamed out of fear and concern, and ran off, probably trying to find a teacher.

She came back after a few minutes, and pointed the custodian she’d found to him, but by then he had lost his hearing to the screeching sound of ringing and false voices in his ears, and couldn’t tell if anyone was talking. He saw more adults come up to them, one of whom immediately called 911, while the others tried to figure out how to get him somewhere safer or something. He closed his eyes, knowing he’d failed to tough it out like he had all the previous times his mother decided to direct her aggressions onto him.

…

….

…..

He must’ve blacked out, because he woke up in an ambulance, with paramedics trying their hardest to stabilize his condition enough to get him into the ER before he died. He didn’t get to stay awake long enough to know if they managed to do anything, though, since he fell back into unconsciousness less than a minute after regaining it.

…

….

…..

Beeping. That was the first thing he registered. Slowly, but surely, though, his senses all faded back in, and he realized he was in the hospital, and there were nurses and a doctor or two in the room with him. Panic set in, and the first thing he did was try to tear out the IVs in his arms, but the nurses noticed immediately, and rushed over to him, restraining him from getting the hell out of there. He started crying, his mind a mess of panic and confusion, as he could no longer recall any events that lead up to him being here. As far as he was aware, they were holding him here against his will, hell, probably even holding him for ransom until his brothers found a way to give them money, and it was still two weeks prior, when he got the first concussion.

They wound up sedating him after he refused to stop thrashing around, even as the other nurses and doctors ran over to try to calm him down.

—————

The weeks he spent recovering in the hospital were hell. Every waking moment was spent either panicking, crying, or feeling nothing at all, except a burning desire to just run back home, and pretend none of this had ever happened. He’d regained the memory of trying to save his brother, but nothing else.

After the sedative they’d used on him wore off, he remembered sitting up in bed as one of the nurses kept an eye on him in case he tried it again, and bursting into tears, sobbing out that he wanted his brothers. He knew they couldn’t grant him that, but he couldn’t bear to be alone in the hospital room with a nurse. At this point he didn’t even remember why he was so terrified of hospitals, doctors, and everything else that involved medical attention. It had just become instinctive for him to try to get away from them by now.

He remembered the nurse coming over and trying her damnedest to comfort him, though.

“Hey, hey, calm down, sweetie, it’s okay… You’re gonna be okay…”

“I want my brothers- I-I wanna go home!” He’d sobbed, shaking uncontrollably as the nurse kept trying to calm him down.

“Your brothers are with your little brother right now, sweetie. They’ll be here soon, don’t worry.”

“W-Why are they with Jamie..? H-He’s not hurt, is he..?”

“... Your little brother was brought here due to serious injuries resulting from a couple of boys getting into a fight with him shortly after you were stabilized and put in this room. He’s okay now, but he has to stay in bed for a few days, and then he can go home, alright honey?”

“... N-No- D-Don’t let him go home with-without me- H-He- M-Mom might-” He started to protest, still sobbing, but a little less hysterically than before now.

“I know you’re worried about him… Your older brothers told us what happened. Don’t worry, we have it under control. Considering the overwhelming amount of evidence of abuse the officers who arrived at your school with the paramedics gathered from the statements they got from the adults on scene, and later from the staff at your brother’s preschool… I don’t think she has much of a chance of getting away with this.”

“S-She’s getting in trouble for this..?”

“Yes. You boys are going to be out of this situation soon, I promise. Now… Is there anything else you need, sweetie?” He knew she was changing the subject to get his mind off of the topic she knew was only bothering him more, but he didn’t care. He was too exhausted from crying so much to care.

“...what day is it..?”

“... Tuesday. You were out for nearly an entire day.”

“... okay…”

“You sure that’s all, sweetie?”

He nodded, though, he knew his expression and demeanor weren’t very convincing.

“... Okay… If you need anything, I’ll be over here by the door, okay?”

“... okay.”

After that, the head nurse decided that since the nurse who helped calm him down was the only person in the hospital he trusted, she would be assigned to keeping an eye on him, and helping him out with things like refilling the IVs or bringing him some food when needed. But, considering that he had a panic attack any time anyone else tried to interact with him in any way aside from bringing food, that may have been for the best.

… The trial was a whole other mess of a story, honestly. He remembered being brought out from the hospital to testify against his mother, but somehow, she managed to convince everyone that he was an ungrateful little liar, and all those reported injuries he and his brothers had gone to school with were just the result of them being wild little boys that liked to roughhouse. Ha. As if a fucking 11 year old boy would intentionally throw his little brother into a goddamn glass cabinet full of porcelain.

The trial wound up with the court siding with his mother, and she was allowed to go home with nothing but a stern talking to about ‘teaching her sons not to throw each other around’, while Jackie started lashing out and screaming that she was a fucking unstable psychopath and they should be arresting her for hurting his brothers, not letting her go with nothing but a slap on the wrist. The guards had to put him in handcuffs and drag him out of the courtroom to keep him from trying to kill the jury members.

Jameson was kept in the hospital for the trial, and Chase and Henrik stayed with him, since James was 5, Chase was 6, and Henrik was 7- all far too young to be allowed in the courtroom during such a heavy court case. And it was a good thing they were, since as soon as they found out that the court let their mother walk, and had instead wound up putting Jackie in juvenile for several months under the charge of attempted murder, Henrik had another panic attack, Chase had a mental breakdown, and Jameson went catatonic.

… God, this is all our fault, isn’t it..?

————————————————————

Oh wow, look, for once a DaD fic i could upload because timeline shit won’t be confusing if I do!

But, also, side note: Part of the reason Marvin called himself Peter in his thoughts at the beginning is that his middle name is Peter, and when he was younger, a lot of the adults and kids around him would call him that instead of his first name. However, the other part of the reason is related to a mental disorder that I found out he has back in February. I will not go into it here because the explanation I would have to give is very lengthy, and, well, the disorder itself is one of those things that can be severely hard to wrap your head around, and I don’t want to put it here in case anyone has any issues from reading about it in my words, as I’m not the best at explaining things, even when I’ve researched them as extensively as I have the disorder in particular. The only reason I understand it to the level that I do is because I’ve known about the disorder since at least 2016, probably longer, and have done a lot of research on it, both from looking into many articles written by experts/professionals, and from looking into accounts of what the disorder is like that were made by real people who suffer from it. I do not, however, claim to know everything about it, nor do I claim that I know enough to say I’m an expert. I simply just write Marvin’s struggles with it based on what I have come to understand about him and how he works with his issues. Obviously, I can’t go into depth about it either, but just know that his struggles with it are not universal for all who struggle with it, so even though how it affects him is why he’s so erratic, unpredictable, and even murdery at times, he is an extremely rare case in the disorder, and the majority, if not almost all of, the people affected by it irl are in no way as dangerous as he is. He is a fictional character, and does not represent reality, though, given that he has magic and can control people with little purple threads, I feel like that should be obvious.

... i will also say this in the tags, but since i know almost no one reads tags: If anyone wants me to make a post about the disorder he has, how it affects him, and the details about his specific case, I will. However, unless you outright tell me that you want it, I will not, because I am not going to force something no one/almost no one wants, especially not if it’s as heavy and complex as the disorder. The same goes for all the other things I have discovered about him and his brothers since the last time i posted any DaD content, but have not mentioned on Tumblr, but moreso because of the ‘not if no one wants it’ than the ‘too heavy’, since the rest of it isn’t anywhere near the risk factor of that specific disorder, and can be discussed freely and openly without risking triggering or causing anything negative in anyone. But, of course, as I said, all of that will only be delved into if you guys ask me to. Yes. That means responding, or inboxing. I’m sorry if that gives you anxiety, and I don’t expect you to do it at all, whether or not it does, however, those are the terms, and I will not loosen them for anyone unless you wish to discuss it in private, and do not share it with anyone without my consent first.

and as for why i even wrote about it if it’s such a big deal? Because I literally can’t write DaD! Marvin without factoring it in. That disorder literally shapes almost the entirety of his character and personality, since it’s a disorder that severely affects how the personality forms. If I took it out of him, he’d loose every single quirk and trait that we love about him. He’d most likely be a hollow, 1-dimensional character, especially when compared to how he was prior to having it ‘removed’. So, to keep him from loosing eveything we love about him, he has to keep it, and I have to write it.

.

@antis-loyal-puppet @rorald-brody @chaoticcrimsonrose @tiny-septic-puppet @startschantingpma @septic-dr-schneep @insaneangel18-blog @ihaveanunhealthyteaaddiction

(extra tags, as requested by duders on a few discord servers: @geewriter @abyssshifter )

I know I don’t normally do taglists in trigger-heavy fics, but uh,,, seeing as this is the first fic I’ve been able to post in so long... I figured I oughta do it. Also, I apologize a whole heckin lotta oopsies for the entire f--kin’ short story’s worth of an author’s note at the end, but uh,,, i knew i couldn’t leave all that out in the air without making it look like i have several major plotholes where I really, honestly, do not have any. I have worked my ass off on developing Darkness and Desperation for the past four months, so I really don’t want people to assume that I’ve made a story and bullshitted my entire way through both the backstory and the actual storyline-

[lokilickedme]

Part 3 of Read By Loki Laufeyson - Fifty Shades of Grey

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own (no longer available there) 

Rating:  Mature

Archive Warning:  No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:  F/M

Fandom:  Loki - Fandom, Loki (Marvel) - Fandom, The Avengers (MarvelMovies), Tom Hiddleston - Fandom

Relationship:  Loki/His Book, Ana/Christian

Character:  Loki, Loki Laufeyson, Loki (Marvel), Ana Steele, Christian Grey

Additional Tags:  Explicit Language, this book deserves its own warning tag, one that says DON'T READ ME, Explicit Sexual Content, lame and exceedingly silly descriptions of sex acts

Series:  Part 3 of Read by Loki Laufeyson

Stats:  Originally Published 2016-02-27   Words: 3386 (original version)

Part One:  The Night Manager

Part Two:  High Rise

   50 Shades of Grey, Read By Loki Laufeyson by lokilickedme 

Summary:  Loki reads 50 Shades and throws up multiple times. I would offer my apologies to E.L. James, but she doesn't deserve it. 

Notes:  See the end of the work for notes  

  This shitshow gets on the shaky road with a dedication that made the right side of my face twitch before the story even got started.  It's dedicated to "the master of my universe" and as of right this very moment I'm ready to preemptively toss it into the bathroom, not as reading material for my next luxury soak, but as a replacement for the empty roll of toilet paper that I keep forgetting to run to the store for.  Fuck me people, she didn't even capitalize "master" and ANY GOOD SUB KNOWS THAT NOT CAPITALIZING MASTER IS A MASSIVE SHOW OF DISRESPECT AND YOU DESERVE THE ASS BEATING YOU GET FOR IT - WITH ZERO AFTERCARE.  Don't ask me how I know that, but go ahead and fight me, this is a hill I’m willing to die on.  If this person is writing a book that's touted as an even remotely accurate accounting of a Dom/sub relationship, I can tell you right now, she doesn't know jack shit. 

So I've read a couple of pages and I'm already looking around for my seizure meds when I realize I don't take seizure meds.  I will after this, I might as well go ahead and call it in.  I'm to the part about Wanda the Volkswagon when my anticipatory boner not only goes away, but retracts so far up into my scrotum as a result of the most horrendous writing I've seen this side of Thor's second grade book report on Anne of Green Gables that I'm thinking I might just be female now.  I mean seriously?  This hurts.  I’m not even exaggerating, if you have a penis it’s going to draw up into your gall bladder.  If you have a vulva it’s going to need a vat of Burt’s Bees Extra Moisture Replenishing Salve and a bottle of cranberry capsules.  I’m not even female at the moment and this thing gave me a flaming UTI.

 I’m not sure Wanda, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time.  Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal. 

People, this is a published book.  Someone got paid for this.  It got made into a movie.  I haven't even gotten to the sex yet and I'm already Google mapping monasteries within a one-hundred mile radius because I'm ready to take my vows.  No, this book hasn't made me believe in a higher power.  It has taken away my will to ever get laid again.

