#happy pride month to rimmy tim and rimmy tim only

[skipitty-bop]

rimmy tim sketches i did in one sitting, i love them so much

[vagrantblvrd]

Twist of Fate (1/1)

Summary: Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while.

Notes: Prompt fill for Anon who wanted Battle Buddies with one of them trying to win a stuffed toy at a carnival booth. :D?

(Read on AO3)

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for leave in a while. Always a critical mission here or world-threatening crisis there. Enormous mountain of paperwork to forge through with command breaking down their necks, that kind of thing.

So this?

A chance to unwind for a few hours on (relatively) friendly soil before someone back at HQ secures them transport back home is a nice break.

Jeremy’s charming a booth operator, Ryan can hear him from here. He’s using that atrocious southern accent of his that slips every other sentence. Can never hold on to accent for long, will swing from southern to some mangled form of British or other to an approximation of Australian.

Irish, sometimes, when he’s feeling a little family pride.

Half a dozen other accents that would rightly insult their native speakers if they even recognized them for what they were. (Jeremy...he’s just bad at accents.)

Ryan can’t help the fond little grin that breaks out as Jeremy walks towards him. Smirking like an asshole and two heaping plates of amusement park food.

Greasy, covered in cheese, and likely to contribute to heart problems somewhere down the line just looking at it.

“The hell is that?” he asks, as Jeremy hands Ryan one of the plates, gesturing towards an area with picnic tables under canvas awnings.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, shrugs and shovels a sporkful of the stuff in his mouth.

“Who knows,” he says, “Lorna gave it to us for free and promised there’s less than ten percent rat meat in it.”

That -

Okay, yes.

They are in Los Santos, cesspool of the great and beautiful state of San Andreas, so that’s a thing. (Only here, Ryan knows, would that kind of statement be something to be proud of.)

“Let’s never come back here again,” Ryan says, because any percent of rat meat in anything is too much.

Jeremy, because he’s Jeremy, laughs at him like he thinks Ryan’s joking. (He’s not, but really, what are the odds they’ll end up back here again anyway?

========

Ryan must have been a horrible human being in a past life because they end up in Los Santos again.

To be fair, it’s probably the safest place for them to be now what with the whole thing with the agency and all.

“Wow,” Jeremy says, limping a little. “This places smells worse than I remember.”

To be fair they didn’t exactly take the scenic tour through Los Santos’ sewers the last time they were here.

Oversight on their part because it’s just lovely down here.

“Less talking, more walking,” Ryan grunts, and it’s mostly the bruised ribs talking. “Also, yes.”

Jeremy snorts, moving closer and being all so subtle about worrying about Ryan falling on his face and into ankle-deep sewage as they trudge along.

One of Ryan’s old contacts has set up business in Los Santos, ought to be able to help them out, if they can find him.

Just gotta keep the cops from finding them after the commotion they got pulled into. Daylight robbery and comical ineptitude on the part of the cops that had them mistaking Ryan and Jeremy as the robbers, and they’ve only been in Los Santos for a few hours.

It’s been a hell of a day. (Week? Month? He’s lost track by now.)

========

Between one thing or another they haven’t had the chance for time off in a while. Always a job here or a heist there. Cops on their assess because Jeremy just won’t let this whole damn Rimmy Tim business go and people notice. (People in Los Santos are just different than people anywhere else. Sniff that shit out like you wouldn’t believe.)

Still.

Every once in a while they manage to get some time to themselves away from the chaos of the crew. Get the opportunity to walk around the city without someone looking at them and pegging them as public enemy number one.

They end up back at Del Perro Pier where they got their first real look at Los Santos all those years ago.  (A lifetime ago.)

It’s changed a lot since then, chic little restaurants and cafe’s replacing most of the outdoor eating areas. Food vendor booths with their questionable foods boasting about the lack of rat meat in their dishes like that was the selling point that would convince people to hand over their money.

Although...he’s not so sure the food these chic little restaurants and cafe’s are selling are much better when he thinks about it.

Ryan still doesn’t know what they had for lunch, but it was tasty enough and odds are good they won’t live to deal with the consequences anyway.

