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Ryan knew he was changing, knew there was something in him that grew every time he slipped on the mask and became Vagabond. Part of him wanted to be concerned, to pull back and examine the monstrosity the fragmented pieces of his self had become. He should have, before it became too late to step away from the ledge, but that would have meant stopping, to staunch the rush of adrenaline and sheer exhilaration that flooded his veins with each pull of the trigger and slide of his knife across a throat. For the first time in his life, Ryan felt free, even as static-laden orders in his ear threatened to drag him back down.
He couldn't, wouldn't stop. It was far too late for that.
The click of his switchblade echoed in the room, bouncing off immaculate tile floors and marble columns. The hostages huddled in the corners of the lobby flinched, while the lone (living) teller watched him in the midst of shoving stacks of bills into a bag. The latter action was impressive, considering Ryan's partner had a rifle trained on the teller.
“Hurry up,” his partner growled, using the weapon to emphasize his point. He glanced over at Ryan. “Stop that shit. You're making me antsy.”
Ryan paused and turned, twirling his switchblade in his fingers instead of closing it again. The teller swallowed hard but didn't stop her task, even as he pointed the blade in her direction. He gave a lone, quiet chuckle before resuming his pacing.
His partner rolled his eyes but said nothing further. They had an image to maintain, after all.
“All right,” came their boss' voice over the comms. “The getaway is secure, and there's no signs of cops yet. Finish up in there quick. No stupid moves.”
The last instruction was no doubt directed at Ryan, but he didn't give enough shits to acknowledge it. His partner was the one who gave the affirmative, tossing Ryan a pointed look as well as he could wearing a mask.
The teller stopped, holding both hands in the air and backing away from the counter. “That's all we have in the drawers. There's more in the safe, but—”
His partner cut her off by snatching up the bag of money. “This will do nicely. You just stay right there, and we'll get out of your hair.”
He started towards the door, indicating for Ryan to follow. Instead, he lingered, his eyes on the teller. She was a mousy little thing, early to mid-forties and dressed in a sweater meant for someone twice that age, but her gaze was hard and steady. She was the bravest bank teller Ryan had encountered in his time in Vice City, but that wouldn't matter soon.
“Vagabond, let's go!” he heard his partner call from behind him, though the sound was faraway.
The teller lowered her hands, and Ryan exchanged his blade for the pistol that rested next to it on his hip.
“Damn it, Vagabond, we've got to move!” The voice was closer this time, but it made no difference.
Ryan cocked his gun and leveled it at the teller. She didn't break her gaze, bending forward just enough to give away her action. That was all the prompting he needed, and Ryan opened fire.
The world sped up, the hostages screaming while two different voices yelled in his ears. Ryan didn't register any of it, focused on shooting. The teller fell back after two rounds, and then he moved on to the hostages, because, Christ, that shrieking was irritating.
Sirens sounded in the distance, the only sound keen enough to break Ryan out of his trance. His vision cleared, and it took him a moment to realize who was standing at the other end of his barrel.
“You two get the fuck out of there now. The cops are about to be on your asses like shit on velcro.”
His partner's rifle wavered as he answered. “Fuck that. I'd rather be arrested than turn my back on this crazy motherfucker.”
Ryan tilted his head, surprised by his partner's reaction. It had taken him until this moment to question the Vagabond's sanity? How quaint.
“Fine, shoot him if you have to. Just—”
He slid a finger under the edge of his mask and pulled out his earpiece, grinning as his partner's eyes went wide with realization.
“R-Ryan, no—”
The body hit the floor with a dull thud. Ryan stepped over it towards the door, stopping only to grab a stack of cash from the bag before throwing the rest of it in the blood pooling around his once-partner's head.
With the bank's security cameras out of commission, Ryan evaded the cops with ease. He stopped in an alley three blocks out and shucked most of his gear in a trash can. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned against a wall before tossing the lit match in the can. More satisfying than watching the fire catch was seeing his crew's getaway car fly by the alley, followed closely by Vice City's finest.
The sound of a crash and ensuing gunfire was a symphony to his ears. This was not how he had planned his escape route; it was so, so much better.
He pulled out his phone from his pocket and brought up an old contact.
How's Los Santos this time of year?
Waiting through all the regular heist routine proved to be an unexpected torture. Ray went through the motions with as impassive a face as he could, breaking only when Michael or Gavin would drag him into their regular whooping and squawking or when Geoff would direct an order his way. He didn't receive many of those these days; his job was simple—shoot up the opposition from afar and stay out of sight. No one seemed to notice his silence, not that he was the most talkative guy before a heist, except Ryan, who kept side-eyeing him over the course of the morning's preparations. Ray had to will himself not to look back, though he wasn't sure if the action would have contained a challenge or an apology.