 The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. 

Holy fucking shitballs people, terminal velocity by its very definition means someone is going to die.  Is this person wearing a pressurized speed suit?  Do they hand them to you at the door before you go into the elevator?  How does the building tolerate the mechanics of generating that kind of speed?  And if by some random blessing by some random god who won't be getting any thanks from me she actually survived this trip to the twentieth floor, her brains would be leaking out her asshole.  That's not the way to make a good first impression, sweetheart.  Take the fucking stairs next time.

 It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view.  Wow. 

Yes, wow.  Paralysis is rarely ever momentary darling, and it does ugly things to pretty girls.  Like, rendering you a jelly-like heap on the floor because your muscles don't continue working while you're paralyzed.  Paralysis sort of means your muscles have stopped working. 

I've begun highlighting every word I come across that the author obviously doesn't know the definition to.  Fake it till you make it, right darling?  Five pages in and my yellow pen has died a violent death.

 I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office. Double crap – me and my two left feet! 

YOU. 

HAVE. 

GOT. 

TO. 

BE. 

FUCKING. 

KIDDING. 

ME.

In what universe is this ridiculous cutesy sort of shit thought to be amusing?  The cliches are giving me hemorrhoids.  Me and my two left feet?  Not that I'm an expert on Earth terminology and phrasing, but I'm fairly certain people stopped saying shit like that around 1962.  And...I can't believe I'm being forced to say this, but - double crap??  I was already calling my brother a bilgesnipe’s vagina by the time I could crawl, I'm pretty sure the last time I said something as immature and amateurishly silly as double crap I was still in the womb and cursing in Morse Code.  I may actually have even still been a sperm in my father's left testicle.  How old is this writer?

 “Um. Actually–” I mutter.  If this guy is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle.  In a daze, I place my hand in his and we shake.  As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me.  I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed.  Must be static.  I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate. 

I'm sorry but I really don't even know where to start.  The Um. Actually- ?  Or the I'm a monkey's uncle?  Maybe it's the staccato pacing?  The elementary school sentence structure?  The fact that all but one sentence of that paragraph has the word I in it, sometimes multiple times?  She placed her hand in his and they shook - sort of like I'm shaking right now.  It's the seizures this damn travesty has provoked, honestly I should sue the author for my prescription costs.  And if that girl's eyelids matched her heart rate then I'm just envisioning one of those blinky-eyed cupie dolls strapped to a paint mixing machine.

 “I own my company.  I don’t have to answer to a board.”  He raises an eyebrow at me.  I flush. 

Yes darling, always do a courtesy flush when the stench is really vomit-inducing.  Like now.  I'm not even going to ask if this conversation is taking place in a bathroom because I can tell you honestly, the bathroom is right where it belongs.

 His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something.��

Something...like, maybe shit, perhaps?

 I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo - 

No darling, trust me, it's not.  A tattoo is something you draw on your body, there's no pounding involved unless you've done the drawing on your vagina.  And if you’re referring to the drum beat, then you should just say so because frankly this is meant to be a sex book and your readers aren’t going to be interested in Googling your sophomoric attempts at using interesting words.  And just as an aside, most humans are going to think of a Scottish marching band when you use that word in that context, and the last thing you want your readers thinking about while you’re sliding into a smut scene is men in plaid skirts blowing bagpipes.

 I am utterly thrown by the sight of him standing before me.  My memories of him did not do him justice.  He’s not merely good-looking – he’s the epitome of male beauty, breathtaking - 

Hold on a second, I wasn't aware I was in this book?  I must have been drunk.  I'm not sure that I would consent to this idiocy even if I was soused off my gourd, so I think I'm going to be filing a second lawsuit for character theft.

 - and he’s here.  Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store.  Go figure. 

Yes, go figure sweetiepie.  Everybody, even handsome people, need replacement U-joints for their toilets.  They come in handy when you're trying to flush books.

 Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body. 

Honey, cognitive functions aren't a part of your body, they're a part of your brain.  So unless your head fell off while you were walking around in Clayton's Hardware Store, I doubt this happened.  If it did, my condolences to Mr Clayton and the other shoppers, I know how traumatic that can be.

 And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – 

You mean the whole thing?

 - probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: He’s here to see you. 

I just had another seizure.  It’s a sex book darling, stop trying to use seventy-five cent Merriam Webster words and settle for something along the lines of My fucking head exploded - trust me, at this point your readers will relate to that far more than to the concept of subconscious thought.  Or any thought at all.  And we all know it’s highly unlikely Miss Double Crap Wanda-driving headless-in-Clayton’s-Hardware store is capable of coming up with a term like medulla oblongata after that terminal velocity elevator ride.

 No way! I dismiss it immediately.  Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane man want to see me?  The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.

 And now your head is completely empty, much like the author's, because that poorly constructed series of sentences was all that was rattling around in there. 

For the sake of moving this along, because I have something to say about literally every fucking sentence in this roll of rough-ass toilet paper, I'm going to skip to the first round of sex and see if anything improves.  Because that's what people do when things aren't going well, isn't it?  They have sex and see if it gets better?  And then if it doesn't, you kick them out and finish up with a fresh pack of batteries and a few minutes of Skinamax and when you wake up in the morning it'll be a whole new day, sunshine.  Because honestly, I just got to the part where her cheeks went the color of the Communist Manifesto and if I don't get to some penis and vagina action I'm going to kill myself.  Besides that, all this double crap inner monologue is starting to make my ballsack clench up. 

So alright people, I've got my lube and my right hand ready, let's get this party started shall we?

  "Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?”  Holy shit.  Did I just say that? 

Well it certainly wasn't me.  Having medulla oblongata issues again, are we sweetheart?

 His mouth drops open slightly, but he recovers quickly.  “No, Anastasia it doesn’t.  Firstly, I don’t make love.  I fuck... hard." 

Finally, someone steps up.  Is that the sound of zippers headed south I hear?

 "Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for.  You could still run for the hills.  Come, I want to show you my playroom.” 

Nope, my mistake.  Zippers firmly holding north.  How far is this fellow going to count?  Do people actually do that cheesy little “Firstly, secondly” speech tic all the way up to thirdly?  I usually only get to secondly before someone pops me in the mouth.  Somehow I have no trouble envisioning this obviously anal retentive Christian fellow proceeding right along to fourthly, fifthly, sixthly, seventhly...perhaps he has a numbers fetish to go along with that paperwork obsession of his.  If this is foreplay I'm leaving because math was never my strong point and I’ll be damned if I’m going to relive the hell of ninth grade just to get a two page smut scene.  If you want to have sex with me we get to firstly, I point to my zipper, and the game is on.  But he does get points for being forthright enough to come right out up front with the admission that he's such a rough fucker there have to be contracts involved.  Kudos my man.  Too bad he wrecked it by planting that playroom visual immediately after, because now all I can think about is a toybox full of Legos and a plastic xylophone.  Even I can't make anything kinky out of that.

 My mouth drops open.  Fuck hard!  Holy shit, that sounds so... hot.  But why are we looking at a playroom?  I am mystified.  “You want to play on your Xbox?” 

Yes darling, Fuck hard!  It sounds like a Bruce Willis movie, only this time he's not in an office building crawling through the ceiling or on an airplane fighting off terrorists, he's tied to a bed while Bonnie Bedelia drips hot wax on his scrotes.  It's a real shame we lost Alan Rickman, I'd give anything to see Hans Gruber standing at the foot of the bed in a leather corset intoning Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker just one more time.

As for playing on his Xbox, the Sims have a "whoo hoo" function.  That's all I'm going to say about that.

 - it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.  Holy fuck. 

Ah yes, the good old days of the Inquisition.  I had quite a wonderful time during that era, it was a sado-masochistic wet dream.  And no, I wasn't an Inquisitor...I worked as a volunteer equipment tester for the Vatican.  There wasn't a steel spiked ball cage or 360-degree nipple twister that earned my seal of approval until I screamed for my mommy.  Something tells me this pansy-ass little ninny isn't going to make it past the electroshock vulva clamps before she's crying for every matriarchal figure in her family all the way back to the Charlemagne era.

 “It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you.  I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy even, in your submission.  The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”  “Okay, and what do I get out of this?”  He shrugs and looks almost apologetic.  “Me,” he says simply. 

Um...no. Just no.  Unequivocally NO.  That isn't how it works, E.L. James.  Not in the slightest.  In a true Dom/sub relationship the submissive receives every bit as much as the Dominant, and there is no two ways around that.  Anything less is bullshit and whoever you're trying to force-feed this lie to should leave running and punch you in the crotch on the way out.  I sincerely hope anyone reading this nonsense is doing so on a dare and not because they want to learn about D/s dynamics, because you're obviously not going to learn anything from this book except how to be a lip-biting ningnong who doesn't do much more than chat merrily with herself inside her medulla oblongata while mentally spouting double crap! on repeat every thirty-seven seconds.  And any respect I had for this Grey fellow for being up front about his sexual preferences just went out the window, which coincidentally is where the lip-biting ningnong should be headed.  Like he said - you could still run for the hills. 

Skipping ahead...skipping ahead...my god are these idiots ever going to do it?  I'm on page 194 and so far the closest they've come to coitus is when he almost ejaculated in his pants in an apoplectic rage when she told him she was a virgin.

 “Ah,” I groan. 

Ack, I puke.

 “You smell so good,” he murmurs and closes his eyes, a look of pure pleasure on his face, and I practically convulse.  He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then pushes me gently so I fall on to the mattress. 

I'm practically convulsing too darling, but unfortunately not with pleasure.  I need more anti-seizure meds, I've already gone through the entire bottle.  I'll be starting on the Xanax next and then it’s another call to my HMO.

 I’m panting... wanting. 

I'm vomiting...heaving.

 Not taking his eyes off mine, again he runs his tongue along my instep and then his teeth.  Shit.  I groan... how can I feel this, there? 

Hold up a second - this is a man who is so persnickety he pulls the duvet off the bed before he lets her set her ass on it, but now less than a page later he's just removed her sneaker and is licking the bottom of her sweaty all-day Converse encased foot?  My capacity for suspension of disbelief is not only wavering at this point, it’s pretty much died a slow and painful death.  Which is what I feel like I’m doing.  And if a man is holding eye contact while licking the bottom of your foot, he’s either upside down or your leg is so high up in the air he could be looking up your hooch and seeing himself through your left nostril.

“How do you make yourself come?  I want to see.”  I shake my head.  “I don’t,” I mumble.

I call bullshit.  She’s twenty-one, a virgin, and has never diddled herself?  That’s about as likely as me never having had intercourse with a horse.

“Let go, baby,” he murmurs.  His teeth close around my nipple, and his thumb and finger pull hard, and I fall apart in his hands, my body convulsing and shattering into a thousand pieces.

Huh.  And here all this time I’ve been laboring under the delusion that more was required than just two short paragraphs worth of nipple play.  This girl is a physical wonder, her nipples are clitorises.  Clitori?  Clitterati?  However you say multiple clits.  I know playing with them feels nice and I’ve made more than one maiden squirm with a few well placed sucks and a pinch or two, but this girl was climaxing before he even got her out of her brassiere.  Someone get her a job at the Kinsey Institute.

Suddenly, he sits up and tugs my panties off and throws them on the floor.

I hope they didn’t land on the duvet, he went to such trouble to keep it from getting mussed.

Pulling off his boxer briefs, his erection springs free.  Holy cow...

Rather like a jack-in-the-box, I’m envisioning.  Holy cow indeed.  Twist the handle and Pop Goes The Weasel plays while you wait in panicked anticipation for that horrid little clown to burst out of the hinged metal box and scare the shit out of you.  Well, he did say playroom, didn’t he.  Oh, and boxers and briefs are two entirely different things, my dear.  The further we get into this silly little tale the more convincing my sneaking suspicion that the author has never actually met a man before.

“I’m going to fuck you now, Miss Steele” he murmurs as he positions the head of his erection at the entrance of my sex.

