Chapter Text
“Come the fuck on!”
Ray sighed at the yell, zipping up his well-worn hoodie and lamenting what was supposed to be a quick exit. His plan to vacate the fiery best friend's apartment was receiving the usual amount of backlash—Ray seriously considered revoking his friend card as punishment. Or maybe throwing a remote at Michael's head, whichever worked.
“You’re seriously gonna skip out on movie night again?” Michael scoffed. “It’s late as shit, fuckface. Just stay over.”
“I open the store tomorrow,” Ray shrugged, fidgeting with his black-framed glasses and fighting the yawn that threatened to spill out.
Michael groaned and rolled his eyes at the blatant dismissal, glancing over to Gavin for backup— which was purely in vain as the resident Brit wasn't paying an ounce of attention. Ray stood in the center of the living room, waiting for the auburn-haired man to stop bitching. He wanted to go home and sleep in his own bed, plus the gamer had left a pile of laundry that needed to be finished before the morning.
The nouveau riche apartment was just one of many that Michael and Gavin collectively owned; upscale, beige walls, fully furnished, cold, sleek, white marble countertops— Empty. The flat looked like it came directly out of a GoodHomes magazine, frozen in a state of readiness for tours and bids. Suffice it to say, the apartment was perfect. Ray would never tell them, but he fucking hated it.
The Puerto Rican much preferred the small hovel on the edge of the city where he lived. Sure, his place was a slightly furnished storage closet in comparison, but it was well-lived, warm, and ugly, and it felt like home. This apartment made him feel underdressed and like he should be cleaning dishes or doing other low-class, poor-person jobs. He could physically feel his credit score in this place.
“Quit. We have enough money; you can just borrow from us,” Gavin shrugged lazily, finally joining in after stretching back on the long white couch. He certainly looked comfortable, like a cat that was fat on milk and treats.
“I'm not SugarBabyRay, I don't want your guys’ money.” Ray snorted, ignoring the crawling sensation in his gut. “I'm good doing it the hard way.” Ray was perfectly content trying to fill out his bank account like a normal person—forget that he only had thirteen dollars in his checking account and four grand unpaid on his credit card.
Los Santos's minimum wage wasn't too far over the federal, and GameStop refused to pay him more than a dollar over that, even for being a key holder and such a great employee . Wow, Ray, here's an air cookie as a reward! It's just like a normal cookie but made of fucking air . He wasn't bitter or anything.
Ray tried his best not to care too much about his friends' occupations, but the life of crime gave Ray hives and made him feel just about ready to projectile vomit. Whenever Michael or Gavin spoke about their newest job or even mentioned the words heist and planning in the same sentence, Ray started to sweat, his hands got clammy, his heart rate spiked, and he felt like he would have a literal heart attack.
The certified gamer could already feel a chill going down his spine just from thinking about it. Don’t get him wrong, Ray would never rat the two out; he just couldn't do something like that himself, ya know? The life of crime just wasn't him; he was the kind of person to live a shitty everyday life and probably die of an overdose or a shooting like everyone else. Maybe he’d spice it up and get kidnapped and murdered by a trucker like the 80’s.
“Hey, who said robbing banks isn’t hard? It’s pretty fucking difficult, thank you very much,” Michael said with a wide smirk as he pointed to Ray accusingly. “Ramsey’s got us planning like crazy for this shit.” Gavin silently nodded his agreement, too enraptured in his tablet to bother responding.
“Shut up! Plausible deniability. I don’t wanna hear it!” Ray raised his voice, and if he had the energy, he would've pressed his hands over his ears and lalalalalalalala!
His stomach seized, prompting him to abscond out of the apartment as fast as possible. Ray ignored Michael’s cackling laughter in favor of slamming the heavy door shut, putting a barrier between him and the potential knowledge. His head fell back, thumping against the door as he breathed through the familiar gut-wrenching panic. He glanced around the empty white hallway, trying to find visual stimuli to ground him.
The carpet was mauve with an ugly, orange triangle pattern. The two colors would have been fine on their own, but when paired together, they made the hall look like a children's doctor's office. The walls were so perfectly white and void of signs of life, it looked like a still of a hospital. Occasionally, a random landscape painting, with the auction sticker still on the side of the frame, broke up the monotone color. Large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking downtown Los Santos were at the end of the hallway—and oh, look at that; it's dark outside. Fuck . Ray didn’t have a car or driver's license, so he had the pleasure of walking through the most dangerous city on the West Coast at night.
For a solid minute, Ray contemplated just turning back around, tail tucked between his legs and discarding the little bit of pride he had left—uninviting apartment be damned. He knew Michael and Gavin would easily let him back in for the small payment of a lot of ribbing and teasing. The thought of hiking through Los Lantos past 10 p.m. gave the young adult a deep, sinking contending with the disgust. He could physically feel his adrenal glands pumping fight-or-flight chemicals into his bloodstream.