Doubt gnawed at him all day, up to the moment when he was on the rooftop across from the bank, stretched out on his stomach, pink sniper rifle at his side. Ray watched Geoff and Michael make their approach, while Jack and Gavin gave updates over the comms every few minutes on the status of their respective projects—securing their getaway and dismantling the bank's security. He remained silent, but so did Ryan.
Vagabond was about as much a conversationalist as Ray during a heist, but he would at least give confirmation of his position and maybe snark about how helpless their victims were. Today he had said nothing since leaving Geoff's apartment. Ryan was a wildcard at best, and his silence and lingering glances could lead to trouble for Ray's carefully laid plans.
“All right, Brown Man, you ready?” came Geoff's voice in Ray's ear, knocking him out of his thoughts.
He was glad for the distraction, allowing him to refocus on the task at hand. “In position.”
Geoff moved on, getting a round of affirmatives from the Crew—even the apparently silent Vagabond—and Ray psyched himself up. This was it.
Michael and Geoff burst through the bank doors, and the comms went nuts with screaming and yelling, Geoff barking out shrill orders in the chaos. Ray pushed the noise into the background, listening instead for the wail of a siren or the squeal of tires on pavement, sure signs as any that they would soon be surrounded by cops.
Gavin piped in over the comms first. “The vault's ready when you lot are.”
“Vagabond, you got that?” Geoff asked.
And, for some reason, that took Ray by surprise. Michael was their demolitions expert—so why was Ryan the one blowing the vault? How had he gotten inside? He should have paid closer attention during the briefing.
“Loud and clear,” Ryan said, and the voice sounded closer than it should have. Maybe that was just Ray's nerves talking. “Charges set.”
There was some shuffling and a couple of muffled screams, and maybe a gunshot or two, before Geoff directed another question Ray's way. “We still good out there, Brown Man?”
It took Ray a moment to reply, to push aside all his rambling fears, if only so he wouldn't sound like a fucking spazz. “No sign of heat yet.”
Jack's voice joined in the fun, backed by extra static. “The LSPD took the slow lane.” She paused, and the background static got louder. “ETA twenty minutes. Looks like Tugg's distraction worked.”
“That's our girl,” Michael and Gavin said almost in unison.
Under normal circumstances, that would've made Ray grin and earned them a half-hearted insult, but today his brain was in too many places at once.
“You nerds can threesome it out later. It's time to move,” Geoff said, tone cutting off any potential protests. “Mogar and I will clear out the vault. Vav, clean everything and log out. Try not to leave a footprint this time. Vagabond, Brown Man, keep an eye out and cover our exit, then get to a safehouse once we've made the getaway. We'll meet up once the heat's off.”
No, we won't, Ray thought before moving to start packing up his things. He left his rifle just in case and waited for the signal from Geoff. Once they were safe, he would grab the motorcycle he'd stashed and get the hell out of Los Santos. Saying goodbye, especially to Michael and Gavin, would've been the nice guy thing to do, but Ray wasn't sure he would keep his resolve if he did. No, this was better for everyone.
That's what he told himself, anyway.
Geoff started talking again, but Ray didn't catch the words, too distracted by the clang of someone climbing the fire escape behind him. He turned around in time to see Ryan hop onto the roof, pistol in hand.
“What the hell are you doing?” Ray asked.
Ryan shrugged and repositioned his gun, though he kept it aimed at the ground, which was more trigger discipline than he'd ever seen Vagabond display. Ray was touched. “I could ask the same of you.”
“Brown Man? What's going on up there?”
Geoff's question made Ray jump; he'd forgotten about the earpiece. Ryan tilted his head, and even with the mask still in place, it wasn't hard to tell what the gesture meant. “Nothing. We're good. You guys are done in the vault, right?”
“Heading out now. See you in a few hours.”
Ray made an affirmative noise before ripping out his earpiece. Ryan opened his free hand, and his own device clattered to the ground.
“You haven't answered my question.”
Metaphorical back to the wall, Ray tried his best to hedge and deflect. It was the only strategy he had, because he couldn't be sure the infamously unstable Vagabond would respond well to his news. “You first.”
Ryan's chuckle, muted by rubber and incoming sirens, struck Ray cold in the gut. If he could have taken a step back without falling off the roof, he would have. “You've been acting squirrelly all week, and it was obvious you didn't give two shits about this heist. Anyone with eyes would have figured you were planning something.”
So much for subtlety. Something was off, though. Ryan's tone wasn't the cruel chill of the Vagabond about to eliminate a target. This was more the Ryan without the mask, and the discrepancy was unsettling. Still, Ray tried to roll with it and keep things in his favor, leverage or no.
“Hey, I gave enough shits to stick around long enough to make sure everyone was safe,” Ray said, fighting to keep his voice even. The idea that he'd have to explain himself to any of the Crew—nevermind Ryan the Psychopath Guy—hadn't occurred to him in any of the dozens of scenarios he'd dreamed up, but he couldn't fold, not now.
