Chapter Text
Someone had keyed his car again.
Ray bent down with a sigh, running careful fingers over the deep scratches that marred the paint, spelling out a crude explicative. The noises of traffic and busy streets muffled the scrape of his sneakers as he crunched the gravel beneath him, twisting his body around to scan the sidewalks. They were dirty, covered in slap-dash graffiti and littered with bits of trash that had become entangled in the sharp fencing. Small plants had found the cracks in the concrete and were pushing through to the light, making the area look weedy and unkempt. But other than the two homeless men that frequented the dumpster every morning, Ray couldn’t see any other immediate signs of life.
He stood, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand and inspecting the rest of his car for more vandalism. The emptiness of his street was a blessing, really, because the scratches were clearly done by a junior gang, the members of which were usually armed without the slightest knowledge of how to accurately use a firearm. Ray wasn’t sure what he could’ve done in a confrontation anyway.
He’d let it go, as he always did.
His keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket, and his car door made a hideous creak when he pried it open. He grimaced, but shut it out of his mind. He didn’t have money for payments on a new one. He could barely pay for the gas and upkeep to keep this one running.
His apartment complex looked even more rundown from the outside, and the grime on his windshield didn’t help. One story, winding paths to doorways in various states of decay. He averted his eyes and started his car, shifting into gear with the clear intent of focusing on work, and only work, until he could go home and start again. His mind wandered to the large chunk of cash he had, wrapped in a bag and hidden in the reservoir of his toilet. That was his way out. The small bubble of hope that kept his heart from sinking into his stomach, swallowed by the shit life that he lived. He’d have money to move to the next city, where crime wasn’t running rampant and unchecked. Where police ran the streets, instead of vigilantes with guns trying to make a dent in the gangs that polluted the livelihood around them. Where he could find a decent job, find a decent life.
Thoughts and hopes preoccupied his mind so heavily as he pulled into his usual parking spot that it took him several moments to notice the flashing lights, blinking in time to his heartbeat. Red, blue, red, blue. They reflected off the signs advertising 2 for 1 hot dog specials and discounts on energy drinks for every gallon of gas you bought. He stepped out of his car and felt the glass beneath his feet, heard the sad flap of caution tape next to him. An officer was approaching, his eyes sunken and his uniform disheveled. There were remains of food on his shirt, and his hand was already resting on the pistol at his side.
“Sir? This is a crime scene, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.”
Ray scanned the area in front of him, looking for familiar faces. His boss was huddled on the back of an ambulance, a blanket around his shoulders and his eyes focused on the sad remains of his gas station. Ray followed the gaze, finding the broken windows where glass had shot out as far as ten feet. Beyond that, he could see the wreckage of food and toiletries that covered the floor, broken, smashed, and ground into the linoleum.
“Sir?”
Ray sucked in his breath and found his composure, meeting the officer’s eyes and trying not to act too shocked. In reality, he wasn’t. The only thing running through his mind was how his paycheck was definitely going to be late. And so was his rent.
“Yeah, sorry. I…uh, I work here.”
His voice sounded hoarse. He wasn’t sure if it was from disappointment, a smidgen of fear, or the very good possibility that he hadn’t spoken to another human being since he had left work two days ago. He didn’t get out much, not when every step he took outside was another step closer to being mugged, or worse.
“Well, not anymore you don’t,” the officer replied, and it was so desensitized, so passive, that Ray felt his blood boil from blatant disregard. “That fellow over there, he was here when it happened. I’ll let you through so you can talk to him.”
He gestured carelessly to Ray’s boss, Joseph, still wrapped in a shock blanket. Ray pushed past the overweight officer and lifted the caution tape, ignoring the glass scattered over the asphalt. He faltered, however, when his foot struck something that made an odd tinkling sound, like the windchimes his mother used to have. A bullet casing rolled and bounced over the glass in front of him, chiming and commanding attention. Ray watched it for a moment, his heart rate rising just slightly, before he heard Joseph call to him.
“Ray!” he exclaimed as Ray approached him, placing a heavy hand on Ray’s shoulders. “I’m so happy you were not early, my boy!
"What happened?” Ray asked quietly, looking the old man up and down. “You’re not hurt? There were shots fired?”
The old man broke out in a grim and hopped from the ambulance with surprising agility, a sparkle in his eyes that Ray hadn’t seen before. He leaned in close enough that Ray could smell the stench of his dipping tobacco.
“Fired from me! I got him too, the son of a bitch. He took every dollar, but I got him as he ran away, like little baby!” Joseph cursed, expression tilted with the frantic babbling that comes with shock. His accent was heavier in this state, and Ray had a hard time understanding him fully. “That damn fool had a, how you say? Pump action - a shotgun, yes - on him, and he never even used it! Probably his first job! But I got him, he won't come back here, not to Jo! Not to my store!”
He rammed his fingers into Ray’s chest to emphasize the gunshots: “Pop, pop, pop!”
Ray batted the hand away gently and rubbed the sore spot. “You killed him?”
Joseph’s smile faded slightly, but the wild sparkle in his eyes remained. “No. The arm, my boy. I aim for the heart but I don't shoot much, you know? We should get robbed more often, huh? Get some good practice!”