Not with the way the Fakes approach life, all chaos and anarchy and this careless disregard for their own mortality like they’re racing the clock. (Everyone’s always running out of time, more so here in Los Santos than anywhere else Ryan’s been.)

Jeremy nudges Ryan with his elbow, tips his head towards the midway and waggles his eyebrows.

“You know,” he says, grin on his face and mischief in his voice. “We never did get the chance to really check this place out before.”

That sounds ominous, given it’s Jeremy and nothing’s exploded or even combusted around them for, oh, a good couple of hours.

“Huh,” Ryan says, and lets Jeremy drag him towards trouble.

========

So here’s the thing, right.

The two of them, they’re doing alright for themselves these days.

The agency’s one of those bad memories behind them they don’t have to worry about anymore thanks to a judicious application of explosives and planing and petty vindictiveness. (Mostly the explosives.

They’re part of a crew that doesn’t want them want to claw their own skin off, might even feel like family. (The stupidly annoying kind you’d do just about anything for, but would be a mistake to let certain members know because they’d never hear the end of it, but there you go.)

High up enough in the food chain here in Los Santos without their status in the crew they could get by just fine if things ever fell apart. (Unlikely as that is.)

So why, Ryan wonders, why is he losing his goddamned mind over an amusement park game booth?

Ridiculous little pellet gun in his hands and the faces of horrendously drawn clowns laughing at him as he fails to hit a single bullseye even though he’s a damn good marksman. Hell of a sniper, even if he’s gotten a little rusty over the years with Jeremy on overwatch while he gets up close and personal, uses his size and reputation for maximum effect.

The booth operator is a bored looking teenager with this tiniest of tiny smirks tugging at the corner of her mouth and obviously laughing at Ryan and his repeated failure to win the grand prize.

A whole stack of consolation tickets and one or two low-level monstrosities meant to be some form of adorable animal, but no luck with the giant purple and orange abomination Jeremy had eyed before moving on. Or trying to, before he realized Ryan had forked over money trying to win it for him. And failed and failed and failed.

Ryan shouldn’t even care about it this much, he knows that.

They’re hardened criminal types now, and battle-weary spec ops operatives loaned out to some hush-hush secret agency before then. No room in their lives for sentiment or nostalgia and all that because those were weaknesses they didn’t need.

Jeremy had done the smart thing, passing the stupid little stuffed animal by, but Ryan?

Stupid, idiot Ryan had noticed the little flicker of a smile on Jeremy's face, some bit of childhood nostalgia or something else, and in all his infinite stupidity decided he’d give winning it a try because why the hell not?

They’d sacrificed enough to get where they are, and something frivolous like this was more than deserved.

All Ryan had to do was hit the bullseye on all the targets in a set amount of time and the damn stuffed dragon was theirs – Jeremy’s, whatever.

Seemed simple enough, which should have been a warning sign.

“Son of a bitch,” Ryan hisses, and sets down more money for another go at the stupid targets in front of him.

Jeremy’s not quite at the point of laughing at him, but the asshole’s certainly enjoying Ryan’s complete failure to win this game.

Stupid goddamned rigged game.

Ryan was one of the agency’s best marksmen, had all these certificates and cute little trophies from “friendly” competitions – and all that to back it up. (Not to mention the carefully redacted files and trail of bodies that set of skills netted him.)

He’s up there when it comes to snipers you can find in Los Santos – maybe not as good as Ray, but then again who is anymore – but he can hold his own.

And yet somehow he’s finding it nigh impossible to shoot a goddamned clown in the goddamned nose.

Nightmarish renditions of the things painted on wood and laughing at him every time he clips the outer ring around them.

“Ryan,” Jeremy says, the way he does when the situation has spun out wildly out of control in a manner that isn’t exactly life-threatening but still the kind of disaster where Ryan just wants to set the world on fire. “Oh my God, Ryan.”

Ryan glares at Jeremy because that’s not helpful, and – still laughing it up – Jeremy takes the toy gun from him and takes a turn.

Hits the bullseye every damn time even though his aim’s sure to be off with the way he’s still giggling like an idiot.

Grins up at Ryan as he shoves the stuffed dragon in his hands and a moment later gasps in overblown surprise at the sight of it in all its tacky glory.

