Are you- would you stop testing two-way mirror cameras in the bathroom? That’s the best way to see something no one wants to see. You’re lucky I was just doing touch-ups.
Y’all should send some asks to @@askthefahcnerds for your daily fill of FAHC and to see some super sweet cosplayers strut their stuff! Asks can be general or for someone specific in the crew. Give Gavin, Trevor, Michael, Steffie, Jack, and Ryan some attention before they decide to do something foolish.
“What, you going to go full Wacky Races on it, or what?” he asks, and it’s rhetorical, but if it plants an idea in Ryan’s head… well, it’s already caused a glint in Gavin’s eye. He casts his brown-eyed gaze back toward Ryan, and cracks a wicked smile, gesturing lazily with his pistol.
“If you’re going to do that, you’ve got to go all the way with it; you can’t just stop with spikes. I wanna see oil slicks, sawblades, hydraulics that go full over other cars – fifty percent isn’t gonna cut it.
“‘Course, it would probably be easier with a car,” he admits, the momentary openness in his expression nothing but bait as he continues, grinning wider still, “but if you put a sidecar on, you might be able to get some space to work with, and one of the lads can ride shotgun.”
It is... a very tempting set of ideas.
“I just meant the wheels...” Ryan admits, not going any farther than that as he listens to Gavin’s extravagant ideas about the way he could upgrade his bike. Most of the things he says are wildly implausible but as far as he’s concerned it would be magical to have any one of them. An oil slick particularly captures his imagination; not that physics really work that way. Any amount of oil he’d be able to keep on a bike would be too minimal to make any difference on the road.
The hydraulics, though...
“What, stuff you and Jeremy into the side car and then jump the police station?” He asks. “How Inspector Gadget of you.”
A man hauls himself bodily out of the cooler, pale, bloodied, and broken-looking in the dark. He scrambles and wheezes, hitting the floor with a solid whomp! and it’s a miracle that Gavin doesn’t piss himself. It’s one thing to wake up from death; it’s another to see a bonafide motherfucking zombie.
Gavin’s already stumbled back and grabbed a phone receiver off the countertop by the time the dead man lifts his head. Gavin brandishes the receiver like a weapon, the coiled plastic cord wobbling comically behind him – he breathes deep, and it takes him a long, long pause to understand why the bloodied face rings a bell for him.
Ryan speaks.
Gavin thinks about bludgeoning him anyway.
“Jesus Christ,” he repeats, a heavy exhale this time. He drops the phone, and it clatters against the cabinets all the way down to the floor. He raises both hands to his head, running his hands through his hair and staring at his shoes; he shakes his head, as if it will help fit all the fractured puzzle pieces together.
“What the fuck,” he breathes. “That’s my fucking nickname? Cocaine guy? That’s the one that sticks? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s hard to think about anything much more serious than that. Gavin takes a couple more steps backward, until he bumps against the counter, and he leans against it. He rubs his forehead from one temple to the other, and furrows his brow.
“Your friend fucking shot me,” he remembers, with vitriol.
“Your friend fucking shot me, and you were– you were gonna come back anyway. Nobody wanted to tell me that? Jesus Christ.”
The thick plastic bag that Ryan crawled his way out of is hanging halfway out of his designated cooler, the weight of one of his shoes holding it down. The tile is cold under his right foot which has been tagged with a little yellow paper with a ‘Doe, John- Unidentified” sticker labeling him as a mystery. Having only one shoe off makes Ryan feel a little unbalanced- or maybe that’s just the leftover dizziness.
Gavin doesn’t seem like he was expecting company; Ryan’s still not sure why he’s here at all.
Ryan gives a little laugh at the sight of Gavin dropping the phone receiver, like he expected to have to cave in the skull of some zombie pulling itself out of the cooler. He could have, but Ryan wouldn’t have appreciated it; he feels like his head is rattling even now. He wonders if something has finally gone loose and he also wonders if maybe Geoff would mind rescheduling that heist tomorrow.
If it’s still the same day, that is. Usually this only takes a few hours but maybe something else happened-
Gavin starts discussing his nickname and Ryan is once again distracted, a slight smile working it’s way onto his lips to match the laugh he gave earlier. Apparently his nickname isn’t appreciated. “Well what else am I supposed to call you?” He asks, curious. “We’ve never gotten to names, you and I. And the first time we met you tried to take my cocaine. It’s a vivid memory.”
Gavin’s complaining continues and Ryan’s smile gets even brighter at the insinuation. “Oooh, Jeremy, huh?” Probably because he didn’t have a car, but it’s still unlike him to go for a kill in that situation. He wonders why it happened at all-- and that leads to the train of thought. The flip, the dizziness, something familiar in a flash before--
“You hit me with your car!” Ryan says, just as much vitriol momentarily. It’s quickly taken over by pain spasming through his legs and shoulder yet again. He tries swallowing down the thought but he’s focused on it, now. “You just- smashed me like a bug on your windshield-”
But he came back anyway, as Gavin has discovered. Ryan gives a bitter laugh and turns to stare at him.