Though he put away his pistol, an edge came back into Ryan's voice when he replied, an audible glint of steel and intent that Ray was almost relieved to hear. “And yet, you're still screwing us over. Impressive, that.”
Ray couldn't help the growl that escaped his throat. “What the fuck do you care? More murdering for you, with me gone. So just let me go. I'm the one who has to live with the decision.”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Ryan was stepping towards him. Without thinking, Ray tried to take an accompanying step back, but his heels hit the edge of the roof. His heart hammered in his chest, and any words he could've used to placate Vagabond failed him. Ryan closed the gap between them in another two steps and grabbed Ray by the hoodie, dragging and slamming him into the roof access door.
Ray remembered the rifle in his hand, because, fuck, if this was going to get violent, he wasn't about to be left out of the fun, and pressed the muzzle into Ryan's side. “Let me go,” he said, as threatening as he could.
The plea did little besides make Ryan press Ray harder into the door, using the length of his arm to apply pressure to both of Ray's shoulder blades and upper biceps, trapping him. With his other hand, Ryan disarmed him and sent the pink sniper rifle skittering across the rooftop.
“You really thought you could abandon the Crew this easily?”
This close, Ray was all but forced to look into Ryan's hard, ice blue eyes. He squirmed and tried to get away from that gaze. The gun would have been preferable to that.
Ryan applied more pressure, more centered on his chest this time, and it felt higher, closer to Ray's throat, a physical reminder that his question remained unanswered.
“Yeah, yeah, I did,” Ray said after a moment, voice quiet and shaking despite himself. He let his head thump against the door, ignoring the pain of bone hitting metal, and waited for the blow.
It didn't come. Instead, Ryan sighed, and something in his gaze softened, once Ray felt bold enough to look again. “Goddamn it, Ray.” He let go enough to let Ray breathe properly again, though he was careful to make sure he was still trapped. “Why?”
The temptation to be a sarcastic asshole about answering was strong, but the truce—if it could be called that—was too delicate for Ray's brand of humor. He sighed. “Because I'm tired. I like the work, but it's just one convenience store or mark I don't give a shit about after another. I want to do it on my own terms. Or something.”
When Ray looked back up, Ryan's gaze had shifted to something he didn't recognize. Pity, perhaps, which Ray didn't appreciate any more than the death stare. “So you'd give up the safety of running with a crew for what? Some arbitrary idea of freedom?”
This line of arguing Ray was more prepared to handle, as he'd asked himself that same, doubting question for weeks. He fired back with more venom and heat than he should have, more than he would have if the question hadn't struck such a nerve. “You're one to talk. I heard what went down with your last crew. What was your excuse, asshole? How is this—”
“Different situations,” Ryan said, voice suddenly rough, and Ray clamped his mouth shut. If he wasn't waist-deep in it before, well. “That was a crew that would sell me out in a heartbeat if it meant they got a big score, and they wouldn't give a damn about what might happen to me afterwards.”
The words were out of Ray's mouth before he even realized he'd said them aloud. “And you think Geoff wouldn't?”
In a blink, Ryan shifted, and Ray felt his throat constricting. Logic kicked in a split-second too late to realize that Ryan was using his free hand to choke him. He tried to claw at the offending arm, to get Ryan to release some of the pressure, but he couldn't get his limbs to work. His upper body felt paralyzed, powerless against the Vagabond.
“I don't think you realize just how much this crew does for you. How much Geoff works to make sure you're protected on jobs, and how Michael won't agree to a job if he's not sure that's the case.”
The words should've been reassuring, a comfort, but coming from Ryan, they sounded like a threat. Ray struggled against the hold and tried to protest, which only made Ryan tighten his grip. He started to feel lightheaded, the world around him spinning.
“And guess who gets to make sure that happens? And who gets to be the one to tell them all that you ran away because you're an ungrateful brat?”
Thoughts slipped away from him as quick as the shreds of oxygen he scraped into his lungs. This was ridiculous. Ray had to be hallucinating now. Ryan didn't give a fuck about him. He didn't give a fuck about anyone. So why was he even bothering with this speech, with any of it? If he was going to kill him, Ray wished he would just get it over with. Kill him and tell the Crew it was the cops' fault or some bullshit.
“And make it easy for you?” Ray registered Ryan asking before throwing him to the cement.
Everything spun, the lack of oxygen catching up to him full-force and making a dangerous cocktail with having the wind knocked out of him. Ray rubbed at his throat, eyes on Ryan as he willed breath back into him and wondered how much of his little internal monologue managed to escape his mouth.
The sirens picked up, and Ryan pulled out his pistol. “Go.”
