#immortal fake ah crew

[howdoyoudothedew]

Rated: G

Word Count: ~200

A/N: @seasonaldelightsbingo @julybreakbingo for the pre-july bingo!

There are stories in these hills. Whispers of kings and queens from long ago; of blood and corruption; sun and laughter; fun and madness. They’re told around fires until history becomes legend and legend becomes forgotten. But legend is never truly forgotten and history always cycles back. If the history ever bothers to leave in the first place.

With time and invention, war and peace, lands changed and new names were made. Achievement City and her kingdom shrinks, and through the centuries is reborn as the smaller Los Santos. She is no longer ruled by kings and queens, but she is ruled by legends nonetheless.

The Fake AH Crew treat Los Santos as theirs. They protect her and her people. They treat her as a giant playground which holds no consequences for them. They act as if they know her deeply, intimately; two lovers, acquainted long ago. People talk, as they always will, of hidden places only the Fakes know. Stories long forgotten begin to crop back up. Theories are made, paintings are found, and the Fakes laugh because only they truly know.

There are stories in these hills, because they have never left.

[oddluver]

Damn we really ain't gna get a FAHC in GTA VI 😭

[rpmaniac]

Who can say what we'll find What lies waiting down the line In the end of eighty-nine...

New Achievement City, 1980s.

[miss-ingno]

Soft As Silk

Fandom: ragehappy, fahc Ship: one-sided Fiona/Lindsay (aka Fiona got a ~crush) Words: 3.1k Tags: immortal fahc, noir au, 20s fahc, Terms’verse, selkie!Fiona, phoenix!Lindsay, more hints at what Gavin’s deal is, speakeasies, illegal drugs and alcohol

Summary: Fiona joins the Fakes in 1920s Los Santos.

A/N: written for @fionaweek. I used a lot of only lightly researched 20s slang, there'll be a list of translations at the end (in order of appearance).

Read here on Ao3 or Patreon.

***

Ramsey's speakeasy was the place to be in town if you wanted some fun. Even Fiona knew this, as new to this shore as she was. Tonight was her first time downstairs, however, having been twirled across the dancefloor by the blond Brit with the sharp eyes two nights in a row. He was fun, always a proper gentleman about it, and they'd talked about their respective homelands with thinly veiled nostalgia.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he'd approached her the minute she entered, all gallant bows and banter, ushering her to a corner table not far from the dancefloor. The tables to either side were crowded, not so subtly checking the corner table on the regular, envy writ large across faces. Someone was holding court at that table, and while no one dared come close uninvited, they watched those who did with rapture.

Like Fiona, on the arm of the blond Brit.

The crowd and curious onlookers parted for him, marking him as someone well-known in these circles. Fiona’s gaze wandered over the people sitting at the table, heart beating too fast. A part of her expected Ramsey to be the one holding court, but as they stepped up, the woman sitting across from them turned away from her neighbour, conversation petering off.

Fiona’s breath caught.

The woman was simply stunning. She was wearing a red flapper dress with layers of fringe that went from a deep orange to a yellow so bright it was almost white, with gold beading peeking out from under the strings whenever she shifted. White opera gloves wrapped her arms to the elbows in gleaming satin. None of those details mattered, however, compared to the brilliant smile that took Fiona’s breath away.

She had seen the sort of beauty that men went to war for, having spent most of her teenage years in the Aegean sea. The woman met her gaze with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and Fiona finally understood why the Greeks had been so obsessed with Helen of Troy.

“Here you go, doll,” the blond Brit said, pulling out a chair for Fiona. A sharp retort sat on the tip of her tongue, but before she could rejoin, the woman already answered, making Fiona realize the Brit hadn’t been talking to her.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she drawled, her voice deeper than Fiona had expected. She folded her gloved hands under her chin, eyeing Fiona up and down. Fiona quirked an eyebrow in return.

“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?”

That pretty mouth quirked into a grin, eyes hooded as she watched Fiona. “Of course, darlin’. Wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t.”

"Of course," Fiona agreed, crossing her arms on top of the table. "I assume I'm supposed to know who you are?"

Next to her, the Brit choked on his drink.

"Possibly." The woman laughed, the honest kind that came from deep within. She held out her hand across the table. "Hi. Lindsay Tuggey."

"Fiona Nova," she returned, shaking Lindsay's hand. "Nice to meet you. I think."

"So," Lindsay said, leaning back and eyeing Fiona over her own drink, bracelets clinking against the glass. "What brings you to our beautiful corner of this world?"

Fiona shrugged one shoulder casually, her silver-grey stole shifting, turning the motion almost supernaturally fluid. She was wearing a simple, black flapper dress with pearl earrings, accentuated by the wavy bob haircut. Lindsay's eyes traced up the stole to the earrings, eyebrows rising ever so slightly.

"I was bored, to be quite honest," she quipped, meeting Lindsay's eyes. "I hear there's fun to be had here."