“Sorry to break it to you, but you’re not as alone as you thought you were.” He says, thinking about all the people back at the base who are currently gearing up to do God knows what. He hopes at least one person is coming to get him; he hates driving after shit like this. “Turns out, you’re WAY less alone than you thought you were.”
gavin wobbled his head to the beat, swaying in his seat before leaning into the rushing wind, loving the feeling. he felt young, this was the youth that was stolen from him. it was the feeling you’d get on summer break, the air a little warm, but not hot, rushing past his face. it was the feeling of road trips with a long time lover. freedom was a convertible car tearing down a city street.
at one point gavin catches ryan’s gaze and breaks into a wide grin. a squeaky laugh falls from his lips and he feels powerful. in just a few days he would have to take on a job, he already knew what was expected and it made his stomach turn. but right now ryan was looking at him and the wind was loud but the music was louder and that was enough for him.
before the car is fully parked gavin lets himself out, hastily unbuckling and hopping over the door as they come to a stop. it’s a shame the song ends though, he’d found his groove before. feet planted on the sidewalk now he gave a spin, still trying to feel the music. sneakers scuff against the ground and when his spin is complete he looks back at ryan with a smile, not the usual shit eating grin but something softer. something that called, ‘hurry up!’
The car’s rumble tones down in a split second and leaves only the slight hissing, spitting sound of the engine cooling. Ryan sits in the car for a second just to prepare for what they’ll deal with inside; noise and a crowd. He steals himself to push past people to clear Gavin a path to the bar, making people aware of their presence. He momentarily hopes that the owner is in, tonight, and will feel the color drain from their face spotting The Vagabond and The Golden Boy waltzing through his venue like they own it.
Not that Ryan would ever in a million years run a club.
Ryan slips out of the car a bit more solidly than Gavin but does pick up his step when Gavin smiles at him while he messes around, spinning here and there. It’s a nearly childish glee and Ryan focuses on it while they exit their chosen parking place to make their way to the club entrance. There’s no reason not to go through the front; even the line stretching all along the wall behind velvet ropes wont stop them from getting in. No sane bouncer in the city would deny Gavin entrance to a club of his choice.
And no sane bouncer would deny the Vagabond, despite knowing his presence bodes more ill-will than anything else. You won’t catch the Vagabond cutting a rug out on the dance floor.
With Gavin just ahead of him Ryan approaches the entrance sedately, giving time for everyone in the line to see them approaching. He figures once they’re inside Gavin will make a B-line for the bar so he’ll follow in that direction; after all, he did promise him two drinks.
Ryan feels like one or two of his fingers might still be too numb to function. He forces down the dizzying, gut-wrenching memory of spinning through the air and keeps trying, desperately, to unlatch the door he’s trapped behind. He’s weak and shaking, cold and damp and assaulted over and over again by the thought that he might not be able to get out of the box.
He has never been buried alive, but he’s seen the light fade in Ray’s eyes when it’s brought up. It’s enough to put fear back into a man who openly embraces the devil. Ryan scratches his fingernails, upside-down, against the door’s latch again and again with all of his focus. His legs shift in his body bag, pins and needles all down the length of them. He feels like he got hit by-
Swallowing down a scream, Ryan forces his eyes shut in the dark and imagines anything else. That didn’t happen, it didn’t happen, it didn’t--
The door opens.
Without thinking, without planning or trying to figure out what happened or who was behind it and what kind of trouble he could cause by doing so, Ryan sticks both of his arms toward light and grabs at the metal table and pulls himself toward the edge. The table can’t roll out without his assistance and he ends up kicking at the bag and sliding out onto the floor. It’s about a three foot drop and he gasps, fingers scratching at the tile as he scrabbles to sit himself up and lean against the closed drawers all along the wall.
Ryan breathes in as deeply as he can, staring straight ahead.
He turns his head.
He is... sufficiently distracted from the memory of his recent demise.
“Cocaine guy?”
Ryan’s hair is slicked back on one side with dried blood, his leather jacket is crisp and hard on the edges of every place where it’s been torn and rubbed to ribbons. His jeans are stiff with blood and covered in dirt and road and dried grass and glass shards. His clothes are full of holes; he, himself, is whole.
He’s a far cry from the mess Gavin made this morning; not that either of them are thinking about it.
“Ah-” Pain spasms up Ryan’s legs and through his shoulder for a moment and he wills it away by pushing the thought back down, staring at Gavin instead. He swallows; his mouth tastes like iron. There’s no willing away the headache he’s suffering right now.
“Yeah, well,” he deflects, “I don’t go looking for it like you do.”
