By now, Michael was never quite sure if his boss was fucking with him or he was just literally stupid. Whether it came to doing recon or calling a restaurant for take out (which happened more often than one would think), it seemed Geoff Ramsey was either the biggest troll in Los Santos or he was just a fucking idiot.
Either way, Michael got stuck picking up their newest hire to escort to the bunker. Why Geoff didn’t just hire someone permanently was beyond him, but if the old fucker wanted to waste money hiring out mercs and such, he wouldn’t complain. It saved him from a headache. He still didn’t appreciate having to pick up anyone, but Gavin couldn’t drive, and he knew better than to argue with Jack about picking up some gunman at the pier.
And that’s how he ended up here, leaning against one of the more inconspicuous of his cars at the Del Perro Pier, kicking at the pebbles on the ground as he scanned his surroundings.
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Some mistakes were larger than others. There were household mistakes, for instance -- forgetful mistakes like, ‘I forgot to buy bread,’ or, ‘I forgot to stop at the gas station,’ or, ‘I forgot to turn the stove off.’ These were inconvenient mistakes, but most of them didn’t result in anything like bodily harm, or death.
Then there were mistakes that Ryan Haywood liked to call ‘Professional Mistakes.’ These mistakes were the ones that could get people killed. These were mistakes that he had seen people get killed for. These were deadly mistakes like, ‘I got chased down a dead end road,’ a mistake that gets you shot by the police; or ‘I lost the merchandise,’ a mistake that gets you shot by your employer; or, perhaps worst of all, ‘I let them track me to the safehouse,’ a mistake that makes you want to shoot yourself.
It was this last mistake that Ryan had made. It had only been a few scarce hours ago, and yet already it felt like days.
The last he’d seen of his place, it had been swarming with cops, crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches, cockroaches carrying weapons, stolen goods, personal belongings -- all things that he wasn’t getting back, or at least not any time soon. He’d watched them from the edge of a high hillside road, through the detached scope of a rifle, and cursed.
He didn’t know how they’d done it, and maybe that was the scariest part. Police were rarely competent -- part of what made crime so profitable -- and though he’d spent thirty full minutes, pulled into the back parking lot of a rundown liquor store on the side of the road, he couldn’t find a GPS tracker on his motorcycle, nor on his person.
He stashed the bike anyway. He cleaned his face anyway. He changed his clothes anyway. None of these things were done at the same place, and none of them got rid of the sunken feeling in his stomach, the cold vice in his chest.
He needed to lie low -- let them think he skipped town, maybe, took the bike and just got out; of course, he had too much invested in this city to actually do that. He knew every in and every out, every highway, freeway, byway -- and he knew the criminal underworld, too. All he needed to know was how much the police knew about him.
If there were ever a time to use what he knew -- to play one of his good cards -- then, Ryan thought, now seemed good. After all, all he needed was to buy time.
This was how he ended up in the home -- or at least, a home -- of another hitman, or mercenary, or freelancer, or whatever he was calling himself. In truth, Ryan didn’t know much about the man. He knew that he’d seen him; he knew enough to rack his brain for the address he’d researched months ago, while looking for leverage he ended up not needing. It seemed like a waste of time, then.
But it landed him here -- unmasked, with only a pistol concealed at his back and a knife in his boot, unloading fresh groceries into unfamiliar cupboards, while he waited, waited, and waited for the true occupant of the place to come home.
@operationwaffleo asked: "You make me feel something I've never felt before."
meme | accpeting
head swivels, eyes scanning behind barely open lids as if to limit the light flooding his senses. it doesn’t help. neither does the coffee he held in his hands, but he had to at least try - in the mean time complaining hurts exactly zero people, especially so when it’s in his own head. he attempts to register the face that addresses him. familiar, but not a person he knew. not a person he knows. he attempts a polite tone, but it falls flat on the floor as he speaks.