Ray would’ve done exactly that, retreating to the known safety of his friends, but he was on his last write-up, and he just knew that if he stayed with Michael and Gavin, he’d never get around to work in the morning.
“Fuck this,” Ray mumbled to himself and pushed off of the door and walked down the ugly hallway. “At least their complex has a working elevator,” He complained to himself, jabbing the down button.
His own apartment building’s elevator was always broken, and frankly, when it wasn’t, he didn’t trust it enough not to collapse with him in it. Ray stepped into the sleek metal lift and hit the button for the first floor. Leaning his head against the mirrored wall, Ray steeled himself for the long ride down. Michael’s apartment was on the 13th floor.
The mirror mounted in the elevator always gave Ray the creeps, and that same hideous carpet was on the ground. The building had too-bright fluorescent lights that made his temples throb, and this gaudy elevator was no exception.
Ding!
He had just begun to relax when his head snapped up, seeing floor number 12 flash on the small screen above the buttons. The young adult’s eyebrows pinched in surprise; he’d never seen another tenant of the upper floors before. Ray honestly started to think Michael and Gavin were the only ones with enough money to rent above floor 10.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing an equally surprised man with sunken brown eyes and an impressive mustache. The man wore a trim business suit, clean and freshly pressed. He even smelled expensive, with cologne wafting in after him. Ray automatically moved towards the corner, giving the man plenty of room and hoping the suit stayed far away from his hoodie-clad self. The younger male felt that empty stomach jolt of chemicals flow through his veins for what felt like the fifth time in the last hour.
Ray knew what he looked like. His worn, cheap clothes starkly contrasted with the stupid fancy brass railing he was leaning against. Ray looked like he didn’t belong anywhere near one of these expensive apartment complexes, let alone inside one. The man had a lazy smirk as he regarded Ray with a nonchalance that startled the Puerto Rican.
“Havin’ a good night?” Mustache man articulated casually.
“Huh? Oh, sure.” Ray had to clear his throat, his voice getting stuck as he avoided eye contact.
“Not tryna be a dick or whatever, but you don’t live here, do ya? The owners met everybody who rents above floor 10, and you are definitely not one of them.” The man tilted his head, looking over Ray like he was some shady ganger on the side of Downtown Boulevard.
“Uh, no, no. I have some- uh, friends who live on floor 13. I couldn’t afford a place like this,” Ray laughed nervously, staring at that stupid ugly carpet. He couldn't stand still, shifting his weight from side to side as he chewed on the inside of his cheek.
“Really? And who, exactly, are these friends of yours?” His word choice and casual stature reminded Ray of those early 2000s mob boss movies; he wouldn't be surprised if the guy suddenly started speaking in a thick New York Italian accent and threatening to smash Ray's kneecaps.
Mustache Man stopped leaning against the wall and firmly pressed the emergency stop button. Ray mentally cursed the existence of such buttons, wondering why a highrise like this had one in the first place. I mean, seriously, what point do those buttons serve other than for tormenting scrawny Puerto Ricans living in low-income housing? Maintenance? No, they should need, like, a whole-ass key system for it, not just some button any Joe Schmo fuckface McGee could press!
“I don’t think it matters, does it?” Ray swallowed and pressed on his glasses, hands twitching. “That’s weird, this is weird. Uh, I need to get home. I have work at seven, and I really can’t be late.” His chest felt like it was housing a thousand angry bees or like he chugged a thousand dollars worth of extra strong coffee.
“Yeah, no. See, I own this place, and I’m gonna need you to tell me who the fuck you are.” The man spoke like a true politician, his voice steady and unwavering, paired with expertly dramatic pauses. His words sounded more like a request than a demand, but it was still apparent that there would be consequences if the request were denied— ‘You'll be sleepin’ with tha fishes if ya don’ answah ya hear?’ Ray almost snorted at his own thoughts.
“M-uh, Vincent Jones and David Free, those are my friends who live on the 13th floor, I swear.” Ray’s eyes darted all over the elevator wall as he spoke, occasionally landing on the man interrogating him. Ray’s hands twitched for something to grab onto and defend himself with. He just wanted to magically teleport home already, why hasn't that been invented yet?
“Okay, so if I call those two bags of dicks, they’ll vouch for you?” He asked with raised eyebrows, adjusting his bowtie.
Ray nodded silently, not wanting to navigate the minefield of possibly giving away information on the two criminals. The man pulled out his phone and tapped the screen quickly, glancing between the device and Ray.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Ray,” he said quietly, feeling like he was back in high school and being chastised by his teachers for fucking up again . Leave it to Ray, fucking up everything and not doing a goddamned thing right. Shit, if he got his friends in trouble he’d really have noone.