I’m sorry, I know I’m an adult and all but I’m giggling like a sixth grade girl that wandered into the wrong locker room at school.  And for the record, I know exactly what that sounds like because I’ve done it.  But this...this is just...holy fucking hell with twice the fire and ten times the brimstone, that sentence up there just chemically castrated me.  The head of his erection at the entrance of her sex.  I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume it means he put his cock on her pussy and we’ll call it fair and move along.

“Hard, he whispers, and he slams into me.  “Aargh!” I cry -

To quote Miss Steele, holy fuck!  His dick is so big it’s turned her into a pirate!

He speeds up.  I moan, and he pounds on, picking up speed, merciless, a relentless rhythm, and I keep up, meeting his thrusts.

Is anyone else envisioning these two jogging through the park playing bongos?  Just me?  Okay.  Oh and for future reference, because I assume this world isn’t lucky enough to escape at least three sequels to this travesty, no sentence should have as many commas as it has words unless the person speaking it is being punched in the mouth between each syllable.

Two orgasms...coming apart at the seams, like the spin cycle on a washing machine, wow.

Darling if the spin cycle on my washing machine made anything come apart at the seams I’d be at Home Depot demanding they make good on the warranty.  Which, something tells me, you should be doing with this new man of yours.

He increases the rhythm infinitesimally, and his breathing becomes more erratic.  My insides start quickening, and Christian picks up the rhythm.

I looked up infinitesimally, mainly because I’ve never actually seen it in print before and it’s such a strange looking word.  I laughed so hard my Xanax came out my nose when Google offered up this definition:  immeasurably small, exceedingly little, less than an assignable quantity.  To give it a meaning, it must usually be compared to another infinitesimal object in the same context.  Mr Grey, I do believe your tight coochied little virgin just called your dick tiny.

“You. Are. Mine.  Come for me, baby,” he growls.  His words are my undoing, tipping me over the precipice.  My body convulses around him, the precipice.  My body convulses around him, and I come, loudly calling out a garbled version of his name into the mattress.

Well damn, I have to say I’m impressed, both with the uncanny power this fellow’s voice has to make orgasms happen from out of thin air, as well as this girl’s ability to climax on demand after never having done so in her entire life previous to this encounter.  That’s three times now she’s “shattered into a million pieces” all over the fucking bed - thank god he had the presence of mind to toss the duvet on the floor, because those stains would never come out.  He’d probably be getting a visit from the local police as soon as Mrs Fratelli at the dry cleaners got a good look at it.  And I don’t know about anyone else but I really want to hear this “garbled version” of his name that she called out into the mattress.  No, really.  I want to hear it because I’m imagining something like what went down in the Caves of Caerbannog when the Knights were debating the pronunciation of the last word written on the wall.  Does that make Ana’s orgasms the sexual equivalent of the Black Beast of Argh?

I’ll wait for you to hit Google on that one.  Go ahead, I’ll wait.  I’ve got all the time in the world.  I still have six hours of studio time booked and this travesty of a novel is now residing in stall #2 in the mens room and I’m sitting here playing with the roll of toilet paper I stole.  It was a worthwhile trade.  The word Charmin printed four million times on these little squares in infinitely more intellectually stimulating than that undigested goat’s dinner we were reading.

Fifty shades of TP’ing E.L. James’s house, anyone?

End Notes:  All passages in italics are the property of E.L. James, and as far as I’m concerned she can keep them.

[vagrantblvrd]

A Place So Dark (1/?)

Summary: Gavin died on a Thursday.

                 That’s what the official records say, anyway.

                 They also say he died in an accident.

Notes: This is loosely (very much so) based on the movie The Wraith and inspired by Michael and Gavin messing around in the GTA V Jetpack Joyrides video. (Look, I don't know what happened either. Also, let's pretend Tron isn't a thing in this AU, because reasons.)

Chapter 1 || Chapter 2 ||

AO3

Gavin died on a Thursday.

That’s what the official records say, anyway.

They also say he died in an accident.

Bad weather, bald tires, and too much speed going around a turn. (“You have our condolences, Mr. Jones, but we wouldn’t recommend an open casket funeral service, if you take our meaning.”)

Michael knows it’s all bullshit, the only truth in any of it being that Gavin’s fucking dead.

Oh, he knows Gavin had a bike, if you want to call it that.

This atrocity of a Faggio painted like the Union Jack and covered in as many mirrors as he could afford because Gavin’s always been fucking strange.

Remembers Gavin, drunk as all hell and warm and happy and stupid with it as he leaned against Michael in their shitty apartment one night happily regaling him with the adventures of two stupid kids back in England getting into scrapes together. Reckless and young and too stupid to know how good they had it.

Gavin telling him he saw the damn thing in a dealer’s lot. Paint faded, mirrors shattered and leather of its seat cracked and split under the sun and how the last of his savings went into restoring it thanks to a bout of nostalgia.

Something that reminded him of better times and it was all so stupid, wasn't it, Michael? Damn thing never went above fifty even though the manufacture insisted it did, and oh, he was a right idiot to buy it on a whim like that.

The fucking look on Gavin’s face that night, flushed with alcohol and laughter and happy memories.

Sweet smile on his face, and the urge to just lean in and kiss him the way he’d wanted to for so long by that point. Take Gavin's face in his hands and finally fucking show him how in love with him Michael was, but Michael’s always been a coward.

Thought he had time to find a better way to do it. When they were both sober, no alcohol to cloud their judgment because he didn’t want Gavin doing something he’d regret, and now -

And now he’s got the cops telling him Gavin died on a Thursday in an accident when Michael was out of town. That their apartment building burning down a few days prior due to faulty wiring was just a stroke of bad luck, so very sorry, Mr. Jones.

Goddamn bullshit, all of it because this is Los Santos and those kind of coincidences don’t fucking happen here.

They just – they don’t.

Michael's been thinking since he got the call telling him about Gavin’s “accident” because this is is Los Santos and no one stays clean here for long. Even the ones who start out wanting to do the right thing, make the city a better place, get dragged down. Start making compromises, let the lines blur and lose sight of what they wanted to accomplish.

And Gavin, right, Gavin was smart.

So fucking smart with his computers and freelance camera work and everything else.

He could have made a living anywhere, but somehow he ended up in this shithole of a city. Ran into Michael at a bar somewhere and shared their little stories and gotten their lives tangled so tightly together that it was hard to remember a time when Gavin hadn’t been in his life.

Could have left this city behind (left Michael behind) and gotten out, but he hadn’t, and it killed him.

Or someone killed him, because Gavin was smart and clever as hell, and he’d been acting weird, off, the weeks before he died.

Shifty and nervous and doing a bad job of convincing Michael he wasn’t, and Michael had planned on talking to him about it. Cornering him if he had to because it worried him, scared, him, but he’d put it off. Thought he should give Gavin some space because God knows he was a stubborn bastard, would shut down if Michael pushed too hard.

Took a job that took him out of town for a few days, and then everything went to hell, and Michael.

Michael’s no saint, no innocent.

Never was.

Told Gavin he was an electrician, which hadn’t quite been a lie. He’d worked under the table for an electrician back in Jersey, did a little of that here too. Side jobs and shit, but he made most of his money playing muscle for small-time gangs.

Picking up jobs here and there and keeping his head down because he didn’t want to get involved in the shit that went down in the city. Made the news night after night with the bigger crews, territory disputes and power grabs.

He played it smart, just enough to get by. Pay for rent and essentials and maybe get the fuck out of Los Santos one day, take Gavin with him, and now look at him.

Stupid bastard with a hole in his chest where his heart used to be and an idea in his head that’s probably going to kill him when all’s said and done because that’s what this fucking city does. But that’s just fine with Michael as long as he gets to the bottom of this.

========

Michael gets a box in the mail a little over a month after Gavin dies. It looks like it’s been bounced around all over the place by the time it catches up to him, took a beating.

Since the place he had with Gavin is nothing but charred rubble, he’s been staying with someone he met on a job a while back. Guy from Boston who made his way to Los Santos and works as hired muscle when he’s not beating the shit out of some idiot in the fighting ring.

Good guy, really. Someone Michael can trust, as far as things go here, and that says a lot.

Jeremy’s working when the box gets delivered, which is probably for the best because it means he doesn’t get to see the look on Michael’s face when he opens it.

There’s an envelope inside with Michael’s name on in it in Gavin’s handwriting and a fucking letter that Michael can’t bring himself to finish reading after he gets through the first paragraph.

Not when he can hear Gavin’s voice so clearly in his mind, that dumb little laugh of his.

Michael boi, 

If you’re reading this, I guess it means I’m dead, doesn’t it? Probably did something stupid to get that way too. You always said it was a miracle I’d made it this long – how lucky I was – and it looks like you were right about that one.

Michael’s hands only shake a little when he sets the letter aside to go through the rest of the box’s contents.

A padded envelope, something more than just a letter inside with a note and a name and a request from Gavin.

Get it to a reporter with a major news outlet in Los Santos, guy who wasn’t scared to call out crooked politicians and business people in the city. Had had countless death threats and attempts on his life and one of the ones who wants to make a difference here.

Gavin’s note, his, You’re the only one I can trust to get this to him before it’s too late, Michael. and this sinking feeling because it already was too late.

The reporter’s dead. Killed in another “accident” not too long after Gavin’s, another perfect goddamn coincidence.

News outlets all over the city taking the time to comment on what a good man he’d been. How strong, how brave. Such a dedicated journalist and how there would never be another one like him again -

And then never mentioned him again.

Went to great lengths not to, actually, like they’d paid enough lip service to make everything seem right to anyone watching.

Michael hesitates before he opens the envelope because whatever is inside has to be what got Gavin killed.

Something he stumbled on or purposefully went looking for, because he could never leave something well enough alone if it caught his interest. Always chasing something and this time it got him killed. (It’s that last thought that has Michael ripping the envelope open and shaking its contents into his hand.)

A USB drive and a couple of memory cards, and this horrible feeling taking root in Michael’s gut.

Gavin was always too smart for his own good. Nosy little fucker and Los Santos loves people like him.

Gets them caught up in shit they shouldn’t be, learn things they shouldn’t. Leaves them in a bad spot where they make the wrong decisions because there are no right ones to be made.

If they’re lucky they get to live, if not...

Well.

Michael sets the USB drive and memory cards aside and goes through the packet at the bottom of the box.

All kinds of documents and shit with Michael’s face and a fake name. Michael knows right away that they’ll pass whatever scrutiny the authorities would put them through.

There’s everything here he’d need to begin a new life somewhere along with enough money to keep him going until he got his feet under him.

All those times he’d talk about the future with Gavin like he really thought there was one ahead for them. Getting the hell out of Los Santos and living somewhere better (safer), and the fucker had put this together.

Planned for Michael to get this – set up some kind of arrangement with a courier company to send it to Michael if the payments stopped – and just, what?

Thought Michael would hand off the USB drive and memory cards to some asshole and head off into the sunset? Act like Gavin’s death was unfortunate, but shit happens so might as well keep trucking on?

“You fucker,” Michael murmurs, staring at the fake driver license because it’s a shitty picture the way they tend to be, but he remembers Gavin taking it.

The two of them joking around and being stupid the way they always were. Like they were kids again and Lost Santos wasn’t the kind of place it was. Joking around and being stupid and goddamn him anyway.

Michael doesn’t have it in him to cry anymore, not the way he did the first few weeks after Gavin died.

He’s too tired for that now, worn down and hollowed out by loss and grief and this obsession to get to the truth of things. Dead-ends and false leads and Jeremy giving him these worried looks thinking Michael had lost his fucking mind in his grief, and now this.

He’s not crying but his eyes are stinging and his chest aches with this mix of grief and anger and a helplessness that Michael hates more than anything.

He’s been looking for anything to help him make sense of Gavin’s death for so long and it turns out he could have had his answers before now if the fucking postal service had gotten their shit together.

“Fucking Christ, Gav. Only you.”

Jeremy’s got a crappy little laptop that he’s told Michael to use if he ever needs it. This cheesy smile on his face and shitty attempt at Spanish with his “mi laptop es su laptop”.