While Ryan seems to want to watch him, Gavin seems immersed in the scenery as it goes by. There isn’t much to see out there, not at this hour; most of it is a blur of smog and light pollution, but he must find something interesting in it. He keeps his gaze focused on the horizon, only lifting a hand to scratch thoughtfully at his beard where it stretches up his cheek.
A humourous smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Jesus,” he remarks, “you’re a bad influence, Ryan. I kill about half the time, what more do you want?”
Ryan smiles at being called a bad influence. All his life he’s loved being a bad influence and ever since he pulled Gavin closer to the crew he feels that all the more strongly. “That’s good enough for now.” He says, taking 50% as an improvement. “Half the time is more than ‘never’. Gets us closer to an even footing.”
He pulls out into the left lane finally, tired of the slower folks in the right lane. He keeps a safe enough speed but he goes as fast as he can, passing every so often, just out of habit. He hates going slow.
Music on the radio at this time of night sucks, so he turns back to conversation for the sake of generating noise. “I think I’m gonna put spikes on my next motorcycle.”
Knowing what these injuries feel like doesn’t help Gavin to look at them.
These things never get easier to fucking deal with.
Jeremy stares down at Ryan’s corpse in a slight shock, not used to seeing him so bent and broken and red. He thinks maybe part of Ryan’s skull is broken, the shape of his head a little off, but he can’t be sure. He’s not about to reach down and check. He knows Ryan is dead, that’s enough.
And he doesn’t have a car, just his bike- and there are people passing by on the road already on their phones. This is going to be a nightmare to explain to Geoff.
What makes it worse is the fucking idiot that caused it all.
The guy obviously crawled out of his car without much injury and now he’s there staring, whining that it was Ryan’s fault he’s broken on the ground and Jeremy’s gonna have to deal with the bullshit that comes after. His battle Buddy is dead and this guy can’t even take the blame like any person should in this situation. Jeremy pulls his sunglasses off to narrow his eyes, leaning on the handlebars of his own bike. His fingers tighten on the frames of his sunglasses while he stares him down.
“You just fucked up.” Jeremy says, loud enough to be heard over the cars slowly passing in the unaffected lane of traffic. His eyes don’t leave Gavin’s. “Really bad.”
If Gavin had maybe owned up to it, Jeremy could have driven away and let the law handle the driver. If he had a car he might have taken the guy with him for Ryan to deal with later- he knows Ryan would appreciate it. But Jeremy’s on his bike and Gavin would fight. He has to get back to the crew and tell everyone whats happened. This isn’t some heist where they can stuff a corpse in the van and wait for time to do it’s business. They need to make a plan.
Jeremy has to clean up the mess.
Pulling the gun is quick, and practiced, and effortless. Jeremy is a professional, after all. The Fakes are professionals. He’s not Ray, though; he can’t separate himself from this like the sniper could. Jeremy aims downward when emotion takes over. He doesn’t aim for the head. He strikes right for the chest.
He doesn’t kick his bike back into gear until Gavin has stopped moving- while sirens can finally be heard wailing in the distance.
-----
The Los Santos Medical Examiner’s Office is open Monday-Friday, 8:30am to 5pm. It’s a government office; it follows government scheduling. Today is a Saturday and therefore the currently unidentified man in the Vagabond’s clothes they scraped off the Freeway and the unfortunate ‘Gavin Free’ whose Next of Kin has yet to be declared will wait in the coolers until Monday Morning. The halls are empty, security sleeping in the front office. That’s the way things are; the ME doubts that they’ll mind.
Ryan doesn’t- not until he wakes up.
There are a thousand layers of pain involved in coming back from something like this morning; he never realized that until he had died a few times. Guns and knives, they generally make one wound and they’re simple to forget. There are phantom pains for a day or two, the memory of a hole in your head or your belly, and then you move on. An accident, or an explosion, or God-Forbid drowning... That leaves some marks.
Ryan feels like his chest is pressing in on him. His hand comes up immediately to clear plastic away from his face but it only moves an inch and, even in pain with the memory so fresh, Ryan knows where he must have ended up. It’s been decades since he was in a cold, tight space with the dark closing in around him. He nearly panics.
Thank God the first responders decided to leave the zipper on the head end of the bag.
Ryan tugs the zipper down and then sticks his hand out in the darkness to try and find the safety latch on the inside of the door. He knows they’re newer issue but Geoff swears they’re in there, and yeah; he feels a bump and he pushes, fingers scraping against the latch. In the dark, hand shaking, Ryan keeps pushing like it’ll help.
Gavin’s reaching into the cup holder for his drink when a black motorcycle rumbles past him.
A grin spreads across his face, ear to ear, before he even looks up, and he floors it. He can feel the change in speeds stutter through his seat, not needing to see how the lane lines blur closer and closer together, and he thinks this is just about perfect. He needed this reminder to not let his speed lag; he can’t have some bike passing him.
Gavin brings his drink up to his lips, the fingers of his left hand flexing over the steering wheel. He turns his eyes back to the road, and furrows his brow.