“Jones! Hey, buddy, you know some squirrely kid named Ray? I caught him in the elevator, leaving your floor. You know how I feel about surprises, and I don’t like the type of surprise that comes in the form of a fucking body, living or dead.” Suit guy nodded along with Michael's words, and Ray itched, desperately wanting to know what was being said. The man smiled at Ray, which did little to settle the younger’s nerves. “Uh-huh. Right, okay. Thanks, buddy.” Mustache man sighed.
Ray fidgeted with his hands, scratching at his wrist. He waited for a verdict from the man who was definitely not getting the money to own this building legally. He looked around nervously again, glancing at the mirror before cringing. The lights were too fucking bright.
“Alright, it’s your lucky day, kid; they know you. Good job not giving me their real names. If I were a Fed, you could have totally gotten them arrested or killed or whatever the fuck the feds are trying to do.” The businessman smiled warmly for the first time, the look failing to disarm Ray of his previous apprehension.
“So, am I good to go?” Ray asked, shoving his hands in his pockets. His wrists were scratched raw and red.
“Sure, sure… Hey, what do you know about those two dickheads, their employment and shit?” He asked casually, sliding his hands in his pants pockets to mimic Ray.
“Uh, I’m pretty sure that’s one of those things I’m not supposed to say. What if you’re a Fed,” Ray countered.
The man snorted and nodded approvingly. “I like you, Ray. You’re spunky. I‘ve got room in the crew if you’re looking for a new job. You already know moron number one and two, and of course, now me; call me Ramsey,” he said, holding out a tattooed hand for Ray to shake.
“No thanks— wait, Geoff Ramsey? As in bank robbery, Ramsey? Like the Fake AH Crew Ramsey?” Ray’s eyes once again went wide as he word vomited in surprise.
“Ah, so they have told you.” Geoff raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms.
“No, well, I mean, yes? Uh, not- not really. I try not to listen, but they aren’t exactly fucking quiet,” Ray admits, scratching the back of his neck and avoiding eye contact. He’s heard far too much about the crew and their newest plans to rob Suntrust.
“You sure you don’t want a job?”
“Definitely sure. I won’t say anything. You can ask Michael and Gavin. I’m trustworthy, but I can’t do that shit, and I really do have work in the morning,” Ray sighed, his shoulders slumping. He just wanted to teleport home, wrap up in his blankets, and forget this conversation.
“‘Course you can! You think any of us just woke up one day and thought, hey lets rob a bank! Nah, we got fucked over, and if you’re friends with those two dickheads, that means you prolly got fucked over too, so why not?”
“I really can’t, I have to go, I have-”
“Work, yeah, yeah. Fine, but if I find out that any of my guys are compromised or my heist gets fucked… I will find you, and you will wish you were—” Geoff’s mob boss threat was conveniently cut off by the sound of Barbie Girl by Aqua.
With a sigh, Geoff whipped out his phone and answered it, hitting the button to restart the elevator as well, “Dickface, I was in the middle of threatening Michael and Gavin’s little civvie friend who knows too much. No, no, you don’t need to do anything, he’s fine, he won’t squeal.” Ramsey looked pointedly at Ray.
“The meetup has changed? Why? No, no, you tell that rat fucking bastard that if he wants to cheat me out of my money, I will get the fucking Vagabond on his stupid flat fucking ass, got it? Thank you. I’ll see you shortly,” Geoff hangs up the phone with a roll of his eyes and a ‘what can ya do.’
The rest of the elevator ride is spent in awkward silence while Ray tries his best to keep his breathing even, and Geoff scrolls on his phone, occasionally laughing at some stupid meme. As anxiety-inducing as it was, the conversation frustrated Ray. Why couldn't they just leave him alone about this shit? He doesn't wanna rob banks. Eventually, the ride comes to an end, and Ray scurries out of the suffocating metal box and walks down the street away from the building, Geoff, and the reminder of his friends’ real occupations.
Four days. Four fucking days. Four blissful, normal, crime-free days. Ray was slumped on the GameStop counter, his fingers deftly flicking and clicking on his Nintendo Switch. The store was empty, as it typically was on a weekday. Ray hadn't seen a single person, let alone a paying customer, since 2:34. It was currently 7:15 and nearing close.
The second the door chimed, Ray whipped his head up, hit the save button, locked his device, and tucked it behind the counter. He was a gamer with damn good reflexes. He also didn't want to listen to a customer complaining that he was sitting around gaming while doing nothing in an empty gaming store. That would just be horrible!
“Welcome to Gamestop. How can I- Gavin?” Ray began his usual boring spiel before recognizing the beat-up man limping toward him. His eyes widened as he took in his English companion's injuries; Ray quickly rushed around the counter. Blood was pouring from Gavin's crooked nose, and his right eye was bruised and swollen. The green-eyed lad had a split lip, and Gods knew what else. “What the fuck happened?” Ray asked as he grabbed Gavin's arm and helped the bloody criminal over to the employee bathroom, where the dingy, out-of-date first aid kit sat under the sink.