Michael turns the laptop on and on and listens to the fans laboring to keep it from combusting, waits and waits and waits for it to finish booting up before he plugs the USB drive into the port.

A window pops up asking for a password and Michael stares at the screen for a long moment, because of course it’s not going to be so fucking simple.

He spends half an hour trying different passwords he thinks Gavin would have used with no luck, and removes the USB drive from the laptop. Then, because he’s a goddamn idiot, he tries the memory cards next and meets with the same failure.

For the life of him he can’t think of what Gavin’s password could be, and it’s frustrating on an entirely new level.

After a while, Michael turns Jeremy’s laptop off and winces at the noises it makes as it powers down. Sounds like it’s just a moment away from dying.

Michael puts the USB drive and the memory cards back in the box with the rest of the shit Gavin meant for him to have. He hides it all under a loose board in the storage closet Jeremy showed him.

One of half a dozen hidey spots he has around his place. Smiling as he told Michael it was none of his business what Michael put in there, as long as the cops couldn't trace it back to them.

It’s not the best hiding spot, but he trusts Jeremy and he doesn’t have a lot of options left at the moment.

========

Michael did some asking around when he first started looking into Gavin’s death. People he knew from jobs he’d worked before, ones who might have heard something here or there.

Bits of gossip, tidbits of information inadvertently leaked anything at all would have been useful but nothing helpful had turned up.

Oh, he’d gotten a few hints, clues, every so often but when he followed up on them they didn’t turn anything up.

This time he starts poking around forgers and their kind, sees if any of them remember Gavin. Are willing to admit to it after he’d ended up on the evening news the way he had.

Such a tragic story about the perils of not keeping your vehicle properly maintained. That it was a good idea to obey traffic laws, but even then there had been people who’d seen enough accidents like his to recognize trouble when they saw it.

But now Michael’s got a starting point. Knows there are people out there in his world who knew Gavin.

It’s a matter of applying a little money to grease palms here and there, and this time around he must be asking the right questions.

He gets a little  “You didn’t hear it from me, but - “ and some information on a guy new to Los Santos.

Someone with a crew looking to expand, running drugs and guns and just about everything else. Had some people involved in the underground fights on the side, and word was he’d been looking for someone good with computers a few months back.

Found someone with a funny accent, “Australian or British, one of those”.

Michael knows it could be a coincidence because Gavin wasn’t the only British person in the city, but it’s his first real lead.

He asks Jeremy if he knows anything about the guy, run into his people in the ring.

“Stay the fuck away from Carmine, Michael. I mean it.”

Jeremy looks dead serious, eyes narrowed as he studies Michael. Smart bastard, Jeremy, and in the past that’s been in Michael’s favor, but now?

Not so much.

He must see something on Michael’s face, or maybe he just knows him too well because his expression softens. Fucking sympathy in his voice when he speaks next.

“Is this – Michael. Does this have anything to do with Gavin?”

Michael looks at Jeremy, too tired to lie.

Jeremy and Gavin never met, Michael trying his best to keep his worlds from colliding. So stupidly naive to think he could protect Gavin somehow by keeping the worst part of himself hidden from him.

“Michael - “

“Come on, Jeremy,” he says, hands gesturing. “Do you really think it was an accident? You’ve seen the reports!”

Jeremy’s read the reports too, fuck knows Michael wasn’t in the right frame of mind to hide them from him after he got his hands on them. Called in some favors and put himself in debt with people to do it, but he’d needed to know. Couldn’t fucking trust the cops or the fire department, not in this city, and things hadn’t added up.

Blacked out lines in the reports, other things that just added to his suspicion that something wasn’t right, that they were covering something up.

Jeremy breathes hard through his nose, looks like he wants lie, tell Michael he’s imagining things. That he’s taking this, Gavin's death too hard, letting it fuck with his head. Twist him all up until everything’s muddled up in his head. Turn it into some trust no one bullshit conspiracy theory.

But then he sighs, rubs a hand over his face.

“Carmine’s not someone you want to fuck with,” he says, sounding just as tired as Michael feels. “Michael, if you go digging into his business, you’re going to end up like Gavin.”

It’s flat, bleak, Jeremy not aiming to hurt. Just warn Michael off of doing something stupid, putting himself in danger.

“I can’t let this go,” Michael says.

He doesn’t have the words to explain it to Jeremy, why he needs to know what Gavin had found out to get him killed. Can’t let whoever did it get away with it, think they can do something like that and not expect it to catch up to them.

He knows it won't bring Gavin back.

Knows that it isn’t what Gavin would have wanted for Michael or he never would have gone to the trouble of constructing a new identity for him. (Wanted him to get out of the city and start over somewhere else, forget he’d ever set foot in Los Santos.)

But this isn’t about what Gavin would have wanted because he’s not fucking here.

Michael is and he’s not going to let some piece of shit get away with thinking he’s untouchable.

“I know,” Jeremy sighs. “Christ, just. Be careful, asshole.”

It’s too late for that and Jeremy has to know it, but still. The sentiment’s nice.

========

Michael still has favors saved up, people who put the word out that he’s looking for work. Needs money and is willing to do what it takes to get it.

He’s got a good reputation to start with around the right circles. Known as someone who’d not afraid to get his hands dirty and pretty handy with explosives.

A rat-faced bastard approaches him, makes him a little deal.

Wants Michael to play guard for an old junkyard at the edge of the city. Decent enough pay, and all he has to do is make sure the only people who get in are part of Carmine’s crew.

Anyone else?

They get a bullet.

Nice and simple and nothing different from the work Michael’s done in the past.

Rat-face tells Michael that if he does a good job there’s room for advancement, and it feels like a normal job interview in a fucked up way. (Michael looking to make a career of this, and where does he see himself in five years?)

When Michael gets back, he tells Jeremy he got a job. Works hard to ignore the look on his face. Smart bastard who knows Michael was never going to give up so easily, move on like nothing happened quickly. Bites back whatever he wants to say because because he knows Michael’s past listening. (He hears Jeremy’s ”Be careful, you asshole” just fine though, grateful that he knows better than to stop him.)

And then Michael’s in a goddamn junkyard outside the city. Dirt road leading up to it and far enough out of the way that it feels cut off from civilization.

Tall trees and rocky terrain around it, all kind of animal noises in the night. Eerie, unsettling, the way the shadows fall, and Michael’s skin crawls with the feeling of being watched.

He’s a city kid through and through and the place is creepy as fuck, even with other grunts like him there to guard it.

A handful of the kind of assholes he’s worked with before. Idiots who can’t seem to make a decent living and ended up here. Don’t mind the ugly parts of this life, and a few who probably like the way it’s a bit of a power trip.

All of them bottom of the food chain here, expendable hired muscle that people like Carmine burn through like it’s nothing, but they don’t see it like that.

Think they’re a big deal with their guns and knives and whatever else stepping all over the little guy. Fuck the establishment and take what they want because that’s how things work here.

Survival of the fittest and everything that entails.

Real dumb when it comes down to it because they’re too low in the hierarchy to know what Carmine’s up to out here.

Cargo containers at the heart of the yard and cars coming and going at all hours. A goddamned wall in place of a chain link fence. Buildings along the back converted into a bunk room, barracks, whatever the fuck you want to call it and a tiny kitchenette.

Carmine coming in and turning it into a goddamned compound.

It makes Michael uneasy being out here on his own. New guy without anyone who’d give enough of a shit to watch his back if something happens out here.

Worry in the back of his mind that somehow Carmine knows he’s connected to Gavin, but he shoves it back down for now.

Besides, there’s fuck all he can do if Carmine knows and is just playing the long game Giving Michael enough rope to hang himself so he can get his hands on whatever is on that USB drive and the memory cards.

========

Michael’s not the best sniper, really.

He’s better suited to close quarters shit. Throwing fists and breaking teeth, making someone real fucking sorry they thought he looked like an easy target.

But even an idiot can provide cover fire, keep assholes pinned down. Michael can hit a moving target fairly reliably and Rat-face seems to think that makes him best qualified to put him up in the tower.

Fuck, it’s barely that. Just a structure with a ladder attached near the wall, rickety as hell and covered with a tarp as half-assed shelter from the elements. Keeps the rain off and not much else, but it’s better than nothing.

Third night in and he hears an engine approaching. Something that brings him around to watch the back road because it’s a bike.

It’s foggy out, visibility shit and too fucking quiet for Michael’s peace of mind.

Sounds echoing oddly when the others call out to each other. The sound of the bike seeming to come from all directions and it’s setting Michael’s nerves on edge because the damn thing sounds like something alive and so fucking angry.

There aren’t supposed to be incoming vehicles until the next day anyway, so Michael's on the comm to the Rat-face who’s the big guy in charge out here.

“I’ve got a bike coming up the back road,” he says, watching through his sniper rifle’s scope.

Rat-face gives a curt acknowledgment, and Michael listens with half an ear to him ordering the grunts to fall back to the main gates as he watches the road.

He tracks the bike, high-powered engine, going too fast for the twisting dirt roads out here. It looks like a streak of pale blue-white light moving through the fog, like the old stories his grandfather used to tell him about will-o'-the-wisps.

A minute later the bike slides out of the fog and comes to a stop outside the walls.

Michael realizes it’s some kind of neon body kit that gives the bike a futuristic look, matched by the biker’s own suit. Black with pink lines of light running over it.

“The fuck?” Michael mutters, lifting his head from the scope to look down at the figure.

He’s never seen a bike or suit like that before.

The biker revs the bike’s engine, and Michael's eyes narrow as he looks through the scope again. Blinks when he looks up – right at Michael with the way his head’s angled – and a second later he kicks the bike into motion.

Heads right for the gates with something held aloft in his hand with a blinking red light.

A fucking bomb.

“He’s got explosives!” Michael yells over the comms, and shifts his focus back to the damn biker.

Michael gets off a shot, two, but the guy jukes right, left, too fast for Michael to follow, get a solid bead on him.

Michael swears, looking away to check on the grunts. A few of the smarter ones bolt for cover just in time as the gates blow open and the bike leaps through the smoke like something out of a movie.

The biker avoids the idiots running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Ducks low to hug the body of the bike to avoid gunfire as he head right for the center of the compound.

Rat-face is yelling at Michael to take the fucker out, and Michael tries, he does, but the biker’s fast.

Unnaturally so in the tight confines of the compound, still littered with wrecked cars and other accumulated shit that come together to create a maze. Somehow the fucker navigates it with ease while dodging gunfire and whatever else the grunts can throw at him.

There’s something about it sends a chill down Michael’s spine because with the amount of bullets flying down there someone should have hit him by now. Hit him, that bike of his, but not a single bullet does.

He just.

It has to be his eyes playing tricks on him with fog thick on the ground and shadows cast by the fires from the explosion because the biker veers sharp to one side. Seems to flicker when a group of grunts concentrate their gunfire on him in the moments before he finishes his turn and doubles back.

And then there are shrieks and yelps of pain when it becomes clear the grunts don’t seem to grasp the concept of crossfire and holy fuck.

The biker takes advantage of the confusion and darts for the cargo containers while everyone’s casting blame or bleeding.

Michael has enough time to yell a warning before explosions rock the compound, knock him out of the fucking tower where he hits the ground hard.

He can’t breathe, the breath knocked from him, shoulder blinding pain where he landed on it, the rest of him not too pleased either – and then he hears the fucking bike.

It sounds like some kind of wild animal, snarling, growling as it prowls the compound.

Michael scrambles to get up, get on his feet.

He lost the sniper rifle in the fall, but he has his handgun and goes to pull it when the biker fucking materializes out of the fog in front of him without warning.

Michael stares at him, the blank visor of his helmet and waits for a fucking bullet. Expects everything to end here in the mud and wet, but the guy just cocks his head, bike purring quietly.

There’s screaming, yells for people to put out the fire to save what’s left of the compound, but it all sounds far away. Whole worlds, because right now it’s Michael and the fucker on the goddamn bike -

Michael’s earpiece crackles to life, Rat-face demanding to know his status. Barking out orders to take the biker out any means necessary, and Michael reaches up and pulls it out.