That bike’s coming up a lot faster than Gavin th– oh fuck shit fuck–
Tires screech. Gavin’s hands flies over the steering wheel.
At this gear, there’s no friction under Gavin’s tires; the back wheels swing out when he tries to turn, and he barely has enough time to duck his head down before his bumper swipes the bike’s back tire right out from under the chassis.
The bike pivots sideways, the top half of Gavin’s door crumples in, and bike and rider go tumbling over the backseat. The sick sounds of twisting metal and BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP, BA-BUMP make Gavin take sharp breaths in, and not stop until he’s a hundred feet down the highway, staring up through the gap in the steering wheel as slower cars pass him in the lanes not littered with debris.
Blood and glass stain the left lane, Gavin’s car halfway between that one and the next.
He makes a conscious effort to breathe deeply.
His door won’t open, so he slides to the passenger side and gets out there. His legs feel like jelly as he wobbles, following the path of disaster to the wreckage. The front of his shirt is stained with the contents of the bottle he was holding, and he’s not sure how his sunglasses got cracked, but he pushes them up into his hair anyway.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
He tries very hard not to vomit.
The familiar figure on the asphalt doesn’t help keep it down.
[This post has been put under read-more for graphic depictions of Car Accident and Gore, this is a temporary character death]
The motorcycle flips with Ryan still on it so violently that it wrenches his arm out of socket, and Ryan doesn’t even have time to focus on the pain of it. He tips, turned and twisting quickly enough that the car that hit him is a black blur and nothing more- even if he swears he saw something familiar in the millisecond he was upside down.
People lie when they say ‘He died instantly’, there is nothing instant about it.
Ryan hits the car and sees white, pain blossoming a brief second before it turns to numbness- every place he hits. First his right shoulder, shattered, it rips and tears at it’s own ligaments with the force. Then his left hip, bending until it snaps at an angle that would make it impossible to ever feel his leg again. Finally, his ribs from the front, an echoing feeling like his body is a drum. Each is a momentary blip on his radar while the world spins and the motion is accompanied by the deep, hearty THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. of his body hitting the car and the visceral, wet CRUNCH of his own bones.
His ears still work, he can hear his bike hit the road, first. He follows it to the ground and lands on his back. Ryan slides against the asphalt with a sound not unlike running a thick bristle brush against carpeting. Leather rubs to skin, blood and heat mixing at the friction. Glass and Metal and pieces of the road embed into him; brand new body jewelry, no charge.
The numbness, the shock, last only a second. The pain comes next. It does not roll in like a wave nor rush in like water. It is. to put it mildly, like hitting a brick wall.
Or getting hit by a car.
Ryan’s sunglasses are gone, his face paint smudged but recognizable and his jacket still iconic. At least, one sleeve is. His left arm still has white stripes across the blue and black where it lays at his side. His other arm is twisted under him at so unnatural an angle that a rag doll would possibly have trouble replicating it. His left leg is pulled too far down and blood soaks his jeans already, blood soaks plenty of him. In fact, besides the pain, the one other thing Ryan can feel is the slow, creeping loss of heat. It is not cold, only the absence of warmth as he empties. A diet cola can seeping from a fault in the bottom of the aluminum.
He’s dead before Gavin even gets to him, eyes staring up at the sky where it hasn’t quite gone the right blue for full daylight. The blue of his irises hasn’t dulled at all, seems a little brighter against the road rash.
Jeremy pulls up only two seconds behind Gavin, Motorcycle rumbling.
a grumbled complaint falls from gavin’s lips but he just moves his feet and lets it be. no need to make a situation out of it. after all ryan was indulging him, the least he could do is complain minimally.
what starts as a stifled giggle tears into a full blown laugh at ryan’s little bit. they had their moments where they’d argue, gavin had a knack for pissing people off, and sometimes ryan was a bit too uptight but moments like this filled gavin’s heart. for once gavin decides on a seat belt, just for the moment. it might be another story when they’d be making their getaway later. with a holler he sticks his hand out into the crisp air, loving the pressure from the wind.
with the wind pulling at his hair he turned his head, letting his eyes fall on ryan. his mouth opened but he really didn’t have much to say, so he settled for the silence between them. it was comfortable. instead he reached for the volume dial, who needed to talk when there was music anyway. he cranked it and skipped a few channels. something definitively pop, a lot of drums, loud vocals - desperate sounding. he liked it.
everything felt alright. he may have been stuck in los santos but at least it was with people he loved.
There are no arguments from the driver about the choice of music, though Ryan wouldn’t have chosen this particular station or song; Gavin seems to be enjoying himself and it won’t be so long a ride. Ryan doesn’t get the wind in his hair or on his face but he doesn’t mind it so much, the mask is a second skin these days and at this time of day with busy streets he hardly wants eyes on him. Even if Gavin isn’t recognizable on first glance the mask is; people give them their space and Ryan enjoys the reactions more than his own driving. He knows the club, with people stuck in even closer quarters with them, will be even better.