“Oh, Ryan,” he says, hands on his face like that kid from that one movie, look of surprise and utter delight on his face. “You shouldn’t have!”

The feigned surprise and soft joy is ruined by the giggling he can’t seem to stop, but when he takes the dragon from Ryan and leans up for a quick kiss to his cheek, it’s a little more tolerable.

Okay, a lot, because Jeremy is happy, even if it’s at Ryan’s expense.

All bright joy and clear laughter and Ryan’s heart does this little flip in his chest because it’s been a long, long time since they’ve had the luxury for either and he intends to hold on to it as long as he can.

[queenzufufu]

Soldier Boy (1/?)

Summary: Alfredo only had three main goals in life: earn money, keep his family safe, and to try and one up his parents and make it past the age of thirty.

The Fakes? He couldn't be any further from that world. No doubt he'd love to be part of it but he knows it's never going to happen. There's just no way.

Until one night, and one heist gone wrong, finds him in the middle of a gang war that he finds he has no choice but to get involved in.

Alfredo has never been much of a believer in fate. You got what you were given, that’s what he’s been raised to believe and so far in his short life, nothing has happened to go against or disprove that state of mind.

As far as Alfredo is concerned, there are three things in life that really matter. Family, loyalty, and money. His grandma would tell him nothing was more important than family. That everything he did in life had to be of some benefit for the family. She had taught him from a young age that one day he may be expected to take a fall for someone else, and that he should take that fall with honor and pride. That he should be selfless and be giving at all times, first and foremost - his life would be nothing without those of his family as well.

She said everything he had in life. The clothes on his back, the food in his belly, his bed and the roof he slept under, was all because of the family, and it was up to him to work hard every day of his life to pay them back and provide for the next generation. To do what his dead parents were now unable to.

His Uncle would tell him nothing was more important than loyalty. It kind of tied into the family side of things but loyalty could stretch boundaries. His Uncle would tell him stories of his father - his older brother - the most loyal and fearless man he ever knew. He said where they were now was largely down to him. The respect they still had from other crews was because they remembered his father. A straight up guy. Smart and loyal.

When he was only about five Alfredo once said it didn’t seem very smart to have been shot by a police. The swift backhand he earned was enough to make him shut up permanently on that front.

And his older brother, Denver, would tell him that money was what made the world go round. With money you could be anyone you wanted to be and no one could touch you or anyone you cared about. He’d tell Alfredo when they were really young - going out on the streets to see what cars were ripe for the taking - that money meant power, and the best way to survive in a place that could be as cruel as their city was to make as much of it as possible.

It depended on the day of the week, which one Alfredo felt more attached to at the time.

Either way, he has a place. And for this, he is grateful for. Every day he saw so much pain, so much suffering in the eyes of those who did not have what he has. Who had no family looking out for them, no one loyal enough to always stand by them. And those people definitely had no money.

Is he happy as a person? That is an entirely different question. Alfredo supposes it doesn’t matter. What he wanted… he wasn’t entitled to have a say - at least not yet. He’s a soldier, that’s the most important and defining quality about him. He would live and die for his family.

That morning is like any other. Alfredo awakes from his bed in his family’s basement by his grandma stomping her foot loudly on the kitchen floor above him. Groaning, he slips one leg out of bed, and then the other. It’s always cold in their basement, despite the generally hot climate outside, and getting up is never a pleasant affair.

He can’t afford to dally though, his grandma will have his head if he’s not out of the door by half eight. Time is money after all and money was still important even if it wasn’t always her number one priority. And seeing as Alfredo and his older brother were the men of the house, it was up to them to go out to work every day and bring home the earnings. His grandma had a job too, of course, she wasn’t one to just sit around. She worked as a hairdresser around twenty minutes away. A nice place, fancy, attracted high-end clients. Perfect for his grandma, Especially with their house being so close to the pawn shop. What could he say? It ran in the family, he supposed.

Clambering up the steep staircase on his hands and feet - like he had done ever since he was older enough to walk - Alfredo bounds into the kitchen, grabbing a box of Lucky Charms, walking over to where is grandma is washing up last nights dishes and kisses her on the cheek.

“You’re up late. Your brother was out ten minutes ago,” are the first words she said to him in her heavy Filipino accent, and though Alfredo knew there was no real anger or annoyance behind them, he can never help the little kick in the heart it would give him.