Drops it into the mud and brings his foot down on it.

The biker’s still watching him, and Michael opens his mouth to say something – what, he doesn’t know – but his throat clicks, no sound coming out.

The biker seems to give himself a little shake, and drops low. Revs the bike’s engine, Michael moving out of the way as it leaps forward, tearing through the smoking remnants of the gates and vanishing into the fog.

Michael’s aware of people running past him, yelling and more gunfire and turns to see Rat-face watching him, eyes narrowed.

“The fuck happened back there, Jones?”

Michael -

Fuck.

He doesn’t fucking know.

Had no idea there was someone else going after Carmine like this. Pulling a goddamn hit-and-run attack and either being so fucking good or just plain lucky to get in and out without getting killed outnumbered the way he’d been.

“Fuck if I know,” Michael says, puts some anger into his voice, snapping back. “I fucking warned you guys.”

He looks around at the other grunts. Some running to deal with the fire, others seeing to the injures. The rest are standing around like idiots, wide-eyed and stunned and not likely to last long in this world if this is their reaction when things turn to shit.

Rat-face snorts as he follows Michael’s gaze.

“Help with getting this clusterfuck cleaned up,” he says, and levels Michael with a look. “We’ll figure it out later.”

Michael nods and goes looking for his sniper rifle before joining the others, itch between his shoulders like he’s being watched.

========

Jeremy doesn’t ask what happened when Michael gets back to Los Santos after Rat-face declares the compound a loss and tells the grunts like Michael their services were no longer needed after that little shitshow.

“Michael.”

Michael’s hurting, back and side bruised up to hell and back, shoulder a throbbing mass of pain. He’s managed to catch a cold too, voice rough, scratchy thanks to being up in the fucking tower in the cold and rain.

Overall he’s a fucking mess, and Jeremy’s being gentle about it. Doesn’t give him shit or tease him the way he normally would, and that burns a little because he’s not that pathetic just yet. (Not about that, anyway.)

But Jeremy’s a good guy. Worries about the idiot doing his best to get himself killed for a dead man and goddamn Michael’s life.

“Hey,” Michael says.

Jeremy sighs, dropping down on the couch next to Michael.

Stares at the television, stupid daytime dramas and shitty commercials and fidgets.

Plays with the ring on his finger, and Michael feels a pang at the sight of it because somehow he’s never asked Jeremy who has the matching ring. Never saw a reason to because it was Jeremy’s business, and Michael had reason to poke his nose into it.

Fuck, he doesn’t even know if they’re alive, but Michael hopes like hell they are because he’d hate for anything else for Jeremy.

Jeremy takes a deep breath, seeming to come to some sort of decision and glances at Michael from the corner of his eye. Braces himself, and says, voice light, like it’s just a casual offer:

“I know a hacker, if. You know. You ever need one. For, like. Anything.”

It’s halting and awkward and too much like Jeremy knows he’s pushing his luck here, the trust Michael has in him.

Jeremy turns his attention back to the television as he picks up the remote and flips through channels.

He’s trying for casual and nonchalant, but Jeremy looks like he’s expecting a fight - yelling at the very least.

Michael watches the television, hands clenched into fists on his lap. Sees glimpses of shows and commercials and entire other worlds someone dreamed up flashing by in quick bursts as Jeremy looks for something to watch.

He rubs his chest at the sharp ache, reminder, that he use to know a hacker of his own, too, apparently. An idiot who played at being a law-abiding citizen and very clearly wasn’t. (Or maybe he was, and Los Santos got its hooks into him, pulled him down the way it does everyone at some point, Michael will never know.)

Michael thinks about working up anger at Jeremy for prying, for sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, but it doesn’t come. Not when he’s done so much for Michael without asking for anything in return.

Given him a place to stay without asking questions. Let him make his own mistakes instead of trying to stop him after that first warning, and now he’s offering to help.

To get involved in Michael’s problems by giving him the name of this hacker – and Michael knows it has to be Matt.

Idiot with a dry sense of humor, a slight drawl, and an old, old friend of Jeremy's.

Someone important to him, and Michael -

It's tempting, because he still hasn’t cracked Gavin's password. Borrows Jeremy’s laptop and makes an attempt when Jeremy’s out of the apartment or asleep, and either he was more obvious than he thought or Jeremy found the box.

Put the pieces together and realized Michael wasn’t making headway and resigned himself to Michael being the kind of stubborn who wouldn’t stop until he did.

Decided that he’d rather help Michael at this point than let him do it alone, and Michael rubs at his eyes, dry and aching, and sighs.

He doesn’t want to drag Jeremy or his friends into this anymore than he already has. Knows he should have left when he started looking into Gavin’s death, but he hadn’t.

Too weak, or selfish, maybe a mix of both, and now Jeremy's offering to help. Putting himself and his friends into the line of fire for Michael, and it’s so goddamned tempting to just accept it, but -

Jeremy’s got a ring on his finger, a simple little band of metal and somewhere out there (Michael hopes) someone has the matching ring. Jeremy’s got friends like Matt, loyal through and through and too stupid to know that’s the kind of thing that gets people killed in Los Santos.

“...I’ll think about it,” Michael says after a few minutes have gone by, and hopes Jeremy can’t hear the lie in it.

Jeremy lets out a breath, relieved, and looks at Michael.

“Yeah?”

Michael smiles, lopsided and awkward, and nods.

“Yeah.”

========

Michael's on a grocery run when he hears the bike again.

Doesn’t think he could ever forget the way the engine growls like a wild animal, low and so fucking angry.

He stops mid-step and turns to see the fucker sitting on his bike in the mouth of an alley across the street.

It’s the middle of the day. Clear weather and warm enough out that Michael's in an old t-shirt, and the guy still manages to find the darkest shadows around.

The lights on his suit seem to pulse faintly, and something about it brings to mind high school English class before he dropped out. Stupid teachers and dusty old books and stories and the one with the heart under the floorboards or something.

Michael's heart-rate kicks up notch, adrenaline and anger and an ugly mix of emotions hat clog his throat. Have him choking on his words as he moves closer, sore shoulder throbbing.

“The fuck do you want?” he yells, hands clenched so tightly by his side they’re aching.

He sees the biker cock his head, studying Michael like he’s an interesting bug, but nothing more than that, and it’s infuriating. Has Michael starting across the street – jerking back just in time as a horn blares, loud and shocking, and Michael barely misses being hit by a box truck barreling down the road.

By the time he recovers, heart pounding at the near-miss and thinks to look back at the alley, its empty, biker long gone.

Michael stares, because it’s possible he missed hearing the guy leave when his attention was on the damn box truck, but he doubts it. With an engine that fucking distinctive he would have noticed him leave, would have heard it.

When he crosses the street this time, he remembers to check for traffic. Looks left, right, left again, and then it’s a quick jog to the alley’s entrance.

The shadows are lighter, not the inky darkness the biker had been surrounded by. It’s possible that was all due to the placement of the sun in the sky, shadows shifting  in the time between Michael first spotting the guy until now, or maybe there’s some other logical explanation.

The biker was definitely there, not Michael’s mind playing tricks on him again. The ground’s dusty here, looks mostly undisturbed aside from one perfect little footprint where the biker had rested his foot.

“The fuck is going on?”

Michael doesn’t know if he’s talking to himself or the rats digging through the garbage further down the alley.

He’s starting to think Jeremy had a point, all that time back. That Michael’s finally snapped, is seeing things that aren't actually there. Figments of his imagination and whatever the fuck else because so much about the biker doesn’t make sense.

A lot of things that don’t make sense, really, Michael’s mind tripping back to the shows his mom used to watch. Ghosts and creatures everyone seems to believe in that didn’t, couldn’t exist because they weren’t fucking real.

You’re dead, you're dead, no coming back from that. Maybe it’s cold and harsh, but that’s how the world works. (Michael learned that one early on in life.)

You don’t just get a fucking do-over. Don’t get to haunt the living to make them repent their sins or confess to their wrongdoings or whatever the fuck.

All you get is fucking dead.

But as Michael stares down at the footprint, thinks to dig his phone out of his pocket and take a picture as proof, he wonders if there’s something to it after all.

========

There’s not a lot Michael can do in the following days, still recovering from his cold and just too fucking tired, drained, to think about picking up a job.

He uses some of the money Gavin gave him to buy a cheap little laptop at a pawn shop. Nothing fancy, but it’s enough for Michael to put some time into trying to decipher Gavin's password without worrying about hogging Jeremy’s laptop.

He gets a notepad at the dollar store and logs failed attempts to make sure he’s not going in circles. Ignores the worried looks Jeremy tosses his way and acts like he’s not in a holding pattern until he cracks the stupid password or something happens with Carmine.

And then one night Jeremy comes home and starts flipping through the channels again.

He’s finally found steady work, a crew that treats him as more than just cannon fodder from what he says. (He gets this look sometimes, like he wants to ask Michael to give the crew a try, give up on this obsession of his. Move past Gavin’s death and pick up his life again, but he never does, and Michael loves him for that.)

“Hey, Michael,” he says, toying with the stupid cowboy hat resting on his knee. “Have you heard about what’s been going on?”

Michael blinks, looking up from his phone. The dumb picture of the biker’s footprint he took over a week ago and had forgotten about. Half expected for it to be a picture of the ground and nothing else, product of Michael’s fevered mind and shit when he was sick, but no.

A very real footprint in the dirt. Clear enough that he can see the tread pattern.

“Uh...”

Jeremy snorts, and waves at the television. News anchor reporting on some gang activity. Grainy surveillance footage of someone taking out a warehouse down by the docks.

Michael’s blood freezes because it’s the fucking biker.

Blue-white lights of his bike and the stupid fucking pink of his suit and he’s riding away from the warehouse that’s engulfed in flames looking like some kind of vengeful spirit.

“The fuck is that?” Michael manages, voice raspy because he’s still getting over that damn cold.

Jeremy shrugs, settling back against the cushions like it’s no big deal. Some fucking vigilante running around Los Santos going after crews and gangs, and what a fucking maniac, right?

“No one knows. The guy just showed up a few weeks ago. Matt said he went after the Vipers the other night. Wiped out one of their meth labs.”

Michael can’t seem to look away from the television. Wants to ask (even though it’s going to make him sound like the maniac here) if Jeremy can actually see the fucker. That it’s not just Michael's mind playing tricks on him.

“Yeah? He know anything else about the guy?”

Jeremy shrugs, eyes sliding towards him.

“Not much, really. He just seems to have a serious serious hate-on for anyone dealing hardcore drugs.”

There have been people before in this city, usually some form of cop or law enforcement, but sometimes it was just a normal civilian. Someone who just lost it over how corrupt shit was in Los Santos. Went rogue, or whatever they wanted to call it and started hunting down criminals.

Targeted gangs and crews and the lucky ones did some damage before someone put them down. Left a mark on the city – this bright spot of resistance against the corruption in the city that never lasted.

Most just died bloody.

Cut down in the street, and left for the authorities to sort out.

This guy -

Michael listens to the news anchor as they talk about previous attacks the biker’s been responsible for, possible theories for his motive, and looks at Jeremy.

“Your crew worried he might hit you guys?”

Jeremy shrugs, this odd little grin on his face.

“Not really,” he says. “They don’t mess with that stuff.”

That's no guarantee the biker won’t step things up a notch. Start going after everyone indiscriminately, but Jeremy seems pretty confident his new crew will be fine.

That either means they’re smart enough to avoid dealing with the kind of thing that the biker’s focused on, or they think they can handle him if he does go after them.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, and bumps his shoulder against Michael’s. “We’re good, I promise.”

“Yeah, I’ll hold you to that,” Michael says, and hopes Jeremy’s telling the truth.

========

Michael doesn’t go looking for the biker on purpose, really, he’s just  -

Fuck.

Fuck, no.

He does.

To be fair, though, he doesn’t just start wandering the streets of Los Santos at night hoping to run into the bastard.