"Depends on what you call fun," Lindsay drawled, a wide smirk spreading across her lips. Her eyes flickered to her earrings and back. "Fancy jewelry you got there." She let her gaze dip down to Fiona's coat curled around her shoulders like fur before slowly dragging her eyes back up. "Very… unique."

Recognition glittered in her eyes, and Fiona tensed at the implication, one hand rising to lay on her coat. But she caught herself, smoothly redirecting her hand to gesture to the pearls.

"Oh these?" Her laughter sounded forced even to her own ears. "Ah, non. They're faux, I'm afraid. Fake. But don't they look just like the real thing?"

"Just so," Lindsay murmured, quirking an eyebrow, before letting it pass. Her eyes lingered on Fiona’s stole a moment longer, making the hairs on Fiona’s neck stand up. But before she could decide whether or not to leave, Lindsay favoured her with a sharp smile and continued, “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” Fiona eyed her warily, shooting a quick glance at the Brit next to her, who was acting bored but used the pretense to keep an eye on the crowd.

“Indeed.” Lindsay pulled out a thin case of cigarettes, setting one into an elegant, black holder. Gaze locked with Fiona, Lindsay flicked the end with her pointer finger, a flame bursting from the tip, there and gone again. No one else seemed to notice the small display of the extraordinary.

Lindsay pulled, blowing small, delicate rings of smoke before offering the whole thing to Fiona. Fiona took it gingerly, trying not to grimace at the taste.

“What sort of proposition?”

“Well,” Lindsay drawled, taking the fag back and gesturing lazily with it. Her gaze wandered pointedly across the crowd, eagerly pressing close to listen in. “That depends entirely on your definition of ‘fun’.”

Lindsay shot her an exaggerated wink, and Fiona swore her heart skipped a beat.

“Gavin, be a dear and show our friend around, hm?”

The Brit glanced at her quickly, before turning to Lindsay. “She on the up and up?”

“Pos-i-lute-ly,” Lindsay drawled, and Fiona choked on a laugh. Now that was some silly slang she hadn’t come across yet.

“Darb,” the Brit - Gavin - responded, pushing his chair back and standing up. He held out his arm for Fiona like a gentleman, and with one last searching look at Lindsay, Fiona took it.

“You’re staying here?” Fiona couldn’t help but ask.

Lindsay shrugged, gesturing at the other people sitting at the table, pretending hard they weren’t listening. “Gotta punch the bag some more. I’ll be down later.”

***

Downstairs turned out to be much quieter than the above club. The music was just as loud, but nobody was dancing. A game of poker took place at one of the tables, gentlemen of various ages and states of dress smoking cigars. They each had a glass of bootleg at their elbow, talking in low voices while eyeing each other up like sharks. Ramsey sat amongst them, tie loose around his neck and shirt rolled up to the elbows. His face was the most expressive amongst the players, mustache quivering with rage and eyes crinkling with laughter in turn.

Along the short wall of the room stood a bar, the red-headed bartender cleaning glasses and talking to two customers seated on the stools. He caught Fiona’s gaze across the room, his welcoming smile almost hidden in his bushy beard. 

Several stools apart sat a kid in his late teens, huddling in a purple sweater, the only one not dolled up in the entire establishment. Fiona caught a glimpse of little bags of dope he shoved into a messenger bag, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he worked for Ramsey. Something flickered around the edges of him, something slightly off in the way the light caught his glasses. Fiona shivered, unable to look at him long.

Instead, her gaze was caught by a flash of red eyes from the corner behind the kid.

“Don’t worry about him, doll,” Gavin murmured as he tucked her towards the bar. Fiona kept an eye on the vampire regardless. “He’s not here to hurt nobody, promise.”

“Oh yeah, tell it to Sweeney,” Fiona snorted, but let herself be led away.

Gavin just shrugged. “He’s crew.”

The bartender extricated himself from the other two clients as they approached, giving Gavin a nod and Fiona a questioning look. If Fiona didn’t know better, she’d say he was a selkie, too, with his broad stature and nice, round belly. He reminded her of her aunt, she thought, he had that same sort of calm aura.

“Two of your best, Jack,” Gavin ordered, settling onto a stool. Fiona mirrored him.

“Sure thing,” the bartender - Jack, replied, turning to Fiona, “Anything you like in particular?”

“You got any ginger gin?” Fiona quipped, because Jack was a ginger and the local gin mill, apparently.

Jack let out a belly-deep laugh. “You’d get along fine with Jeremy.”

He handed them two tumblers of moonshine, and Fiona took a careful sip. It tasted strongly of peaches, but not in a bad way. She clinked her glass with Gavin’s before taking another swig. “Cheers.”

They ambled over to the poker table. The gentlemen tipped their hats at them, puffing on their cigars. They were wearing suits, ties and vests, though most of them had lost the jacket at some point. Gavin pulled a chair for her, and Fiona blew him a kiss in thanks.

“Deal me in, fellas.”