When he has the chance he makes sure to glance at Gavin, to watch his face, to enjoy what he can of this. There’s no reward at the end, no prize for a job well done after their event tonight. More likely they’ll get a shouting-at from Geoff, but Ryan thinks it’ll be worth it.
Considering all that, the club looms closer way sooner than Ryan wants it to.
With the doorway close to the street there’s the faintest beat of bass from within the walls, but Ryan doesn’t bother letting anyone take their car and he doesn’t try to find something open on the street to park in. If there’s going to be fire there will be crowds, if there’s crowds the street will be a wall of people; there’s no getaway if there’s nowhere to go.
He parks them up around another building to the left, and behind. There won’t be time enough to steal the car, in Ryan’s opinion, so he doesn’t bother putting the top back up. He’ll leave it free; their getaway will just be that much sweeter.
Gavin has the common sense, once they get going and start out on the road, to bring his hand, and the gun held in it, back inside the vehicle. He still leans out the window like a dog, though, hair rippling in the building wind and his elbow obscuring the side view mirror.
“And I’m not going to, Ryan,” he yells back through the window, either unable to take a compliment or still, somehow, offended. “That’s the difference between me and him.”
Ryan’s question goes unanswered for a moment or two, long enough that it seems possible Gavin didn’t hear him at all. With the wind blowing across his ears, it wouldn’t be a stretch.
Eventually he shrugs, and it seems more likely he was distracted by the road, or the view, or whatever was going on in his own head.
“Eh,” he says, noncommittal. “They threatened me, so they had to go. It wasn’t that complicated.
“It’s not like you haven’t done similar shit.”
“I was only asking, not judging.”
Ryan lifts both hands off of the wheel to put them in the air, as if defending himself against Gavin’s brusque answer. He only puts them back to avoid drifting into another lane of traffic which is currently occupied. “Like you said, I don’t have room to judge.”
He drives at a comfortable pace- they’re still a bit away from the nearest restaurant of any kind that isn’t just a gas station with pickled eggs in a glass jar on the counter. “It’s just that you told me once you weren’t a Killer, even though that’s more than once now you’ve proved otherwise. I’m just hoping you embrace it, really.” Ryan smiles, taking his eyes off of the road.
Gavin slides into the passenger seat easily. Setting one gun on the dash, he pulls the door closed and rolls the window down so he can dangle an arm out, hanging his head out into the cool night air.
“Noo,” he protests with fake offense, “not as bad as Jeremy. Jeremy would’ve gotten blood everywhere, or mud, or something. The car’s clean because it’s me.”
Gavin seems quite proud, taking the gun off the dash and waving it in offering to Ryan when he climbs in – as convenient as it is to have two guns, aiming both out the window of a little sedan is not.
“So, you’re welcome.”
Climbing into the car is an adventure; a gun waving in his face that he snatches out of habit and a Gavin in the Passenger seat grinning like he’s a puppy who’s just done something spectacular- like chew up a tennis shoe. Ryan huffs out a laugh at the sight and drops the gun into his lap, sticking the keys in the ignition and starting the car up with a low hum.
“Thank you for not being Jeremy entirely.” He says, shaking his head all the same. “You are being much cleaner than usual. You haven’t dropped your things everywhere and anywhere yet.”
Pulling off onto the dirt road to merge back into the street is easy, more than one lifetime driving has everything on autopilot, so Ryan pays more attention to Gavin than to the road.
“So did whoever it was deserve it?” He asks, eventually. Thinking about the amount of blood, how fresh it was, it wasn’t Gavin’s. If he’d died it would have been on more than the jacket, and he would have taken way longer to call for a ride.
Gavin doesn’t waste another moment in that lot, and he doesn’t give a second thought to Ryan’s words. He reverses out fast, adjusts his mirrors as he goes, and slams a sun visor down over the window so the cameras can’t catch him. He imagines Ryan will have to deal with security, but by then, Gavin will be long gone – never to see that mad masked man ever again.
Days later, that sedan turns up buried in the river, rear bumper in the air and driver’s side window still missing.
Gavin goes to another lot for his next car – contends with better security, and puts up with a worse location, but to avoid another ‘chance’ encounter, Gavin would do near anything.
Saturday catches him on the interstate, driving a long black convertible with the top down, the 6 AM sunrise casting a reflection in his sunglasses. By then, he’s discarded Ryan from his mind entirely. The wind rushes past the collar of his button-up, batting rhythmically against his chin as he weaves from lane to lane just to avoid the occasional car.
Every bump of his wheels over the lane lights makes his grin a little wider. It’s a game to him, seeing how close he can get his bumper to the car in front of him before shifting lanes, every corner that almost hits sending a thrill up his spine – because this, this is where he gets his kicks, not in drug deals, mercenary work, brutality and blood, but in the power, control, and speed of an engine and four wheels.