He laughed, but Ray’s disapproval was plain as he replied softly, “Don’t say that, this is all fucked up, man. Look at the fucking store, Jo. What happens now?”
Joseph turned and examined the store, as if his high was finally fading and he was seeing what Ray saw: unemployment.
“Ah, insurance,” he replied, waving it off, but there was a distinct lack of certainty in his voice, and Ray rubbed his eyes furiously, trying to figure out what to say in the severity of the situation. “The claims, you know, they take time.”
“And me, Jo? What do I do?”
His manager studied him for a moment, sucking on his teeth and making the gray hairs in his beard shimmer in the police lights. “My brother, he has station in Phoenix, I could call. See if he has room for you?”
Ray shook his head, swallowing the frustration that was trying to rise through his throat. “That's a whole state over, there's no way I can afford the move. I can’t leave Los Santos until I have more money.”
Joseph shrugged, his face intentionally neutral. “Unemployment money? The government, they pay you when shit like this happen, right? They send you checks?”
“Jo! That’ll take fucking months, I need to…” Ray paused, catching his breath and running his hands through his hair. “I need something immediately, man. I’m not well off.”
Jo had no reply, which didn’t surprise Ray in the slightest. He felt the sickness rise in his stomach, but pushed it down. Together, they turned to watch the cops in silence as they picked through the building, talking amongst themselves, their badges glittering in the red and blue lights.
///
He drove for a long time, an hour, two, it hardly mattered to him. Finally, when the sun began to bake him in his car, he stopped at a liquor store, his mind occupied by cursing the robber and fantasizing about finding him curled up on the street, bleeding out and begging forgiveness. Ray would return the stolen money, they’d get the station back up, and they could go back to–
Back to life. Waiting to get robbed again. Waiting to hear customers’ stories of the latest murders, the last stick up, the epic shootout with gangs and cops down by the pier.
He had to get out, didn’t he? Why was he still here? What was he waiting for? He had more than enough money to get back to his parents house and start over again, deal with the shame of his failure.
A small group of men were huddled in the back aisles as Ray walked in, the bell chiming a defiant happiness in the dim light of the store. He shot a glance back at them, but they ignored him, clearly focused on doing lines of coke off one of the empty shelves. His battered Converse scuffed quietly on the dirty floor, and he approached the counter with a dignified depression, mind set on becoming so drunk that he might, for a moment, be happy.
He owner handed him two bottles of Jack, totaling his price in broken English, and Ray handed him a wad of bills without any real heart or regret. He was already feeling numb, and the alcohol in his hands remained unopened.
Armed with his brown bag, he drove home, not bothering to lock his door when he parked. When they keyed his car tonight, at least the alarm wouldn’t wake him out of his drunken stupor. He rounded the fence, eyes set on the small alley that would take him to his room, until a dark red spot on the ground caught his eye. He hesitated, then bent down to examine it. It wasn’t unusual to find blood on the ground in his complex, but it wasn’t a comfort, either. It was several drops worth, an injury, maybe a nosebleed. Likely a fight had broken out while he was gone.
Of course, no cops showed up for something as lowly as domestic violence, or a gang fight. Only big things drew their attention now.
He sighed and kept moving, past large green doors that led the way to his own home. Some of them were cracked, and loud bass blared out of them along with the strong scent of bad weed. A young couple was arguing, a man was yelling. A car backfired in the distance, and gunshots were heard several streets down.
It was the soundtrack to his life hear, and Ray hardly noticed anymore.
He stopped outside his own door, his hands fishing in his pockets for his keys. He pulled them out, then promptly dropped them as he set eyes on his doorknob, completely ripped away from the door and hanging by a hinge. The entirety of the knob was streaked in deep red blood that drew his eyes down, where a small puddle of it was already staining the bottom of his shoes.
His first initial instinct was to call the cops, but he entertained the thought for only a few moments. They’d never come. Not here. A four bedroom home up in the hills, sure, they’d be there in two minutes, but here… They might as well hang up on him.
He swallowed, trying to rid his heart from his throat, and pushed open the door. The bag in his hand quaked as he shook, but he couldn’t remember how to operate the correct muscles to put it on the ground. He was on autopilot, finding the weak trail of blood on his floor and following it through the hallway. Each step he took felt weightless, as if he were observing another person move his own body, drift him carefully past the drops of red and down the darkened hall.
His bathroom door was wide open, and Ray could see the shadows of movement against the harsh, yellow light. There was a clang, a curse, and the sound of his medicine cabinet being slammed so hard it bounced back open.
He couldn’t stop walking now. He couldn’t even feel his feet beneath him, the fading carpet may have been air, or needles. He didn’t stop moving until his body blocked the doorway, casting his own shadow against the wall behind him.
The bathroom was a smear of blood; the walls, the floor, the tub. Pills were knocked into the sink, and the floor was a scattering of towels. One end of a bandage dangled sadly across it, stained red in places and soaked in others. The other end was being wrapped around the thick muscle of a right arm, where a large slash was bleeding profusely. Brown eyes shot up to meet Ray’s, and he had only a mere moment to take in a light complexion, curls, and a strong body to match a strong presence, before the man nodded to Ray’s rapidly loosening grip that held the bagged alcohol.
“Hey man. Is that for me?”