Ray pushed himself up on unsteady legs, sounding like he'd tried to gargle a bag of throwing knives when he spoke. None of this added up, though that could've been the lack of oxygen to his brain. “What? You're just gonna–”
Ryan leveled his gun at Ray, and it wasn't until that Ray caught the shake in his voice, which wouldn't have been notable if it wasn't at complete odds with the stone cold steadiness of his body and movements. “Go, before I change my fucking mind.”
He should have taken that as his Get Out of Jail Free card and hightailed it out of there, but his sense of higher reasoning and brain-to-mouth filter seemed to have abandoned him. “Come with me.”
“What?” Ryan's tone was as incredulous as Ray felt.
Although, with five seconds more of thought, the idea started to make sense. Their skillsets complemented each other, and under normal circumstances they had an easy companionship and a tacit understanding about most things. Eking out a place in a new city would be easier with another person, even if Ryan would probably stab him in the back. He'd still live longer than if he was on his own.
So Ray repeated his offer. “Come with me, asshole, if I'm so much trouble.”
Before Ryan could answer, the sirens were screeching in their ears, and the area was awash in red and blue flashing lights. Ryan tossed Ray his bag and kicked over the rifle. “Get out of here. I'll handle the cops.”
Conflicting desires warred in Ray's heart, but a second later he was bolting down the fire escape. He leapt off a floor early, tucking and rolling to spring back into a run in one smooth motion, his best (and only) parkour move. Looking back for just a moment, he saw Ryan perform a similar action before sprinting towards the cops, pistol in one hand and grenade in the other. Ray swallowed his regret and shoved it into a box with the other pieces of his life he'd fucked up and turned his gaze forward.
Ray didn't stop until Los Santos was far behind him, and the sun was sinking into the coastline horizon. He couldn't, wouldn't stop, no matter how his stiff and sore muscles protested. If he had, Ray knew he would have turned around and ended back up at Geoff's apartment with a joke and a half-assed explanation, like nothing was amiss.
He pulled off to the side of the road, taking off his helmt to get a chestful of California air. Leaning against his motorcycle, Ray watched the orange-gold sky slowly streak and turn shades of purple and blue, stars here and there demanding to be seen amongst the color spectacle. This was the one thing he'd allow himself to miss. He hadn't been to Liberty City since he was a kid, but he did remember the bitter cold winters and muggy summers, a far cry from the easygoing California seasons. At least he wouldn't have to worry about earthquakes or wildfires.
A few cars passed him on the scenic highway, and judging from the license plates, they were just tourists looking for the real freeway. It wasn't until a beat-up old green minivan approached, going slow even for what its shit engine might allow, that Ray went on alert. He reached for his closest gun, ready to grab it and fire right up until the vehicle pulled up behind him, and the driver stepped out, and even then he wasn't sure he should relax.
“I see you handled the cops all right,” Ray said, trying to keep his tone neutral and nonchalant.
Ryan, free of mask and face paint and even his intimidating Vagabond swagger, shrugged. “Don't I always?”
Ray returned the gesture, though it was lost with his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. Part of him wanted to dance around the obvious question hanging in the evening air, but if Ryan was here, Ray didn't know how much time he had. “What are you doing here?” Should I start running?
“You invited me, remember?” A smirk danced at the corner of Ryan's mouth, and Ray tried not to think about how good the smug expression looked on him.
The raised eyebrow, however, he couldn't help. “Shit. Yeah, I guess I did.” When Ryan's face mirrored his, Ray tried to backpedal at the risk of sounding more like a complete fucking moron. “I mean–”
“I can go back. Geoff might actually come for your ass then, but I can.”
“No. No, it's fine.” Ray took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose before daring to look at Ryan again. “I just didn't expect you to do it. You didn't seem too thrilled about it earlier.”
Ryan's smirk softened to a smile, which shouldn't have looked as natural on him as it did. “I was taken aback, but since you gave me the choice, I like this better than the alternatives.”
There were so many implications in his statement, echoing back to part of Ryan's spiel on the roof, a part Ray had successfully ignored until now, but in a breath he tamped them all down. He'd deal with it later. Maybe. “You're fucking insane, you know that?”
“At least I'm not the only one,” Ryan said, and Ray couldn't argue with that. He pulled out a duffel bag from the minivan and slung it over his shoulder before making his way over to the bike. “So, where to?”
Ray offered him a helmet as he straddled the bike himself. “Liberty City. There's a nice opening in the one of the lower burroughs. Might not lead to the top, but.”
“Oh, it will.” Ryan climbed on behind him, wrapping his arms around Ray's waist, and Ray more than felt the chuckle that followed, a deep rumble that warmed Ray down to his bones. “Even if we have to carve out the path ourselves.”
Under his helmet, Ray found himself grinning. This wasn't how he planned his escape route, but he was good at improvising.