Denver. His older brother. And by far the more capable and adept at living this life of theirs. Alfredo is good, people always tell him that. But Alfredo had always been too soft, more keen on making friends out of their rivals than dealing with them. He hadn’t shot his first man until he was fourteen, a whole two years older than his brother had been. He’d cried as well, a lot, even though the man he’d had to shoot had been a rat for another crew. He’s shot at many rivals since then, hit a lot and killed a few, but it was never easy. No, taking a life, any life, had never sat easy with him.

As he sat at their small breakfast table, he glances up to watch the TV. It was the morning news and shaky camera footage was showing a bank robbery heist that had taken place a week or so earlier - Montgomery Legion, a place where only the wealthiest stored their riches - robbed a small sum of £1.2 million dollars. There was no special prize for guessing who was responsible but there was no need for guessing in the first place, as the perpetrators mocked the cops from the roof of the bank, clad in tactical armour and face masks, before they leapt into a chopper and vanished into the skies above, the authorities unable to keep up or track them down. Yep, that sort of behaviour was typical of The Fakes.

Pausing in her washing, his grandma turns and points a spoon at the TV, nodding in approval. “You see there, Alfredo? That’s what real men look like,” she lectures. Oh Alfredo knew that alright. He’s basically been raised to worship The Fakes - placed in front of the TV when he was a little boy, witnessing the havoc they caused for the rich and corrupt. Told that was what he was to aspire to be.

Alfredo doesn’t know, he’s probably more suited with what he knows. The Fakes… they just seemed too out there, too unreal, Robin Hood-esque characters come to life. Incredible and amazing to observe but not something he could, in reality, strive to be, no matter how much he'd like to.

Not much is known about them. Every so often a name or two is whispered in the winds throughout the city. Golden Boy, Mogar, The Vagabond; they come and go with the changing of the seasons. The most recent one Alfredo recalls, and quite frankly the most absurd, was Rimmy Tim. I mean come on! Rimmy Tim? What kind of dumbass name was that?

Honestly, as much fun as being part of a crew like that sounded, Alfredo knows he'll never get out of his neighborhood, and the few corners that were his. But when his main job is to stand around all day and watch as addicts and dealers exchanged cash in hand, occasionally running from the cops or fighting with rival crews, he often finds his mind wondering to more exciting, but imagined, lands.

So he’s left daydreaming, while The Fakes continue with their grand heists, in their flashy cars with their insane arsenal of weapons and technology. Different lives, he supposes, never meant to mix.

He smiles to himself in recollection of all the news stories that have been the talk of his house over the years.

But what a fucking life, he thinks in awe. What a fucking life.

He meets up with his right had man a few blocks away from a new corner, one they’d take the other day when of of his runners had noticed there was no one on it. As far as Alfredo see’s, it was for the taking. His Lieutenant, Angel Guanzon - sixteen years old and already fully enrolled into a life of crime. He likes the kid, but he sometimes clashes with Alfredo’s preferred method of conducting business. He’s brash and loud while Alfredo’s observant and more cautious, and he’s eager to fuck a dude up for a late payment while Alfredo is always more keen to give them longer and occasionally, for the really young ones, look the other way.

Alfredo doesn’t know if these differences makes Angel respect him any less but he couldn’t complain. The kid was loyal and for the most part listened to Alfredo and did as he was told.

That day was no different than the rest. By early afternoon, Alfredo feels pretty pleased with himself. Business was going well - not booming - especially since they recently lost another couple of their nearby corners in a shootout, but good enough to keep his grandma happy.

No police either so he thanks his lucky stars for that. He’s experienced enough to be able to handle a couple of street cops but damn if they weren’t annoying and put a dampener on his day.

“Just get her some flowers or something, classy like,” Alfredo offers to Angel, who’s telling him about this new girl he’s interested in.

Angel shakes his head, flipping his baseball cap around in his hands. “Nah, nah, dude. This girl ain’t like that. She’s into the hard shit, you see. She wantin’ her man to be a gangsta, not some pussy ass motherfucka with flowers.”