He drives out to Carmine’s compound first, because that’s definitely better.

It’s been raining on and off for several days. Overcast with heavy rain clouds hanging over Los Santos and the surrounding area, pressing down like a physical thing.

Michael has no damn idea what he’s even looking for, but he ends up spending most of the day there. Digging through the charred remains of the main buildings and picking through debris and rubble where the cargo containers sat.

Finds weapons parts that survived the fires mostly intact. Enough that Michael can get a good idea of what was being stored out here. The reason Carmine’s been laying low recently, keeping his head down.

Michael’s no detective, not even all that smart when it comes down to it, but he knows what he’s looking at out here. Takes a few pictures of his phone because why the fuck not have that kind of incriminating evidence on him?

When he gets to the tower he pauses. Studies the churned up tracks near its base, anything useful from that night long obliterated by the grunts rushing to put out the fires, get the injured out. Idiots who had no fucking idea what they were doing and got in everyone’s way.

Out of curiosity, some random whim, Michael walks around the outer perimeter and finds the spot where the biker paused before launching his attack.

There’s not much to see there, just what might have been tracks from his bike. Maybe someone else stopping to gawk at the site, who the fuck knows.

“Goddamn waste of time,” Michael mutters, kicking mud off his feet before he heads back to the city.

Stops to readjust his rearview mirror because his car’s a piece of shit and the thing slides out of position after a while. And then he damn near has a heart attack when he looks into the rearview mirror to make sure it’s positioned properly and sees the biker behind him on the road.

“Motherfucker!”

Michael whips around, heart racing because he’s alone out here and, who the fuck knows what sets the guy off -

But the roadway’s clear.

Nothing.

No one around for miles.

“Are you kidding me?” Michael mutters as he gets out of his car, a slight tremor in his hands as he goes for his gun.

When he gets to where he saw the biker parked behind him he finds one perfect footprint in the mud.

Clear enough he can see the tread before the sky opens up and rain starts falling.

Steady downpour that start to fill the footprint with water, mud collapsing in on itself and erasing whatever evidence the biker was even there.

“Fucking perfect,” Michael grumbles, tipping his head back to stare up at the sky.

Unrelenting gray as far as he can see, rain cold and unfeeling and stealing his warmth away with each passing moment.

========

After that little adventure Michael still isn’t wandering the streets of Los Santos like some character in a shitty Vinewood movie, but, you know.

It’s really fucking close.

He starts with that alley he saw the biker in, and just sort of works his way around the city going to areas he’s been spotted.

Has the feeling at least half of them are false leads. People calling in to the hotline the LSPD set up just for shits and giggles. Some just too fucking drunk or high to know that they'd seen wasn't the biker at all.

Still he goes out looking, and it gets him trouble.

Has him step too far into some shitty little gang’s territory when they're feeling weak, vulnerable, after the bicker’s attack. The continued presence of the cops and whoever else investigating the biker forcing them to cut back on criminal activities and costing them time and money and profit.

Sends him running for his damn life with a pack of angry gang members after his blood because he’s an idiot.

“Fucking hell,” he pants, lungs burning and legs aching and this was not how he saw himself going out, if he’s being entirely honest with himself

Getting shot up by assholes he doesn’t have a problem with because his sense of direction is shit and the fucking AI assistant on his phone didn’t come with gang territory maps installed, go figure. (A glaring mistake in Los Santos, really.)

He could call Jeremy to come bail him out, but honestly doubts he’d make it across half the city before Michael bites it.

There’s a flash of movement at the corner if his eye, the sound of a very distinct engine, and Michael wheels around to meet it, gun raised.

The biker’s tearing out of aside alley towards him, gesturing for him to get on behind him. Head turned to look behind them where they can hear Michael’s pursuers gaining on him.

Michael balks, and the guy looks fucking annoyed about it when he looks back at Michael. Impatient as he snaps his fingers, gestures becoming more emphatic the closer the yelling gets, and still Michael hesitates.

At least until one of the assholes chasing him fires off a shot way too fucking close.

After that Michael’s all about jumping on the back of the fucking bogeyman’s bike because really, what could possibly go wrong?

The biker’s reassuringly solid when Michael wraps his arms around him. Grunts in surprise when Michael squeezes just to be sure, and taps his arms to get Michael to ease up a little.

Michael loosens his hold, and the biker handles the bike with long ease as he revs the engine and they take off down the street.

Goes way too fucking fast, wind making Michael’s eyes water.

And fucking sue him when Michael presses his forehead against the biker’s back as they speed away. He’s tired, adrenaline rush fading and he doesn’t have a fucking helmet to protect against the wind or massive head trauma if they crash.

The guy twitches, but relaxes after a moment.

Michael assumed the biker would drop him off somewhere in the city. Maybe a few blocks away out of the gang’s territory or somewhere else nearby, but he strikes off east instead. Heading out of headed out of Los Santos and up to Galileo Observatory.

The sun's starting to rise by the time they reach it. Inky black fading to lighter blue that bleeds over to oranges and pinks near the horizon as they slow to a stop in front of the observatory building.

Michael climbs off the back of the bike, legs stiff and takes a moment to adjust before he follows the biker to the walkway overlooking the city. Looks over to see him leaning against the railing, tired slump to his shoulders.

“Hey,” Michael says, words awkward, uncertain. “Uh. Thanks, for saving my ass back there.”

The guy looks at him, blank face of his helmet disconcerting, alien. And then he cocks his head a certain way.

Oddly familiar, and Michael bristles.

“None of your goddamned business,” he mutters, not about to tell the fucker why he was out there in the first place.

Trying to find this mysterious vigilante everyone’s been talking about for weeks like fucking -

What?

Some idiot in a stupid movie chasing after the mysterious superhero or some stupid bullshit?

Half afraid he was a figment of Michael's imagination even though there was proof the guy was because he’d seen the biker do things that shouldn’t be possible time and time again. (Shit that didn’t make sense, shouldn’t make sense.)

And now the guy’s -  

He’s not making any noise, but he’s sure as hell laughing at Michael. Like he knows exactly what Michael was doing back there. Knows why Michael’s being gruff and surly now and thinks it’s so damn hilarious.

Shoulders shaking with it, and Michael huffs in feigned annoyance and goes back to watching the sunrise. Tired and sore and somehow still alive after that act of unbelievable stupidity on his part.

“You have a name?” Michael asks, tearing his eyes away from the view before him, not all that surprised to see the biker’s not there anymore.

Just.

Fucking gone.

When he looks, that damn bike of his is gone too.

Not a goddamned trace of either, and Michael sighs as he reaches for his phone.

If he’s lucky Jeremy will answer his phone this early. Won’t ask what the fuck Michael’s doing all the way out here at this hour, or where his car is.

========

Rat-face calls Michael a few days later.

Snide, condescending, but he’s still Michael’s best bet at getting closer to Carmine.

He doesn’t tell Jeremy about this either, doesn’t want him to worry. Just says he’s got a call from a friend, an easy little job.

A day or two at most and if he’s lucky a steady gig like Jeremy has. (Pretends he doesn’t see the dubious look Jeremy gives him because he might have gone a little overboard trying to sell that load of bullshit, but Jeremy’s good. Doesn’t ask.)

Rat-face gives him an address for a place down by the docks. Another warehouse, and Michael frowns when he realizes where it is. Real fucking close to that place the biker hit some time back. The one that ended up on the news and Jeremy insisting Michael see for himself what had Los Santos all abuzz this time.

Coincidence, or just the way things happened around here. Birds of a feather and authorities who’d turn a blind eye if you paid them enough, most likely.

He shows up close to sundown, sees some familiar faces keeping guard. Some of the grunts from the compound.

Rat-face gives him the basics, patrol the perimeter and no one in or out who isn’t one of Carmine’s. No special renovations to the place, just your average shitty warehouse slowly rusting away thanks to the salt air.

Michael gets the late shift and ends up partnered with a sour-faced dick who sneers when he lays eyes on Michael, eyes lingering on his freckles. Asks if his parents knows he’s out this late, and Michael smiles. Flat and humorless and doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction past that.

Catches Rat-face watching them closely. Wonders if there’s something behind him bringing Michael back or if they’re just getting desperate with the biker scaring hired guns off.

As far as Michael knows he hasn’t racked up a body count yet in his attacks – no interest in going after the grunts. Seems to focus more on hitting fuckers like Carmine where it hurts. Property damage and goods, product. Flashy enough about it that anyone in the way has time to get the fuck out before shit goes down.

But Michael supposes just the thought of what someone like him might do, the way most people operate in this city would be enough to make people nervous. Concerned that he’s working up to something bigger, might not care about any causalities along the way would be enough reason to be picky when it comes to jobs. Steer clear of ones like this one.

Michael slings his rifle over his shoulder and heads off to patrol, wondering if Sour-face is going to shoot him in the back before the night’s through with the way his luck’s been going.

========

The biker shows up just after four.

Michael rounds the corner and the fucker snaps his headlight on, goddamn blinding, and then he’s making a run at the warehouse.

Bike howling as he pushes it as fast as it will go and Michael watches dumbly as it streaks past, leaving a after trail of light in its wake.

Sour-face sees the biker coming and puts out the alarm, firing wildly and missing every fucking shot because apparently he never learned to aim.

Michael runs for the back of the warehouse where the loading bays are. There aren’t any trucks pulled up to them at the moment, but Rat-face left one open because it’s Los Santos in summer and hot as fuck. No reason for air conditioning inside and the only way to cool things down is the weak breeze blowing through.

No trucks and no ramps, but there’s a stack of old wooden crates and other shit piled up off to the side. Go fast enough, hit it at the right angle and you might - might - get enough height you could jump it.

He gets there just in time to see the fucker do it too, barely clearing the jump and landing badly, bike fishtailing before he regains control.

Alarmed yelling and more gunfire and Michael hangs back, not wanting to run into that after the clusterfuck at the compound.

He sees Sour-face run up, hands gripping his rifle tightly and this look of shock on his face as something inside the warehouse explodes. Fire spreading quickly sending Rat-face and the thugs spilling out though the open loading bay and side doors.

Scream of that engine and the biker soars back out through the loading bay. He manages to stick the landing this time and makes his getaway.

All in all, less than five minutes have passed since he made his presence known, and everything is chaos.

Fiery chaos with a side of yelling – Rat-face and some of the stupider grunts – and more burning.

Fucking impressive, actually.

“Holy shit,” Sour-face says, watching the warehouse burn.

Michael snorts, shouldering his rifle as he heads towards the warehouse where Rat-face is trying to regain control of the situation, voice starting to go hoarse.

========

Michael gets bounced all over the city along with Sour-face McGee and the rest of the hired muscle. (The ones who don’t suddenly have somewhere else to be when the biker keeps showing up to fuck up Carmine’s operations.)

He patrols warehouses and other spots of interest with Rat-face overseeing it all. Gets picked to help escort some twitchy motherfuckers handcuffed to metal briefcases and then back to the warehouse and so on and so on.

The biker takes out several of the warehouses, cases the office building and Michael swears he catches a glimpse of the guy tailing the unmarked vans used to transport those twitchy motherfuckers across the city.

Carmine’s not his only target – the biker goes after the Vipers again and other gangs that deal in hardcore drugs and other nasty shit. Makes a lot of enemies along the way and ends up on the again.

Sour-face continues to be a condescending, ignorant bastard and Rat-face keeps watching Michael, which.

Probably not good, but Michael figures there’s some overlap with him coming on board and the biker targeting Carmine, so.

Understandable.

A little bit alarming, in that Michael’s on his own here and is so very fucked if Rat-face has twigged to the fact Michael has ulterior motives, but still understandable.

The thing is, Rat-face doesn’t seem as angry when the biker stages an attack on Carmine’s operations, and it slowly dawns on Michael that the fucker’s compiling information on him.

Every time the guy shows up is an opportunity to study him, learn how he operates.

It makes Michael worried, because for whatever reason he and the biker seem to have compatible goals. (There’s also the fact the guy hasn’t killed Michael even though he’s had every chance to. That he fucking saved his life.)

