Chapter Text
Michael was having a really bad day.
That's putting it lightly of course, because there's no real word to express just how shitty his day has been.
He woke up to a lovely blaring phone call from his sweet, sweet fiancé, who dumped him over the phone after three years of happy engagement.
“Lindsay- slow down- what?”
“I just don't think we're what we used to be, Michael. I'm sorry."
He took a moment to try and wrap his head around it.
“Do you want a proposal? Is that what this is? We can head to Venturas and get married tonight if that’ll stop this.” His voice was broken.
Silence.
“I'm sorry Michael.”
Click.
She hung up.
The phone shattered against the kitchen sink, shards of glass and plastic flying everywhere.
Angry tears fell from his eyes like a flood.
If only I could pay for a damn ring, this wouldn't have happened, he thought.
He couldn't pay for anything anymore.
Then, halfway through the work day, he got a call on his cell from his sobbing mother, telling him that she had late-stage lung cancer and had a little less than 6 months to live, most likely, with chemo and medication. The oncologist had made sure to deliver the news as straightforward and mechanical as possible, as if he had memorized the lines. To be fair, he probably delivered them like once a week, but that didn't mean he needed to be so fucking cold about it and send his mother into hysterics.
“Mich-Michael… If I don't get treatment, I'll… I'll be dead in three months, Michael-”
“Denise, please- it's gonna be okay. I'm gonna get you treatment, and we'll figure a way out of this. If other people can fight it, so can you.”
There was nothing but quiet crying on the other end of the line.
“Okay, Michael. But-” she took a deep, shuddering breath- “but how will we pay for it?”
Michael cursed the sky and ground, heaven and hell, and whoever created this shithole of a planet. He hadn't even thought about that.
“I'll think of something, Ma. I will. I have to go. You'll be fine, okay?”
“Yes, Michael, okay. You know, there's always your fath-”
Click.
He hung up.
Gotta pay for anti-cancer shit now, he thought in despair.
He couldn't pay for anything anymore.
And to top it all off, he arrived at his personal garage later that day to pick up a few things- only to find someone had broken in through the back window and stolen not only his tools, but the large toolbox they were in as well.
“Son of a bitch!” He yelled, slamming his foot into the side of the dolly. It rolled away towards his motorbike, where it knocked into the tires a little too hard.
The window that the robber had broken was letting the cold night air in, and even with Michael’s jacket he could feel goosebumps rising on his arms.
He considered for a moment that even though the asshole took his tools (they were expensive, mind you), his car and motorbike were untouched, along with his work clothes and the few valuables he left there. But still, he needed tools- especially in his line of work- and buying another set was gonna set him back another grand or so.
Living and working in Los Santos meant this kind of shit was going to happen, he knew, but he honestly never thought it would ever happen to him. In retrospect, he should have barred the windows like the realtor had said when she sold him the place.
He slouched against the wall, breathing heavily, before sliding down to sit on the floor and running his hands through his hair, the old light in the ceiling flickering on and off.
I'm gonna have to get money for more tools, he thought gravely.
He couldn't pay for anything anymore.
But wait, there's fucking more. Just as he and his coworker, one Ryan Haywood, closed the garage where he worked for the evening, the two men received news in the form of an email from corporate telling them that their boss had committed suicide, meaning the branch shop was going to be closing down and Ryan and Michael were gonna be out of a job.
“I cannot believe this.”
“Michael, it's okay. We have experience. Any garage in the city and we can work there, any car and we can fix it.” Ryan placed a reassuring hand on Michael’s shoulder.
Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. Ryan had no idea the day he'd had, and no idea the actual severity of the tight spot he was in, but the guy was just trying to help.
“Yeah, that's true.” He looked up. “It's gonna be weird not working with you, though.”
Ryan smiled.
He was a good, wife and two kids, play fetch with a dog, did his taxes, honey-I'm-home kinda guy. Michael could appreciate that. Purity. Untainted by the city.
“I'm sure we'll be fine.” Ryan said, and squeezed Michael’s arm before leaving.
Yeah. All that happened in one fucking day. So now, Michael was out of a girlfriend, out of a job, out of the right tools to do said job, and almost out of his last living family member.
He really was on the brink of having nothing.
And that’s how he ended up here.
Money was tight, as usual, but with his relationship and life, and the life of his mother, on the line, he knew it was officially desperate times. So, while laying in his cot in the apartment section of his six car garage that very night, he decided to do something he'd thought about a few times before, but never had the balls to try.
Street Racing.
It’d been happening for years. His neighborhood, Rancho, was infamous for its tight alleys, sharp turns, and the railroad tracks that ran right through the middle.
Every night, as Michael tossed and turned in his garage, he could hear the revving of an engine and the cheering of a wild, borderline bloodthirsty crowd. The whole of south central was a race track for everyone, from gangbangers to robbers to master criminals just looking for fun. They all raced. For money, most of the time, and sometimes ownership of a car or even for their life.