Alfredo shrugs, giving up. He doesn’t fucking know what to say. The most serious relationship he’s ever been in was back in high school and that was only for three months. The girl he’d dated was now married with four kids so… like he was always thinking, different lives.

Commotion down the street. Alfredo is instantly on guard.

“Yo, they’re coming! They’re coming!” Alfredo turns at the sound of one of his look outs voices and sees three members of Pascal’s crew stalking towards him. Pascal’s crew is fairly new on the scene. Ugly looking motherfuckers, the lot of them. But they’re eager and stupidly confident, and that can be a dangerous cocktail.

“Motherfuckers think they looking at?” Angel mutters.

Alfredo holds his ground as they get closer, standing tall as the leader comes right up to him, face merely a few inches from his own. He tries not to laugh at the bandana adorned around the man’s forehead - black with skull and cross bones - really, did this guy know anything?

“Pinoy boy, you done lost your fucking mind. You’re standing on my real estate.”

Ah so it was Pascal’s crew who were slacking. If there was one thing Alfredo can appreciate about his own crew, it was their professionalism. They clocked in their hours every day, no complaint - salt of the earth kind of guys.

“Mine now,” he says calmly. “Took it while you was resting.”

Beside him, Angel hoists up his shirt, revealing his 9mm. “Y’all too late,” he taunts. Alfredo holds up a hand, signalling for him to take it easy. This is a delicate situation, no matter how inexperienced these rivals might be. Alfredo doesn’t feel like having to deal with any needless bloodshed this day.

“Look,” bandana dude gets right up in his face, using his extra couple of inches to sneer down, pulling a dumb expression Alfredo supposes is meant to intimidate him. “I’m’a let you walk off right now. Or we could do it the other way.”

Alfredo peers speculatively past him - at the three other guys with their baseball bats. He shakes his head, laughing a little. “Who you got to do it the other way? Them?” He turns around to look at his own crew - more than double the number, most of them armed with something more deadly than a bat.

He turns back, glaring up into the dark eyes, daring him to take his chances. He can’t show weakness, not one slither. This was a test more than anything, a scouting group sent to see if he would easily roll over. Pascal’s crew had something else coming if they thought for a second Alfredo would dishonour his family. No solider would do that.

Bandana dude regards him and his crew, not saying a word. Alfredo sees his jaw working. Eventually he leans even closer, bumping foreheads with Alfredo. “You gonna see me in your sleep,” he threatens, shoving his shoulder hard as he turned and walked away.

“Yeah, I know. I know,” Alfredo calls after him, waving them off dismissively.

The dude turns back. “Yeah,” he shouts.

Alfredo just laughs, turning his back to him. He gives the nod to Angel, who immediately starts jumping up and down, shoving his gun away again. “That’s right, keep walking, bitch!”

Once he’s calmed down and Pascal’s crew have vanished from sight, he looks to Alfredo, who by now is sat outside the closest house, rolling and unrolling a twenty his in fingers. “They’re gonna come back,” Angel says, sitting down next to him.

“Yeah, way we just punk’d them?” Alfredo looks over, sticking the twenty in the corner of his mouth like it’s a smoke. He nods slowly, observing his once again calm corner. “They got to.”

He’s walking back from the club late at night when he’s cornered. He’s had his money counted for the day, earned his twelve percent cut, will be giving the youngin’s their four percent of that at the end of the week. It’s time to head home and hopefully get some time for himself before going to bed so he can wake up and do it all over the next day.

It’s just as he turns into an alleyway that he often uses as a short cut, that a strong pair of hands grab him by the shoulders and shove him roughly into the nearest wall. Two guys, one tall and bulky, the other shorter and muscular, both with short blond buzzcuts, are facing him down.

The taller guy as a hand around his throat while his accomplice presses the edge of his knife against Alfredo’s stomach. His breath hitches in his chest, muscles contracting and eyes widening. At this moment he wishes more than ever for his natural instincts to kick in, for his upbringing to come in use and help him kick these guys asses, or at least get him the hell out out here. But alas, nothing comes, he is simply a coward - which is almost as bad as a rat in his family - almost hyperventilating, quivering like a leaf.

The shorter guy, who still has his blade pressing against Alfredo, gives him the once over, smiling and shaking his head, as if he expected nothing more than a scared kid and was proven right.