“Jones!”

Michael turns as Rat-face come over to where he and Sour-face are waiting for orders.

It’s another warehouse. Industrial district this time, and Michael’s noticed there are a lot of Carmine’s regulars around.

“You’re with them,” Rat-face says, and points at a cluster of the regulars, smoking by the curb before turning to Sour-face. “You’re with me.”

Sour-face shoots Michael a smug little look, like he thinks it’s an honor that Rat-face picked him over Michael, like Rat-face hasn’t been watching him too. Suspicious as fuck about the grunts, especially the ones who came on board around the time the biker showed up.

Michael walks over to the group Rat-face pointed him at.

Rough guys. The kind who go out and do Carmine’s dirty work, bust a few kneecaps here, take care of annoyances there and don’t lose sleep over it.

They give Michael a once-over and promptly ignore him. Go back to their little gossip session until Rat-face snaps out orders and they head off to patrol.

Michael feels underdressed compared to them, standard light body armor for him while they’re decked out in the heavy duty military grade shit. Look like they’re expecting a hell of a fight.

Could be added precaution thanks to the biker’s guerrilla tactics, could be something else.

This whole situation feels off to Michael, makes him uneasy because he has a feeling Carmine and Rat-face have been baiting the biker. Setting up places, fucking targets for him all over the city so they can draw him out, figure out how he operates and this?

So many of Carmine’s regulars, people he’s kept with him because they’ve proved some form of stronger loyalty to him than just some quick cash is concerning. The way they’re decked out in heavy armor and weaponry -

The fucking snipers he’s seen setting up around the area?

Yeah.

Fucking trap.

Clear lines of sight on all sides and snipers positioned up high. Nice little straightaway leading up to the front of the warehouse. Shit-ton of Carmine’s regulars and hard hitters waiting inside in case the biker gets past the outer line of defense.

Fucking Christ, he hopes the goddamn biker is smart enough to recognize this for what it is, do the smart thing and stay away.

========

The stupid motherfucker shows up.

========

One second Michael’s patrolling, the next everything’s on fire.

Okay, no.

There’s some shit in between, but mostly the part where everything’s on fire.

One of the snipers calls out a warning, lets them know the biker’s been spotted and Rat-face immediately puts everyone on alert.

The group Michael’s with double-times it to the front of the warehouse just in time to see the biker dodging sniper fire as he races toward them.

He can hear Rat-face on the comms, barked orders and vicious threats, and the biker’s still coming, bike howling like a wild thing.

Michael’s group leader orders them to take up positions behind cement barricades for cover as they try to mow the fucker down, and he still keeps coming.

Seems to flicker like a hologram in an old shitty sci-fi flick or trick of the light as they rain bullets down on him and he keeps coming even though it’s clear this who thing was a trap from the beginning.

He just doesn’t fucking stop.

Michael can see lights reflecting off the biker’s helmet. Sees when one of the fucking sniper bullets clips his tire and he loses control, fishtailing wildly before spinning out.

Sees in perfect clarity the goddamn bomb he was carrying arc through the air towards the fuel tanks to one side of the warehouse.

Panicked yells and everyone fucking running before it goes off, and then everything’s either on fire or exploding like the end of an overproduced summer blockbuster.

========

It’s pure chaos.

Rat-face trying to regain control of the situation even though the grunts have run off and even the regulars are spooked. Unsettled by the biker and his little suicide run. They’re hanging back, hair-trigger reflexes and no concern of theirs who ends up in their sights.

Michael fades away, moves with the small crowd of stunned regulars until he’s at the spot where the biker crashed.

The thing’s fucking totaled, twisted metal and broken glass and ruined where it slammed into a brick wall.

He’s expecting to find the biker in much the same condition, but there’s no body to be found.

Shattered glass, tinted black, that must be from his helmet. Shredded gloves that have been tossed aside, splatters of blood weaving away fro the crash site and deeper into the maze of streets around the warehouse.

Michael follows it, sick feeling in his gut as the splatters get larger, path more erratic and pulls up short at the bloody hand prints. Places where the biker rested for a brief moment before pushing on.

“Fucking Christ,” he mutters.

He moves faster, sense of increased urgency to his search, and almost runs straight into goddamned Sour-face.

See that piece of shit stalking down a dark alley where the blood trail leads, voice cold and mocking.

“Come on on, asshole, I know you’re here!”

There’s movement deeper in the alley and Sour-face spins to face it, croons, “There you are.”

Christ.

Michael has a choice to make here, one that has his feet rooted to the ground.

He can keep going the way he has been. Hope that Rat-face will move him up in the ranks, close to Carmine where he can kill the fucker himself, or -

Sour-face aims a kick at the biker, manages to land a blow that wrenches a pained grunt from the crumpled figure at his feet.

Or Michael can do the right thing here and save the only guy who seems to have it out for Carmine as much as he does.

Another kick, sound of a bone snapping. Sour-face's grating laughter and Michael moves he realizes he’s made his decision.

Sour-face isn’t isn’t paying attention to anything other than the biker, so it’s easy to sneak up behind him.

For a fleeting moment, Michael considers putting a bullet in the asshole's head, putting him down like a rabid dog.

It’d be the smart thing here, leave one less fucker gunning for him later, but Michael’s not that far gone yet. Doesn’t like the thought of killing the asshole like this just because it’d be easy.

Michael takes one long step forward and slams the but of his assault rifle into the back of Sour-face’s head. Pulls the blow because he doesn’t want to kill him, just take him out of the equation for a bit.

Sour-face drops like a stone.

Michael kicks his gun away and looks up at a soft sound, and sees the biker watching him warily.

His stupid suit’s glowing weakly, sections blacked out completely. Far too many holes, tears in the suit, and holy fuck, so much blood.

A part of Michael is surprised that the fucker bleeds, even thought he followed the evidence of it here in the first place.

And then the biker shifts, tries to move but it must jar something because he lets out this pained noise, pants harshly before he tries again, because of course he does.

Michael shoots a glance behind him at a faint shout. Rat-face must have Carmine’s regulars back under control, have them out searching for the biker after checking the crash site.

Michael swears, low, angry, as he shoulder his rifle and moves closer to the biker who’s still watching him warily.

“How bad is it?” Michael asks, and after a brief hesitation the biker moves his hands from where they’re pressed against his side.

When Michael reaches out to see how badly injured he is, the biker grabs his arm and shakes his head. Gestures to Michael to help him up. The same impatient gesture from that night weeks ago when he saved Michael’s ass from that gang, and Michael sighs as he gets him to his feet.

The biker wobbles alarmingly and doesn’t protest when Michael gets an arm around his shoulders and helps him out of the alley.

It’s slow, halting, the biker’s breathing a harsh pant in Michael's ear, but he doesn’t falter. Just keeps going with the same grim determination he had when he went on that stupid fucking suicide run earlier.

“Fucking idiot, you're lucky you didn’t get yourself killed back there” Michael mutters.

The biker stumbles, seems to trip over his own feet at that, and Michael grunts at the sudden movement. Places a hand on the bikers chest and grimaces as it comes away wet. (Feels fingers gripping is arm tightly before the biker releases his hold and they keep moving.)

They spend several tense minutes avoiding Rat-face’s patrols until they reach a side street. Empty save for a few cars packed along it, and Michael breathes out a sigh of relief.

Michael spots a battered sedan and props the biker up against it while he uses the butt of his assault rifle. Barely managed to catch the biker as he starts to slide down, too weak to stay on his feet for even that small amount of time.

“Fucking hell,” Michael mutters, manhandling him into the passenger’s seat.

He has to lean across the biker to get the seat belt on him. There’s no telling if they’re going to need to make a quick getaway, and he doesn’t know if the guy would survive another crash without it the way his night’s going.

The biker shies back from him, and Michael freezes. Worried he’s inadvertently crossed some kind of boundary, but then he glimpses skin in the moment before the biker turns his face away.

Oh.

The broken visor, right.

Stands to reason the biker would be touchy about keeping his identity secret with the effort Carmine and his allies have been putting into hunting him down.

“Sorry,” Michael says, hands clumsy as he checks to make sure the seat belt's secure before ducking back out of the car.

He breathes out a shaky breath, eyes scanning the street for anything gout of place.

Still quiet, no signs they’ve been followed and that brings up another problem.

Michael can’t bring the biker back to Jeremy's apartment. Doesn’t know if the biker even has somewhere to lay low in Los Santos, and Michael doesn’t trust any of his usual haunts.

There is, however, a place he knows where no one will ask questions.

He’s never been there himself, but that might be better, actually. No reason for anyone to look for him – them – there.

Hopefully, anyway.

========

There’s a surprised huff – laughter? - from beside Michael when they reach their destination.

And, look.

“Fuck you,” Michael says, because it was the best place he could think of on such short notice, and also? “Fuck off.”

The biker shakes his head, but doesn’t offer up protest as Michael slides out of the car and walks to the front office of the motel.

Pay by the hour kind of place, neon sign out front with burned out letters and really fucking sad overall.

The sleazeball behind the bullet-proof glass inside doesn’t even look up at Michael at first. But the moment he sees how much money Michael slides over he lets out a low whistle, eyes flicking up to him.

“Have a nice night,” he says, voice dripping innuendo and Michael's skin crawls.

“Thanks,” he grits out, and heads back to the car parked around the side just out of sight.

Sleazebags like the guy at the front desk don’t normally bother Michael like this, get under his skin. But for some reason – this asshole has. Maybe it was the sly look on his face, the knowing look, something rubbed him the wrong way.

The biker picks up on it, too.

He’s been careful to keep his face hidden, but Michael catches that flash of bare skin when he turns his head to look towards the motel office, head cocked.

“Fucking scumbag working the desk,” Michael explains, even though he knew what he was getting into coming here.

They lucked out, got a corner room towards the back. Not visible from the street and the lights in the parking light are shit, half of them off or just broken. Makes getting inside without being seen easier.

The room itself is small, not much inside other than the bed and a television on stand. Little end table with a phone. No luxuries, but considering what most people use places like this for, they’re not necessary.

“Come on,” Michael says, headed towards the cramped little bathroom. “Let’s get you fixed up.”

They made a little pit at a 24/7 for some medical supplies before coming here. Convenience stores aren’t usually known for their great selection, but this is Los Santos and they know their clientele. Don't give you odd looks when you come in looking a little harried, just keep their eyes down and count out your change.

The biker shakes his head, pulls back on Michael until he stops. Shakes his head again, and steps back until Michael lets him go. Watches him pat the tear along his ribcage, pulling the ragged edges aside to show whole skin, not the mess Michael had seen back in the alley.

Dried blood, newly healed wounds that look tender, sore. Even those marks fading as Michael watches.

“The fuck.”

Less than an hour ago Michael watched the fucker lose control of his bike and hit a wall after riding hellbent through a hail of bullets.

He knows he got hit, saw the proof of it himself. Thought it was a miracle he’d survived all of that to begin with, but this?

The biker takes another step back, shoulders hunched and looks like he’s ready to bolt. Fucking run,  like accelerated healing is going to be the final straw in this shitshow of weirdness, and Michael -

“That explains a lot, I guess,” Michael says, frowning at the guy as he thinks about his previous attacks.

No way in hell he could have gotten away unscathed with the arsenal leveled against him. But he’d just kept coming, pulled that little flicker-trick of his and seemed untouchable.

“You got hit before, didn’t you?”

All those hit and run attacks of his with Carmine and Rat-face getting more and more determined to take care of him as time went by. The manpower they put into it.

The biker shrugs, holds a hand out and makes a so-so gesture, which Michael assume means yes, but  only a little, which.

Fucked up, but that seems to be this guy in a nutshell.

Michael knows what the expected thing here should be. That he should be freaking the fuck out with actual out of the ordinary shit going on right in front of him.

To be fair, though, nothing’s made sense for a while now.

The mystery biker shows up with a glowy bike and who is somehow to appear and disappear into thin fucking air and has a habit of fucking shit up? The same stupid motherfucker who can survive a cash that should have left him a smear on the pavement and being riddled by bullets?