“There’s some heavy sugar riding on this, Jane,” one of the men piped up, watching her from under the brim of his fedora. “You sure you can keep up?”

Fiona opened her mouth, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but Ramsey waved them off. “I’ll put up her ante.”

“And here I thought she was the limey’s moll!” The men roared in laughter, but Ramsey just quirked a brow as he dealt her in.

“He didn’t even offer to take her coat, Flynt, I don’t know what you expected,” another razzed the first man, or perhaps the joke was directed at Gavin.

“You want beef, old man?” Fiona challenged them both, narrowing her eyes.

Flynt held up his hand, laughing. “Nah, doll, we’re good. Some of us have seen a stole before, it’s all the rage with the dames these days, Sloth.”

They continued bickering while Fiona tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders, meeting Ramsey’s observant gaze.

“Well, fellas? Are we starting or am I playing with pikers?” she taunted, which they denied immediately and with much shouting.

Needless to say, she took great pleasure in taking them for what they were worth. Ramsey didn’t lose the smirk once as he watched her making them eat their words. But when she tried paying him back his dough, he held up his hands. With a calculating glance zozzled gangsters, he offered her his arm and walked her a ways away, Gavin trailing after them with her winnings in a bag.

“Why don’t you show up here tomorrow at noon? Let’s call it a favour for a favour.”

Fiona raised her brows because she wasn’t stupid, she heard what type of man Ramsey was. But then, she had been looking for something shiny to catch her eye, and Lindsay obviously worked for this man. As did the vampire, who had lurked in his corner all night. A curious crew.

“One favour,” she stipulated, and Ramsey barked out a laugh.

“Just the one,” he agreed, clasping her hand in a firm grip. They both knew she would be back more often than that, now that her curiosity was piqued.

***

Working for the Fakes turned out to be pretty fun, all told. They provided her with the goods and a gun to defend herself, and more importantly, the Fakes never went out alone. Her favourite jobs were the ones she was partnered with Gavin. He generally took care of negotiations and deals, and Fiona got to try out various roles like putting on different coats to see how they fit. The bored, rich doll, a baby vamp, the dumb Dora, or even taking a turn at talking herself, all of which made a great whoopee.

Especially when they stole Geoff’s swell Ford Roadster afterwards for a joyride.

They drove way past the speed limit, nearly crashing into oncoming traffic twice and got chased by a fuzzy on horse halfway across the city. Fiona couldn’t stop laughing, and Gavin’s giggles kept setting her off again every time she caught her breath. But they shook the fella off somewhere around the public park, so everything was jake.

They ended up on the pier with a basket of sandwiches and a bottle of giggle water between them, legs dangling above the water as they exchanged stories.

“Go chase yourself!” Fiona laughed after a particularly outrageous story that involved a bank heist and duck masks.

“It’s true!” Gavin insisted, unable to keep his giggles to himself as he gestured with the bottle. “I even got Ryan to wear one, swear on God and cross my heart!”

“The vamp?” Fiona questioned, nose wrinkling as she snatched the bottle back and took a swig herself. Gavin shot her a careful look.

“In some senses of that word, yes.”

“Bull,” she called, dodging as Gavin tried to swipe the bottle back. “There’s no way Mr. Stick-Up-His-Ass agreed to that.”

“Did too,” Gavin laughed, tackling her. She instinctively let go of the bottle to grab hold of her coat, and Gavin rolled off her with his prize, smirking. “So what’s your most fantastical tale?”

Fiona hummed, shrugging off her coat and shifting to sit on top of it, just to be sure. Gavin was watching her with too clever eyes, smirk slipping. He offered her the bottle back, like some sort of apology, but she wasn’t gonna say no to more midday booze.

“I used to have this fat pet rabbit. I called him Chungus.” She tilted her head back, letting the breeze brush over her skin. It smelt of sea salt mixed with the stink of oil.

“And?” Gavin leaned forward, clearly curious. Fiona smirked.

“And that’s it. That’s the craziest thing I’ve seen.”

Gavin sputtered and Fiona laughed, chucking the rest of the booze in one long gulp.

“Bushwa!” Gavin called, even as Fiona dangled the bottle upside down to prove its emptiness, her eyebrows dancing merrily. “I call bull! No way that’s the extent of your adventures.”

Fiona shrugged one shoulder, before pushing both of her fists to her cheeks, smushing her lips together. “It had cheeks like this. All chunky and adorable.”

“Bushwa,” Gavin repeated, pinching her cheek. Fiona batted her lashes at him.

“It was so cute, Gav! Just adorable!”

Laughing, Gavin snatched the empty bottle from her lap, twirling it between his idle fingers. “Okay, alright. Your craziest story, then.”

Fiona dropped her hands in her lap, humming thoughtfully. She stared out to the sea, listening to the waves crashing against the pier. It sounded different than the cliffs she was used to, but still soothingly familiar.

“You ever see a dame so beautiful you would drown for her?”