Left lane, right lane, stop lights, yield signs, oncoming traffic – it doesn’t matter. Where horses used to get scared, it doesn’t matter. It’s all up to him.
Gavin passes another car, his pedal eased all the way to the floor, and lets out a whooping laugh into the morning.
“Sorry, love!” he calls, and he’s not sorry at all.
Like it or not, Ryan obsesses over things. With a ‘Murder Break’ still in effect he’s even more likely to be seen combing through the little police files that Kerry drops off looking for a certain sedan he memorized half the tag on. It turns up in the river and Ryan grins, folds the report and keeps it. Jeremy calls him a ‘creep’ all too fondly and Jack sighs, but Ryan knows Geoff has just as much excitement as he does hidden away under the roll of his eyes. They all wanted to hear about how it had been ‘Cocaine Guy’ all over again; another person like them, drawn to a city full of horror and conflict.
It’s hard not to be disappointed when that one clue doesn’t lead anywhere, Everyone else moves on quickly and says that it doesn’t matter, they have forever anyway- but Ryan finds himself disappointed.
Maybe that’s why Jeremy suggests they test out what his newly detailed and serviced motorcycle can do, and why Ryan cannot possibly think of turning him down.
The constant need of the human race to go faster is probably the saving grace of being stuck on Earth living life continuously. Ryan remembers horses and carts and wagons and he loved them, loved the speed of them, but the second cars were around it changed the game. The 1900′s were just a race trying to fit the best motor into the best metal the best way. He remembers the first motor vehicle he drove, the way wind hit his face and everyone recommended goggles. Even now Ryan rides without a helmet, and with only the sunglasses on over his face paint to keep his eyes wide open while he contends with Jeremy on the road.
They bob and weave through the interstate like it’s a game, because it is. Ryan pushes his bike faster and faster and Jeremy tries to catch up- Ryan can hear him laughing every so often when they zip close enough to each other for his voice to lift, breathless, over the howling of wind in their ears. It’s Saturday in the earliest part of the day- the road isn’t empty but it’s ripe with obstacles to cut around, people to impress; it’s a nice way to take his mind off of things. His nose finally doesn’t ache any more, his bruising is gone, he didn’t even feel the need to wear the mask, today.
Ryan zips past Jeremy again with a shout, grabbing at his purple jacket just for fun. It sends Jeremy’s bike into a wobble that he corrects expertly and Ryan laughs at the hand gesture he gets for his trouble. It’s good- this is the part of life that’s good. But it could be better. He guns the engine again and passes one car, two cars, three- taking his speed up again and then slowing it back down. letting his heart thunder and the sound fill his ears. It hides the sound of another vehicle approaching at a speed to match what he started with.
It hadn’t taken long to grab his first aid kit from his bathroom considering it was ALWAYS fuckin’ out and laying around somewhere. Thankfully, Michael had the dignity to at least keep it organised and in the box for reasons such as this. Stepping out of the door to glance over and find that Ryan had LISTENED to his directions. No argument, no smartass comment. He just listened.
A surprised, yet PLEASED noise accompanying his shrug as he made his way over. Glancing around his apartment when Ryan pointed out that he OBVIOUSLY wasn’t a fuckin’ animal. “Thats because I give a shit unlike him.” A chuckle, dropping the box on the table next to him as he began rummaging through the supplies. “Do you seriously think I look like a plant guy ?” Turning to Ryan, grin at the ready to then quickly shoot him an unimpressed raised eyebrow to emphasise his point.
“Listen, I’m bettin’ you’re not telling Geoff what happened – but you do know he’ll find out when he sees the MASSIVE hole where the station used to be so… good fucking luck with that.” An attempt at a warning as he looked him over, focusing on where he had assumed most blood was coming from only to find mostly DRIED blood. “ – Are you even injured or did you just CAKE yourself in everyones blood ?”
"Anyone can be a plant guy.” Ryan quips back, having heard the same said to him as some point. He has one house plant, it’s fake. Easier not to have to bother watering it; less likely for the stray animals he picks up occasionally to destroy it while he has them in his care. Michael seems very much like a plant guy- a well put together apartment, organized, an attempt at normalcy. Plant Guy for sure, with the lack of pets. “I don’t know your deepest darkest secrets. Maybe I’d cut you open and find succulents.”
With the odd, morbid turn of thought Ryan shifts, uncomfortable in the slightest amount at the idea of Geoff realizing the chaos he’d caused. It had been a bit... impulsive, he’ll admit. He’s not quite sure what came over him, but spraying gasoline on the police headquarters and then lighting it on fire had seemed like a good idea at the time. The grenade launcher that followed was mostly to try and escape the trouble he’d gotten himself into- it had only left a little hole. And a lot of overturned cars.