The railroad tracks often served as the arena for some sort of twisted automobile matador-esque challenge that Michael had heard about. Bangers and crackheads on the street talked about it all the time. From what Michael had gathered, it went something like this:
Two cars press against each other, grill to grill, sideways on the double set of tracks. When prompted, both slam the gas at the same time as the train rounds the corner in the distance. The goal is to apply enough force to keep your enemy’s car on the tracks, but not too much to ensure you don't end up there instead. The trains were automated, not controlled by any driver or anything, meaning the loser of the Duel (that's what it was referred to as, Michael applied the capital D in his mind) was killed instantly by the force of the locomotive, his car being totaled as well.
Michael had no intention of taking part in that kind of bloodsport, so here he was.
It wasn't hard to find the race. He got in his car, after baking up this crazy plan, with all the cash he had, and managed to find some Vagos douches over by the Projects, fucking around with cars and harassing women as they walked by.
He rolled down the window.
“Hey!” He shouted, trying not to be intimidated by the handgun protruding from one of the men’s belts.
They looked over at him, slowly turning away from their cars.
“What you want, gringo?” The one without the gun said.
Michael did his best to look and sound like he knew that the fuck he was doing.
“Where's the race tonight? My baby’s itchin’ for asphalt, y’know?” He tapped the outside of the driver’s door as if he was petting the car.
The Vagos looked him and his car up and down before telling him about a meet up in Davis, first place prize of a couple grand. They mentioned they'd be there in their rides- at which Michael gave a wicked smile and said he hoped to see them there.
The one with a gun cracked a joke about Michael only seeing the back license plate of his car, at which they all laughed. Michael drove away to find the spot, thinking he carried himself pretty well there, and hoping he could keep the bullshit up for another few races or so.
Just enough to pay off all this shit, he thought as he pulled up to the meet.
There were at least seven other cars, all different colors and types. From a green lowrider with a mean-looking Balla at the wheel to a jet black coupe with a shady figure inside behind tinted windows; Michael was beginning to feel a little more confident. The main guy was some asshole with a girl on either arm, sitting on a fancy sports car on the sidewalk. He asked for the entry fee of hundred bucks, which Michael handed over reluctantly (it was like a fifth of all his cash, after all), and Michael brought his car into a designated starting spot. The other cars began to line up around him, and that's when everything began to realize. The adrenaline of high speeds and risky turns thrummed in his veins, pushing against his skin and making him feel pressured- but in a good way. An exciting way. After all, he hadn't done anything like this in years.
He was ready.
In his suped-up Declasse Tampa, a gorgeous matte-black muscle car entitled to him by his uncle on the East Coast, he waited with intensity behind the other cars.
He revved his engine a little, more to get himself pumped up than to show off to the other racers because wow, this is really happening, I'm driving in a street race and it's gonna be fast and dangerous and my life is at stake.
The other racers revved back, though, and he started a beautiful symphony of pistons and tailpipes moving and spluttering, a noise rising loud enough to drown out Heaven itself.
He spared a quick glance at the scribbled map on his dashboard that he'd received after paying the entry fee.
Starting on Davis Avenue, the track sped down and around South Central, into the airport, and above the Port on the bridge, before ending right back here. One lap, winner gets five thousand dollars.
There was a commotion outside, and Michael was pretty sure he could feel the electricity in the tension.
The main race guy stood up on his classy ride and cupped his hands over his mouth.
“Racers! Are you ready?”
I was born ready, asshole.
All the Racers gave a quick honk of confirmation, which Michael mimicked half a beat late. A busty Vagos beauty with hair like a Hot Cheeto stood in front of the line of cars, red flags in each hand.
She raised them.
Oh yeah, just like Jersey.
She brought them down, and the race was on.
________________________________________
To say Michael was exhilarated to cross the finish line would be a staggering understatement- he was happy beyond description. To think that 16 hours ago his world had been turned upside down for the first of four times that day and now he was winning five thousand dollars in a late night street race- he was impossibly happy, and definitely surprised at his luck.
Honestly, he hadn't even really been paying attention to what place he was in. The whole race was spent in a limbo of high speed and burnt rubber, the world around him melting into light and sound as he focused on the road ahead of him. But somehow, despite everything that had happened that day, he crossed the finish line twenty whole seconds before anyone else.
He stopped his car in the middle of the street and shot out, throwing his fists up in the air in victory. He wobbled a bit on his legs- he probably looked stupidly cocky to the other racers as they passed the checkered flag- but he really didn't give a shit.
He won.
I forgot what this felt like.
How good it feels.
He welcomed the sexy woman who'd started the race as she brought over his stacks of cash. He even managed to snag a kiss on the cheek from her as he dumped the cash in his passenger seat, the crowd catcalling and whooping for joy.
They were excited, and for good reason.
A newcomer beat the most notorious racer on the streets, and he didn't even know it yet. Even though a majority of the onlookers lost considerable amounts of cash to wagers, it was excitement and curiosity that fueled them now. They created a winners circle around Michael and his car, taking pictures and videos with smartphones as the redhead smirked and leaned against his ride.
The eighth racer finally crossed the finish line, three minutes after Michael- if that poor guy was racing for someone, like most street racers did, he was gonna get a stern talking to from his boss for losing so badly.