Gavin choked, the bottle tumbling from his fingers and landing with a splash in the murky waters below. Fiona thumped his back helpfully.

“Is this about your crush on Lindsay?” he finally sputtered, trying to slap her hand away. So rude.

“As if you don’t have a crush on her, too,” Fiona parried, sniffing haughtily. “As if anyone with eyes doesn’t have a crush on her, hello? Have you met Lindsay?”

“I mean, duh.” Gavin shook his head. “But I wouldn’t do that to my boi.”

“You mean Michael?” Fiona tilted her head, but she hadn’t seen Michael and Lindsay together yet. “He got a crush on her, too?”

Gavin shrugged. “They have… something. I don’t know. I won’t come between them, though.”

“Bummer,” Fiona murmured. She figured there was more to that story, because she could’ve wagered Gavin and Michael had a thing, instead. Or maybe too was the right word. Trying to lift the tension, she joked, “and here I thought I finally met a classy dame I had a chance with!”

Gavin elbowed her, so she shoved back. They squabbled for several moments, as if to make up for the serious mood they’ve fallen into. The playful slap fight turned into a tickle fight instead, until they both lay on the wooden pier, panting for breath.

“I met a siren once,” Gavin admitted, startling Fiona. She pushed up onto her elbows and watched him from the corner of her eyes. “Back when I was travelling by ship.”

When he fled Britain for the new world, she surmised. She wondered what happened, but knew better than to ask. Instead, she went for the more important question.

“Oh yeah? How come you’re still alive then?”

“Who says I survived?” Gavin mused with a faux philosophical air, turning a smirk her way. She slapped his elbow in retaliation. “‘Sides, maybe she fancied me.”

“Yeah, sure,” Fiona scoffed, flopping back down while Gavin sat up, pulling his legs under himself.

There was a familiar sort of longing in his eyes, the way he stared out at the sea. As if he didn’t belong on land. Fiona knew that feeling very well, and it made her curious. Gavin had seemed human to her from the first moment she met him, but he surrounded himself with people who were… more. Like Lindsay, or Michael, or the ghost that haunted their speakeasy slash headquarters. And apparently met a siren and lived to tell the tale.

“You wanna go for a swim?” Fiona asked, impulsively. Gavin blinked and turned to look at her.

“Here? At the docks?”

Fiona shrugged, the straps of her dress falling off her shoulders. “Where else?”

Without waiting for Gavin’s response, she shimmied out of her dress, kicking off her shoes and rolling the hose down her gams. Then while he was busy sputtering and blushing, she picked up her coat and ran for the edge of the pier, slipping the coat on just as she leapt.

Diving in a high arc, a seal splashed into the waters below.

When she resurfaced, Gavin was leaning over the pier, peering down at her. Fiona stared back, clapping her flappers against her tummy to make funny noises, then giggling to herself. Gavin just stared down at her, shocked. But before doubt could sneak in and make her second guess her decision to reveal herself, he started cooing, hearts visibly in his eyes.

“Oh my God! Look at you! You’re so cute!” He leaned down and reached out for her, and she bumped her nose against his fingers, making him squee. “Your fur’s so soft! Softer than silk! And your nose is wet! You’re so chubby, oh gosh!”

Fiona snickered, throwing herself around and splashing Gavin with her fin. The indignant squawk was worth it.

“Oh, you’re on!” Gavin yelped, and with another splash, he joined her in the water.

So worth it.

*

speakeasy - a bar selling illegal alcohol

doll, dame - woman

fag - cigarette

on the up and up - legitimate, honest

pos-i-lute-ly - affirmative, mixture of positive + absolutely

darb - great

punch the bag - small talk

bootleg - illegal alcohol

dope - drugs

tell it to Sweeney - tell it to someone who’ll believe you

gin mill - seller of hard liquor

moonshine - homebrewed whiskey

fella - guy

heavy sugar - a lot of money

Jane - any woman

limey - a British person

moll - someone’s girlfriend

razz - to make fun of, tease

beef - a problem

piker - coward

dough - money

zozzled - drunk

baby vamp - a pretty or popular woman (usually a student)

dumb Dora - an unintelligent woman 

whoopee - wild fun, a good time

fuzzy - a cop on patrol

jake - fine (as in everything’s jake/fine)

giggle water - alcohol

Go chase yourself! - Get out of here!

bushwa - bullshit

gams - legs

[gaychievementhunter]

“We’re going to where Michael died when he first joined” sounds like a peak immortal fahc quote

[iamashamedofmyfanfics]

He was a good person, once. At the very least normal. Jeremy Dooley wasn’t planning on becoming what he did. Had thought his life would be average, to the end.

Who expects immortality, anyway?

So Jeremy was a teenager. Falls in with the wrong crowd, but it’s nothing he can’t get out of. Thinks he’ll stop hanging around them, eventually. Plans on it. But it’s too late, before he tries. One more outing- it’s not something to worry about, not too late-

And one of the bastards actually tries to summon a fucking demon.