“Denver’s baby brother, right?” are the words the guy eventually speaks, when he’s satisfied he has Alfredo shaken enough.

At the mention of his brother’s name, Alfredo stiffens up. “I dunno… who - who you’re talking about.”

The man leans in closer, tilting his head to the side, lowering his eyebrows and pulling a face like he’s a disappointed parent. “Now, don’t give me that. Do I look stupid to you?” He lifts the knife from Alfredo’s stomach, only to bring it up to his face, sliding the flat edge of the blade along Alfredo’s top lip.

Alfredo swallows, unable to look away from the razor sharp edge only inches away from his throat. “Nah, man,” he chokes out.

“Your brother,” he says again, running his finger along the metal, smiling as he does so. “He took a package of ours to sell, you see. This was, what was it, Georgy?” he turns to the huge man.

“Three weeks ago,” this so-called “Georgy” replies in an even thicker accent.

“Three weeks ago. You see? You see my dilemma here, Fredo?”

Alfredo glares. Only his family call him ‘Fredo’. He doesn’t say so though, he’s not an idiot. “He - he owes you money,” he answers instead. Motherfucker was gonna be in so much shit when Alfredo next saw him. And to think he was the one his grandma was always telling him he should look up to. At least Alfredo hadn’t fucked up like this yet.

The shorter man smiles his sickly grin once more, teeth glinting dangerously like a sharks. “Ah see, Georgy? I told you this was a smart boy.” He pats Alfredo patronizingly on the head. “So smart boy, I need to you to do something for me, yes? You go to that thieving brother of yours and you tell him that Dmitri is very upset with him but not unforgiving. I am very forgiving, am I not, Georgy?”

“You’ve got until Friday to get me that money,” he says before spinning and walking away, leaving Georgy and Alfredo alone. Alfredo stares up at the giant, throat working, eyes wide, just hoping and praying he would leave. He did, after a few lingering moments of pure intimidation, spitting in Alfredo’s face and then shoving him roughly to the ground.

Alfredo stays where he is, palms stinging from the scrape against the rough ground, muscles agonizingly tight with tension. Only once both men were safely around the far corner does he struggle haphazardly to his feet, checking first to make sure he truly was uninjured before letting out a pure noise of anger.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cries out, pacing between the tiny gap of the alley walls. He aims a well placed kick at a trash can, sending the contents spilling out into the sidewalk. I’m gonna kill Denver, if those Ruski bastards don’t first, I’m gonna fucking kill him.

A throat clears, sounding louder on the quiet street, and Alfredo glances up to see an elderly lady standing on her porch, looking very unimpressed with the mess the boy had just made outside her home. Her disapproving gaze doesn’t look too dissimilar to that of Alfredo’s grandma, and he instinctively puts on his best behaviour.

“Sorry ma'am,” he raises his hand apologetically, going to pick up the can and trash, making a big show of putting everything back where it should have been, and even adding a few extra beer cans he was pretty sure weren’t even in there in the first place.

She appraises his work, not saying a word. When he’s done she gives him a hard stare, but then nods her head, turning around and heading back into her home.

Alfredo waits until she’s shut the door, and then leans back against the wall, putting a hand against his warmed and reddened cheeks. Embarrassing though it may have been, the moment does do something to bring Alfredo back to reality, to allow him a moment to pause and think and collect his scattered thoughts.

Okay, he decided, this isn’t too bad. As far as disagreements went between the crews this was pretty small. Alfredo was just ashamed that he’d acted so meekly back there, not even attempting to fight back or stand up for himself.

After a few more minutes to calm himself, he slowly stands up straight, brushes himself down, and begins the walk home again, all the while plotting in his head exactly how he was going to kick his brothers ass.

He’s two blocks away from home when he sees it. Or rather, smells it, first. Smoke, rising from nearby, crackling. Fire. Without even thinking, he hurries towards it, like a moth of the night drawn to flame.

He knows the building. It’s a small hotel, usually catering for travelling workers. He skids to a halt just outside, where there are already a crowd of people watching in awe and fear. Snippets of their conversations drift by. Firefighters on their way… police too. How’d it start… Some staff still inside… Fire started on purpose… Someone saw people in masks… It was the Fakes… No the Fakes wouldn’t do this… No it was… Fakes… Fakes, Fakes, Fakes.