The crowd around Michael cheered until the second place racer exited their car. It was the coupe with the tinted windows, and the driver, who had been completely obscured by dark glass earlier, was now exiting the vehicle.
Michael was in the middle of a conversation with some hot chick from uptown- he was single now, after all- but he stopped himself when he noticed the car and driver.
The crowd seemed to die down as well, already knowing who this guy was.
The second place racer was a little shorter than Michael, with dark messy hair, square glasses, and unkempt stubble. He had a beanie on too, black, like his jacket and jeans. And car. And soul, probably.
He walked up to Michael and squared him up, though he put off no signs of intimidation or hostility.
Michael popped the large collar of his jacket and did the same, crossing his arms and analyzing the guy.
After a moment of tense silence- even the crowd was dead quiet and on edge- the racer held out his hand.
“Ray Narvaez Jr. Glad I get to see the one person who managed beat me.” He said with an odd smile.
Michael slowly shook the other’s hand, and crowd collectively let out a deep exhale.
“Michael Jones. Glad I get to see the asshole who lost to a noob like me.”
Ray snorted.
The crowd must have seen that as some sort of release, a thank god he laughed it's okay to talk again switch or something, because they broke down into chatter and laughter, describing the race with wild gestures.
“Noob? As if. I know a racer when I see one, and you have serious experience. Where the hell did you learn to drive like that?” Ray asked.
Michael looked at Ray, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
He could tell the other man about New Jersey- but he didn't. Shouldn't. No one in this half of the country knew, so why should this guy? Instead, Michael took the opportunity to play innocent and see where that got him.
“I guess I'm a natural? I'm just a mechanic dude, I needed the money and figured I'd give it a shot.” He shrugged at Ray.
Ray narrowed his eyes, calculating, and for a minute Michael thought he was gonna see through his bullshit- but after a second, Ray looked satisfied and nodded.
“Well, you're a fucking amazing natural, then. I was undefeated for six months before tonight.”
Michael rubbed his forehead quickly, unsticking some of his sweaty auburn curls. He couldn't tell if Ray’s words were some kind of elusive threat, or if he was just stating facts.
Either way, this guy was sketchy, and Michael’s gut was leaning towards labeling him as dangerous.
“Well, all good things come to an end, huh?” Michael went with that, playing it safe.
Ray scoffed. “Yeah. So, you don't race for anyone then? Tonight was your first gig?”
“Yeah. Flyin’ solo. Just tryna make a quick buck, y’know?”
Ray nodded.
There was an odd silence.
The crowd had mostly disbanded, and all the other racers were gone in shame- it was just Michael, Ray, and their cars on the dimly lit blacktop of Davis Avenue.
“So… Who do you race for?”
Ray whipped out a lighter and cigarette, lighting up and sitting on the hood of his car before answering.
“Heard of Geoff Ramsey?”
Michael did his best to keep his face from getting any paler than it already was.
Oh, he'd heard of Geoff Ramsey. Who hadn't? The rumor was he was the criminal overlord of Los Santos, with friends in so many places that he was untouchable, invisible, invincible. The police never pursued him. The judges never tried him. Hell, the garbage men picked up his trash for free- you name it, he controlled it in some way or another. The stories say he's ruthless- killed his way to the top after leaving the Army and coming here for work. He quietly rose to power in the riots of ‘94, long before Michael was here, when police attention was less focused on him- and then suddenly he was everywhere. Him and his Fake AH Crew- that's what his gang was called. Michael had heard all this on the sidewalk. Anyone who even dabbled in illegal activity knew Ramsey’s name from here to Liberty City and back.
And standing right in front of him was Ramsey’s best racer.
And Michael’s sorry ass made the mistake of pummeling this fool into the asphalt in one race, his first race.
This was Not Good.
“Y-Yeah, ‘course. Who hasn't?”
Ray just nodded again.
“He's gonna be interested in seeing the person that finally beat him on the streets. He’ll wanna talk.”
Michael gulped, audibly.
That was a threat.
“Well, I hope I don't disappoint when he comes, then.”
“Me too, you're a nice kid. I'd hate to see you gone so young, and with so much potential.”
Ray stomped his cigarette into the ground and got into his car, not bothering to look at Michael again.
He sped off, and suddenly Michael was alone in South Central Los Santos, staring ahead in fear.
Now he's gone and attracted the attention of the most dangerous man in the city, the country probably, and for what? Five grand?
It wasn't worth it.
But the worst part is, I can't stop. I need the cash, he thought.
Geoff Ramsey or not, he had his own well-being along with Lindsay’s heart and his mother’s life to secure. He came to a grimly satisfying conclusion.
I have to keep racing.
It was the only way. Sure, Geoff Ramsey might kill him, and sure, he could easily die behind the wheel as well, but no matter what, he had to keep racing.
He was determined.
If I've made it this far, I can make it past all this.
But there was still the minor feeling of something bad coming from all this loitering in the back of his mind.
As he was driving back to his garage, glancing constantly at the rearview out of involuntary paranoia, there was one fact that continued to be painfully valid.
Michael was having a really bad day.