Jeremy wakes up at home, and most of his “friends” are dead or missing. He doesn’t know what happened- doesn’t know if he wants to- but it fills he chest with a resting anxiety for months.

And months. 

And still. 

And still. 

And-

Jeremy is 26.

Jeremy is 26 and it’s 1971 and he still doesn’t have answers, but it’s fine. It doesn’t matter. So maybe he can’t sleep, some nights. Wakes with a pounding heart and no explanation for why. So maybe he can’t remember, but maybe there was nothing to remember. Maybe he had left, and couldn’t remember. Whatever happened, he doesn’t know for sure he was even there for.

It’s fine.

Another night, another sleepless night. Jeremy drowns his anxiety in alcohol and stumbles down the sidewalk home. Jeremy is 26.

Jeremy is dead.

Jeremy Dooley dies on a Saturday night, just before midnight, stumbled into the road and didn’t survive to the hospital.

Jeremy Dooley wakes up outside his house, bloodied clothes and stopped pulse, but there.

Alive.

Jeremy wants more answers, has more questions.

He’ll never find out what happened.

Jeremy is 26.

Jeremy is 26 and it’s 1995. A man with too many tattoo’s to count robs a store while Jeremy is in it. A noise- Jeremy picking up a package of chips because he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the man’s gun pointing at him- and Jeremy laughs.

Jeremy has died 18 times, what’s one more?

“What’re you gonna do, shoot me?”

“I might.”

“Okay.” Jeremy shrugs. The man eyes him, then laughs, lowers his gun as the store clerk crawls out of the store, and takes off running. Reaches for the register as Jeremy stands there, watching.

“How old are you, kid?”

“What?”

“How old are you, kid?” He repeats. Eyes Jeremy like he know more than he should.

Then, blandly, Jeremy answers, “Fifty.”

And he laughs again, stuff bills into his pockets and nods. “Yeah? Still younger than me.”

But that doesn’t make sense. He cant be much older than Jeremy actually is. Unless-

But he’s gone. Leaves with a wave while Jeremy is too slow to process the whole thing.

Another question, still no answers.

Jeremy is 26 and it’s 2009. And life is so painfully boring. Questions without answers aren’t entertaining, they’re frustrating, and immortality is so boring. Useless. 

Jeremy meets Matt Bragg that summer, when the other is running from the cops, and stumbles right into Jeremy. 

Jeremy could stop him, could try, could do something.

Could be a good person.

He grabs Matt, pulls him down an ally, and they loose the cops. Laugh about it later, introduce themselves properly, and before Jeremy knows it, he’s a criminal.

Life is more interesting, as sick as it is to say. Matt survives a bullet to the head, four months later, and Jeremy thinks, oh, of course.

Jeremy is 26 and it’s 2014. He moves to Los Santos a few weeks before Matt, because life is getting stale and he heard news of the Fake’s moving there from Liberty city. Their chaos is sure to cause a lot of death, a lot of theft, a general sense of danger.

What else could keep an immortal life interesting?

Jeremy makes a proper name for himself in Los Santos. Rimmy Tim. Purple and Orange covered in blood and chaos. Gets a hold of a too-loose-lipped criminal who tells him the Fake’s are plotting to rob the maze bank, and does so the day before they can.

Your move.

Matt rolls his eyes at him. Call him an idiot with a death wish. The words hold a too-close-to-truth to them that has Jeremy smacking Matt upside the head and heading out to a nearby bar.

Jeremy meets the first of the Fake AH Crew members a week later. Jack. All polite- warning- smiles and compliments on Rimmy Tim’s work. And an offer.

“For you and you’re friend,” Jack says. “To join us.”

“For?”

“A little test.”

In and out, get a jet, make it back alive. “Not with the jet, just after stealing it. If you bring it back, though, you can even join our next heist.”

It’s a joke. A deathtrap. A sure-fire way to get himself killed.

They must want him dead.

Jeremy gets drunk, steals a helicopter, and parachutes into a military base to steal a jet the next day. Only takes it far enough to park it in a field and get out, before he’s caught.

Jeremy dies. Matt meets him a mile away, where Jeremy wakes up outside a shitty restaurant. Dust reforming into a person, Matt tells him. Jeremy steals a car and they sneak their way past police- taking them out as they go- to get back to the jet.

“Here’s your jet,” Jeremy says, nonchalant. Jack laughs in his face, throws an arm around his shoulder, and says,

“How old are you, kid?”

Jeremy freezes, then. For the first time, something hits him.

How have the Fake’s survived so long? How have not one of them died? How-

Those words are familiar.

“Fuck if I remember,” Jeremy answers. Jack nods, smiles.

“Wanna meet the others?”

Geoff is oh-so-familiar. Tattoo’s even greater in number, age still the same. He grins at Jeremy, a small wave. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey.”

Michael, Lindsay, and Gavin aren’t much older than him, he finds out. Jack and Geoff are much older.