Ryan had backed himself into a far corner, his clawed hands brandished as weapons; an unnatural blue flame danced between his fingertips, barely contained by their unstable master. He looked very much like a distressed animal in the way his pupils had shrunken down to tiny pin pricks, and there was a distinct growling ebbing from his chest.
“I don’t believe you!” He hissed, bearing his fanged teeth in warning. If this phantom from his past could return so readily to haunt him, then surely the others were on their way. The Red King always was the fastest.
“You’ll lead them straight to me! You all seek to destroy me,” His words had quickly turned to an unsteady roar. Despite being hunched in the corner, he still managed to tower over the man in front of him. “I won’t let you take the throne again! I’ll not see my kingdom laid to ruin by your stupidity again!”
Hey there, your blog mentions contacting you if we wanted to ask about commissions. Your DnD portraits of the sorcerer and the druid are great, and I was wondering how much those generally run for? I don't see any commissions page and your personal blog link links to a down server? So I came to ask what those headshots generally run for.
Thank you for your inquiry, and your patience! I have made a commission page on my blog as well as an actual post. You can find the information here: http://haileyroseart.tumblr.com/commissions
posting this publicly because I have gotten a few inquiries on this! Thank you very much for expressing your interest. I will have a lot more content coming very soon! Also fixed that broken link to my personal blog.
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Ray looked up from where he was leaning over a bowl of cereal, arching an eyebrow with a mouthful. When Jack mentioned the tools, his eyes got just a fraction bigger and he swallowed.
Halfway lifting another bite to his mouth before shrugging his shoulder with a little frown, “Never heard of ‘em.”
Somehow you weren’t entirely convinced by that statement. And the hand that settles on your hip is a lax gesture in comparison to the opposing action of your other arm- palm connects with the surface of the table a little too firmly, weight is shifted from left hip to right and you quirk an imposing brow at the man.
“ Really?- funny. Sounds like you’re covering to me.
You wanna try that answer again? ”
**I was curious as to if you had plans to do edits with other AH (or former AH) and do people like Mica and Lindsay and Ray? The edits are STUNNING honestly.
Hi! I am planning on doing the others within AH, including Lindsay and Mica. I might also end up doing Funhaus and other RT members. That’s a strong maybe, but I'm going to try.
I don’t know for sure if I’ll end up doing an edit for Ray, only because he isn’t part of AH/RT and I know he prefers to keep his distance. I guess the answer is that, as much as I love him, I probably won’t be doing one for him, but we shall see.
Thank you for asking though! I’m glad you are enjoying them! ♥
how many days had it been? definitely more than one. maybe two? three? hell, it could have been a week for all he knew. he hadn’t really been conscious very much as of late. all he knew is that he felt as if he were missing very, very large periods of time in between the times he was conscious. of course, this could all be in his head. he could easily have only been here for a few hours. but with no sunlight, clocks, or anything or anyone to tell him anything really substantial, then he just had to go off his gut.
his gut, however, was completely fucking wrecked. he had been sat in a chair, feet tied tight to both legs, his arms tied behind his back. so, every time he’d be hit, or thrown to the ground to be kicked, there was no way he could protect himself. he’d had knives pressed to his cheek and his neck, and he’d felt the blood dripping down. he’d been pistol whipped. he was pretty sure at one point while he was being questioned, he had actually had one of his weird ass brain malfunctions and seizure until he was out like a light. he’d been drugged via the food they were giving him, to ensure that he wouldn’t die of starvation before he gave them information, but also subduing him for some period of time, so they wouldn’t have to worry about him escaping while they went on their own escapades.
however, at this point, gavin didn’t care about escaping. he just wanted to go home, he wanted to stop crying. he was willing to give up anything at this moment, he wanted to give up all his secrets. he was willing to leave the crew, he was willing to never speak to his family-- his crew family-- ever again, if it meant they would kill him. because he knew there was no way in hell they would let him go after this. because he would just go back and cry to geoff, and geoff would get pissed, and it would be a fucking war. and they didn’t want the hassle. they wanted to win the war before it started.