“We got a bit banged up this time,” Gavin laughed weakly. Ray fussed over his friend, grabbing a few paper towels from the dispenser and wetting them lightly under the sink. The Puerto Rican's hands were steady as he breathed through his panic. The damp paper towels helped clear Gavin of most of the crusted blood that covered his various injuries, but they didn’t help the panic and pain. Ray did his best to avoid asking any questions. He felt sick and angry as he categorized all of Gavin’s injuries. Ray had never craved weed more in his entire life, but he needed to get a grip, who else was hurt?
“Gavin, where’s—” Before Ray could finish, he heard the door chime again, causing cold dread to flood his body. “Wait here and be quiet.” Ray threw away the soiled paper and steeled himself to calmly walk out of the bathroom. “Welcome to Gamestop. How can I help you today?” Ray plastered on a smile as his fingers twitched for something to protect Gavin with. He wasn’t sure what he expected. LSPD? Feds? Rival gangsters? Maybe another more horrifying option was waiting to take Ray’s friend away from him. Ray wouldn’t let anything happen to the idiot.
A man stood in the middle of the tiny store, dressed in blood-soaked black leather and a skull mask. Ray froze, staring at the man in silence. Ray’s no stranger to fear. He’s used to it by now. He’s intimate with the slow, cold spread of chemicals rushing through his organs into his bloodstream— it’s happened near constantly the past week. He knows the pins and needles, numbness that covers his fingertips as dizziness sets in. He’s comfortable with the wheezing, chest heaving hyperventilation that accompanies it. Ray is familiar with the fuzzy inkiness that coagulates from the edges of his vision. Ray expected the dread to become ice-cold fear in an instant, but that wasn’t the case.
“Uh. We have a sign on the door, no full face coverings allowed,” Ray said as calmly as he could.
The man, The Vagabond, tilted his head slowly and squared his shoulders. Ray thought he saw his eyes widen slightly through the black eyeshadow—or face paint? Black grease face paint. The Vagabond is an infamous hitman and mercenary wanted by the FIB for years now. Ray had watched, one late night, as the Vagabond led a high-speed chase through the city, collecting helicopters like ravenous fans. He had a rocket launcher, and it was kind of awesome. His apartment was close enough to the highway that he’d felt the tremors of explosions.
Ray's conversation with Ramsey days ago suddenly flashed in his head.
“Are you chill with the Fakes?” Ray blurted out, clenching his hands into fists.
The Vagabond simply nodded his head, watching Ray silently.
“Uh, wait here, shit.” Ray walked back to the employee bathroom where Gavin was pouting out his swollen lip and trying to prod it with another paper towel. “Gavin, the Vagabond is here,” Ray said with a rush of breath.
“Vaggy? Oh sweet! That means everyone else prolly made it out, too. Vaggy! Come back ‘ere! Ray’s top, I promise!” Gavin suddenly yelled out with a smile, pulling more blood from his lip.
Ray turned around, only to be right up against the Vagabond's broad chest. The masked mercenary seemed to sigh exasperatedly and shake his head at the crumpled Brit. He held a cell phone to the lad, brushing his arm past Ray. Gavin scrambled up to grab the phone and press it to his ear, nearly slipping and braining himself on the sink.
“Mi’coo?” Ray watched with pinched eyebrows as the tension slowly bled from the Brit. Gavin was happy to see Vagabond, but now he was relaxed and content with the phone. “Yeah, I’m with X-Ray right now and Vaggy. Yeah, it gave ‘im a bit of a fright. No civvies saw me. Well, yeah, no. No, he seems fine. Vaggy isn't disappeared, so I assume he’s tip-top, too. Yeah, Vaggy’ll take me to the penthouse. Alright, Love you, boi.” Gavin sighed and smiled thankfully at the masked killer.
“Everyone else okay?” Ray asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“All good. I got the most hurt, I guess,” Gavin laughed sheepishly and scratched the back of his neck. Ray nodded as relief flooded his body. The civilian felt a hand on his shoulder and realized he’d somehow relaxed with The Vagabond at his back.
“Do you, like, not talk or something?” Ray asked before his brain could catch up. Ray saw the killer’s shoulders shake slightly and his icy blue eyes scrunch. The Vagabond was laughing. Ray couldn’t help but smirk a bit. He actually made a psycho-contract-killer laugh. Heh, cool.
Ray watched the two criminals meander out of his store and pile into a sleek black car worth ten times more than Ray's crumbling apartment in Downtown Los Santos. He promptly decided fuck this and closed the store down early. The other two pulled away presumably towards the penthouse.
Ray felt his body sag against the counter as the stress slowly bled from him.
“Holy shit, that was the Vagabond.”