And none of them are good people. Thieves, murders, criminals, liars. They’ve probably committed treason, definitely committed terrorism.

Jeremy was a good person, once. Normal, at least. Someone who, were he able to die, might have gotten into a theoretical heaven.

Jeremy is 26, and not a good person, and it’s 2019, and he’s a member of the most well known crew in the states. 

Is too far in with the “wrong crowd” to get out now. Too late to be a good person. So why bother trying? Immortality is boring, but the Fake’s make it much more interesting.

It’s not like he planned on it. Who expects immortality, anyway?

But It’s too late to be anything else, now.

[darktiger57]

The next chapter of my immortal fahc fic is up

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24469462/chapters/63918121

[diyvampyrism]

immortal fake ah crew is the pinnacle of fandom and there is nothing you could do to change my mind

[insanity4789]

      Geoff had always loved the city.        He was a man that grew up in small towns with close communities. The suffocation of expectation had eaten him alive as a young man. Now that he was an adult, free to roam as he pleased, he went to any city the beckoned him.        He hopped from place to place, never wanting to set down roots, like his parents had. He wanted the wild ride that freedom gave him. The uncertainty of tomorrow was so inviting. The lost of yesterday was nothing to him.        Until the day the city became to much for him.        He'd just been walking down the street. Not a good street. A dirty, empty, wet street with shaded alleys and hooded figures.        Geoff was headed 'home'. He was walking back to his hotel, which was just as much of a piece of shit as the entire city. He hadn't realized that he was being followed. He was still riding the high of night before and was practically skipping down the road in his crumpled suit. A suit that he had stolen and one that drew more attention then he'd realized.        Realization came after it was to late.        He was shoved into one of those dark halls, a knife in his face and a pair of crazed eyes behind it.        "Gimme your fucking wallet!" 

       Geoff was speechless. He'd been to twenty cities at this point, yet this had never happened to him before.        "Are you fucking stupid?! Give me your god damned money before I kill you!"        "I don't have any money!" He cried, half telling the truth. He didn't really have 'money', but he had a trail of fake names and empty credit cards behind him. Geoff never stuck around anywhere long enough to get a job.        "Yea? Then why you walkin' down this part of town with a suit like that, huh? Your just fucking begging someone to mug you!" Before Geoff could argue, the man in front of him jabbed his knife forward with practiced ease, stabbing him right in the throat. Blood started running down the front of him. The man pulled away, letting Geoff put a hand to his own throat and slide down the wall with wide, teary eyes.        The stranger walked away, grumbling to himself.        Meanwhile, Geoff was dying.        He was crying and gurgling, his arms and legs shaking like a screen-door in a hurricane. His body felt so cold. So empty. So numb. He was scared and he was alone. No one in the world would know he was dead.        Geoff would bleed out there, in an alley, in the middle of a city. And not a soul in the world would care.        It took longer then he ever thought it would. The immensity of death settled over him like a heavy blanket and if he hadn't already been stabbed, it would have been enough to scare him to death. As he laid there, leaking, the world faded to black.        After a while, Geoff Lazer Ramsey, died.        Then he came back.        He'd never closed his eyes, in his terror. He didn't want to stop seeing the world, but he'd run out of blood at some point. His eyes had stopped working.        But when they started working again, he was still sitting there, staring down at the concrete with wide, dry eyes.        When he breathed again, it was slow, like he'd woken up from a deep sleep.        The next breath was faster and more panicked.        He sat up straight, his hands going for his throat. There was no hole. No wound. But when he looked down, he was still smothered in blood. His blood. The blood that had dribbled out of him when that gangster fuck had stabbed him.        Geoff didn't know what was going on. Had it all been a dream? A bad trip? He hadn't taken anything last night, but he'd been rolling through a number of bars. Someone could have slipped him something at any time. Yet, the blood was still there. It was real. Crusted against his suit and flaking away as he shakily pushed himself to his feet.        One of his hands slipped from his throat to his chest and he held it there, feeling his heart hammer within.        He was alive.        But he hadn't been just a few minutes ago.        Geoff didn't know how he was back, but he knew that he had been dead. He didn't know what god or demon gave him this second chance, but he knew what he was going to do with it.        First things first?        Find the man that had killed him.

[danspectorboy]

♡◇♤♧ gavin free, god of gambles, luck and luxury ♡◇♤♧

the madman throwed his head upwards, a mocking sound escaping his lips. a laughter, realized ryan.

"i'm guessing this was supposed to be your last heist?" he asked, a single golden eyebrow raised in incredulity at the situation they found themselves in

[achieverooster]

“They’ve been around for a long time...” 