Ryan sighs and lifts a hand to his face, leaving yet more streaks in the greasepaint. “I will admit it lacked planning.” He says, only to be distracted by Michael’s question. He has to pause a moment and look down at himself, shifting this way and that. He’s sore, shoulders bruised from using the grenade launcher and back aching, knees aching from running, rushing off on his motorcycle. It takes a particular shift in a leftward direction to make Ryan wince and then turn, revealing the charred back of his shirt and the burn there where his accelerant of choice chose him instead of the station it was meant to be burning.
“Just that, I think. Besides the usual scratches and scrapes. And it’s not everyone’s blood. There was one particular officer who got much too up-close and personal. I was shot for time and had to improvise.” He had no idea beating someone to death with a grenade launcher could be so bloody.
fingers slid over the car’s exterior, careful not to leave any finger prints as he admired it. he’d adopted gold but he had to admit how mesmerizing the glistening black looked on a car. it wasn’t like he made a habit out of driving anyways though so he didn’t often have to mull over a car’s color.
the teasing brings a wide smile to his lips and a sharp chuckle, it was all in good fun. he moves towards the passenger’s side, hand settling on the handle. when he’s addressed his head raises and he looks at ryan.
“always,” he confirms, lifting the bottom of his shirt a bit to show off the flash of his pistol. maybe it wasn’t a good idea to carry such a reflective weapon but if ray had made do with a bloody pink arsenal then he’d manage with gold. with that he pulls open the door and hops in, sinking into the seat easily. almost too easily.
Ryan nods at the confirmation the Gavin is armed. He wants desperately to say something about the golden gun but refuses to open that particular can of worms and instead slips into the car himself. He adjusts the kerosene bottles by shoving them to Gavin’s side of the vehicle, letting them clatter around at his feet while Ryan gets the car started up. It has a vibrant, rumbling purr; Ryan does like making sure his get away cars have decent get-away potential.
“This is your captain speaking. Our destination today-” Ryan jokes, as he presses the button overhead in the car for the garage to open up. “Is downtown Los Santos; Eclipse Lounge. Please keep all hands and feet inside the vehicle while the ride is in motion; unless you really wanna enjoy yourself.” He presses another button to send the car’s roof moving backwards, opening up the convertible.
“And remember to buckle up.”
With a rev of the engine and the garage door lifted just barely enough to let them out without taking off their heads or part of the car, Ryan guns it out onto the street with a wicked laugh and takes them out into the Los Santos streets.
gavin’s eyes are WIDE as he watches ryan’s advisors file in, all holding things he’s never seen before and judging by the look on geoff’s face, geoff hadn’t seen them before either. the jester shuffles awkwardly where he stands, wanting nothing more than to stand in a far corner like he normally does and watch from there but he’s also INTRIGUED as to what is going to be presented. he can see the now familiar red tracks running along the objects and he wants to see MORE. he’s well aware this presentation is for geoffrey – not himself – but since seeing the small brooch lighting up on the practice yard, he’s already hooked.
❝ before you start, my fool has something he wishes to present to you, ❞ geoff says calmly, gesturing to say that gavin has his permission to step forward. gavin does just that, moves forward, arms outstretched in front of him to give ryan the book on redstone that he’d found in the library. he doesn’t say a word, just waits until its taken before scuttling back to the seat geoff had pulled up for him. he shuffles a little in his seat, UNCOMFORTABLE with some of the strange looks he’s receiving from the redstone kingdom’s advisors. he SHOULD be used to receiving such looks, that’s all he’s had since day one among humanity, since he left the creepers and the forests behind him BUT they never really get easier. it’s a constant reminder that he stands out like a sore thumb and people aren’t trusting of those that are different.
❝ and pray tell, what is the real reason ? ❞ geoff asks, prompting for the meeting to begin now that the pleasantries were over and done with.
Nerves are running wild among Ryan’s advisers and council members, though they hide it so well it’s easier to see them as aloof and distant. Very few of them were ever born to be noble and they hold their acts of nobility up like shields while in kingdoms far from home; they pretend that they have always been noble, always been high born, but truly they are all actors. All the world is a stage for those who change their fate; for those holding onto redstone designs for their king, all around the table, the spotlight is on them, especially.
Ryan’s turns his head curiously when Geoff declares his fool has something for him, eyes trailing to Gavin and noticing his change of clothing to a more formal event. He’s distracted enough that Gavin is close before Ryan notices the book, hands closing around it while Gavin is already scrambling away back to his chair. The odd looks from his council are mostly in response to the curious look on their king’s face- if anyone in the room considered that The Mad King could be emotional; this is what emotional would look like. Ryan’s fingers trace the carvings in the leather of the book’s cover and he can read the Redstone circuitry in their shape. An older book, one he’s never seen in his own Kingdom’s library. “I thank you, then. It will be put to good use.”