Alfredo blinks, and everybody around him takes a step back as there’s an explosion from somewhere inside and the extra heat blasts out onto the street.

He almost steps back too, but something stops him.

Shouts.

There are still people inside, possibly trapped.

He runs inside, not pausing to think.

It’s dark inside, surprisingly, the lights must have been cut out by the fire. The only light, of course, comes from the orange and red flames on the curtains and some of the furniture. In the main lobby, however, it mainly seems filled with smoke - the outbreak of the fire must be deeper inside.

Two young women run towards him, emerging from the deadly clouds, dressed in the hotel uniform.

“Is anyone else inside?” he calls to them.

One just runs straight past him, either uncaring or simply too blinded by fear to give him a second glance. The other, however, pauses and looks back. “Only Drew, I think. We tried to get him to come with us but… but, he won’t!” Her face falls. “Oh, God we shouldn’t have left him. We shouldn’t have left him!” She goes to run back but Alfredo grabs her by the arm.

“It’s okay, I’ll get him. Where is he?”

“Staff room, through those doors at the end on the left,” she quickly replies, taking his hand gratefully. “Thank you.”

“It’s alright. You get yourself out of here,” Alfredo instructs before heading quickly but cautiously further in.

“Hello?” he calls out as he nears the destination. There’s a rustle in the darkness. Alfredo steps towards it, and makes out a form huddled on the floor behind a chair. He rushes forward, dropping to crouch next to the man, tearing a strip off his shirt as he does.

“Hey there, are you Drew?”

The man nods, eyes glazed. Red hair plasters to his forehead. He’s young, Alfredo can see, even younger then Alfredo. “Who –” he begins but ends up choking.

“C’mon,” Alfredo tries pulling him. “We’ve gotta get outta here.”

“Can’t,” the man whispers, like a dead-weight under Alfredo’s arm. He can see now how the girls would have struggled with him, but right now Alfredo hasn’t the patience for any breakdowns or panic attacks.

With his greatest strength, he forces the man to his feet, allowing him to lean against his side. “C’mon, this way! Hold this over your mouth,” he instructs, placing his own hand with his torn up shirt across the man’s face.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, they make their way to the main doors. By the time they do get there, Alfredo’s own throat feels raw and his bare arms feel like they are beginning to cook. The emergency services are there now at least, he can get out of here, pleased with his good deed of the day.

As he gives Drew one last shove towards the doors and fresh air, he takes one last glance behind him. Nothing. No screams. Good.

But wait…

Somehow, even though it’s even smokier than earlier, he catches the glimpse of a figure disappearing around a corner, down the hall Alfredo had not explored.

“Hey buddy!” He yells. “That’s the wrong way!” he calls out frantically, but it’s no good, the figure has vanished.

Alfredo pauses, torn between taking the sensible option and making a run for the exit - where the firefighters are almost ready to make an exit and are calling for him to come out - or following this stranger for no other reason than he was still nursing his bruised pride from earlier and felt like earning some more praise by being the hero for once. Because he wasn’t naive to believe he would go after someone out of the goodness in his heart. Really, he was a fucking criminal at the end of the day. A low-life. No use pretending anything else.

But, for reasons unknown to him, his feet start moving in the direction the figure had gone, slowly at first, but then quickening rapidly until he’s sprinting full blast through the smoke covered room. When he turns the corner he’s met with yet another narrow hallway, tight and full of grey clouds of smoke. He coughs, which is a mistake, and finds himself unable to stop. Harsh, guttural sounds that shake his lungs and leave him stumbling forward.

Forward, still forward. Why was he still going forward? This is madness. Yet he keeps going, going the only possible way the stranger could have gone, down the hallway. He tries the handles but snatches them away with a hiss instantly. They’re blazing hot. No way they went in there.

Finally, painfully, he reaches the end of the hallway. His eyes are watering rivers and every breath feels like he’s on fire, but blessedly, the air seems to clear here, seems fresher somehow. He looks around, blinking back ash filled tears

A door, ordinary looking but open. Was his mysterious stranger holed up inside? They must be, there’s nowhere else they could have gone.