Immortal Fake AH Crew

(Song: Abba - ‘Gimmie! Gimmie! Gimmie!’ Remix by Dmitry Glushkov)

[sarahinara]

I’ve always liked the idea that while the immortal fahc have known that they’ve been immortal for a long time, that they can play life to their advantage as a sacrifice is never permanent, goodbyes are never really forever,

that immortal ≠ invincible.

gavin will still remember the biting pain in his abdomen before his first death, leaving him to some dark alleyway. what a stupid way to go, he thinks, tries to laugh but coughs up blood onto his shirt instead. ryan plays with knives and blades in the penthouse and doesn’t understand when he flinches back, curling in around himself as he remembers steel - firelight glinting off sharp edges - piercing, puncturing, going through him as blood runs down his skin -

it’s a long, long fall for michael. it’s not his first, he knows what will come after, but all he can think about is his fingers fumbling with a parachute that isn’t opening, breaths stolen by the wind around him. he collides hard with a branch, then another, then another. his bones are cracked and he can’t move as he lays there in a forest clearing, only able to wait for the injuries to overcome him. in the cockpits of planes and helicopters, they see him clench his fists so hard that his knuckles turn white but he brushes it off as adrenaline, his pulse raging in his ears.

geoff feels his lungs burning as fatigue plagues his limbs. he can’t walk anymore, can’t think straight anymore. men with bird masks, once frequent, no longer visit him. he’s not sure anyone visits him at all as his stare is fixed on the ceiling above his bed. just kill me, he murmurs, over and over and over and over, knowing that a blade would be kinder than the hell he’s in, but all they do is tuck him in tighter, pat the sweat off his brow. the others will complain about his hovering whenever one of them gets sick, but geoff just smiles crookedly and tells them he can’t help it.

it’s raining, and water seeps through jack’s shoes. it’s not an eventful day until someone shouts, incomprehensible due to the downpour before his entire body is immobilized, wracked with sharp pains as the people around him try to stop the electric current. it’s too late, and jack deduces later what had happened to him - he closes the curtains as a lightning storm falls over los santos, rattling thunder drowned out by the music playing on the radio.

jeremy’s eyes are burning as saltwater surrounds him, the thrashing of his limbs wasting the breath he has left. blind and disorientated, he can’t tell which way is up anymore, chokes on his fear and panic as the boat gets further and further away. it’s dark, lonely, and jeremy lingers on the pool edge as he watches the others splash one another, his feet dipped in the water and hands gripping the cement beneath him.

his clothes drape over his body, the dull ache in ryan’s stomach having become a part of him. people shuffle around him, beggars rocking back and forth for a dime and the chimes of the bakery ahead are taunting, a dream that slips through his fingers like sand. he sits, waiting, waiting, waiting, closes his eyes, knowing it’s for the last time. he’s the first to notice whenever someone else skips a meal, from stress or otherwise, and even if it’s just a gas station sandwich, he doesn’t sit easy until it’s gone.

they don’t get scars in their new lives, bodies reborn with smooth, untouched skin. and yet -

it’s not uncommon to see them rub absentmindedly at a wound that no longer exists, to feel the phantom pain that restricts them from getting out of bed in the morning. as they join the crew, one by one, they look at each other and understand; they share their deaths with sarcasm in their voice and heaviness in their hearts. and when it happens again - a lucky shot to the chest, an ill-timed explosion - they feel that familiar pull taking them under, but they’re not afraid, not like they were. 

because the others are always there when they come back, waiting with laughter and smiles or a comforting hand and an ear to listen. with popcorn and a movie or a day of quiet and calmness; with the crew - living gets a little easier.

[kincreates]

EYYYYYY part.......... what is this 4? or is it three. one of the two. anyway, part whatever of ryan the cannibal guy is up on my ao3 now! -----> https://archiveofourown.org/works/18542131

[rpmaniac]

"Boogie Woogie Santa Claus"

New Achievement City, 1940s

[redfire-blackash-whitegold]

FAHC Time Loop AU Pt.3

It was the book that brought Ryan to Los Santos, though he never realized it. He had a good life in Georgia, a safe life, a boring one. There was always something about Los Santos, the crime capital of the world, that spoke to Ryan. There was something dangerous about the city, and he craved the adventure. Craved the spotlight. He wanted to make something of himself, and it was only here, in the City of Ash could he do that. 

There was something, call it fate, destiny, or simply coincidence that led Ryan to that particular street that night. A high, sharp scream drew Ryan’s attention upwards, to a rooftop from which a human figure was falling. The man landed, almost at Ryan’s feet, practically served up to him on a silver platter, holding the old book. And Ryan wanted it, this clearly valuable item that was apparently worth shoving a man off a rooftop for, that was going to be retrieved any minute now by the killer. So he picked up the book from the man’s chest, and ran. He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, until he felt secure in slinking back into the shadows without being followed in.

The Fake AH Crew didn’t come until much, much later. They had hired him for a few jobs until eventually he stuck around, became a part of their silly little family. With them, Ryan had the life he had always dreamed of, one full of adventure, one that led him to the top of the city, one that had every pair of eyes watching his every move. He loved his crew, messed with them, worried for them when they got hurt. Ryan never wanted this life to end, and so for the first time in years, he opened the book.

It was a book well suited to the reaper of Los Santos, a book of spells, a book of necromancy, and not for a moment did Ryan doubt its power. There was a mysticism, a magic, that spewed from the book the moment Ryan opened it, one that came with the promise of knowledge. With the power offered by the book, Ryan could take over the city in a heartbeat, become invincible, turn iron into gold. But there was only one spell he was interested in learning.

It was frankly a miracle that no one in the Fake AH Crew had ever died, what with their high risk lifestyle and general disregard for safety. They had all crawled their way to where they were now, relying on stealing and killing and fighting just to survive. Each and every one of them had earned their place, and now that they were at the top, their recklessness did nothing but increase. It wasn’t like they had nothing to lose, in fact they never before had so much that could be taken. A fall from grace would be a long fall indeed, but what was the point of being at the top if you couldn’t lean over the railing every once in a while and see the city below you? What was the point of fighting an inevitable future if you couldn’t tempt fate every so often? The fakes had grown comfortable with their spot within their city, grown comfortable with each other. And that’s what made Michael’s death just that much more devastating. 

Jack and Jeremy were out on business, and Geoff’s vague request to “cause a distraction” for them left Michael, Gavin, and Ryan with the rare freedom to have fun with the full resources of the crew behind them. A brief discussion about the logistics of first creating, and then destroying, a nuclear reactor resulted in the decisions to blow up a building and buy some solar panels for the penthouse. Not, maybe, the most creative use of resources, but fun all the same. Michael went ahead and grabbed all of the C4 that had been stockpiled, and the trio all hopped in a car, on the way to the unoccupied base of an up and coming gang who’s lifespan in this city was expected to be short.

There is a proper way to fell a building, one that requires precise empirical measurement and blueprints and a general knowledge of architecture. However, when you have an empty building, a general disregard for the safety of yourselves and others, and way too much C4, it ultimately doesn’t matter what the proper way actually is. Michael set a vague timer on all the charges and handed them out to everyone, each of them snickering with anticipation as they set their stickies on every post and pillar of their demolition site. 

“Charges set, heading back to vehicle designation alpha,” Ryan chuckled into his com in a mock imitation of serious communication, the first one to get rid of his explosives. Gavin was the next out, and soon took a seat on the hood of the car next to Ryan, an excellent view, even in the dark of night, of the art they were about to create. 

The mood was light, the mission an easy one, but in Michael’s haste to get back to his friends he missed a critical detail. The charges were not properly synched together, and by the time Michael realized that the clock was ticking he knew it was already too late. 

“It’s going, it’s going!” Michael could only scream a warning into the com. “I’m not going to make it!” And he ran, ran like he never had before, sprinting with full force towards the car and just like that the cheerful mood vanished. 

“Boi! Boi are you okay?” Gavin jumped off his perch, struggled in vain to go in after his boi, to throw his own life uselessly into the fire, but Ryan didn’t let him. Ryan waited until after he could feel the blazing heat on his skin, even from under his mask, until the numb pain had vanished and it was safe again. Then he ran too, ahead of Gavin, desperate to find Michael in the wreckage, hopefully breathing and alive. 

But alive was not a state that could describe Michael. Ryan found him, half crushed under rubble, skin seared off to the point where he would have been unrecognizable if he weren’t the only casualty. Ryan pushed pieces of brick and drywall off what used to be Michael and checked for breathing, for a pulse, for something, anything that showed signs of life. 

“Ryan you found him!” Gavin discovered Ryan knelt next to the corpse. 

“He’s dead Gavin,” Ryan could not bring himself to look away, to look at the still living Gavin. 

“We need to do first aid! We need to get him to a hospital!” Gavin rushed forward but Ryan brushed him away. 

“No.” Ryan became increasingly calm. “It’s too late for that.”

“It’s not! Let me help him!” Gavin tried to push through, but Ryan pushed him back, stood up and pointed his gun towards Gavin.

“Stay back!” Ryan ripped off his mask, and let Gavin see his own pained expression.

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Gavin demanded in a low growl. 

“I know how to fix this.” Ryan said. “In a minute none of this will matter.” 

The one spell that Ryan had learned all that time ago wasn’t a spell for immortality. Rather, it was one that was could bring someone back from the dead. How was Ryan supposed to know that there were unwritten rules regarding these things? How was he supposed to know that he was doing it wrong? How was he supposed to know that the price for immortality was the death of a universe? Because it was at that moment that the universe did die, and another one was born, the exact same but different. It was a universe in which Ryan did not remember using his prized book, in which Michael did not remember anything at all, and in which Gavin remembered a little more than he was supposed to. They were all alive again now, living and breathing and primed to make the same mistakes over and over again. Over and over and over again. 

Part One - Part Two - Part Three

[commanderryroe]

Fake AH

Ryan: "Oh, I'm sorry, I can't talk to you right now."

Gavin: "Why?"

Ryan: "Because I don't want to."