Geoff seems to want to move the meeting along and Ryan has to steady himself, readying himself back to what he intended to do here today. His mind is alight with the new book but he knows he must focus so he sets it down on the table before him, not even wanting to risk handing it off to someone else. He wants to keep it close.
In a manner of presenting, Ryan stands and gestures to the devices his council has before them.
“The real reason sits before you. Redstone has been used in every kingdom for centuries to power minecarts and lamps, but in the past the mechanisms have been slow and somewhat unreliable the farther it is taken from the redstone kingdom. The magic grows weaker with distance, but I have a pruh-proposal.” Nervous, Ryan flubs the word and tries to move past it as quickly as possible. “Mica, if you please?”
The woman beside Ryan hands over a redstone covered key, which glows in Ryan’s touch. Without saying a word Ryan places the key into a hole in his own device and turns it- the mechanism rumbles a moment and then begins to glow, constant in it’s rhythm. “This, is a Redstone Generator. Our newest mix of magic and mechanics. With it, redstone within a certain distance works at three times the normal capacity, allowing the machines we’ve used to be updated, severely, for a higher workload.”
Gavin’s grin comes back with a vengeance. Not batting an eye at the box of snacks, he beelines for his goal: reaches in and takes hold of the grips for both pistols, coming out of the trunk brandishing them proudly, muzzles skyward.
His mouth makes childish shooting noises, each gun lifted in turn. There are some antics he’s definitely not above, and pretending he’s a modern day cowboy is one of them; if he only had the saddle-sore walk down, he might even make a convincing show of it. As it is, he gives up quickly to check the clips, grab an extra box, and then step back from the trunk, letting Ryan close it for him.
“All right, let’s get going,” he says, moving around to the passenger seat. “Or did you want me to drive?”
Ryan was not prepared for the cowboy noises, to be quite honest. They’re so out-of-character for Gavin that he takes a moment, to stare, eyes lingering on the way Gavin hold the guns more confidently than he has ever before in ryan’s presence. He seems... Well, to be quite honest he seems like a totally different person.
Maybe it’s the high of the fight, whatever he pulled tonight that had him covered in blood and demanding more. Ryan, silently and to his own self, decides to watch a little more closely from now on. With any luck maybe he’ll figure out what has Gavin so riled from one little late night exposure to the dangers of Los Santos.
“I’m coming.” Ryan mutters, pulling himself out of his thoughtful stupor to close the compartment and then the trunk, reaching into his pants for his car keys. “Calm down, get in the passenger seat. You’re worse than Jeremy.”
Even though he can see Ryan’s fingers, see how none of them come close to the trigger, and none of them could pull it, Gavin doesn’t like this at all. He takes careful steps across the asphalt, as if at any moment things could change. He shuffles sideways, not wanting to make a target of himself, and reaches out with his right hand to take the pistol.
His fingers curl tight around it, and he pulls it back toward him, taking several steps back to where he was – and there, he takes a moment to calm.
“Right,” he exhales.
He lifts the gun, trains it on Ryan’s chest for a moment, then continues, bending at the elbow to point it at the sky.
“Cheers.”
Gavin turn his head sharply to the left, and brings his arm down hard. The butt of the pistol slams into the window of the car next to him, shattering glass with a brilliant crescendo, alarm blaring from the moment of impact.
It’s with practice, then, that Gavin reaches in and pops the door, sliding in and getting to work beneath the dash with one hand, while the other props the gun up on the steering wheel, trained through the windshield on Ryan’s center of mass. It’s not hard for him to get the engine running, to blare Ryan with the headlights, without once letting his eyes off of Ryan for long enough to lose aim.
The alarm silences a moment later, and Gavin’s head pops out the window as he starts to reverse.
“Sorry,” he calls, “still not a murderer!”
A shot in the chest hurts- it’s not nearly as instant of a mortal end as one straight to the head. Ryan has memories of gasping for air on hot, dry, cracked ground and dust in his eyes. He remembers momentarily the punch-to-the-gut feeling of being a second too slow to draw and a reflex tells him to run, to fight, anything. He fights it, Ryan is not scared of death; he has told himself, over and over again, that he is not afraid. He will not let himself be afraid- he will meet death with a smile and every time she will send him home again.
Gavin meets Ryan’s unseen, painfully benign smile with a raise of the gun and a cheerful goodbye and Ryan can’t bring himself to be anything but relieved, instead of disappointed.
As much as he wants to approach the car Gavin is hot wiring Ryan stays put on his bike and watches everything go along instead. He sees other movement out of the corner of his eye and shakes his head subtly, watching the shadow drop their arm and shrug, leaning back against another car and staying put, ignoring the situation now that he’s been removed from it. Ryan turns his attention away from Ray and back to Gavin in time for the alarm to end, the man to pop out of the window, and in time to watch Gavin reverse through the line of cars as though it’s a novel escape.
“Don’t worry!” Ryan calls back. “Murder breaks are valid, but they always end sometime!”