He launches himself in, already preparing to haul another confused stranger to safety, but instead he’s met with an empty room, or what he thinks is an empty room at first. His eyes quickly dart down at movement on the floor, and widen massively when he realises there is a head.

A head poking up through the floor, brown haired and curly, facing away from him and fiddling about with a large duffel bag, cursing as the zip keeps catching.

“You– ” Alfredo starts, utterly bewildered.

He’s cut off instantly by a gun to his face.

Honestly, his fucking luck this evening.

“Shit! Where’d he come from?” the man on the floor yelps, turning and staring up with dark eyes at Alfredo and the other.

“Must’ve followed you,” the voice answers, muffled slightly. Alfredo realizes the reason when he throws Alfredo to the ground and pushes him to face him. His face was covered in a mask. A monkey mask to be precise, that Alfredo would have laughed at, had it not been for the gun still pointed at his fucking head. “Who are you? You work here?” the monkey demands.

Alfredo shakes his head.

“What you doing in here then?” The muffled voice becomes harsher, the gun getting threateningly closer.

Alfredo swallows, wincing as it scratches his throat. “I- I wanted to help,” he manages to hoarsely say.

A pause. And then the man holding the gun is laughing, lowering his weapon. “So,” he starts, “we’ve got a little wannabe hero here.”

Well… he wasn’t entirely wrong.

The monkey man lowered his weapon and grabs his own duffel bag, giving Alfredo’s leg a kick. “What are you waiting for then? Get your ass down there before we’re all barbecue. I don't want the body of a dumb kid on my conscience.”

Alfredo scrambles down the hole, jumping as he’s met with another mask, some sort of carnival one, belonging to the man with curly hair. If the guy was hoping Alfredo hadn’t seen his face or was going to forget it any time soon, he was hopelessly wrong. Sooner or later, Alfredo was going to find there was no way in hell he would ever be forgetting that face.

Another kick and he’s automatically walking forward, through a tunnel that was quite obviously manmade, and that lead underneath the old hotel. Behind him the curly haired man begins whispering. “What happened in there? Did you see? Who would’a done this? Do you think –” However, he is hardly shushed by the monkey man and the rest of the way is quiet.

What feels like an age but is probably five minutes at the most, Alfredo finally sees the most beautiful sight. Greenery. And the smell… the wonderful smell of fresh air. He speeds forward, unable to help himself, and is justly rewarded by a foot sticking into his path and tripping him up.

He lays there, breathing heavily, before rolling over only to be met with yet another masked figure. This one honestly quite terrifying. The mask is almost all black, and what he finds more interesting, is the smidge of paint that pokes out from behind it. Piercing blue eyes watch him curiously. In the near distance he can hear all the commotion and sirens from the hotel, but right now they appear to be in a small park, possibly the one Alfredo smoked his first cigarette in when he was seven.

“Watch yourself,” the monkey man says with a chuckle as he exits too. “That’s a hero you just tripped up there.”

The mysterious figure doesn’t say anything but Alfredo can almost imagine him frowning deeply behind his mask. Eventually he gives a shrug and walks off. Alfredo tilts his head to try and watch him and see where he goes but a clammy hand on his face forces him to look back.

“What are we gonna do about this kid?” the curly haired man asks to who he assumes is the leader, moving his hand to place it on Alfredo’s shoulder, ready to restrain him if needed be.

Alfredo gulps as - now it’s clearer and lighter and he can see - cool blue eyes look down and judge him, taking time to scan every feature and emotion that crosses his face. He finds he can’t look away, can’t break eye contact, just holds his breath even though his stressed lungs are pleading for air. All the while his mind races at light-speed, a multitude of thoughts passing though and crashing into one another. Holy shit, is the main one. Is this really them? Is this really fucking them?

Eventually something glints in the cool gaze, and the man turns away. “Let him loose,” he instructs. “He’ll keep shut if he knows what’s good for him,” the man says smirking down at him and grabbing his shoulder to pull him to his feet. He gives Alfredo a shove to send him on his way, with a final word of warning. “And if he doesn’t I’ll personally cut his snitching tongue out myself.”

Alfredo doesn’t waste any time and runs as if his life depends on it, tearing through the park towards his home; and not once looking back.

Part 2