Fucking weird, but this is Los Santos.

The whole damn city draws weird shit to it, all the misfits and freaks and everything else that ends up here.

Something like this guy isn’t all that strange in comparison.

Sure, Michael’s never been one for believing in things like ghosts and shit, but he’s seen enough to know there’s weird shit out there.

“There a reason you’ve been going after Carmine?” Michael asks, smiles a little at the way the biker just stares at him waiting for the freak out that doesn’t come.

And then the biker looks -

Tired.

He looks tired as he shakes his head and starts to pace. Comes real close to Michael for a moment. Turns his head to hide what little of his face the broken visor reveals.

He holds his hand out, taps his chest once, twice.

“What?”

The biker repeats shakes his head again, frustrated that Michael’s so goddamn shit at charades and brings his hand up to draw a line across his throat.

“He killed you?” Michael asks, feeling like he’s falling even deeper down the rabbit hole and the biker thinks about it for a moment before he nods.

Close enough to count as an affirmative, Michel guesses, and that -

That – okay.

That would be a good motivator for revenge, killing the fucker who killed you. But the biker seems intent on making Carmine hurt first, break down his fledgling empire before taking him out, and Michael gets it.

He does.

Wants to burn it all down himself, but he’s not like the biker. Doesn’t have this weird shit to help him on his mission of vengeance. Just this one life that he’s willing to spend to get close enough to kill Carmine for what he did.

No second chances, just Michael and this stupid plan that’s led nowhere for too long.

“I want him dead too,” Michael says, sees the biker cock his head.

“I do, that fucker – he killed someone important to me.”

There aren’t enough words in the world for what Gavin was to him, never will be, and  that piece of shit Carmine took him away from Michael.

The biker turns his head to look at him, so, so still.

“I want to help,” Michael says.

The biker shakes his head, starts to pace in earnest while Michael watches him.

Sharp, agitated movements, something desperate to it that has Michael reaching out to touch his arm. The biker pulls up short, turns to look directly at Michael and the world slams to a halt.

Michael knows that face.

The little of it he can see past the broken edges of the visor, tanned skin and eyes that are more green than blue.

More familiar than his own face.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Michael’s hand tightens on the bikers arm, because this has to be some kind of sick joke. Maybe he took a hit to the head somewhere back there and didn’t realize. Because -

Michael can't seem to breathe, and the fucker’s watching him with no emotion on his face and that's wrong, it’s so fucking wrong.

“...You son of a bitch,” Michael says, unable to look away, heart pounding in his chest.

When the fucker doesn’t respond, doesn't fucking blink, the fragile hope in Michael’s chest splinters apart. Turns dark, angry.

“You son of a bitch,” Michael hisses, shoves him back a step, and then another when he still doesn't react. “You stupid - “

Words are tangled up tight with the emotion clogging his throat and he just wants – Christ, he doesn’t know what he wants.

Michael laughs, this ragged, broken thing and he turns away from the biker, moves away from him because he doesn’t, he can’t -

Fuck.

Behind him there’s the rustle of fabric. Sound of the biker pulling off that fucking helmet of his, and a tired sigh.

And then he hears voice he hasn’t heard in what feel like forever. It’s a little rusty with disuse, but still so fucking familiar it hurts.

“Hey, Michael boi.”

Chapter 2

[illbefinealonereads]

I can’t wait to finish this book.

Notes from: Chapter 5 through Chapter 9 (I’m rushing to finish it)

We have now learned that Amber (aka Angel) takes dancing lessons, which I wonder if it’s ever going to come back in the story or if it’s just a dragging element.

I have faith for some portions of the writing, but even those parts let me down.

Chapter 5 is getting explicit, and they haven’t even had breakfast yet.

“I had a good night last night that’s all. I finally scored with some really hot chick that I’ve been after for a while.” Liam says this sentence, and I have a quick poll: In your opinion, what’s the first thought in our protagonists mind right now? A. She thinks Liam’s talking about her and she thinks it’s super cute and romantic or B. She thinks Liam’s talking about someone else and she’s offended that he kissed her afterwards. Answer coming immediately after this sentence is over.

“That stupid jerk! I’d kissed him, a proper kiss too, and he had used some girl for sex before that!”

I sometimes wonder how out of touch the author is. This is supposed to be taken seriously cause teenagers amirite, but I promise you that anyone with an IQ over 30 will know what Liam’s statement means.

“Ugh, the stupid man-whore” Okay, we get it. You think he’s a man-whore. Google synonyms ffs.

“Crying is for the weak.” That’s a nice message to send to the younglings this book is targeted at.

Her street dancing crew entered a competition. And I’m confused. Is this gonna turn into a Bring It On/Bravetown/Save Your Last Dance/Step It Up kind of book? Cause I’d genuinely enjoy that.

“looking at them all apologetically as I walked in” How does one look apologetically at someone?

They’re in the shower now, getting wet, and just thank fuck they’re not naked.

“Too soon, right?” Yes, too soon LIAM. Y’all have been “dating” for less that 24 hours. Take a girl out on a date first?

“Go find the skank that you hooked up with last night” the text gets into stupid shit and almost-sex scenes so often that I forgot that she still hasn’t solved the puzzle.

“You’re misunderstanding what I meant!” Yeah, no shit.

“All this time it’s only ever been you.” Y’all are in your fucking teens.

This is my favorite paragraph so far: “Did he really just say that? He liked me but Jake wouldn’t let him near me? How could that be true? Anyway, he’s a player who has sex with three or four different girls a week. How could it only ever be me? He’s never even had a girlfriend, he just has dates!”

They’re about to have the most romantic date of all time, and I can feel it. I mean they’re gonna have lunch ffs.

“But…. I mean…. What?” You and me both.

And on their first date, they’re having the first time talk, including the good old “I can’t give you what you want.”

Listen to this “romantic” gem of an exchange: “Is he serious or is this a trick so I’ll give it up sooner? “What if I said I didn’t believe in having sex before marriage?” I asked, testing him. His eyes showed his amusement, but he just kept his face straight. “Then I’d say how about we get married as soon as you’re old enough. Eighteen is the legal age, right?” he replied, winking at me.”

“I couldn’t speak.” Bitch, after that cheesy monologue, I can’t speak either.

Yes, the correct response to someone suggesting a scary movie is “I gasped; is she kidding me?”

With every sentence Liam seems more and more like the possessive, emotionally abusive asshole character à la Christian Grey that shows up in all self-published kindle erotica novellas.

““You stay sober to stop people from peeing in my mom’s ornaments?” I asked, laughing hysterically.” That’s not funny.

It’s just… Half the time I wonder if the people who gave it high ratings on Goodreads read this sober.

“Oh come on, I’m allowed to make slutty comments to you now, surely? I mean, you’re my girlfriend so I have to use all my best moves on you,” OH NO. He stupid!

“I could see the bulge forming in his jeans even though he put his arm over it to cover it quickly.” This shit again.

They were watching a movie, and not they’re playing Wii, and nothing is happening. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.

They’ve been “dating” for approximately 24 hours, they just almost had sex for the third or fourth time AND SHE’S APOLOGIZING FOR STOPPING HIM. What’s the point of that? Why’d you think that that was a good idea?

““The hottest thing that’s ever happened to you? Yeah right, you’ve probably slept with over a hundred different girls and done goodness knows what with them and to them, and you didn’t even get my top off before I freaked out,” I said sarcastically, feeling like an idiot.” I feel like an idiot just for reading this.

I think they’re about to get caught.

“We text each other back and forth for about an hour and I was glad that I decided to upgrade my phone package so that I got unlimited texts, otherwise this would be costing me a fortune.” Yeah, cause that’s what’s important.

If only I could copy and paste this entire chapter, it’s full of gems.

““I think it’s sweet, Liam. She’s a lucky girl; hopefully you won’t break her heart,” I muttered, looking down at my empty bowl, just hoping that he wouldn’t hurt me.”

They’re going bowling. You won’t believe this, but those other characters that have been name-dropped this entire time might make an appearance. It’s a Christmas miracle.

OH MY GOD TERRI MIGHT BE THERE TOO!!!!!!!!

Kate figured it out. Of course the only character with a little bit of brain isn’t a main one.

“She turned back to me, looking excited. “I can’t believe you lost your virginity to Liam James! Was it good? I bet he was good, right? He is so freaking hot! I’m so jealous!” she cooed, going off into a world of her own.” Who talks like this?

I had a random thought: isn’t Liam Payne’s middle name James? Did this start as a One Direction fanfic? *googling break* His middle name is James. Fuck, I might be onto something.

The first six paragraphs of the ninth chapter suck so much that I don’t even have anything semi-snarky to say. They speak for themselves.

“She had the biggest grin on her face that I had ever seen. “You two look hot together,” she stated, smirking at me.” Cringe.

“Angel looks hot whoever she’s with.” Double cringe.

“As he handed me back my keys, his finger brushed mine on purpose, making me moan a little in the back of my throat.” Triple cringe. You know what would make this better? An inner goddess. What’s your inner goddess saying, Amber?

I’m really enjoying how she’s bad at everything, and different men have to show her and teach her how to do simple shit. #feminism

“I’m sorry, Liam. Honestly, I didn’t mean anything by it, I was just having fun. People don’t know we’re together I could hardly say, ‘Mark, stop flirting with me, my boyfriend’s sitting right there’ could I?” Aw, he’s jealous, so romantic. And teenagers, amirite. Yes, Amber, you can say that, you can say anything. I mean, someone called this book YA, it’s really fucking easy to say shit.

“He sighed. “I guess not.” He still looked upset and I felt awful that I’d hurt him.” top-notch writing there.

Y’all are 16 & 18, why are you acting like you’re pre-teens?

Her friend Sean (the one who was asking for help picking out a present for Terri) brought Avatar, and they’re watching it BUT his copy has commercials, which allows Mark to flirt with her again. Oh right, Mark is… someone who came bowling with them. And he’s in college, GASP.

““Thanks, and you’re too old for me,” I stated, smiling sweetly. “I’m only nineteen.” He looked at me challengingly. I nodded. “Yeah, but eighteen is my limit, so you’re shit outta luck, bud,” I said. I heard Liam laugh behind me.”

Let me just… “Sean had brought Avatar round and none of us had seen it before so all seven of us were now sitting around, eating McDonalds.” Right? Okay. Like ten paragraphs later: “We were now going to watch Terminator Salvation, because most people hadn’t seen it.” Things are just gonna keep repeating themselves, aren’t they?

Mark just tried to force himself on her. Third fucking time in this book that someone does/tries to do that, and we’re only on chapter 9.

“Dude, stop perving on my little sister! Anyway, you have a girlfriend.” Jake hasn’t solved the mystery yet.

“I went back to my room, laughing my head off. “That was so funny,” I told Kate, who was sitting up in bed waiting for me. She started laughing too. “Did he like?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows.” From now on when someone tells you it’s funny, then it automatically is funny and you must laugh. Cause apparently, that’s how stuff works.

““Yep,” I replied, popping the p.” and ““Yep,” I confirmed, popping the p.” are like a page apart.

“Give him another view of that sexy ass sleepwear?” I’m pretty sure ‘view’ isn’t the correct verb.

She’s sneaking off from her room in the middle of the night to see Liam who’s in ‘the lounge’ and I hope they get caught.

“There actually wasn't much that Kate wouldn’t do, she’d had a few boyfriends and she definitely wasn’t a virgin.” How does that mean that there isn’t much she wouldn’t do?

And we’re back to an almost-sex scene.

At moments I think that this was E.L. James’ research project for Fifty Shades, other times I think it was the research project of whoever wrote Zoella’s book.

“How many girls have you said that to, Liam?” Just stop, you’re embarrassing yourself now.

“Just as I started to go under I thought I heard him whisper something that sounded like ‘I love you’, but Liam wouldn’t say that, so it must have been something else.”

And I’m just 35% done with this shit.

Mkay, here are the numbers from the first nine chapters: