Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

ch1: get down

The tip of the knife presses into the pad of her fingertip as Ray absentmindedly twirls the small curved blade. It’s a gift from her father, or rather, the one man who ever stepped up to be like one. The birthday gift last year sticks out in her mind. Vinny made a whole big fanfare about how you can’t gift a knife, so he made her pay a single penny for it. A small engraving on the handle reads “for my little one” in overly dramatic cursive script. She stares at her reflection in the polished steel. As fanciful as the knife is, Ray appreciates the practical gift, especially in their line of work. 

A rap on the door frame makes her jump.

“You almost ready, Raychull?” Taco pokes his head in.

“Yeah, I’m ready, Tacoochie.”

Ray slides the knife into its sheath and clips it to her waistband. 

“Need to touch up your makeup or anything, princess?”

“At least I take care of myself, stankass.”

“I smell delicious, I’ll have you know.”

Rolling her eyes, Ray rises off the bed.

“Get out of my room. You’re ruining the vibe.”

“Ain’t no vibe to be ruining,” Taco laughs.

“Whatever.”

He’s not… wrong. Her room is mostly nondescript with millennial gray walls, basic white build-it-yourself furniture, and a single bowl where she tosses her keys and jewelry. The one telltale sign of her residency, a single photo on the wall, stands as a stark contrast to the otherwise disposable bedroom. It’s a habit. Nothing deeper. Years in foster care as a kid teach a girl like her to travel light because nowhere is home. Not even with her family here in Chang Gang.

Taco and Ray make their way down the stairs from the apartments to the main meeting room. A gaggle of their gang members stands in a circle, whispering amongst themselves in front of a pull-down screen. They join the fray. Everyone dressed in black, the room becomes a void of highly armed mercenaries. Ray watches silently with sharp eyes, listening to their mumbled conversations. It’s mostly mumbo jumbo about various gang dramas, and she spaces out. 

Her mind wanders to repeating the process of thermite from her training last week. Attach thermite. Connect wires. Stand clear. Move quick. Vinny convinced her to go to one of Chang Gang’s training sessions out of the city where the FIB’s prying eyes can’t reach. It was a good break from the normal grind of weed selling and dropping off Vinny’s gun orders. Not that she minds the day-to-day. It gives her purpose and proves her worth to the group. The standard room upstairs didn’t come free despite the other grunts’ teasing about Ray being a nepo-member. Vinny’s affection and mentorship never guard her from responsibilities, nor would she want it to. She wants to earn her right to be here like everyone else. What’s the fun in crushing the competition if everything is handed to you?

The large red doors that lead to Mr. K’s office crack open, snapping her out of her daze. “The Dragon” emerges from his den with a glittering gold “CG” chain around his neck–just a minuscule fraction of his hoarded treasure. On either side of the big boss stand Ramee and Vinny, the dragon’s left and right talons. They run the daily operations under the watchful eye of the serpent to prevent any need for fire or brimstone, collecting the proceeds from all of the underlings in the gang. Mr. K’s arrival brings an immediate hush over the crowd. Conversations fall off mid-sentence as he makes his way to the stage, members parting like the Red Sea. All eyes on the trio, they take their places at the front and center. Hushed whispers earn sharp glares from Vinny and Ramee before silence takes hold again. The air in the room falls heavy on her shoulders, anticipation winding like a noose in her chest. 

“Thank you all for being here,” Mr. K begins.

As if it’s an option. Ray crosses her arms.

“We’ve been alerted to a major opportunity to get our hands on some once-in-a-lifetime loot. It could fund our operations for a few months, easing up your quotas and membership tax.”

Mumbles of excitement roll through the room like thunder. Ray stands up straight and tucks a stray wave behind her ear. She meets Vinny’s gaze, and he gives her a curt nod. Oh, fuck. He expects her to be a part of it. He expects her to succeed. 

“The boys and I have handpicked some of you for this mission based on your skills and potential for participation in the main crew.”

Taco nudges her. She gives him a quick smile, but it falls quickly as she chews the inside of her cheek. 

“Do not disappoint me. When Vinny or Ramee call your name, please step forward.”

Ray swallows thickly. 

“You got this,” Taco whispers and moves to the front.

He’s already part of the main crew, so he moves with confidence before Ramee calls his name.

“The following will be joining Vinny and me on this job. Taco, I see your raggedy ass already decided you’re joining us.”

“Am I not,” Taco teases back, “You know you can’t do this shit without me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ramee rolls his eyes.

Fidgeting with the snap of her knife’s sheath, Ray’s heart thuds against her chest. She looks around the room at her supposed family, who feel more like competition in that moment. There’s plenty of other options. No reason they should pick me. Ray tries to take a steadying breath. She hiccups instead, a hot blush coloring her cheeks. It’s a habit she’s had since childhood whenever she gets stressed or excited. She can’t help it. As a kid, people found it endearing, but as an adult, it makes her seem… silly. A group nearby giggles. Her heart pangs with an ancient anger, a fire that’s been hungry embers since she can remember. 

Ray’s eyes shoot silver daggers at the men, and they shut up. Despite Vinny’s influence, she’s more than earned her reputation in the gang. Her knife cuts deep, even for shallow digs, and the boys know not to push her too far. She doesn’t like to be made a fool of. Laughter at her expense stops short; if she’s not in on the joke, her blade makes sure to carve a warning. Crazy Ray Mond; that’s me. She flashes the boys a venomous smile before Vinny and Ramee continue selecting their crew.

“Next up, Zolo. Congrats, brother.”

Zolo joins Taco at the front of the group, popping his collar and smirking with his usual debonair smile. He’s one of the most desired bachelors in all of Chang Gang. The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, Zolo works his ass off to stand out among the other grunts. He’s a great driver, an okay hacker, and he knows how to charm the cops. Ray rolls her eyes. She’s not so easy to persuade. A lot of men in the city try to… get …her. She’s a prize–an accomplishment–that they want to file away on their shelf. Zolo’s no different. His over-the-top flirting makes her nauseous, but he’s useful. Playing along helps her hit her quota faster as he helps her out. All it costs is some dignity. If all it takes is some sweet words and batted eyelashes to get her way, she might as well use them.

Vinny clears his throat as Zolo shoots her a wink.

“Novah, please step forward.”

The chestnut-haired beauty moves to the front of the pack with the rest of the boys. Novah Walker, Ray’s adoptive sibling, sports shoulder-length pigtail braids and a backwards ballcap. People like to tease the two girls about their similarities despite the lack of blood relation all the time, and it’s easy to compare them. Both girls joined the game under the watchful eye of a long-dead mentor whom the gang no longer speaks of. They share a similar tomboy style, braids, and diehard attitude toward their chosen family. Novah and Ray often grind long hours past the bedtime of most members, preferring to work in the quiet of the early hours without the interruption of whistles and snide remarks. They even share the same birthday. It’s no wonder Vinny chose her. Maybe I read him wrong. Maybe he’s disappointed? Did I not work hard enough this month? Ray’s eyes start to sting with tears, but she fights them back. No sign of weakness.

Picking at her fingernail beds, Ray shifts her weight lightly side to side. It’s an unintentional rocking motion that she developed as a child, one that will probably never stop being useful to quiet the anxious voice inside her head. 

“And last, but never least, Ray Mond.”

Her breath catches in her throat as the heat of what feels like a thousand eyes bore through her. Ray holds her head high as she walks coolly to the front despite the excited screaming inside her head. This is my chance. Novah reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze. Neither girl prefers physical affection, but both simultaneously know the pressure mounting on their shoulders. I cannot fuck this up. Failure means getting set back in her path to full acceptance into the gang as more than just a foot soldier. Failure means one more reason for Mr. K to push her further away, like after her mentor’s death. Failure means another opportunity to lose this family she’s worked so hard to earn. 

“Thank you all for your attendance. Please get back to your regular duties, and I look forward to the success of this mission. The chosen few, please prepare yourselves and then meet in the briefing room,” Mr. K swings his arm wide in dismissal.

Everyone moseys out of the main hall, erupting into raucous conversation about the picks. With a hastened step, Ray scales the steps back up to her apartment two at a time. She’ll need to be one of the first in the briefing room to make a good impression. The minute her door closes behind her, she strips down to her typical black bralette with an intricate lace band and matching underwear. She rips the drawers of her dresser open, digging messily through the clothing shoved into every crevice. While she seems clean and orderly on the outside, underneath lurks a tornado, like the thoughts whirling in her head. It takes everything within her to hold back the storm. So long as everything appears okay to everyone else, the threat of unraveling remains under control. 

Where the fuck is it? Rummaging through the mostly earth-toned and black clothing, she sighs in relief as she pulls out a pair of wrinkled black cargo pants with light gray lightning strikes that dance down her legs. She shakes them out a couple of times before slipping them on and securing them with a plain black military-style belt. The baggy pants not only offer a ton of pockets, but they also accentuate her thin frame perfectly. She throws on a tight black tank top that ends just above her waistband, some black socks, and onyx-shined leather combat boots. The outfit is non-descript enough to blend into the night, but still her enough to make the risk of being caught within reach. Ray re-braids her hair before taking one last look in the mirror. Good enough. 

Grabbing her black and gold bandana off the hook by her door, she hustles out to meet the rest of the crew. Ray stuffs the mask in a large pocket, sauntering down the hallway excitedly. Show time. Taking a deep breath, she yanks open the heavy metal door to the briefing room just above K’s office. The boys all stand in a circle, whispering to each other as Novah sits on the opposite end of the table, flipping her knife in boredom. How the fuck am I the last one?

“Took you long enough, Raychull,” Taco calls out.

“Beauty takes time, right, sweet thing?” Zolo smiles.

“Sorry,” Ray apologizes, looking directly at Vinny.

“Don’t apologize. Just get over here.”

Vinny’s thick Italian accent gets more difficult to understand when he’s stressed ( or angry )...right now, he might be both.

“Ok.”

The crew spaces out around the table, facing Vinny and Ramee at the front. Taco makes room for Ray, nodding to his right before Zolo can slip in beside her. 

“Thanks,” she whispers. 

Flashing an apologetic glance at Novah, Ray sits down quietly between Taco and Ramee. Vinny turns on the projector, illuminating the board behind him with details of the job. A picture of a fortified bank truck takes up the entire right side of the screen.

“This is our target. It’s gonna look like an ol’ bank truck, but inside isn’t just money. The Cleanbois have been contracted to move a very famous ruby worth millions of dollars.”

Ramee whistles in awe. Spit lands with a quiet splatter on the table in front of him, and Ray scrunches her nose in disgust. What does April see in him? Her red-haired bombshell best friend is head over heels in love with the guy despite her reputation as a flirt, and Ray never quite understands the hype. He’s decent looking, sure, but he’s no supermodel that April could wrap around her finger. Ray keeps her mouth shut about it, though. When April’s sky blue eyes light up with laughter when he’s around, Ray admits it's hard to complain. 

“So we’re hitting this truck for a fancy rock?” Taco laughs.

“Not just any fancy rock,” Vinny replies. “Securing this crystal will not only aid the family financially, but it will disrupt the Cleanbois’ reputation.”

“Who gives a fuck about their reputation?” Zolo scoffs, “We’re better anyway.”

“We should,” Ray responds dryly, not looking at him.

“They’ve been locking down a lot of the jobs we should be getting. It’s keeping us from moving forward with Ron Oil Industries and the Changaloa Cartel. They feel like there are better alternatives for cheaper. Gotta show them we’re worth the extra cost.”

Vinny gives her a vague appearance of a smile, nodding his head. The cocky Zolo sits back in his chair and clicks his teeth.

“So what’s everything we gotta do?” Novah props her elbows up on the table.

“I’m assuming the Cleanbois will be escorting the truck?”

“That’s right,” Vinny crosses his arms.

“Our job is to track down the truck, neutralize the guards, disable the tracker, and then use thermite to melt the door’s lock.”

“We on a time crunch for this one?” Taco asks.

“Unfortunately.”

Vinny presses his lips together. Fidgeting with her hands, Ray bites the inside of her lip. He’s under a lot of pressure. Which means I’m under even more. Taco puts his arm protectively around the back of her chair.

“It can’t be that bad, even with dumbasses like Ramee on our crew.”

“Shut up, fatass,” Ramee spits back.

“Ain’t nothing as fat as your ego, dickhead,” Taco laughs.

“This di-”

“Focus,” Vinny grunts, “Both of you shut the fuck up.”

The smiles fall off the boys’ faces. 

“Failing this means repercussions not just for you all, but also for the rest of the gang. This isn’t just some Fleeca.”

The rest of the crew exchange worried looks while Ray’s eyes remain trained on the screen, committing every detail to memory. 

7 PM PST: The truck leaves the treasury at The Vault.

Truck destination: Russian Docks. Will be making multiple stops at banks around the city to distract from the true purpose.

Guards: Cleanbois armed with M4s and heavy armor. Will need to aim for weak spots.

9 PM PST: The truck must arrive at the docks without a tail.

Ray clears her throat. 

“So, what’s the plan?”

Walking through each person’s role, Vinny starts with Novah.

“Novah, you and Zolo will be our drivers. You can use any cars you two want from the garage, but I recommend quick four-seaters.”

“Should probably be something inconspicuous too,” Novah suggests, “It’ll help us blend in until go-time.”

“Good call,” Vinny approves.

Novah’s dark brown eyes light up at the praise. Two years younger than Ray, she’s much more eager to earn Vinny’s affirmation. Both girls work hard for his approval, but Novah seems much more satisfied with her progress than her stern-faced older sister. Vinny often complains that Ray doesn’t smile as much anymore, but she hardly sees the reason to. There’s work to be done. 

“Zolo, on top of your driving duties, you’ll be a main shooter with Taco and Ramee. We’ll all need to participate in the fight. However, I need you three to make sure Ray and I make it to the truck. We’ll be handling the thermite.”

A million thoughts explode in Ray’s head, making her deaf to the outside world for a moment.

Me???

But I just took the class.

I passed the class

I’ve never practiced outside of that though.

What if I fail? This will all go to shit.

Failure.

Not enough.

I could ruin everything.

I’ll be alone again.

Taco digs his elbow into her side.

“Sound good, Ray?”

“I-I’m sorry, what was that?”

“Did you listen to a fucking word I said?” Vinny sighs.

“I…um…I’m doing the thermite?”

Vinny rubs his forehead and lets out a frustrated groan.

“You do understand what’s on the line here?”

“Yes, sir,” Ray answers meekly.

“I expect you to remain focused. Can you do that? Can you pay attention?”

Her throat tightens as heat rushes to her face. She nods shortly.

“You and I are to hang back until the guards are taken out. Then you will attach the thermite bomb to the locking mechanism on the door. After it melts, you and I will be securing the ruby. Any other loot will be secured by the boys. Capeesh?” 

“Capeesh.”

He claps his hands together.

“Good. I expect you all to be prepped with your kits and weapons in an hour.”

“Where are we meeting?” Zolo asks.

“Main garage. Don’t be late.”

Vinny walks stiffly out of the room's back door, which leads up to Mr. K’s office. None of them moves for a few seconds as the tension in the room vibrates around them like a wound rubber band. Ray feels eyes on her as she stares forward, cheeks still red from Vinny’s verbal lashing. It’s her fault, she knows, but doing it in front of everyone felt…pointed. He’s just under a lot of stress. It didn’t mean anything. The first to stand, Ray hustles out of the room. As she passes Novah, a firm grip on her wrist makes her pause for a moment before ripping her arm away.

“Ray…” Novah breathes.

She doesn’t stop again, walking with her head held high back to her room. The air around her fizzles like the warning before a lightning strike as she keeps her gaze straight forward. She slams the door shut. Stomping over to her dresser, Ray presses her palms against the edge of it; she tries to focus on the acute pain searing through her hands with her eyes squeezed shut. She takes a shallow breath and opens her eyes. Looking into the mirror, she stifles a laugh.

I look fucking insane. Her face is a soft shade of pink, a patchy rosy flush that spreads across her cheeks and forehead. Soft waves frame her face in messy curls that refuse to stay nicely in her braids, and she tops off the crazy appearance with a frenzied look in her mercury eyes. Ray giggles quietly at first, a bubbling out of her chest that turns into a raging river. Grabbing a pillow as she falls back onto the bed, she holds it against her face to mute the roaring laughter. The chuckles devolve into insatiable hiccups that wrack her body with spasming shakes. She tries to slow her breathing, but it takes a knock at the door to interrupt the cycle.

“Ray?” Novah’s voice calls.

Hiccup.

“Ray? Do you wanna talk about it?”

Hiccup.

She knocks again.

“C’mon…please let me in.”

“I– hic –I’ll see you in the garage.”

“Okay…”

Hic-

Ray wipes her eyes and returns to the mirror to fix her hair. Tying the mask to her face, she takes one last look at her outfit. I should add gloves. Out of her top drawer, she grabs a pair of leather gloves with an intriguing cutout on the back of the hand and a golden clasp. Perfect. Any hint of her breakdown now resides on the messy bed and in the whispers of the walls. She emerges from her room, once again the CG princess everyone claims her to be. Unflawed. Unblemished.

She marches to the armory room to scoop up a bulletproof vest and some bandages as well as her M4 rifle. It stands out from all the other guns on the wall due to its unique customization. A trophy of sorts, she’s never lost the gun to the cops, so she painted it with clean, deep ruby red lines along the curves of the weapon. The decorations aren’t too noticeable in the dark of night, but they single her out in the light of day. That’s half the fun. What’s the point of committing crimes if there’s no risk of getting caught? Sure, there’s the monetary incentive, but impressing the gang by still not getting arrested despite the hints handed to the cops…that’s so much more satisfying. 

The creak of the metal cage door behind her makes her spin around. 

“Relax! Chill. It’s just me,” Taco raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Well, don’t sneak up on a bitch!”

“What you so jumpy for, Raychull?”

“Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“Because it irritates you.”

“Okay, Tacoochie.”

He laughs.

“You annoying as hell, you know that?”

“Takes one to know one,” she smiles.

“You’re gonna do great,” Taco encourages, facing away from her to prep his gun.

Leaning up against the wall, Ray crosses her arms.

“I know.”

“Do ya?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I’m telling you anyway.”

“Thanks,” her voice softens.

“Now, don’t get all pussy on me.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

They walk in stride to the garage, where Vinny, Novah, and Ramee wait. 

“Where’s Zo?” Ramee asks.

“Didn’t see him.”

“I’m here,” Zolo jogs in.

A smudge of pink lipstick on his jawline gives away why he was almost late. Probably Carmella or Paris, based on the shade. Both girls stand out in the long list of CG sweethearts who use their charms to aid the gang. Ray envies them sometimes. Their glamour, expensive clothing, and perfectly manicured nails scream of a seductive life. She knows better though. 

“Thank you for your urgency,” Vinny snarks. 

“Everyone ready?” Ramee rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, just gotta grab my car’s keys.”

Novah huffs, already playing with her four-door’s keys. She picked out a sensible, but quick, SUV that most cops and gangbangers alike would disregard as a civilian vehicle. The choice doesn’t surprise Ray. Novah prefers to blend into the background–even more than her adoptive sister. On the other hand, Zolo picks out a flashy muscle car with a polished black exterior. Classic. Ray looks over at Vinny, who appears all the more exasperated but too exhausted to argue. 

“Taco and I will be in Novah’s car. Ray, ride with Zolo.”

Goddamnit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get moving, then. We need to canvas the city to get an idea of potential routes. Hop on radio channel 717.7.”

The crew grabs radios from the side wall of the garage before hopping in their respective cars. Beeping in her ear as the radio checks begin makes her turn down the volume.

“Check,” she joins in.

“All good. Let’s roll out.”

“Zo, I want you and Ray closer to the Vault,” Ramee instructs.

“Got it,” Zolo revs the engine.

Tires squeal against the concrete floor as they peel out of the garage and into the streets of Little Seoul. The car growls in excitement as it races through the streets of Los Santos, consuming the distance between the Cubby and the Vault with a ravenous appetite. Zolo glances over at Ray with an equal hunger.

“You ready for this?” he tries to spark conversation.

“Mhm.”

Ray’s flintstone eyes don’t leave the window. The setting sun’s brilliant orange light sparks fire on the glass and metal of the cold skyscrapers looming on either side of the road. It competes with the neon lights of the drinking and movie district as they approach the Vault, but Ray cannot keep her eyes off the sunset. There’s a steady stillness in the approaching darkness that unsettles her–that calls her closer. Zolo snaps her out of her daydream-like trance by cursing under his breath. He swerves wildly around a group of tourists crossing the street.

“Jesus Christ,” Ray complains.

“Not my fault they’re taking up the entire crosswalk,” Zolo snaps.

“They had the light.”

“If you think you can drive better, honey, be my guest.”

Opening her mouth to fire back, the appearance of a dark green and white transport truck interrupts the thought. 

“Zo, look.”

Ray instinctively grabs his arm to get his attention.

“You can cop a feel later, princess.”

“No! Zolo, look. The truck.”

“Are you sure that’s the right truck? We’re early.”

Huffing annoyedly, Ray radios into Vinny, “Vinny, can you read me off the license plate for the transport?”

His voice crackles over the radio in unintelligible static. 

“Fuck,” Ray curses.

“It’s not the truck, Ray.”

“It is. I saw it. Just follow it until Vinny gets closer.”

“We’ll miss the actual truck leaving.”

“Just fucking do it,” Ray barks. 

“Bossy bitch,” Zolo grumbles, barely loud enough for her to hear.

I know what I saw.

Ray leans forward in her seat as he speeds to catch up. 

“Vinny, I need that license plate,” she radios again.

His voice comes through clearer this time, “VXS 17C”.

“I fucking told you,” Ray chastises Zolo.

“Shit.”

“They left early,” Ray radios, “We’re tailing it now.”

“Wait for us,” Ramee warns.

“I might lose them,” Zolo complains. 

“They’ve gotta make fake drops,” Novah reminds him.

“Zolo, back the fuck off. You’re getting too close.”

“Relax,” he bites, “I know what I’m doing.”

“Where are you guys?” Vinny presses.

“We turned left toward Tequi-La-La. Truck seems to be heading to the Fleeca or Bay City Bank.”

“Which one?”

“Um…I-I don’t…”

“Go toward Bay City. We’ll check the Fleeca,” Ramee doesn’t wait for her to figure it out. 

Unbuckling her seatbelt, Ray gets ready for the inevitable fight. She clings to the dashboard, holding herself still as Zolo weaves through the traffic. 

“Try not to kill us,” she snaps.

“Will you shut up? I need to focus.”

“There!” Ray points out the window. 

They just barely catch a glimpse of the truck as it turns left onto Prosperity Street.

“They’re heading to the back of Bay City,” Ray advises.

“Okay,” Vinny affirms, “Stay back. Don’t engage at the bank.”

“They’ll be in an alley, though,” Zolo argues.

“There will be a quick cop response,” Novah points out.

“We can sandwich them,” Zolo retorts.

“I said, stay back.”

Ray gives a warning glare at Zolo, but he’s too locked in to the truck ahead of them. He turns down the street against Vinny’s orders, and Ray ducks down.

“You’re gonna get us spotted.”

“Relax.”

“ZO-!”

Before Ray can even radio in Zolo’s mistake, bullets shatter through the windshield of their car. 

“Help!” Ray screams into her radio as she waits for the first spray of metal to stop.

“Fuck, we’re coming!” Vinny yells.

As the violent rain slows for the Cleanbois to reload, Ray opens the car door and beelines for the nearest building. She takes cover behind the wall of the bank. Another hellfire unleashes on the pair as Zolo ducks behind the car. They fire back during another lull in the shooting, moving in practiced tandem. Ray laughs at the thrill, sending a shot into the shoulder of one of the guards. He grunts in pain as he drops to the ground. Sounded familiar. 

“Ray? Was that you?” Ray calls.

“Fuck, Ray Mond. Who taught you to shoot?”

“Got a lot of mentors up my sleeve,” she replies.

“Who else is here?”

“Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

Ray dips into a nook before another string of bullets fly toward her.

“How close are you guys?” she radios. 

“Almost there. Hang on!”

Ray reveals herself back into the firefight, landing another blow into the gut of another gunman. The heartbeat in her ears drowns out any external noise except for the echoing shots of the semi-automatic weaponry. She moves in closer to the truck just as Vinny and the others arrive. Time seems to stand still as they wipe out the remaining guards. Hours or minutes may have passed as the last guard drops to the pavement. Taco’s gun claims the last victim, and the crew cheers in victory–except for Vinny. 

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” he reminds them.

Novah tosses him a backpack from the backseat of their SUV. From it, he pulls a thermite bomb, which he tosses to Ray. She nearly drops it, but recovers it quickly.

“Fuck,” she laughs. 

Vinny isn’t amused. 

“Let’s move.”

The distant whine of sirens in the distance punctuates his hurried attitude.

“Yep.”

Ray runs to the back of the truck, where she begins the process of aligning and sticking the bomb to the door of the truck. Her hands tremble as she tries to stay precise. As she ignites the magnesium fuse, a brilliant light from the burn cuts through the encroaching darkness. Ray covers her eyes to protect herself from any liquid metal spitting out from the bomb. 

Novah backs the SUV to the truck’s trunk, preparing for their inevitable need to get away quickly. The rest of the boys collect any valuable loot off the guards on the ground, teasing them as they search their pockets. 

“Look who we have here,” Taco exclaims while kicking over one of the collapsed men.

“Fuck off, Taco,” X groans. 

He’s one of the best hackers in the city, but clearly not the best shot. 

“You guys are gonna regret this,” Tony warns from over where he’s propped up next to Ray Romanov.

“Yeah, you guys are real scary, homie,” Zolo teases.

“At least we can count,” Tony grimaces.

The sirens draw closer. The lights from the cops paint the buildings in splashes of revolving blue and red. An unsettling clunk makes her look up from her forearm. 

It shouldn’t be melted through already?

“Ray…” Vinny’s apprehension draws his voice tight.

“Vinny, shouldn’t there be six guards?” Novah asks.

“Ray, get down!”

The next thing Ray knows, she’s flat on her back. Concrete presses unforgivingly into her exposed skin, dust swirling above her head. Footsteps echo around her as a piercing whine vibrates in her ears. Muted gunfire erupts over where she’s lying. She sees the crew rushing and talking around her, but their voices fall deaf to the overwhelming ache in her bones. 

“Wha–” she croaks out.

A cough rattles her ribcage, sending an excruciating pain shooting through her midsection. It’s overwhelming and drowns out all other sensations of the outside world.

Fuck, oh, fuck.

With a shaky hand, Ray reaches to see where the pain is coming from. Hot crimson liquid covers her fingers as she pulls them away from her abdomen.

Oh, I’m so fucked.

Darkness clouds the corners of her vision as another wave of pain sweeps through her. 

“Vinny,” she meekly calls out.

“Get her in the fucking van. Get her in the fucking–ZOLO, leave the loot.”

“I got it, boss. Just get her out of here.”

The world goes black as she’s hoisted in the air and stuffed into the backseat of Novah’s SUV.

“Novah. I need you to focus,” Vinny directs, “You know where to go.”

“Y-ye-yeah. Okay. Okay.”

“Just get us there in one piece.”

Ray’s eyelashes flutter as she groans in agony. The warmth of a hand on her arm gives her something tangible to hang onto consciousness.

“Hang in there, little one,” Vinny whispers.

“I-I’m… fuck …I’m trying.”

“Stay with us.”

As hard as she tries, Ray floats somewhere between for what feels like an eternity. Bits and pieces of the car ride bring her out of the abyss, reminding her of her existence. The brief glow of a streetlight on the highway. A honk of the brutal horn. The excruciating bump in the road. Hushed and anxious talking. The hum of her heartbeat in her ears. In between, though, she’s floating suspended in an expansive darkness that threatens to creep into her soul. Its icy tendrils wind around her limbs, begging her to give up, begging her to give in. 

Cold air blasts her face from the open car window, rescuing her from the void. She drinks in the fresh air, tilting her toward the brief relief. A lullaby of crickets and the soothing crunch of gravel let her know they’re no longer in the city.

Where are they taking me?

The car rumbles to a stop. The air smells almost sweet like flowers, but there’s also the sharp stink of cow dung. She scrunches her nose.

“Help me get her out. The boys are almost here.”

“Shouldn’t we wait to move her?” Novah asks, her voice shaking.

“They better hurry up.”

Ray tries to sit up, but it sends lightning bolts down her spine.

“Ray, stay still. Please stay still,” Vinny coaxes.

Darkness consumes her once more as the growl of another car engine approaches. Mumbled voices surround her as a numbness wraps her body in comfort. The pain becomes a whisper as she drifts above her flesh. 

Unbeknownst to her, the boys ease her out of the car and carry her toward help. She comes to as Vinny bangs on a wooden door.

“Let us in, you fucker. We need help.”

He bangs again, rattling the door on its hinges.

“Let us the fuck in. It’s an emergency.”

He’s yelling now, his voice cracking as he becomes more desperate. Raising his hand to knock another time, Vinny notices the twist of the doorknob. Before the door can even be opened, he’s barging through and waving the boys in. Vision blurry, she’s unable to make out her surroundings except for a yellow glass light with sweet floral designs above her head. There’s yelling to her right, so she turns her head slowly. Ray identifies Vinny from the shine on his bald head…Taco from his stature…and Novah’s backwards hat…but…

Ray squints, begging her eyes to focus. A tall man stands in front of the group, listening as Vinny waves his arms wildly. The man nods and starts walking towards the table where she’s been discarded. Another typhoon of pain washes over her, and she cries out. The sound seems to light a fire under the stranger’s ass as he quickly swipes everything off the table, shouting orders at her family in a nasaly high-pitched voice. She almost wants to laugh at it. It hardly sounds real, but the crew hastens to follow this guy’s orders without question. Darkness tugs in the corners of her eyes again. 

Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay awake.

“Ms. Mond,” the man cups her cheek, shining a light in her eyes.

She can only muster a moan in response.

“This’ll be quick, Ms. Mond. I just need you to trust me.”

Ray nods as her eyelashes flutter, trying to stay open.

“I’m gonna count to ten, then you’re gonna sleep for a little bit. The pain is going to stop. I promise.”

Her fingernails dig into the wood of the table, clinging to the physical realm. A gentle pinch in her arm makes her gasp.

“One.”

She looks frantically for Vinny.

“Two.”

“Everything’s gonna be okay, little one.”

“Three.”

Heat begins down at her toes, tickling up her legs. The stranger’s voice brings her a strange sense of peace despite its annoying tone.

“Four.”

A delightful dizziness begins to sweep her under in a blanket haze. A soft caress of the man’s hand over her forehead as he pushes some hair out of her face confuses her.

“Five.”

Ray’s eyes fall shut just as her vision clears. Darkness claims her once more, but it’s not cold and uninviting this time. Instead, Ray sinks into it; she allows it to envelop her with gentle hands. She’s not alone. She’s not afraid. She’s accepted it. 

Her mind drifts with the tide of warm memories, reliving beautiful dreams of the past. They dance around her, whirling in a waltz-like daze. Among them stands a stagnant stranger. Ray tries to move through them toward him. But every time she gets close, the memory changes. So the hunt begins again. In that darkness, in that dance, she swears to find him. 

The stranger with the kind, brown eyes.

Chapter Text

ch2: stitches

Dusk settles into the hills of Grapeseed, golden light dancing on the long green grasses and hip-height stalks of corn growing in the fields. It’s farm country, and the dimming light accompanies the dinner bells of the farmhouses surrounding his home. Chatterbox wipes his hands on a dirty rag and slams the hood of his car closed. A cool breeze ruffles the branches of the tree out front, easing the heat of the day. He sighs. His breath follows the next billow of air as he closes his eyes, enjoying the sounds of nightlife stirring. Crickets chirp a steady rhythm as birds sing their nightly songs, and bullfrogs interrupt with deep ribbits. Nature’s never really quiet, but the noise out here, rather than in the city, flows with measured practice. It’s been like this forever. 

Chatterbox turns and walks up the steps of the porch. The old wood groans under his weight, complaining with every step of his tired feet.

“Yuck off,” he grumbles under his breath.

He’s been meaning to start repairing the weathered house, but the wild nature of his lifestyle keeps him busy and on call. Never enough time for all the little things when too many big things demand his attention. He raises his arms over his head and stretches before pushing into the darkness of the house. Dim lightbulbs flicker on the walls like dancing candles, bathing the hallways in a soft yellow glow. Chatterbox kicks off his work boots by the front door before padding into the kitchen. He scoffs in annoyance at a pizza box discarded on the table with half-finished beers and half-eaten slices left on paper plates. The boys had visited earlier in the day while he was mending the fence, and they never fail to leave a mess in their wake. Leaving it as a problem for tomorrow, Chatterbox washes his hands in the sink. He scrubs at the oil under his fingernails until the murky black stains fade. Watching the dark water disappear down the drain, for a brief moment, he stares in a memory-locked daze.

A small spider crawling on the side of the stainless steel sink snaps him out of it. Quickly turning the water off, he scoops up the spider with a gentle hand and directs it onto a nearby windowsill. 

“There you go, little guy.”

Chatterbox checks the fridge where leftovers should be waiting for him, but instead, he’s met with an empty container.

“Jesus, yuck,” he groans.

Slamming the fridge door shut, Chatterbox grabs a clean pot out of the cabinet and puts it on the stove. He treks through the house to the basement, where he nearly trips on a box of medical supplies on the landing. Instead of kicking them to the side as usual, he picks up the small box of bandages and gauze and sets it on one of the many metal shelves in the musty space. The concrete flooring chills his feet through his socks and offers some relief to the tired ache of a long day. He stands still for a moment to survey the shelves. 

“Where did I put…”

Half-labelled boxes and totes line the walls with anything he may need in a pinch. When it comes to his job, he knows where everything is. He has to. But when finding anything for daily life, that’s much harder. Those things get filed away in his brain as “unimportant” and tossed to the side. 

“Oh, yeah. Yucking stupid,” Chatterbox scolds himself.

He walks to a corner to his left and digs out a can of tomato soup. Taking the stairs two at a time, he returns to the stove, clicking the gas on. It’s not long before the soup comes to a simmer, Chatterbox watching as the little bubbles come to the surface and rupture in mouth-watering bursts. His growling stomach hurries him along as he ladles his dinner into a bowl. It occurs to him that he forgot to eat lunch again as he makes his way up the stairs to his bedroom. Sometimes he gets so caught up in what he’s doing that everything else falls away, no matter what it is. Up and into his room, he nudges open his balcony doors; cold air tostles the linen curtains in a soothing dance. Chatterbox sits down, watching out his balcony as he eats. 

Soup always soothes his nerves, wrapping him in a warm blanket of comfort. It guards him against the evening air and relieves the tight hunger in his stomach. Hunger marks large parts of his life. It drives him forward, a never-ending carrot on a stick. The threat of an empty stomach led him here. To never be hungry again. 

Chatterbox sets his empty bowl on the ground before lifting himself off the scratched-up wood. He groans as he stands. A muscular ache rears its ugly head in every limb, chastizing him for the laborious day.

“A shower,” he mutters, “I need a shower.”

He shifts his button-down jean shirt off his shoulders, letting it drop into a pile next to his bowl. His white (or what used to be white) undershirt comes next, followed by a pair of ratty jeans that only see the light of day when the Club needs work. Starting the shower to give the water time to heat up, he avoids looking in the shattered mirror as he unhooks the straps of his mask from around his head. Sweat lines the silicone mask with tiny droplets, a result of his time in the sun. The mask slides down into the sink as he steps into the shower, steam drifting around him.

Chatterbox’s shoulders fall, releasing all of the tension as the hot water patters over his skin. He cranes his neck back, letting the water fall over his face like raindrops on a spring day. The water washes away the dirt and grime plaguing his mind and body as he scrubs at his flesh. With each gruff pass of the washrag over his skin, he’s made new again. Or at least something close to it. 

Some things cannot be erased. 

He dries himself off quickly, eyes looking everywhere but the mirror staring at him, before wrapping the towel around his waist. The broken edges of the mirror are sharp and unforgiving, watching him with a judgmental eye. 

With a methodical hand, he cleans his mask and leaves it to dry, hanging it on the post of the bed. Chatterbox puts on a clean pair of boxers and lets his weary bones finally sink onto the tired mattress. He’s slept on the same bed since his childhood, but it feels much smaller now. Instead of swallowing him, the metal frame complains of his weight with every movement. The house settles with creaks and groans of its own, whining against the unforgiving pull of gravity. It’s a familiar tune that gives him comfort on these nights alone. 

Closing his eyes, Chatterbox plays his nightly game of predicting where the next protests in the house will be. From the living room? Or the entry room? He smiles softly to himself with each correct guess until the world fades around him. Darkness, sweet and gentle, settles into his mind with each deepening breath. There’s safety in sleep’s embrace. It offers an escape from the cruelties of reality–the one place where nothing can truly harm him.

A violent knock on the door rips him from his peace and back into cold consciousness. Chatterbox stares up at the ceiling, begging it to be a figment of his imagination. But it comes again. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

It rattles the house and sends his heart a-thudding against his chest. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

He moves quickly around the room, throwing on a pair of clean burgundy slacks, a black turtleneck, and a fresh pair of white gloves. Chatterbox shakes any residual moisture out of his mask before hurriedly securing it to his face. It digs into the bridge of his nose, but there’s no time to fix it. 

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

There’s muffled yelling outside that warns him of the danger daring to breach his front step. Customers. He runs down the stairs and toward the threat, clumsily stuffing his feet into his usual sleek black dress shoes. He unlocks the door and moves to open it.

“What the yuck are you gu–”

Chatterbox jumps back as the crew barges into his home, dragging a limp body by the arms. The air tenses like the house is flinching, drawing back from a risk it doesn’t recognize. The walls hold their breath. He breathes out before starting in on them.

“You yuckbags almost kicked down my door and you expect me to–”

“Shut the fuck up and listen, Chatterbox.”

Vinny. Chatterbox grinds his teeth.

“I’m listening,” he growls.

The rest of the crew knock some of the food on the dining table to the floor. The girl groans as they help her onto the sorry excuse for an operating table. Her arm falls off the side, dropping down as if to reach for the floor. Blood oozes from her midriff. Chatterbox frowns. Her eyes roll around in her head before fluttering closed. She’s relatively quiet despite her injuries, and from the looks of it, she’s barely conscious. Instead of comforting words, the crew all boast heavy weaponry, staring at him expectantly.

Chang Gang. All worthless pieces of gang banger sack of yuck. His usual customers. Inconsiderate and only interested in getting out of there as soon as possible. No respect. No thank you’s. 

“We’ll pay you big money. You have to save her.”

Chatterbox crosses his arms, walking to the side hallway between the kitchen and the living room. The rest of the group follows close behind. They’re huddled together, eyes sharp and hungry for one wrong move. Vinny stands at the head of the pack. 

“You can’t just show up without a call ahead–”

“Please.”

There’s a new edge to Vinny’s voice. Chatterbox reconsiders the yuckbags, analyzing their movements, their expressions. Fear. Their faces are tight with it. The girl on the table must mean something.

“What happened?”

Vinny explains everything, rapid-firing the details of how this…Ms. Mond…fell victim to her crew’s incompetence. Classic. He waves his arms wildly as he does so, a testament to his passion over the incident. 

“So I’m dealing with some yucking shrapnel? That’s it?”

“She’s fucking dying,” Taco bluntly announces.

“If she dies…if you let her die…” Vinny chokes.

Chatterbox nods. 

“Relax, you old Caillou sack a’ yuck. I ain’t ever let someone die unless I wanted them to.”

“You better fucking hope she lives,” a soft voice from the back adds, punctuated with the sharpness of a blade.

He laughs. The typical threats. No doubt they’ll act on them, but Chatterbox doesn’t blink. They won’t need to.

Chatterbox begins to walk back to the kitchen when the girl on the table seizes up and lets out an ear-piercing wail. Her hands curl into desperate claws as she shakes, reaching toward her midsection. His calm stride picks up pace as he swipes any remaining food and bottles to the table.  

“Well, don’t just stand there, you worthless yucks,” he barks. 

The crew springs into action, throwing anything around her in the trash.

“Put some water on to boil, Taco. Vinny, run downstairs and grab as many packs of gauze as possible. Novah, I need you to grab my bag from the stairwell upstairs. It should have everything I need in there. Zolo, grab some vodka from the shelf. Uh…”

Chatterbox grabs his phone out of his pocket and turns on the flashlight.

“Ms. Mond?”

Her head lolls to the side as she groans, so he gently rests his hand on the side of her face to hold her still. She’s cold to the touch. Chatterbox frowns as he tries to gauge her awareness, moving his light back and forth. Finally, her eyes open just enough for him to see moonlight shining back at him. He pauses, staring back at her eyes, dull gray like a faraway star. 

“This’ll be quick, Ms. Mond. I just need you to trust me.”

The woman nods faintly, relaxing against his hand. Her eyes rolls back in her head as she whimpers loudly. Her hand once again goes to her bloodied stomach as if trying to remove the cause of her pain. Chatterbox sets his phone on the table before firmly grabbing her wrist. Setting her hand down at her side, Chatterbox checks her over. Her gang crowds around him with all of the supplies, shifting anxiously. 

“My bag. Novah, there should be a small vial in it with fentanyl. I need it. And a new needle, now.”

Novah digs frantically through the bag before producing the required items.

“Here,” she shoves them into Chatterbox’s outstretched hand.

“Ramee, while I do this, try to make yourself useful and grab some clean white rags from the closet.”

The egotistical yuckbag mutters angrily about not being a maid as he stomps out of the kitchen. Chatterbox rolls his eyes while uncapping the needle.

“I’m gonna count to ten, then you’re gonna sleep for a little bit. The pain is going to stop. I promise.”

Ms. Mond’s fingernails grate into the table, clawing at the wood with a ferocity. Chatterbox taps the needle, ensuring there’s no air bubbles before he finds her vein. Looking up at her face, his brows furrow as he sees a flash of fear.

“One.”

The woman starts to try to fight, but the medicine and injury render her already weak. Her hand twitches toward a knife that’s sheathed on her thigh.

“Two.”

“Everything’s going to be okay, little one.”

Vinny sounds worried, not like his usual demanding self. The man walks all over anyone in his way, but the soft inflection in his voice speaks of something different. Something fragile. 

“Three.”

Her muscles fully relax, the fight dissipating from her body. Peace will be hers soon.

“Four.”

Chatterbox goes to check her eyes again. Sweat drenches her face in diamond dewdrops, ebony waves clinging to her forehead like seaweed. He passes his fingers lightly over her face, clearing away the strands that obscure his vision. Like a butterfly’s wings, Ms. Mond’s eyelashes flutter closed.

“Five.”

He breathes out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. It’s not often nerves weave their spindling webs, entrapping his mind in deceiving silk. They whisper with a tender softness, but they squeeze him tighter and tighter until there’s no escape. But that’s not an option when there’s gangbangers with big guns staring him down. Ramee returns, tossing the towels on the table. 

“Here you go, you bossy fuck.”

“Do you want me to help your friend or not?”

“You don’t have an option,” Vinny responds coldly.

Chatterbox scoffs. They don’t have any other option than him, or at least no one as good. A trip to the hospital brings questions and prying eyes, but out here in the country, folks mind their business. 

“After I wash my hands, I need everyone to stay quiet. Do what I say. Don’t yuckin’ argue. She’s already lost a lot of blood, and she doesn’t need to lose more. I need to move fast and with no yuckin’ interr-puptions. Got it?”

They nod silently. He takes his white gloves off, already stained crimson with her lifeblood. It’s good that he has one of the best stain removers in the state. Chatterbox washes his hands thoroughly in the sink, and Novah brings him a clean pair of blue gloves, which he applies with ease. 

As soon as the right glove snaps to his wrist, the world disappears around him. Chatterbox moves with methodical precision to clean the tender area around her wounds. He flinches at the sight of various sizes of metal fragments sticking out of her abdomen, blood oozing up with each gentle swipe of the towel. Dipping his scalpel in the boiling water, he counts to 30 before removing it and dousing the metal in vodka. 

“Got a light?”

He holds out the scalpel to Vinny, who lights the alcohol on fire. It burns off quickly, and Chatterbox wastes no time getting to work. With a steady hand, he makes small incisions around the shrapnel, clearing the way to pull out the fragments with new tweezers that Taco ripped out of the package with a small wagging dog in the corner for him. Each new crumpled piece of metal tears at her soft pink flesh, but she doesn’t react. No, Ms. Mond sleeps in the clutches of darkness, a taloned claw that will cut her should she wake too soon. 

The minutes pass slowly, the distant chirping of the crickets outside keeping time. Finally, he pulls the last of the smaller projectiles from their resting place. It rings with a metallic ting as it bounces against the rest. 

“None of these are too deep. She got lucky.”

“If she’s so lucky, why was she going blue in the face?”

“Blood loss,” Chatterbox answers flatly, “Got nothing to do with luck.”

He unhooks his belt from around his waist, folding it in half.

“I need to caup-erize some of these wounds. It’s going to yucking hurt and likely she’ll wake up swinging. I need you miserable yucks to hold her down while I do this, just in case.”

Chang Gang exchanges unsure glances, but does as they’re told, stationing themselves at her hands and feet. Chatterbox gently massages her jaw open, placing his belt between her teeth. Digging a probe-shaped piece of metal out of his bag, he clicks the gas stove on. Holding the metal over the open flame, he waits until the top glows red.

“Is everybody ready?”

He doesn’t wait for a response before applying the screaming hot metal to her skin. She jolts awake, her cry muffled by the belt clamped between her teeth. The exposed reddish pink flesh turns white as her knuckles, squeezed tight into fists. 

“One more time, Ms. Mond.”

The lightning in her eyes doesn’t get by him as he reheats the metal probe. Her chest rises and falls with labored breaths while her crew attempts to calm her, but Chatterbox knows you cannot contain a hurricane.

“This is going to yucking hurt, but I gotta do it, Ms. Mond. Are you ready?”

She glares at him, silver eyes sharp like a carved dagger. The girl adjusts herself, giving in to the inevitability of the pain with tensed muscles and gritted teeth. She gives him a curt nod. Once again, he presses the hot metal to her skin, and Vinny scrunches his nose at the smell of burning flesh. Chatterbox doesn’t react. She screams again, but doesn’t fight. Instead, her eyes remain trained on his face with unrelenting focus as her body shakes. Avoiding her gaze, Chatterbox tosses the probe into the boiling water. 

“Well done, Ms. Mond. Hand her the vodka.”

The gangbangers release her from the temporary restraints, warm hands kinder than his past. Zolo shoves the vodka toward her, which she quickly takes a swig of. Raising his eyebrow in approval, Chatterbox fights a smile as she wipes some dribble from her chin. 

“Fuck you,” she slurs hoarsely.

“You’re welcome,” he laughs.

A fighter, the girl tries to sit up, but falls back onto the table again. 

“Whoa,” the smile falls from his face, closing the gap between them quickly. 

“Don’t get up. There’s still fentanyl in your system, and I’m not quite done.”

“Great.”

Her voice drips with sarcasm and exhaustion.

“A couple of stitches, and then I can let you go.”

Chatterbox smooths her hair back as he looks down at her. Blinking with a renewed haze in her eyes, she sighs with resignation.

“Okay.”

He pats her arm awkwardly.

“Now hold yucking still.”

They both jump when the bright tone of a phone ringing cuts through the night air. Chatterbox sighs in annoyance.

“Fuck,” Vinny curses, “I gotta–”

He gestures apologetically at the girl.

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

The older man nods and answers the phone hurriedly. He leaves the room to pace in the entry parlor, footsteps trodding an anxious beat on the whining wood. The rest of the group moves to follow, leaving only him and the patient in the kitchen. Drumming her fingers on the table, she hums a song he doesn’t recognize to herself. Chatterbox removes his gloves before starting to stitch her wounds closed. It lowers the risk of her skin slipping this way, despite not being as sterile. She hisses in as the needle pierces her skin.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry too,” she whispers.

“For what?”

Chatterbox looks up from his work for a moment.

“Making a really big mess in your house.”

He snorts in amusement.

“All part of the job.”

Her tan skin regains some color as he threads the needle carefully, tying off knots that won’t give way. 

“You do this a lot?”

The girl tilts her head to better see him, staring intently. Chatterbox clears his throat, the heat of her attention bearing down on him like a spotlight. Most clients don’t pay him any mind. He’s there to work. Nothing more.

“Enough.”

“Mmm,” she hums in understanding.

“These stitches should hold so long as you don’t yuck with them or do anything too crazy.”

“Exploding bank trucks are off the table, then?”

Her smile sends a radiant heat through his chest like when standing in the summer sun. It tingles on his skin, lingering like a thousand prickling kisses.

“Against the doctor’s orders,” he cracks.

She giggles before whimpering, instinctively reaching toward the pain.

“Don’t,” he whispers, “You need to keep them clean.”

“Fuck,” she sighs.

Chatterbox opens a packet of gauze, lathering it with an antibiotic ointment he keeps in a kitchen drawer.

“Keep it covered until it stops bleeding with movement. If you see any signs of inpection, I recommend going to the doctor. I can’t help you with that.”

“Infection,” the girl gently corrects.

He rolls his eyes, “Same yuck.”

“Sit up,” he instructs.

Ms. Mond rolls to her side, groaning as she pushes herself to a seated position.

“Hold this here…”

His voice trails off as their fingertips brush. Everything inside of him screams, the warning bells blaring in his mind. 

“I gotta…”

“I got it.”

There’s a sickeningly sweet taste in her tone, like honey dripping from her tongue. It hurts to look at her now. No longer just another animalistic gang banger on a slab, she’s human. She’s dangerous. 

He digs a wrap out of his bag, which he secures around her waist. With each pass of his arms around her midsection, he becomes more aware of her warm breath on his cheek. He can hear her shallow breathing, as if not wanting to disturb him. The smell of alcohol and iron dances around her, mixed with something else…something…her. Chatterbox clears his throat as he tucks the wrap into a secure hold. 

“There. I would change this at least once a day…”

“Will any gua–”

“Ray, we gotta go,” Taco cuts in.

Chatterbox stands up straight and nearly jumps back.

“What?”

“K needs us back at the Cubby ASAP.”

The girl’s attitude shifts into something cold and calculated as she hops down off the table. She wobbles unsuredly. 

“Did we get what we needed?”

“Yeah, Zo grabbed it while you were…it’s safe.”

“Good,” she breathes out.

Chatterbox watches in disdain as the crew gathers their things, making sure to leave nothing of value behind. None of them helps her.

“We’ll have someone bring the cash by soon, clown bitch,” Zolo sneers.

She looks between the two of them, confused.

“Wh–”

“Let’s go,” Vinny barks from just outside the front door.

“I’m sure you’ll be by to pay for your mistakes,” Chatterbox jabs back.

Everyone hastens out the front door, the breath of the dragon lit under them. 

“Be careful, Ms. Mond,” he grumbles as she follows behind.

Her fingertips linger on the doorknob for a second. Spinning on her heel, she walks back to him. Before he even realizes what’s happening, her lips gently graze where his mask presses into his cheek.

“Thank you, Mr…” she coos, prying.

“Uh…Ch-Chatterbox…”

“Chatterbox,” she repeats as if seeing how it tastes.

A small smile crosses her lips before she ties her mask back around her face. She walks slowly back to the door as she tries to maintain her balance, likely still woozy from the meds. The door swings shut behind her. Chatterbox lets out a shuddering breath, his shoulders falling from their tensed apprehension.

Alone again.

He jumps as the door pops back open.

“Jesus, yuck.”

“My name’s Ray,” she interjects.

“First name Ray, last name Mond. None of that Ms. Mond shit.”

He stands staring at her. 

“Get out of my house.”

“Get out of my house, Ray Mond,” she teases.

“Yuck off,” he grumbles.

A car horn beckons her.

“Bye!”

The spinning of tires on the gravel and a crack of wood draw him outside.

“My yucking fence!” he bellows.

Laughter drifts through the evening air as he goes to survey the damage. Chatterbox runs his hands through his still-damp hair, growling in frustration. He mutters to himself about the rising cost of wood as he heads back inside, where a mess waits for him. Collecting the rags, now soaked in blood, he tosses them into a nearby bucket. Piece by piece, he throws the shrapnel in the trash, along with the ripped-open packaging. 

A smell keeps catching his attention. It’s new. It’s sweet. He sniffs again, following his nose around the kitchen. Nothing. Then it dawns on him. He raises his fingers to his nose. Notes of vanilla and cinnamon wisp through the air, sweet and welcoming.

Chatterbox marches to the sink and begins to scrub. The soap lathers against his rough hands as he rubs them together. Over and over, he washes until the smell is gone. Until she’s gone. Digging his phone out of his pocket, he dials someone who can always get the stains out. The phone rings twice before picking up.

“Wendy.”

Chapter Text

ch3: droplets

A warm summer gust whips around the rooftop of the Cubby, carrying with it strands of mahogany waves. The golden sun overhead brings out hints of bronze highlights as they wisp around her head in a frenzied dance. She’s been wearing it down in a half-up look since the incident. It hurts to hold her arms up for too long. The bruising on her ribs and the tightness of her wounds make it hard to do much of anything, really, without pain. Ray brushes her hand across her cheek, pulling away some curls that got stuck in her eyelashes. 

Resting her chin on her folded knees, she stares out at the city skyline and listens to the never-ending cacophony of honking horns and disgruntled pedestrians below. Her black high-top sneakers tap along to the beat on the concrete rooftop. It’s a song she knows by heart. It raised her when she first moved to the city and slept on the park benches of Legion Square. Her mentor found her there as a freshly emancipated stray, rough around the edges, scruffy and wide-eyed. Ray squeezes her knees in closer, arms tightening until a dull ache in her biceps begs her to stop. Being unable to participate in any high-energy heists eats away at her and leaves her mind an incessant whirlpool of worries. It’s here, on this roof, where she comes to escape. 

Up here, she’s untouchable. Invisible to the world below. No one to prove anything to except for the occasional intruding pigeon. Ray picks at a scab on her arm. 

They got the ruby. That should be enough to prove her worth to Mr. K, but she can’t help but feel guilty that they didn’t secure all of the loot. It’s my fault for not counting all the guards. I knew there should have been more. Ray chews on the inside of her cheek. Maybe the ruby is good. Maybe he’ll overlook me having to step back. Wincing as she bites down a little too hard, she checks her texts again. Every few minutes, she looks again for a notification of something. Anything. But it’s silent. No one needs anything from her. 

Worthless.

A stinging in her eyes forces her to squeeze them shut. Don’t cry. Don’t be a baby. Everything is fine. Ray takes a steadying breath, basking in the tingling sensation of the sun on her skin. In the reddish darkness behind her eyelids, the memory of his walnut brown eyes forms. He looks back at her, a sense of calm replacing the tightening of her chest. Ray’s eyes flutter open, almost expecting him to be standing across from her. She sighs.

You’re being stupid.  

Her fingers travel to her exposed midsection, gently pressing against the still tender flesh.

He didn’t care for you. You’re just a patient.

She closes her eyes again. The intense focus in his eyes glares back at her, now accompanied by a fuller vision of his face–or what she can see of it. He hides behind a silicone mask that covers everything below his eyes, a ruby red clown nose standing out against the scratched white base and painted grin. His chocolate brown hair sweeps back in a combed look, except for a stray rebel strand that hangs over his right eye. 

“Clown bitch”. 

Zolo’s words ring in her head. 

“Chatterbox,” she whispers, “who are you?”

The wind howls around her in response as if to bear a warning. 

She’s never been good at listening to those. 

Swiping out of her texts, Ray opens up a search engine and types in “Chatterbox.” As she begins to scroll, disappointment sets in.

Chatterbox! The perfect clown doll for your kid!

Well, that’s not it.

chatterbox (noun): an excessively talkative person

Closer? He mostly just wanted us gone, but he was really loud.

Ray adds “clowns” to the search bar.

Masked killer spotted leaving North Chumash, where clown face drawn in blood stumps police.

Oh…? But this is from twenty years ago. He can’t be that old.

Clowns deny involvement in serial killing spree: Masked killers or misunderstood idiots?

They’ve been around for a while.

@el_rahman: fuck you clowns!! try and take our shit again and you’ll get a bullet for the punchline!! [photo of a totaled car]

Ramee? This is from two years ago…so there’s long-term beef. But what about Chatterbox?

Ray locks her phone and drops it with some force on the concrete. She huffs in frustration.

“I’m gonna have to do this the hard way,” she mutters.

Standing, she winces as a drilling pain pierces her ribs. Her oversized muted green crop top drops off her left shoulder as she holds her side. Ray picks up her phone and sticks it in the back pocket of her baggy acid-washed jeans that April got her from one of her many trips to Europe for tour. They hang off her hips just right, highlighting her toned waist and curve of her… I’m going to have to change. The bandages bring too much attention while on the street. The last thing she needs is to have curious eyes giving her away while she moves around in Los Santos. 

Ray heads to the ladder that leads back down to the hellscape below. In the shadows of the hallways, she moves past fellow members, slinking through the tight spaces with her eyes dipped low. She jogs up the stairs and makes it to her door before the sound of her name echoes through the common room.

“Ray Mond.”

Her palm pressed flat to the door, she considers ignoring it. 

“Little One. I know you heard me.”

Vinny’s voice cuts through the hustle and bustle of the central hub, and the prickling needle of intrusive looks tickles up her back.

“Yeah?” she calls back.

“A word?”

Her shoulders hunch over as she takes a deep breath despite her ribs protesting. 

“Of course!” Ray answers cheerily.

When she turns around, a bright smile lights up her face. Her eyes remain a dull gray. 

“What’s up?”

She reaches the bottom of the stairs and follows Vinny into a small meeting room. 

“I know you’ve been wanting to help out, so I found a way you can still meet your gang tax.”

“Oh?” 

Her shoulders pull back. A spark ignited.

“I need help delivering some packages to customers. I figured you could take a cut of what they pay. Just need you to drop them off. They can do all the unloading.”

Vinny cracks open a crate along the wall, revealing brand-new pistols and extended magazines in cases nestled amongst packing straw. Running her fingers along the barrel of a gun, she clears her throat.

“You’re sure?”

“You’ve never been caught. I trust you to be able to maintain that record.”

Ray nods, “I can do that.”

She closes the crate back and secures the straps. 

“Where am I bringing these?”

The question rings innocuous, an expected clarification for her role as a pack mule. More lurks underneath. Please let me go North.  

“I have a printout for you. It’s mostly down in the Southside, but you’ll need to run up to Paleto for the C4 crew.”

Ray fights back a smile, “That should be no problem.”

“Fantastic! I’ll have the boys load up your G-wagon.”

Vinny knocks twice on the crate before walking away.

“Don’t let me down.”

The words drop to the floor with the weight of his footsteps. They thud along, reminding her of the pressure digging into her shoulders—the pressure of his acceptance. She’s not just earning her place in the gang. She’s earning her place with him. Vinny runs the gun operations, a lucrative business that pays for a massive amount of their expenses. Being let in on that operation means a lot.

Spying will have to wait. Family first.

Ray returns to her room with a renewed pep in her step. Like she’s moving through a dream, Ray floats around with an airy certainty. She changes into a long-sleeved midnight black turtleneck that hides the dragon tattoo that winds down her arm. To match, she pulls on a pair of tight black low-rise pants with a strappy belt that sits off her hips. She switches from her high tops to her favorite combat boots, scrubbed clean of the brown blood dried to the leather, only her memories left as stains. Muscle memory overrides the sting in her ribs as she fixes her hair. Pulling a few framing pieces around her face, she practices a sweet smile in the mirror. If I’ve learned anything from the girls, it's that a pretty face is half the selling point. Ray twists in the mirror, trying to hide the wince as she evaluates her look. Hot but not too hot. Grabbing her knife off the dresser, she secures the holster around her thigh. Can never be too safe.

The G-wagon waits for her in the garage, storage crates stacked in perfect Tetris. A white sheet with typed phone numbers on it and a listed inventory sits on top of one of the boxes. Ray picks it up, folds it in quarters, and tucks it into her bra. The keys already in the ignition, she heads out to the nearest payphone off the block. 

The phone rings twice before her first customer picks up.

“Hello, habibi. How can I help you?”

The sound of the thick russian accent makes her body tense. Oceans rush in her ears as a hot flash warms her cheeks; the pain in her ribs twists like the tide and threatens to pull her under. Ray is frozen in a memory, mouth opening and closing as a guppy drowning in the air. 

“Hello?”

Don’t be such a bitch.

“Um–hi!”

“Ray Mond?”

The usual hardcore gangster’s voice drops into a concerned whisper as if he’s bringing the phone closer to his lips.

“You’re okay?”

“Yeah!” Ray laughs sheepishly, “It’s not that easy to get rid of me, you know.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you! That’s so sweet. Um, I’m calling because I need to schedule a delivery for you.”

“Oh, thank god. We were starting to get worried that you guys ripped us off.”

Ray bristles.

“Ex-cuse me?”

“Relax, Ray. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She rolls her eyes at his smooth laughter, but the small smile at the corner of her lips sneaks its way in.

“Where do you want me to meet you?”

“I can come to you. I know you’re probably still hurting.”

“How about under the pier with the Ferris wheel?”

“I can do that.”

“See ya soon!”

She lets out a long breath as she hangs up the phone. How many more of these? A few calls later, she starts her expedition around the city. 

First, the pier. Ray stands leaning back against her trunk, watching the waves lap against the shore. They move in perfect rhythm, ancient and a testament to forever. Ray doesn’t believe in forever. 

Nothing and nobody stays.

She’s snapped out of her daze by the rev of Raymond’s sporty car engine. Show off. Popping the trunk, she offers a flirty wave of her fingers and a shy smile. 

“Hey, you look great!”

“You’re just saying that,” she giggles.

“No, really. I’ll never regret going to war for you.”

“You’re a flirt, Raymond Romanov.”

He shrugs, smiling.

“Well, I’ve got your order here,” she taps the top of one of the crates.

“Look it over and let me know if it's missing anything.”

Raymond moves over to look, the overwhelming smell of his expensive cologne making her scrunch her nose. He’s perfectly manicured. Like a Ken doll, his hair stays in meticulous shape, and his beard follows crisp lines. There’s barely a wrinkle on his black dress shirt, and his jewelry sparkles in the slightest light. Perfect. Not at all like the tornado lurking under her practiced smile. It would have never worked between us. As respectful and soft as he is toward her, she’d destroy him. She’d make a mess. I’m no trophy. He hands her a stuffed envelope.

“This is everything,” he confirms, hoisting the crate up in his arms.

“Great! I’ll see you around, Ray!”

Ray tosses a braid over her shoulder as she slams the trunk shut and drives away, leaving him alone on the beach.

Next stop: Pink Cage. Ray marks the spot on her trusty GPS. One hand on the steering wheel and the other thumbing through the bands of cash in the envelope, she curses under her breath as she tries to count. Stupid fucking math. She gives up as she pulls into the iconic pink-washed apartments. Vinny can figure it out. As she hops out of the G-wagon, a man in a bright blue hoodie steps out from the shadows underneath the second-floor balcony.

“Hey, Ray.”

What’s with me and men with accents? Ray tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

“Hi Tommy.”

“Haven’t seen you around the block in a minute.”

He leans forward against the railing. 

“Just been a bit busy with training and stuff.”

“Training? Those muppets got you saluting and marching down the halls now, do they?”

“Well, you haven’t exactly come to say hi either.”

Tommy scoffs.

“You know me, Ray. Up to bugger all.”

They stand quietly for a moment. So much lingers in the air between them–words unsaid and risks never taken–before he cracks a smile.

“Missed you.”

“You could have called.”

“Well, you’re here now, right?”

Ray shakes her head, “I’m here on business.”

“Ah,” he clicks his teeth, “You’re gonna leave me gutted, Ray.”

“I talked to SK. He said to drop it off here.”

“You talked to SK?”

Hopping over the railing, he approaches to check the trunk.

“Yeah, unfortunately .”

“He’s not that bad. Just ‘cuz he snogs too many girls?”

Ray’s face draws up in disgust.

“You know why.”

The Manor boy pauses as if thinking on the best way to respond.

“Stuff was complicated with Gigi.”

“Do you have the money?”

She doesn’t have the time to rehash the drama between SK and the girl she once called a friend. That mess ripped one of the few people she thought could be more than an acquaintance for her. All over some boy. Gigi never really came back the same; her eyes constantly roll, glossed over in an absent haze. The drugs “save her”, she claims. All Ray knows is that it’d have been better to stick the knife in his neck when she wanted to.

The rest of the day is the same. Delivering guns to people who think they want her and playing the flirtatious salesgirl, Ray finds relief when she slams the trunk closed for the last time. The final delivery put her on the north end of the island with the new crew C4. Sonya Summers at least didn’t seem interested in small talk. They’re more of a conglomerate than a gang, all working together to take control of the region. Ray finds it hard to take it seriously. Nobody ever works together for long. Greed and power corrupt even the purest of partnerships. 

Ray takes a deep breath and rolls her head to stretch her neck. Despite her body’s protests, there’s one last stop she needs to make for the day. A quick scroll through the car’s GPS history reveals a singular ping in Grapeseed.

The sun teases over the water of the Alamo Sea, turning it into a pool of gold. A sense of calm washes over Ray as she rolls down the windows of her fancy car. Despite the horrors of that night, she clings to the memory of the countryside’s lullaby. Ray stops the car along a side road. Still out of view of the house, she decides to tuck the monstrosity behind some ramshackle animal shelters. This should be fine. Who’s gonna be looking for a car here anyway? Ray locks the doors and begins the walk to the house.

The journey takes her through cow pastures and tall grasses where she (mostly) dodges all of the cowpies. She stops to scrape her boots free of the manure and mud against a weather-worn fence. The wood’s dingy gray color, from years in the elements, contrasts with the vibrant life around it. Deep and yellow greens alike dot the farm fields in marks of abundance against the nearly black soil. Besides the disgustingly sweet stench of manure, Ray can’t help but enjoy the freshness of it all. It’s messy and wild. Her fingertips brush against a tall, sunshine-yellow wildflower. 

I wonder what it’s like to live out here…in the quiet.

The city’s never so peaceful–even late at night. No matter the hour, people on the street call out to each other, or cars honk their horns. Police sirens hardly constitute a lullaby. 

The house looms in the distance as she crests a small hill, like something out of a scary movie. Lights from within emanate a flickering glow out of the broken and boarded-up windows, a strange invitation from the elements. How could someone live here? Moss patches the roof’s missing and broken shingles. The house looks tired, its window frames sagging in slightly as if trying to keep its eyes open. Just as she starts to move in closer, a shadow moves in front of the light upstairs. Ray gasps and ducks behind an old evergreen tree.

His tall frame moves across the open bay doors again, his hand waving wildly over his head. Only a silhouette against the light, he’s clearly arguing with someone over the phone. Ray holds her breath as if it’ll help her overhear the conversation. A word here or there carries over the ambience of the evening, and she finds herself leaning in. 

”I told you…”

”But–”

”...you said…”

“...morphine.”

“Don’t get–”

What the fuck is he talking about… Ray takes out her phone. Opening up her notes app, she types out a title:

who the fuck is Chatterbox

• Half clown mask????
• Dark brown eyes
• High-pitched voice (how the hell does he do that?????)
• Yells a lot….kinda cute…. :>
• Rough hands: works a lot?
• Lives at the big farmhouse in grapeseed: crusty…why would anyone live here ???
• CG hates him ????
• Doctor ???? i guess–

As she’s typing out the last bullet point, April’s latest single: a cover of a popular hit “Stuck,” blares out of her phone. Ray squeals, first throwing her phone on the ground and then scrambling to find it again. The tall grass obscures the bright light of her phone screen with the bold words “Vinny” at the top. She finally gets hold of the phone, ending the call and silencing it with shaky hands. Her eyes, bright like the moon, immediately flick to the balcony. 

He’s gone.

A horrible knot forms in her stomach as she sinks lower into the grass. I need to get out of here. The crunch of gravel to the left behind a tin-roofed barn sends her running along the side of the hill behind a thick bush. A thorn pricks her finger as she moves through the branches. Ray hisses and immediately puts the cherry-stained finger to her lips, sucking away the blood. The iron on her tongue becomes an afterthought as his voice lilts over the bullfrog’s song.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Every noise becomes sharp around her, vibrating in her ears as she listens for his footsteps.

“Don’t wanna come out and play? You’re at my Funhouse.”

The echo of her heartbeat fills her mind. It screams of everything she could lose if she gets caught. There’s no way I'm dying to this freak clown. His footsteps through the dancing grass swish like the rustle of a broom across a hardwood floor, sweeping away her chances of retreat. Ray holds her breath as he hovers nearby. C’mon, Chatterbox. Go back home.  

Her silent urging seems to do the trick as he starts to stroll back toward the dilapidated house. Ray moves backward with a calculated slowness, the balls of her feet rolling slowly up and down with each step. One. Breathlessly, she counts each excruciating tread. Two. Her chest rises and falls in shallow eagerness. Three. Snap!

Ray freezes. Like a deer in headlights, she stares at the predator in front of her, waiting for the pounce. The twig under her boot taunts and laughs as she lifts her foot. But it never comes. After a slight pause, he keeps walking, an ever-shrinking threat as he disappears beyond the barn. Ray doesn’t take the opportunity for granted, moving quickly through the trees until she’s far enough away to cut back across the open fields. Large hay bales loom, casting graveyard shadows as the moon’s pale light bathes the landscape in an eerie glow. Ray runs. She runs until her hands hit the car, legs burning with exertion. A fire seizes the air in her chest as she rips the door open and clamours inside.

She doesn’t breathe out until the door closes behind her. Then she laughs. It springs out of her like the crackling of a forest fire, lighting her whole body with a searing sensation. Her heart thuds with excitement as she grips the steering wheel and allows her giggles to burst like iridescent bubbles in the moonlight.

Hiccup!

“Ah, fuck,” she chokes out.

Hiccup!

Her laughter slows, interrupted by the bursts of air.

Hic–

“Oh my god,” Ray breathes out.

She hasn’t felt this alive in ages. Smoothing her hair back from her face, she clears her throat.

Hic-

On the drive home, she finds it difficult to focus on the road. Her mind keeps wandering back to the feeling of hunting–of being hunted. It’s like the rush of striking a match. The initial spark to something unstoppable. Uncontainable. 

Vinny keeps her busy for the next few days. More than busy, actually. From getting the morning coffee to making usual deliveries, Vinny blows up her phone with directions every few minutes. It distracts her from the pain, but it also distracts her from the clown. Each errand strikes her more like a wild goose chase than actual work. Just something to make her seem busy and useful. Ray doesn’t mind that much, but she fights back some mild annoyance. For once in her life, she’s found something interesting . Something hers. Not for the gang or a friend or anyone else; just for her.

Ray grumbles to herself as she picks up Vinny’s lunch from Shrugway. 

“I’m not a fuckin’ secretary…why does he always send m-”

A flash of red catches her eye as a buzzing Club flies by the building. It’s a bright ruby color with shark teeth painted on the side, and its suspension sits comically high. What the fuck? Three cop cars whizz by, sirens and lights blaring. Classic. Ray shakes her head. There’s plenty of weirdos in the city, but a car that absurd is a new one. She drives back toward the Cubby, making sure the drink sits snugly in the cup holder. The last thing she wants is another lecture about a spilled drink in the carefully manicured car. Leather seats reek of the polish Vinny uses weekly, a new scent on a car that he’s been driving for years as she drums her fingers on the steering wheel. Ray adjusts the rearview mirror. Her eyes flash silver like the hoop earrings dangling from her ears, catching the light with a jeweled glint. Rolling down the window, she sighs as the breeze lifts her hair in a manic dance. 

“Yuck you!”

His distinctive voice cuts through the rush of the drive, followed by the screech of her tires. Ray’s head nearly hits the steering wheel as she slams on the brakes. The bright red Club cuts in front of her, and it hops over the curb through a parking lot. Cops follow not far behind. No fucking way. Ray sits in shock. There’s no fucking way. 

“You okay?”

A gruff-sounding officer knocks on the roof, cutting through the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears.

“Uh-um, yeah, thank you.”

“You sure, beautiful?”

Ray blinks, turning to look at who has the audacity. Oh.

“Y-yeah, I’m sure. Thank you, Tyler.”

“That’s Officer Peters, Ms. Mond. I didn’t see you at the club this weekend.”

“I’ve been…busy.”

“You wouldn’t be avoiding me, would you?” his voice lowers.

“Why would I do that?”

Ray offers a sweet smile and the bat of an eyelash. Men like Tyler Peters can’t be told no. So, she plays the game.

“You gonna be around next weekend?”

“Mmm, maybe. Maybe not.”

“You owe me a dance, Ms. Mond.”

“Maybe I’ll owe you more than that if you catch the dumbass who almost broke my fucking car,” she bites her lip.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Tyler Peters jogs back to his car and speeds off. Ray breathes a sigh of relief. That’ll bite her in the ass, but at least he’s gone for now. She opens her phone and adds a bullet point to the list:

• Drives a bright red Club. Asshole.

Ray’s alarm blares an atrocious beeping noise in the stillness of the early morning. Groaning, she rolls over and slaps at her phone until it stops. It’s too early. Vinny asked her the night before to grab a shipment from the airport first thing, and she’s already regretting her inability to deny a job. Ray pulls the covers up over her eyes. Just five more minutes. Squeezing her eyes shut, she wills herself back into a dream. 

Ray finds herself standing in the middle of an open field in Grapeseed, a haunting spotlight scanning the bare ground. She runs for cover behind a hay bale as the light chases after her. His voice echoes overhead, “Where are youuu?”. It starts to rain, driving her closer to his home, which looms like a disapproving gaze. Each time the light touches her, he laughs as if to mock her exposure. “I seeee youuu.” A hungry darkness starts to close in on the world around her. It creeps into the corners of her vision and corners her into a singular escape. The house. Its door opens with a sharp creak, an invitation. Suddenly, she’s standing on the upstairs balcony. A whisper over her shoulder makes her jump and spin on her heel. He’s there. In the shadows, his dark eyes glint with a golden spark in the singular light in the room. “Let’s play,” he growls. Her breath catches in her throat as he rapidly closes the gap between them. But she’s not scared. He stops right in front of her, the air between them sizzling with electricity like before a lightning strike. Before, she couldn’t scream. Couldn’t call out. Anything from her lips made little more noise than the sound of a rabbit’s whiskers twitching. However, as he stands in front of her, eyes sharp and ravenous, she finds the courage. “I’ll find you.”

Ray sits straight up in bed. There’s an ache in her chest, not of her heart beating too fast or some overwhelming feeling, but of a nothingness. Something is missing. She hasn’t felt this way since…well…since the first man to make her feel seen blindsided her. Rubbing her eyes, she looks over to the photo of her and April on the wall. Between them, a scratched-out face serves as the only bit of him remaining. Almost. She stretches, rolling her neck to try to remove the stiffness. The cold floor bubbles goosebumps on her arms as she shuffles to her bathroom. Her face feels tight, and as she turns on the light to look in the mirror, she realizes why. I’ve been crying. Eyes red, slept-in mascara trails down her cheeks in watery droplets. A mess.

A shower washes away any evidence of that lingering weakness. She emerges from the bathroom renewed, diamonds dancing on her skin. Quickly, she changes into an outfit that allows her to melt into the background of early morning traffic. A gray corset that hugs her wound in a way that keeps the bandage from wiggling around complements a dark wash pair of jeans, her favorite leather gloves, and black combat boots. Ray braids her still-damp waves and pats some lipstick on her lips. A little mascara, and she’s good to go.

The drive to the airport is silent except for the occasional honk and the hum of the tires on the freeway. It’s too early for music. Ray blinks her eyes heavily, trying to get rid of the dry feeling. A ping on her phone snaps her out of her highway hypnosis. It’s a text from Vinny.

Ray turns into an ever-growing line of cars at a guarded chain-link gate to access the hangars alongside the airport terminals. She groans and rolls her eyes. Nothing like starting the morning off with having to wait. Ray yawns before checking her phone.

Vinny

use this to bypass the guard. Good luck!

[attached photo of a worker’s badge with her face edited into it]

Me

ty! see you soon! :>

A car behind her honks.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, pulling forward the inch of space she’d been allowed. 

Another car honks, but it’s not the stereotypical “beep” most cars in the city have. This one sounds like a clown horn. Ray checks in the rearview mirror. The line of cars obscures the culprit, so she sits up straighter. Who-

Her question seems to answer itself as his red Club cuts out of the traffic and uses a half-filled dumpster to ramp over the chain link fence. Guards stir up into action, yelling orders and chasing after the speeding vehicle. 

“Great,” she hits her steering wheel, “Thanks, Chatterbox.”

The delay sets her into a nasty mood, but she still plasters on a perfect smile as she reaches the gate. 

“Hiii,” Ray coos, “Sorry, I forgot my badge at home. But I have a picture of it!”

Looking at her skeptically, the guard grunts for her to hand her phone over. Ray opens up the picture and holds it out.

“Don’t let this happen again, ma’am.”

“Of course! Thank you!”

The smile drops off her face as she pulls through the gate. At the hangar,  there’s already a gathering starting to form of different vendors selling illegal goods. Ray parks and looks for a sign of the red Club, but he’s already gone. Lucky fuck. He’s gonna hear it from me. At the door, a bulky man blocks the way.

“Rainbow road.”

He moves aside to let her into the main area. Business first. She collects the gun parts Vinny needs and some canisters of gun powder for the ammo. In a nearby stall, Ray finds a cute new false plate to hide her identity while running errands. She checks the rest of the stalls, but doesn’t find anything particularly interesting. Better for my bank account anyway.  

But at a stall in the corner, something catches her eye. All sorts of colorful masks line his table with scary and silly figures alike. Hanging off a rack, as if staring at her, resides a gray bunny mask with painted blood droplets splattering its cheek. Ray walks toward it. It’s almost as if there’s a thread dragging her closer, tugging on her curiosity. A fish on a lure, she drifts through the sea of criminals to the artisan’s table. There’s a knocking on her soul as her fingertips trace over the molded shape of the plastic. Faint laughter, higher pitched than her usual chuckle, rings like wind chimes in her mind. Its tinkling and bubbling tone lifts her spirits; it unburdens the weight of all of her responsibilities, whispering to a lighter version of herself.

“You like the mask, ma’am?”

An older gentleman running the booth looks at her curiously. Ray bats her eyelashes as if waking from a dream.

“Oh! Um…yeah, it’s very badass.”

“I make them all myself. Used to work for the movies, but this makes me a bit more money.”

“I can see why,” she smiles.

“Only $150 that one is,” he nods at the bunny mask.

“One-fifty?” she repeats.

Ray chews on the inside of her lower lip. She has the money, but $150 for a mask feels like too much. The gang tax still needs to be paid.

“Maybe another time,” Ray decides.

“There’ll never be one like it again,” he presses.

“Sorry…”

Ray hurries out of the hangar and thanks some guys for helping her load the car. In her hurry to leave, Ray misses the man with dark brown hair, his back turned, arguing with a man in a lab coat. 

“Here you go.”

Ray slides an envelope full of money across the table to Ramee. Gang tax. The one way she feels useful since being unable to go to jobs. Vinny won’t approve of her getting back to selling either until the wound stops seeping. The blood doesn’t flow much anymore, but even delivering weapons seems to agitate it sometimes. 

“Thanks. I need to talk to you after I finish this.”

“M’kay,” Ray nods. 

Her phone dings. 

April (bestie foreverever <3)

girl you gotta call me ASAP !!!!

Rushing out of the meeting room, Ray pushes through the line of people and scales her way to the roof. The phone rings twice before the red-headed beauty answers.

“April?!”

“Hi! Oh my god, Ray Mond, I have so much to tell you, it’s not even funny.”

“Spill!”

And she does. April gushes about all of the latest drama from the tour, an uncorked bottle of champagne, recounting stories of flirtatious men, wardrobe malfunctions, and late nights at various clubs across Europe. Laughing along and asking questions about all of her best friend’s side quests, Ray fights back a sickening feeling building in her gut. She paces around the roof.

“It sounds like you’re having a ton of fun!”

“I am! It’s so incredible. I wish you were here too.”

Ray looks out over the city from her perch, a bird with clipped wings.

“Me too,” she admits quietly.

“What’s been going on back home? How’s the family?”

“Everyone’s doing good. Ramee misses you a lot.”

“He did the sweetest thing last week. He paid for me to go on an all-expenses-paid tour of this vineyard in Italy. You wouldn’t believe how pretty it was.”

“Mmm,” Ray hums.

“Ray? Are you okay?”

“Yeah…yeah…I just miss you.”

“I miss you too! I’m bringing back like…a million gifts to make up for this.”

“April…”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna do something stupid.”

“How stupid are we talking?”

Concern rises in April’s voice, and Ray feels a tang of guilt.

“Um…there’s a guy…”

“A GUY?”

Ray jerks the phone away from her ear.

“My ear!”

“Sorry. I thought you were sworn off ‘the men’ after what happened with–”

“I know. And it isn’t like that. I don’t think.”

“You don’t think?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, you better.”

Ray sighs.

“Um…so…I got hurt on a job. Pretty bad.”

“WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING?!”

“I didn’t want you to worry! Also…I dunno…talking about it kinda makes it suck more.”

“I get that.”

Her frown could be heard through the phone.

“Anyway, it was really bad. They took me to this place up in Grapeseed…and I got medical there?”

“They took you to Chatterbox?”

April’s voice drops to a whisper.

“Y-yeah. How do you know him?”

“I’ve only heard rumors. He’s this really creepy clown guy. Apparently, the boys all have a ton of problems with him. The clowns mess with their cars and stuff because they think it's funny. Chatterbox is like their leader or whatever. But he also runs his little clinic thing out of his house for people who can’t go to the hospital. All the gangs use him.”

“Oh…”

Ray adds to the list:

• Leader of “the Clowns????”

“I think CG even used him for…you know, it doesn’t matter.”

Clouds form in Ray’s mind.

“So, why are you interested in this guy? All I’ve heard is really scary shit.”

“I don’t think he’s scary…he seems nice.”

April laughs.

“I know you like ‘em crazy, but are you sure about this?”

“I dunno. I don’t wanna date him or anything. He just seems interesting.”

“Well, just be careful. I do NOT need my bestie getting murdered.”

A burst of voices floods the background of April’s phone with excited talking.

“Oh! Oh my god. Ray, I have to go. I promise I’ll text you soon. Keep me updated!”

“Okay, b–”

The call ends before she finishes her goodbye. Ray smooths her hair back.

Ramee

all good? I need your help with something.

Ray stares at her phone. Helping. Always helping.

Me

yeah. Be right there.

The trip back down to the meeting room gives her time to push her and April’s conversation to the back of her mind. 

“There you are. You’re the only one who can help me with this.”

Ramee’s standing at the base of the stairs, a worried look on his face.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s April. She’s got this hot new backup dancer and I–”

“Ramee, are you serious?”

“I’m not worried about it or anything,” he laughs nervously.

“Riiight. So why do you need my help?”

“I just wanna remind her of how cool I am, you know what I mean?”

Ray rolls her eyes.

“C’mon, please. You know her best. I wanna get her a nice date night dress.”

“Fine. But you’re paying for it.”

“Done,” Ramee hands her his credit card.

Ray dresses casually to go shopping. She noticed a while ago that if she dresses up to go shopping, the store attendants tend to bother her. Today, she doesn’t want to be noticed. A soft green t-shirt hangs off one of her shoulders, sitting loosely around her hips. Baggy jeans and a dirty pair of sneakers top off the relaxed, but still stylish look. Instead of her braids, Ray swoops her hair back into a loose bun at the back of her neck. She’s almost unrecognizable. Almost.

The store smells lightly of perfume as she rummages through the racks of expensive clothing. The fabrics move like a breeze under her fingertips, soft and fleeting to the touch. A ruby red silk dress catches Ray’s eye. Perfect. There’s intricate beading dancing up a slit along the thigh, exploding into a shimmering rose on the hip. The neckline would tease just low enough to make the boys stare, draping over her curves like a waterfall. This will drive Ramee crazy. Giving the clerk a thankful smile, she leaves the store with a large shopping bag with the dress folded into a perfect box. 

As she leaves the clothing store, she notices a hint of red metal sticking out from behind the building across the street. A little bit of snooping never hurt anyone. Ray puts the dress in her passenger seat and locks the door. Crossing the street, she takes note of the buildings along the strip. A coffee shop. A plant shop. A boutique. A vet. Ray walks down the sidewalk, humming “If You’re Broke, I’m Busy.” The coffee shop buzzes with activity; a small-framed blonde woman wearing tie-dye sings on a makeshift stage inside. Her voice lilts over the noise of traffic as Ray admires some roses inside the plant shop. When she reaches the boutique, she’s overwhelmed with the smell of incense and weed. Racks of discount clothing on the sidewalk display colorful sales tags in bold, patterned cloth. Ray checks around the corner of the building, into the alleyway. 

Behind the veterinarian's office, Chatterbox leans against the side of his club. He’s dressed in a suit with a deep red vest and bowtie. Pinstripe pants accentuate his long legs, which end in a pair of scuffed red and black dress shoes. He’s looking down at his phone, a dark brown strand of hair hanging between his eyebrows. Ray sneaks a picture. As if sensing her presence, his head snaps up. Hawk-like eyes look around the alley, but Ray positions herself just out of sight. She thumbs through the clothes on the rack, heartbeat resonating in her ears. The sound of his voice makes her peek back around the corner.

“Hey, Ma.”

“Hi, Chatty. Is this everything you need?”

A petite woman with short ginger hair pulled into a neat ponytail holds out a cardboard box. Tessa Lamb. Ray knows the ex-ranger from when she and April shared a stalker. The small but mighty officer commanded the room with a quiet assertiveness. Her stern, yet concerned energy radiated power. She made Ray feel safe. Ray adds another note:

• mother is Tessa Lamb

“Looks like it. Sure this won’t get you in any trouble?”

“We always have extras. Besides, I know they’ll be put to good use. We rarely have big emergencies here that need them.”

Chatterbox holds up what looks to be a box of gloves and gauze. 

“Anybody given you any yuckin’ problems lately?”

“No,” she laughs, “I can handle myself. They don’t call me Tessa Two-Knives for nothing.”

“I know. But you can always call me for help.”

“I know, Chatty. Thank you.”

“I’ll give you a call later if you wanna get into some bullyuck.”

He loads the box into his trunk and slams it shut. The noise makes her jump, knocking her arm into the rack. Clattering hangers catch the attention of both the clown and his mother, who look curiously toward the commotion. Fuck, fuck fuck. Ray scurries down the sidewalk and ducks into the coffee shop. The strong smell of espresso hits her nose as she moves behind a potted plant and into a booth. She holds her breath, head tucked down, as the clown walks into the cafe. The heat of his gaze washes over her for a brief second, but he turns to leave just as quickly. Ray sighs in relief. 

After waiting a couple of minutes, she walks back out to her car. The feeling is back—the inferno in her chest. Hands shaking, she turns the ignition and begins the drive. A millennium passes as she drives aimlessly around the streets of downtown Los Santos. People walk down the street in a self-absorbed daze, yelling into their phones and cursing at those walking by. Cars cut in and out of traffic and blare their horns. And Ray? Ray drives.

The car slows to a stop. Ray’s eyelashes flutter as she looks around her. Checking her phone, she sees four missed calls from Vinny.

“Vinny?”

“Where the fuck are you?”

“Um…”

Ray looks around.

“I’m not really sure?”

“You’re not sure?”

A tinge of fear colors his voice.

“I’m fine. I just…uh–”

“What do you see?”

“Lots of trees. And a shed? And um…a lot of water.”

“Do you see a pier?”

“Yes?”

“Why the fuck are you at the fishing dock in Grapeseed?”

“I–I don’t know. I just went for a drive and kinda…spaced out.”

“Get your ass back here.”

“Y-yeah. Sorry.”

“You’re late.”

Memories of the meeting she was supposed to have with Ramee, Vinny, and Taco about going full-time into the gun trade flood her mind. Ray rubs her eyebrow. 

“Fuck. I’m so sorry. Time got away from me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“You better.”

Saturday night. The one night a week where she lets herself go, and Ray finds herself sitting in her blacked out car she inherited from… focus …sitting on a stupid dirt road in Grapeseed. Her phone keeps blowing up with Twatter notifications of neon photos with alcohol and half-naked flesh, and for once, she’s not interested in answering the call for escape. Ray locks her phone. There’s been no movement in the house since she followed him here. His garnet club laid the perfect trap when she stole it from Snr. Buns and left it abandoned on the curb just outside the Barrio. He arrived in a fancy sports car driven by a fully-masked clown with green tufts of hair.

“Thanks, Twinkles! I’ll see you later for the thing.”

Chatterbox jogged to his car, and now, she’s here. 

Drinking another swig from her water bottle, she stares out the window toward the dimly lit house. It looks less scary now. Sometimes the flickering lights look like they’re winking at her–a playful gesture that breathes life into the sagging wood. Ray sits forward, leaning her forearms against the steering wheel. Yawning, she rests her chin on her arms. C’mon. Do something. A light turns off upstairs. Ray stifles a squeal of excitement as she catches herself nearly jumping up in her seat. 

“Finally,” she breathes.

Sitting still isn’t one of her strong suits. 

The shadow of his figure against the light on the front porch exposes his movement to the Club, which sits parked haphazardly by the white picket fence. Ray starts her car. Idling by the hood of his car for a moment, Chatterbox looks down at his phone. Hurry up. She taps her fingers on the steering wheel, itching for the chase. And in her rush, she misses the Twatter notification on her phone from a name she wouldn’t recognize. 

Jagger Gerardy

clowns to the fun factory

He drives like a fucking psycho. Her supercharged muscle car struggles to follow as he moves in and out of traffic on the highway toward the city. Cutting around locals, he threads the thinnest lines through impossible gaps for her to follow. Ray cranes her neck to see through the cars. 

“Fuck,” she whispers.

Not even the bright headlights of the cars around her manage to draw a spotlight on the crimson ride. 

“Fuck this shit,” Ray hisses as she cranks the steering wheel.

Her tires spin against the pavement as she drives onto the shoulder and zips past the herd of metal horsepower. It’s too late, though. As she reaches the city, she realizes he’s gone. All of that waiting…and for what? Ray’s chest tightens, a noose of frustration wringing salty tears from her eyes. She clears her throat– none of that. A text notification on her phone claims her attention. She pulls off the street, parking underneath the awning of the old Pillbox Medical Center. 

Taco

get your ass to the club. everyone is asking for you.

Me

busy. maybe next week?

Taco

NOW raychull.

Ray groans. Not exactly dressed for the club, she’s too comfy in her skintight black long-sleeve shirt and black cargo pants. It won’t bring too many stares, but the boys will know she’s been up to something. The last thing she needs is more questions. 

Taco

don’t make me call Vinny and have him drag your ass down here. I kno your ass ain’t working rn.

Well, shit. Smoothing her hair down, she sighs. If Vinny gets called, any excuses of running guns will get easily exposed. So, the club it is. 

Downtown’s liveliness provides a challenge when navigating the city streets. Drunken girls and their following boyfriends line the sidewalks and stumble across intersections with roaring laughter. Ray drives slowly through the crowds until finding an empty spot in a public parking lot near the Tequi-la-la. Parking, she takes a quick look in the rearview mirror. She sweeps a finger under her eyes to clear away some smudged mascara. Lipstick. She digs around in her center console, finding one of her stashed lipsticks, a deep mauve shade, and patting it lightly on her lips. Good enough.  

As soon as she exits the car, a cacophony of sounds assault her ears. Music from various bars and clubs across the strip compete against each other in the crisp night air. The laughter and screams of drunken locals add to the wave, sirens in the distance wailing out for help. Bathed in the ferocious energy, Ray becomes acutely aware of her sobriety. The overstimulation drums up a pulsing desire to run in her chest. However, she knows she needs to show face to temper the whispers of her disappearance from the scene. She walks dutifully toward the club, her heart matching the rhythm of the echoing bass. A soldier, she marches into the warzone of alcoholic breath, crying girls, and hunting men.

“There you are!”

Carmella’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Hi,” Ray forces a smile.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” she grabs Ray’s hand and drags her through the crowd.

In a VIP section, Taco, Ramee, Zolo, Paris, Novah, and Hazel Luna all sit around a table filled with drink glasses. 

“Found her!” Carmella giggles.

“There you are. You can’t hide from us forever,” Hazel smiles.

“Hi, guys!”

“Where have you been?” Taco squints, “Your dumbass is dressed like you’re gonna go rob something.”

“Just comfy,” Ray shrugs, voice cold and avoidant.

“Uh-huh.”

“April is gonna love that dress you found,” Ramee nods, “Thanks for the help.”

“April?” Carmella’s voice rises a pitch.

Ray watches with steel in her eyes as Carmella squeezes in to sit next to Ramee.

“How is she?”

Carmella’s always had eyes for Ramee, and April’s absence seems to have made her bolder. Ray clears her throat.

“Oh! She’s doing great,” Ramee answers cluelessly.

“She has this amazing new set where–”

“Let’s go dancing,” Carmella interjects.

“Oh my god, let’s!” Paris encourages, grabbing Zolo’s arm.

“O-Okay,” Ramee agrees.

You dumbass. Ray shakes her head. The entire crew stands up and moves toward the dance floor. Oscillating lights shift colors along with the beat of the song, a disco balls speckling the walls with tiny fairies of silver glow. 

“You’re coming too,” Novah grasps her hand.

“Please, no,” Ray groans.

“You’re gonna have fun, and you’re gonna like it.”

She trudges along behind her sister, giving in to the peer pressure. The sweet smell of sweat and vodka emanates from the crowded dance floor. Everyone’s voices disappear into the music, just another humming line of noise in her ears. Ray sways lightly to the beat as the other girls, besides Novah, find partners. The two sisters eventually surrender to the movement of the crowd, laughing as they dance together. It’s not often they take the time to just relax. 

“I gotta go get some water,” Ray yells over the music after some time.

“What?” Novah yells back.

“Water!”

Novah nods in understanding. Squeezing through the frantic bodies, Ray apologizes under her breath over and over until she’s through the crowd. A bleach-blond man wearing a black mesh tank top stands at the bar, smiling brighter than the sun. 

“Hey, sweetheart. What can I get ya?”

“Just water, please,” she offers a small smile.

“Just water? Not having any fun tonight?”

“Plenty of fun. Just drove myself so…”

“One of those, huh?”

Ray looks at him curiously.

“You see a lot of people here regularly, right?”

“Regular enough. There’s always new faces.”

“If I describe someone to you, could you give me an idea?”

“Looking for a man?” he laughs.

A pink blush deepens the color on her face.

“Something like that.”

“I can try.”

The bartender leans up against the bar, cleaning a glass while she talks.

“Dark brown hair that he slicks back, pale skin, scar over his left eye, wears suits a lot, and wears a clown mask that only covers under his eyes…”

“You mean Chatterbox? You could have just said the mask part.”

Ray sits up.

“Does he come in here a lot?”

“To drink? Just once a year. But…” he leans in, “We supply him with moonshine sometimes. He uses it to numb the pain for people.”

“Just once a year?”

“February 14th. Without fail.”

“Hm…”

“But you didn’t hear that from me,” the bartender winks.

“Of course, of course,” Ray nods in mock seriousness.

“Thank you for your help.”

She slides him a fifty-dollar bill.

“Oh! One last thing. Chatterbox isn’t his real name.”

Ray raises an eyebrow. Beckoning her in close, the bartender whispers in her ear, just barely loud enough to be heard over the music.

“His name is Jagger Gerardy. Only seen his ID once, years ago.”

“Thank you,” Ray mouths before heading back to their table.

She pulls out her phone as she sits in the booth, clearing out all of her notifications. Taking a sip of water, she watches her friends dancing along with the mass of people. Valentine’s Day, huh? Ray swirls the glass, playing with the ice cubes. Why would you need to drink on Valentine’s Day, Mr. Box? She checks the time.

“Jesus,” she curses, “Midnight already…”

Then a new Twatter notification pops up.

Jagger Gerardy

Hydra to my yuck !!!

“No way,” she whispers under her breath.

Clicking on his profile doesn’t lead to much–mostly just posts of him threatening random gang members from just about every gang in the city. No photos except of other clowns. There’s more than I thought. The green-haired clown is there, Twinkles? And Tessa is there too in clown paint. Other clowns that show up a lot include a red-haired clown with flames on all her clothing… Ember, according to this post …a clown with long pink hair named Derpy… she looks familiar …and a very tall clown with an intimidating skeleton mask who seems to be attached at the hip with another red-haired clown with blue and yellow face paint. 

Ray continues to dig, slowly trying to commit each clown to memory. 

“Ray? Girl! Get your ass back out here!” Hazel calls.

She holds up her finger to signal that she just needs a second. Rolling her eyes, Hazel disappears back into the crowd. Ray scrolls back up to his most recent twats and gasps.

“Fuck.”

Ray grabs her keys and rushes out of the club, dodging drunk girls fighting back vomit and men trying to stop her for their shot. She’d heard about the “Fun Factory” as the clowns called it. After the economic collapse, they tried to claim it as their meeting ground, but she thought they’d moved on. The old factory where the junkyard surrounds always seems lifeless, a graveyard both in and out for the city’s scrap. It makes sense that the clowns would hole up there–a den for misfits. 

Pulling into the junkyard, Ray turns off her headlights and tucks behind a mountain of rusted metal. With a careful hand, she pops open her car door and quietly closes it behind her with a nudge of her hip. She winces at the still noticeable sound of it latching. Phone already silenced, she begins her journey through the maze of smashed cars and broken appliances. 

Laughter echoes against the twisted metal, and she prays that it muffles the crunch of gravel underneath her feet. Light reflects in messy fragments from the abandoned factory, warm in comparison to the bitter stars. Ray stays tucked behind the tetanus mountains. The giggles grow louder as she creeps closer to the entrance. Broken conversations speak of mischief against Hydra, explosions, and supercars. She finds herself fighting back a smile at the chaos. It all sounds so fun. The clowns seem entirely unconcerned with the usual worries she must keep in mind with the gang. Ray peeks around a corner toward the inviting glow. I wonder what it’s like to be so free.

The slam of a car door makes her jump. Elbow knocking into a piece of sheet metal, she leaps back at the warbling ring. She stifles a yelp as a sharp exposed piece of glass in the pile cuts across her arm. Ray scurries away from the noise like a mouse who barely escaped the snap of a trap. Whoever stands across the row of disfigured microwaves and radiators freezes. The gravel gives away their twisting movement, turning toward her clamouring mistake. The babbling inside the building doesn’t stop, but the air outside suspends the world in a breath trapped in her throat. Sirens in the down the way cut through the stillness. The stranger’s footsteps seem to move away from her and toward the building. Ray breathes out a sigh of relief. 

Her hands shake as she tucks an escaped wave behind her ear. A claminess settles over her, body aching with a primal scream to run. I need to go back to the Cubby. She moves as quietly as she can back toward her car, cringing at each growl of the gravel. Then she hears a step that’s not her own.

Ray pauses. Every sound becomes deafening, a scream despite its minuscule peep against the backdrop of the city. Nothing. She goes to move again, but the gravel shifts before her foot lands on the tell-tale ground. Ray’s hand immediately goes to the knife attached to her thigh, a practiced instinct that moves her body without her mind’s consent. She spins around, knife sharp and hungry. 

His deep brown eyes stare back at her, curious and… is that amusement? Her blade glints silver against the pale flesh of his throat.

She hiccups.

“Easy there, Hiccups. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

Ray tilts her head. For once, she doesn’t mind someone pointing out her unbeatable habit. On his tongue, it sounds sweet.

“Then why were you following me?”

He laughs.

Hiccup!

“Follow you, Ray Mond? Are you yucking with me? ”

Her eyes dart around them, looking for signs of more clowns. They seem to be alone in the nipping night air. 

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The clown raises his arms in surrender.

“It’s not nice to stalk people, Ray Mond.”

She doesn’t answer, calling his bluff with her silence. Admittedly, she is distracted by the stinging in her lowered arm from the sliced flesh, a warm sensation buzzing from the wound.

“You silenced your phone this time.”

“What’s my ringtone?”

“Some song by your best friend, April. The annoying pop stuff.”

“It’s not annoying.”

Chatterbox raises his eyebrow at her implied admittance. 

“A-and lots of people use her music as their ringtone.”

“Did you find what you needed at the market? Or how about at the nice shop downtown?”

“Who is watching who, you creep!”

“I’m the creep? What the yuck?!” Chatterbox chuckles.

“Y-yeah.”

“Says the uninvited Chang Bang girl lurking outside my clown meetin'.”

Ray shifts her weight and adjusts her grip on the hilt of her knife.

“I was just um…”

“Are you gonna cut me, Ray Mond?”

The softness in his voice takes her aback.

“I haven’t decided, Mr. Box.”

A sizzling electricity fills the air around them as she stares into his crinkled walnut eyes. Ray, for once, has no idea what she wants to do. Always so sure of her goal, she finds herself standing toe to toe with the first man ever to make her feel unsure of what she wants. Yet…there’s comfort in his steady chaos.

“Will you at least let me take a look at that cut?”

His gaze directs her to look down at the gray, fractured ground where dark stains dot the rocks in the moonlight. She’s bleeding. Tiny droplets expose a weakness, and she becomes aware of the warm trickle down her fingertips. 

“Uh…um–”

Chatterbox takes a step closer. Her knife comes in contact with his exposed skin, taut with the threat.

“C’mon, Ray Mond. Do it.”

“W-what?”

“If you’re gonna cut me, do it. I dare you.”

She blinks back at him in alarm. There’s a smile in his voice, light dancing in his eyes. He thinks this is a game.

Dropping the knife, she takes a step back.

I’ll play.

“No.”

Your turn.

Chapter Text

ch4: bridges

He admires her effort. It’s funny how obvious the Chang Bang girl is. Ray Mond.

That first night at his house, Chatterbox’s phone call was interrupted by her stereotypical ringtone. He’d been talking to Dr. Jackie about picking up some extra morphine at the market the next week. It was important. But, he couldn’t just ignore the girl standing outside his home.

Chatterbox only wanted to freak her out a little bit. Curious eyes aren’t new to him. Growing up with a clown mask tends to bring suspicious glares and unsure glances. People used to show up at the Funhouse, a hushed attraction on the island, where rumours of sole survivors drew onlookers. Chatterbox remembers.

This girl, this Ray Mond, felt different, though. He doesn’t have the words to describe it. The feeling in his chest when her starlit eyes land on him, heating the air around him like a furnace, suffocating, drowning him in a compassionate embrace. Realistically, he knows that being at the market was a coincidence. Lots of gangbangers use the airport hangars like summertime farmers' markets. They just use it for their tools of violence instead of fresh tomatoes and deep purple blueberries.

She stood out amongst the sea of nondescript yuckbags. He watched as she bartered with some Hades members for gun parts and ammo. Her smile lit up the room in a blinding glow, a stream of sunlight that made his skin prickle. Chatterbox followed her with his hawk-like gaze as she moved through the crowd to the man selling masks. All the clowns loved the old man, creative and willing to craft masks that fit each clown’s unique personality. Her slender fingers tenderly touched a gray bunny mask with one folded ear. Sharply turning around as her head lifted to talk to the old timer, Chatterbox finished his deal with Dr. Jackie for the morphine.

Suddenly, the girl with sunlight radiating around her was everywhere. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t get a little nervous seeing her at Tessa's vet office. He tried to focus on his conversation with his mum, but she was there. The glimpse of her moving around the corner as clothes and hangers clattered to the ground set his body on fire. Tessa’s questions fell on deaf ears as he took long strides toward the noise. Thinking he had lost her, he took one last look inside the coffee shop. Windsong’s raspy voice wavered over the clatter of the trendy hand-painted ceramic mugs, singing about a love lost and found. His chocolate eyes scanned the crowd. They startled at the sight of him, so he backed out slowly, but not before taking note of her earthy green shirt peeking out from a booth. It was the color of drying hay out in the fields of Grapeseed, still with hints of life.

She didn’t see him at the Snr. Buns. He and Twinkles were grabbing lunch when Chatterbox noticed the flash of silver out of the corner of his eye. His car door opened and closed, silent against the backdrop of the usual city noise. Cocking his head, he watched with amusement while she fiddled under the dashboard. Her usual glow danced like the flames of a campfire, growing brighter with the successful rev of his engine. A yuckbag that can hotwire a car? Most gangbangers use fancy tools. Chatterbox nudged Twinkles, and they watched as she pulled out from the curbside. They laughed, running out to Twinkles’ sportscar. From a distance, they followed, giggling to each other about the dumb gangbanger who thought she was so sneaky. The jokes hid something else stirring inside him. Curiosity. Bobo told Chatterbox that curiosity kills cats, and so he learned from a young age that if he went to poke his nose in things, a barn cat might die.

Better to stay hidden.

This girl, Ray Mond, was dangerous. A temptation. She’s a glittering stone in the Alamo Sea, hiding a punishing crab. Chatterbox has been pinched before.

”You need to listen to Bobo, Chatterbox. Other people are not friends. They want to kill you. They think you’re a monster.”

Chatterbox remembers scrubbing the floors as a teenager, bleach tanging the air with a chemical coldness. He and Giblets had met a local boy who invited them to come hang out at the cow pastures with some other kids. They sat in a circle, talking and making jokes with the boys, the only ones in masks. Then the boy dug around in his backpack to reveal a strong-smelling cigarette. Chatterbox scrunched his nose at the skunklike stench. The smoke when the boy flicked his lighter made him feel like he was floating. Everything was funny. Until the pot-bellied clown found them.

Not all games are fun.

But this one is.

“Are you gonna cut me, Ray Mond?”

The girl’s moonstone eyes flash in technicolor surprise. The knife hovering next to his throat hums with suspense, her arm slightly trembling from the tension. Let’s see what you got, you yucking gangbanger.

“I haven’t decided, Mr. Box.”

Chatterbox looks her over. She’s wearing stereotypical gang bullyuck–all black to hide any identifying marks. But there’s subtle little touches that seem so hers. The knife holster strapped to her thigh, for one, seems to be a trademark when she’s doing serious yuck. The only time he’s seen her without it is at the clothing store where all the rich people shop. Silver hoop earrings, too, flash in the moonlight that draws attention to her mercury eyes. She’s still sizing him up. Like a trapped animal, she’s surveilling the threat.

The subtle sound of something hitting the gravel catches his attention. Blood drips down her fingertips in a quiet stream, coloring the ground with tiny portals of life.

“Will you at least let me take a look at that cut?”

She stutters, seemingly becoming aware of her injury. So focused, you missed getting hurt? Chatterbox frowns underneath his painted smile, eyebrows drawing into a scrunched furrow.

“Uh…um–”

He takes a step closer. It’s a risk, but he needs her to be knocked off her one-track mind. Are you different than the rest? All gangbangers like to make people bleed. They’re always hurting each other with the intent to cause as much pain as possible. Their punchlines to his crafty jokes cover his body in silvery pink striations and bursts. Permanent memories of his games.

The bitterness of the steel against his throat kisses him with a familiar frosty indifference.

“C’mon, Ray Mond. Do it.”

“W-what?”

“If you’re gonna cut me, do it. I dare you.”

The focus in her eyes falters. Instead, there’s a broadening alarm. Her eyes soften. Like the ripple of a water droplet in a shimmering pond, Ray’s face melts away from a frantic brace. Chatterbox cannot help the smile that reaches his golden irises. Just as the branches of a tree open their arms to the sunlight, crinkles form in the corners of his eyes.

Dropping the knife, she takes a step back.

“No.”

He reaches for his throat, gloved hand rubbing at the stinging impression of her blade.

“You should be more careful in yuckin’ dangerous places like these, especially in the dark.”

“It’s just a cut.”

“I wasn’t talking about the cut.”

She squints.

“Should I be scared of you?”

“Yuck, no,” Chatterbox laughs, “But your type tends to be.”

“My type?”

Ray flicks a braid over her shoulder and crosses her arms—the light around her glimmers.

“Chang Bang.”

“Chang Gang,” she corrects.

“Same yuck.”

“It is not.”

“What are you gonna do about it, Ray Mond?”

Chatterbox turns on his heel and begins walking back toward his Club. There’s another dare in his exposed back, an opportunity for the scrappy girl to cause some damage. He fights another smile as he hears the crunch of her footsteps behind him.

“Now wait just a fucking second…”

Her gate quickens to keep up with his long stride.

“You shouldn’t curse,” Chatterbox scolds.

“Or else what?”

The grinding of the gravel underneath her foot lets him know she’s closer now. Chatterbox spins around to face her. She gasps as she nearly stumbles into him. He looks down at her, molten lava bubbling in his gaze.

“Or else you’ll get the potty mouth treatment.”

He aims for fear, but instead, he only finds curiosity in her eyes.

“The potty…what?”

Chatterbox already struts toward his Club before the words leave her lips. Her lips. He shakes his head.

“Potty mouth treatment.”

“So what am I supposed to say instead–oh, thank you!”

Opening the passenger door for her, he gives a sarcastic bow.

“I use ‘yuck, ’ but you can use any word, I guess.”

“Yuck…” she repeats quietly, as if tasting the word.

He scrunches down into the small car, revving the engine to life. The clowns love these tiny things. Zipping around the city streets like a swarm of angry bees, they pride themselves on customizing the cheap cars into unique spectacles of personality. The look on the cops' faces pays for the souped-up vehicles every time.

“What about your meeting?”

Chatterbox looks toward the warm glow from the abandoned factory.

“You’re bleeding,” he answers decisively.

“I’m fine.”

“Are yucking not.”

The drive to the Funhouse takes ages. No matter how hard he presses the gas pedal to the ground, time seems to crawl. This girl. This Ray Mond won’t shut the yuck up. And they call me Chatterbox.

“So this plan with Hydra, don’t you worry if they’ll get mad and like…shoot you guys or something?”

He shrugs.

“Do you get shot a lot? I feel like you guys probably do if you’re fucking–I mean yucking–with gangs a lot.”

Chatterbox stares straight ahead. The terrain shifts from towering buildings to expansive trees.

“Okay, but have you guys thought about doing it in disguises instead?”

“No,” he answers sternly.

“Oh…”

She pauses for a moment, chewing on her inner cheek.

“Well, I guess that makes sense. It’s more fun to risk getting caught.”

Surprised, Chatterbox looks at her out of the corner of her eye. Most gangbangers will do anything not to get caught. Like this stupid outfit she’s wearing. Blacked out, radios, big guns, fast cars, they don’t take any risk. Yet…he focuses back on the road.

“So, is that type of stuff what the clowns do? Just fuck, uh…yuck, around with people?”

He sighs.

“It sounds like fun! But also…do you guys go to jail a lot? I’ve never been to jail before,” she boasts.

An eyebrow raises. No jail, huh? Devious thoughts begin to whirl around in his head. We’ll see about that, Ray Mond. There’s little things more fun than ruining a gangbanger's day. And she won’t shut the yuck up. Maybe Ray Mond needs to learn a lesson.

Fresh air fills the cabin of the car as they reach Grapeseed. Relief floods his body as the peak of the Funhouse’s roof comes into view.

“I’ve heard prison isn’t even that bad. Ramee told me they even have slushies and–”

“We’re here,” he cuts her off abruptly.

“Oh…”

She looks quietly up at the old house. Studying her face, Chatterbox’s eyes drift over her expression. Her lips press together softly as her silver eyes roam over the dilapidated structure. She looks…uncertain. He flinches as she turns to look at him.

“Have you always lived here?”

Easing out of the car, he walks up to the house. His house. There’s a wistful ambiance amongst the creaking floorboards and tattered wallpapered walls. Everything whispers of what used to be. Memories mumble in his ears as he leads her into the golden light of the kitchen.

“Sometimes it looks like the house is winking from the outside,” she blurts out.

“Houses can’t wink, Ray Mond.”

“I-I know that.”

He tilts his head. He knows what she means, though. Sometimes he swears he hears the walls breathing. It’s a quiet groan that lurks in the halls. The hallway light flickers, and a shiver runs up his spine. He needs her to get out.

“Let me see your arm.”

“Oh! Yeah.”

A hot flush colors his cheeks as she pulls the skin-tight shirt over her head, revealing a lacy black camisole that dips low on her chest and ends just above her belly button.

“Y-you didn’t have t-to, uh…”

Chatterbox pulls at his ear nervously. She doesn’t acknowledge his nervous stuttering. Instead, she boosts herself up onto the kitchen table. A half-eaten sandwich sits on a chipped plate by her right hand. Swinging her legs softly, her toes gently tap the floor.

“The stove is on,” she observes.

“Yuckin’ Scruffy,” Chatterbox grumbles as he makes his way to the sink.

Taking his white polyester gloves off, he gives his hands a thorough scrub. He silently sings his ABCs in his head like Tessa taught him (so what if he skips a few letters?). When he turns back around, she’s adjusted herself to be sitting facing him. Chatterbox clears his throat. She needs to get out.

“So, you never answered if you’ve lived here forever.”

“I haven’t been alive forever, Ray Mond.”

“Well yeah, duh, I just meant like…since you were born.”

Chatterbox doesn’t answer, instead focusing on gently coaxing away the rose stains branching down her arm with a sterile wipe. The heat from her gaze warms his cheeks into a blooming crimson. I miss my full yuckin’ mask.

“I’ve been here a long time,” he decides to answer.

“So are you super old or something?”

“I dunno,” Chatterbox responds quietly.

“You don’t look super old,” Ray decides.

He hazards a look up at her rather than at her wound.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“It’s not my fault you’re all cool and mysterious, Mr. Box.”

“Chatterbox. And I’m not yuckin’ cool and mysperpious.”

“Mysterious. It means like…I don’t know a lot about you.”

“Hm.”

She hisses in pain as he presses around the cut.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t think you need stitches. Maybe just some butterfly bandages.”

“Okay…Where did you learn to do all this medical stuff?”

“I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

“You don’t seem like the type to go to college.”

A pounding in Chatterbox’s head starts to creep behind his eyes. The basement’s cold air crawls under his skin, bristling the hairs into goosebumps. He grabs a package of butterfly stitches and takes the stairs two at a time. She has to get out.

Ray looks over her shoulder at him as he returns, a frustrated look on her face. It’s like she’s trying to piece together a puzzle, but the pieces are broken and missing.

“Did you go to vet school like Tessa? Or did she teach you?”

Applying the butterfly bandages in ordered rows across the cut, his thumb roughly dances over her soft skin. She needs to get out.

“Tessa definitely taught you, huh?”

“No,” Chatterbox barks.

He blinks rapidly, even taking himself aback. Ray’s eyes widen for a moment.

“No…I–”

He sighs.

“I taught myself.”

“You must be really smart,” she nods.

“You don’t get it.”

“What don’t I get?” her voice sharpens.

She almost sounds hurt.

“Never-yuckin’-mind.”

“No! Now you gotta tell me, Chatterbox.”

Pressing a finger squarely into his chest, Ray stares at him intently.

“It’s easy to put people together when you know how to take them apart, Ray Mond.”

Her finger drops from his chest. The fiery intensity in her face shifts into the quiet glow of a dying ember–still warm, but waning. There it is. The draining disgust that seeps away his humanity. He knows that look. I’m a monster. Flashes of petrified faces and echoing screams plague his mind. Chatterbox steps back from her, bracing himself against the sink. Inky blood puddles at his feet. He squeezes his eyes shut. It’s gone, but the pounding in his head grows louder.

She stares at her feet before taking a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, Chatty.”

“For what?”

Protective venom drips from his tongue.

“That sounds…scary.”

“I’m not a good person, Ray Mond. You should leave.”

She needs to get out. Nausea stirs in his stomach like a winding serpent, poised for another attack. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He’s said too much, revealed the brute beneath the benevolent painted smile. She needs to get out.

“That’s not what I meant.”

He stands silently.

“I meant…it sounds scary to be raised…to know how to do stuff like that. I’m sorry you went through that. I’m sorry I pushed you to tell me…I didn’t know.”

“That’s right. You didn’t.”

Ray fiddles with the bloodied shirt in her hands. A stifled hiccup shakes her shoulders.

“Um…thank you. For the help, I mean.”

“Don’t make it a yuckin’ habit.”

“O-Of?”

“Getting hurt,” Chatterbox fights the tightness in his throat.

Like a noose, tears choke him of the air in his throat. He can’t show her weakness. No weakness.

"That’s how Bobo gets taken from you, Chatterbox. And then you’ll starve. Do you want to starve?"

“Do you need a ride? Back to your car?”

“No…”

She almost sounds sad. She needs to get out.

“I’ll…um…I’ll call my friend Max for a ride. He works as a taxi driver anyway. And I don’t want my gang questioning me and stuff.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She slides to the floor and awkwardly shuffles to the door.

“T-Thank you, again.”

“Goodbye, Ray Mond.”

Turning hesitantly, she takes a few steps toward the door before whipping back around.

“Do you have a piece of paper?”

“No…I don’t think so…”

“Hm…um…here, I can use this.”

The girl grabs a pen from the dining room table and a soy sauce-stained napkin. She scribbles something on it, nodding to herself assuredly as she finishes.

“Just in case. Bye!”

Practically running out the door, Ray leaves him alone in the shuddering silence of his home. Chatterbox takes a timid step toward the napkin. The blue ink of the pen reminds him of the pulsing veins under stretched skin. Nausea washes over him again, and he turns away. Retreating to his sanctuary, he grabs a bottle of beer and heads up the stairs. The balcony beckons him away from the noise echoing in the walls. The distant scratching of memories at his mind’s doorstep. Yuckin’ rats.

He watches as a yellow taxi takes her away from the rotting flesh of his home. Rotting. Like him. A blistering wound on the earth that he tries to repair. Tries to heal. His entire life serves as an apology now, as if each stitch will make up for…

He rips the mask away from his face, tossing it behind him onto the bed.

Chatterbox takes a swig of the cold beer.

”I’m sorry, Chatty.”

Her words resonate louder than the guilt. He scratches at the deep scar that travels along his left cheek. Stubble dots his face after the long day. Taking another drink, he repeats her words over and over. He’s used to pity. Sad eyes looking at him like he’s a wounded dog. But she was different. It wasn’t pity in her eyes. It was understanding.

He takes another drink. The moon shines over him, a smiling waxing crescent.

“The yuck are you smiling at?” he mutters.

Chugging the rest of his drink, he tosses the empty bottle with practiced precision into the metal trash can below.

“Yuckin’ rights,” he cheers half-heartedly.

Eyelids heavy, he leaves the balcony doors open as he stumbles into bed. Chatterbox doesn’t bother to change out of his suit, only lazily kicking off his dress shoes. The old metal frame creaks in rebellion as he releases his body weight onto the thin mattress. Sleep claims him quickly with unforgiving claws that drag his muscles down into the depths of darkness. Paralyzed, his eyes wander underneath his eyelids as dreams lock him into an inescapable and mastered walk down memory lane.

It’s not until a few days later that Chatterbox finds the crumpled napkin amongst the collected trash. Muttering to himself about the messiness of the clowns, the bright blue ink stands out from the beige pile of food waste. He scrunches his nose as he pulls it out from the mess.

Ray Mond (Hiccups)

(420) 257-9739

He rubs his thumb over the ink.

”I’m sorry, Chatty.”

Clearing his throat, he shoves the napkin into the pocket of his burgundy suit vest. Yuckin’ weirdo. He’s not sure if the thought is about himself or…the girl. Chatterbox continues to collect all of the discards from the clowns into a thinning trash bag; its ebony plastic bulging with beer bottles and paper plates, the trash bag thins like his patience for the mess. The clowns use his home like a meeting place and a hotel all in one. He doesn’t mind, mostly. Their voices drown out the noise in his mind, laughter painting over a history of screams. 

“I gotta start making Stumbles do this bullyuck,” he grumbles as he lugs the bag to the trash can. 

He runs his hand through his deep brown hair, redirecting the pesky strand that always falls in his eyes into its place. It's still early enough that he won’t be bothered, the sun painting the yellowing fields in a warm glow. The heat already prickles against his forearms. He rolled his sleeves up to his forearms while cleaning, now too wrinkled to roll back down. Squinting, he holds a hand up to his forehead. The local farmers dot the fields in denim blue. 

A moo to his left startles him.

“Yuck! What the yuck are you doing over here, Frank?”

Chatterbox walks up to the black and white dairy cow, rubbing a hand over its shoulder. The cow nudges him with her bulky head. Giblets insisted on naming her Frank despite her…herness. It was amusing, so Chatterbox let it slide (after a lot of protesting). 

“The farmers are gonna beat your yuck if you keep wandering over here,” he muses.

He scratches behind her ears, smoothing a gloved hand over her forehead. She moos again before wandering back toward the pasture. Chatterbox sighs, a goofy smile behind the painted one. Animals are safe. Always have been. They never judge him or ask him for anything. He can just be.

”I’m sorry, Chatty.”

Shaking his head, he rubs his temple. Shut up. His phone rings.

“Twiiinkles, how are you, man?”

“Hiii, Chatty. Twinkles has some good news.”

“Whatcha got for me?”

“Rumors on the street are that Hydra has a big heist planned for tomorrow night. Twinkles thinks we should do the plan then.”

“Ooo, good yuck, Twinkles.”

“Hehe, yeahhh!”

“You wanna get up to some yuck before then?”

“Twinkles is always down.”

“Call Sneaky and Wendy…uh…maybe Ratchet…aaand…hm…”

“Does Tessa wanna come?”

“Tessa can’t during the week. Too much bullyuck at the vet office.”

“Ohhh. What about Stumbles?”

“Twinkles, if Stumbles comes, we’ll be in jail until next week. He’ll yuck it all up,” Chatterbox laughs.

“That’s true,” Twinkles giggles.

“Oh! I know! I’ll call Happy. He never comes out and yucks around anymore.”

“Do you think Windsong will let him?”

“I’ll get it figured out. Don’t worry, Twinkles.”

“Okie dokes! Where do you wanna meet?”

“Just come to the Funhouse.”

“See you there!”

The crew gathers in a colorful conglomeration, laughing and talking over each other about the impending chaos. Sneaky dances on top of the RV that Twinkles stole for their fun while Wendy runs around tending to the cows. Ratchet babbles to Twinkles about his new rat route that’s sure to lose the cops. And Chatterbox? He barters with Happy over the phone.

“C’mon, Happy. You gotta show these newer clowns why we call you the elder. No one has better getaway plans than you.”

“Reaaally?”

“Yeah! Plus, Windsong would think it’s super hot when you bring home a bunch of money from your crime. It’s like a gift!” Chatterbox cringes as he says it. 

“That is true. I’m in!”

“Yuckin’ rights, Happy! Come to the Funhouse.”

“Alright. I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry!”

Chatterbox hangs up the phone before Happy can change his mind.

“Nailed it,” he beams. 

The chase away from the cops goes about how most do: Chatterbox escapes on foot while the rest of the clowns fend for themselves. An angry call from Happy from an unknown number confirms his suspicions. The clowns are yuckin' dumb. Chatterbox laughs to himself as he swings his feet from the top of an old, retired police station in Vespucci.

"Yuckin' idiots."

His phone chimes with a new text message.

Tyler Peepers aka Gunner

lose something, chatterdonkey?

Me

the yuck do you want gunner?

Tyler Peepers aka Gunner

i didn't know you liked hot women, you dog

[photo of the crumpled napkin]

"Oh, yuck," Chatterbox's smile falls from his face.

Me

WHY DO YOU HAVE MY GARBAGE, YOU SACK OF YUCK

Tyler Peepers aka Gunner

you trying to take my trophy, chatterdonkey?

His face crumples in disgust. Pressing the call button, it only takes two rings for the sleezy cop to answer the phone.

"What do you mean a trophy, Gunner?"

"Not that you would care. But, Ray Mond is THE hottest girl in Los Santos, Chatterdonkey."

"What the yuck? She had a normal body temperature when I saw her. Did she get a fever or somethin'?"

"Not that kind of hot, dumbass. She's attractive. Sexy. Worth fucking."

"You're disgusting," Chatterbox sneers.

"You're the one with her number, fuckface."

"So yuckin' what?"

"Trying to date her or something?"

"Date?"

"You should stay away from her, Chatterdonkey. That's my future girl."

"Does she yuckin' think that?"

The cop hangs up the phone before Chatterbox can finish his lecture.

"Stupid sack a—"

He sighs. I should warn her. An unfamiliar skip in his chest as his fingers hover over his keyboard makes him think twice. But what if…nah. She needs to know. Looking at the photo Gunner (aka Tyler yuckin' Peepers) sent, Chatterbox repeats the numbers quietly to himself before adding the contact, "Ray Mond".

Me

uh…it's chatterbox. sorry to bug you. Tyler Peepers got a hold of the napkin you gave me. If that's a problem, I can kill him for you.

"Stupid…stupid…" Chatterbox mumbles.

Three dots pop up for a brief moment, and he gasps and throws the phone across the rooftop.

"Yuck."

Chatterbox jumps up and runs to his phone just as it dings. Swiping his glove across the screen to clear away some debris, he takes a deep breath before looking at the message.

Ray Mond

omg lol that's okay. he already has it :<

So maybe he is… A sinking feeling in his gut surprises him.

"Stupid yuckin'…"

His phone dings again.

Ray Mond

he's a fucking creep though. we should kill him anyway.

Chatterbox lets out a startled laugh.

Ray Mond

yucking !!! sorry !!

Me

you'd wanna do that type of bullyuck?

Ray Mond

only to people who REALLY deserve it

"Huh."

Chatterbox locks his phone. Pulling on his ear, he starts to pace around the roof. He opens his phone again and rereads the message, making sure he read it right. It's a long-held belief of his. Sometimes people deserve it. Bad people. People who hurt him and his loved ones, like the nasty gangbangers who can't take a joke. The people who rob and steal because of greed instead of necessity. Chatterbox isn't a stranger to crime. He brags about his rapsheet to anyone who will listen, but even he has limits. He learned limits.

"Eh," Chatterbox shakes his head.

Down the ladder he climbs, breaking out into a light jog the minute his feet hit the pavement.

He spends the next few days doing more of the same—running. It doesn't matter who from. It's all the same. Cops. Gangbangers. Grumpy shop owners. Responsibility. How long has he been running?

He can't run from the thought of her.

Sneaky teases him on their drive to yuck with Hydra for crashing into a light pole. He thought he saw her car flying past the hospital toward Little Seoul.

Wendy lectures him to be more careful when he accidentally cuts himself in the kitchen while chopping vegetables to put in the tofu noodle soup for dinner. He thought he caught a whiff of vanilla and cinnamon drifting past his nose.

Tessa asks him if he's getting enough sleep after he spaces out during a clown meeting. He nods shortly, but the truth is that when he closes his eyes, hers shine back at him.

Questions swirl around him over the next couple of weeks. She doesn't text him again. He stares at their short conversation in moments of silence when the sun kisses the moon. Despite the chaos that drives him, it's her words that halt him—stillness that raptures his soul.

"I'm sorry, Chatty."

Shaking his head, the world comes back into focus. Laughter floats high above a busy highway, green metal glinting in the afternoon sun. Clowns dressed in fantastic colors and patterns race along a narrow suspension beam toward him. Behind them run painly dressed gangbangers with masks of olive green, complaining about the trip.

"Welcome, you absolute sacks of yuck."

"You're going down, Chatterbox!" Flippy announces.

"Oh, I'm not playing. I gotta run the game. You guys will be going against Ember, Twinkles, Ratchet, Sneaky, Wendy, and…who else wants to play…"

"I'll play," Stumbles interjects.

"Good yuck, Stumb."

Chatterbox claps his hands together.

"Everyone to the edge."

The game goes about as expected. Nine bodies paint the highway below in crimson. Chatterbox sighs in defeat.

"You guys win. We won't mess with you for a month."

"Heck yeah!" Vee cheers.

"You should probably go pick your husband up off the pavement."

"Oh! Fuck."

Vee scurries away, followed by the rest of the clowns, who are laughing and talking amongst themselves. Except one.

"You okay, Chatty?"

"Hm? Oh. Yeah, I'm okay, Ma. I just need a minute."

"Do you want us to wait for you?"

"Nah. I'll just lockpick a car or somethin'. Dinner tomorrow?"

"Sure," Tessa smiles.

Chatterbox waves, "Bye, Tessa."

"Goodbye! Don't stay up too late."

Pulling out his phone, Chatterbox opens her messages again. The words are memories now, a bedtime story and a prayer. He takes a deep breath. Take the risk.

Me

can I ask ya something?

He smiles when she responds almost immediately.

Ray Mond

sure! whats up :>

The smile contorts into a worried grimace. He's never been good with words. What if I scare her away… Chatterbox's heart rate quickens as he stares at her response.

"I'm sorry, Chatty."

"Friends will get you killed, Chatterbox. You listen to Bobo."

Tapping his fist against his forehead, he grumbles quietly.

"Okay. Yuck it," he whispers.

Me

why did you apologize

Ray Mond

when?

Me

at my house…

Ray Mond

ohhh. because i fucked up.

*yucked up.

Me

oh…okay

Chatterbox looks out over the city. Streetlights start to flicker on as the sun begins to fall lower in the sky.

Ray Mond

you okay?

Me

…

Chatterbox's fingers hover over his keyboard. He doesn't know how to answer that. For the first time, there's no urge to smile or lie. But the truth tastes bitter on his tongue.

Me

you busy?

Ray Mond

i'm so bored you have no idea.

Me

whats your ping?

In circles he walks; feet with a mind of their own take him back and forth across the top of the bridge. Minutes feel like hours as he waits, but it's not long before his phone chimes again.

Ray Mond

is it under the bridge or on the bridge?

Me

you gotta get on the bridge from underneath

Ray Mond

how do i get there?

Me

hold on. i'll ping you again.

He runs down the suspension cable with practiced ease. At the bottom, he sends another ping. It's not long before her smoking G-Wagon pulls onto the grass.

"Holy yuck," Chatterbox laughs as she hops out of the car.

"I do not want to hear it."

She sounds stern, but there's a smile twitching at the corner of her lips.

"We have to go up there?"

A flicker of fear in her mercury eyes makes him feel a pang of guilt.

"You'll be fine. I promise."

"Pinky promise."

"Those are sacred, Ray Mond."

"Pinky promise or I'm not going."

"Fine. Pinky promise."

"Pinky promise."

He holds out his gloved pinky, and she takes it without flinching. She's warm. His whole body tingles with it like the tickle of an approaching sunburn. The sky lights up in a tender orange, bathing her in a golden halo. Light trickles around her as she looks at him expectantly.

"Uh…let's go."

Moving quickly, he starts the trek back up to the top of the bridge. He pauses when he doesn't hear the twang of metallic footsteps behind him.

"You coming, Ray Mond?"

"Um…"

"You can do it. Just sit down on the edge of the concrete and slide down onto the metal. Don't jump."

"I…I don't know…"

He walks back to her and holds out a hand.

"C'mon. You got it."

"Okay," she breathes out.

With a shaky hand, she lowers herself onto the metallic beam. Ray squeezes his hand tightly in the process, but he doesn't flinch. He waits for her to find her balance.

"I think I got it," she smiles proudly.

A pang of disappointment twinges in his gut as she releases his hand.

"Up we go," he cuts the stillness.

Without a second thought, he starts running back up the metal.

"Waiiit," she laughs, "I can't go that fast."

"Let's go, slowpoke. You scared?"

"N-no! But what if you fall?"

"I won't fall," Chatterbox chuckles, "Watch this."

Turning around, the clown begins to jog backward up the narrow beam. Her face lights up, a dazzling smile tickling at the corners of her eyes.

"You're insane," she laughs.

"I'm not insane; I just act like it," Chatterbox calls back.

Her laughter floats above the traffic as she picks up her pace to a careful trot. Tinkling like the sound of wind chimes in a breeze, her giggle stirs up butterflies in his stomach. There's something addictive about her. Every smile and laugh sends a jolt through his system; it's a fire that blazes through his core and turns everything he cannot stand to ashes—until it's only her.

And yet, the high comes with something sweet and safe. Despite her clear attitude, there's something delicate behind her steely gaze. Something hidden and precious. Something fragile.

He's never been good with safe. Chatterbox destroys everything he touches, a sledgehammer to his relationships and plans. He'll break her. He knows it.

"Wow!" she exclaims, cutting through the noise in his head.

"You ain't ever been up here before?"

"No…it's much better than my spot on top of the Cubby."

She stands quietly, looking out toward the city.

"It looks so pretty from here."

"It ain't half bad. Grapeseed is better, though."

"You might be right about that," she agrees.

Looking at her curiously, Chatterbox works up the nerve to ask her some questions. Start simple, Chatterbox.

"Why were you bored? Aren't you guys always doing some crazy bullyuck heist?"

"Mm, yeah, usually. But, since my injury," she gestures to her waist, "I'm kinda on standby. Sitting at the Taco Shop selling weed for hours can only be so fun."

"Yuckin' grinders," Chatterbox teases.

"It can be a good time," Ray crosses her arms, "Like if the right people are hanging out."

"Suuure."

"You mean to tell me you never do any work?"

"Nah. It's about the funny, not the money, Ray Mond."

"Hm…how do you pay for food and stuff, then?"

Chatterbox shrugs, "Rob stuff sometimes. Or sometimes people just buy it for us."

She nods.

"Life is more fun when you aren't worried about that type of bullyuck. Plus, it's a good challenge to figure yuck out."

"I see," she chews on her lower lip.

"And we know our friends are real. No gang tax or stupid yuck like that. It ain't about what we can take from each other. It's about the fun we have."

A pained look crosses her face. It's subtle, the grimace that purses her lips, but he sees it. She knows what he means. What have they taken from you, Ray Mond?

"We…uh…we're a family too. Some of us, anyway. Like Vinny, he took me in when I had nothing. And Novah, my sister. Taco is like a brother to me and has helped me out a lot. April, my bestie, has stuck with me through the ugliest parts of my life. I love them all a lot."

"Vinny?! That bald-headed Caillou sack of yuck is your dad?"

Ray stifles a laugh, forcing a serious look onto her face. Planting her hands on her hips, she turns to face him.

"Don't you talk yuck about Vinny. He's taught me everything I know."

She pauses for a moment.

"Mostly everything," she adds softly.

He looks over at her. A forlorn look in her silvery eyes brings a frown to his face. He knows that look. He's seen it staring back at him in the spiderweb-cracked mirror of the YellowJack bathroom or the reflection of a polished whiskey glass at the Tequi-la-la. She's lost someone.

"Who was it?" he asks gently.

They stand in silence for a few seconds, watching the colors in the sky deepen from a soft orange to a vibrant magenta.

"Y-you don't gotta tell me if you don't wanna."

"No, it's okay," she answers slowly, "I had this mentor…"

"What's a mempor?"

"A mentor. Like…someone to teach you stuff."

He tilts his head, "Like a teacher? I never went to college. I never went to school, neither."

"Kinda like a teacher, yeah. But instead of school stuff, it's for life stuff."

"Ohhh."

"You didn't go to school?"

"Nah," Chatterbox shrugs, "I guess I had a mentor too. Bobo taught me everything I needed to know. Well, mostly."

He answers without thinking, but immediately regret starts to burn in his chest.

"B-but…uh…tell me about your mentor."

Hesitating, she looks him over carefully, like she's trying to decide whether to ask him something. She must have decided against it because she sighs before starting to explain.

"Yeah…he found me when I first moved to the city. I was homeless and sleeping on benches in Legion Square every night. I had just turned 18, gotten kicked out of the foster home I was in, and stuff. I decided to move to San Andreas to try to find my twin. You ever met Yuno?"

Chatterbox nods, "Yeah, I know Yuno. He set me on fire one time."

"Oh…I'm sorry."

Shrugging, he motions for her to continue.

"Anyway, Yuno didn't want much to do with me, so I kinda just…roughed it on the streets. My mentor…he found me while hiding from the cops one night. He offered me," she pauses as if gathering the courage to keep talking, "He offered me something I never really had—a family."

Chatterbox knows that tactic all too well. All the gangs in the city like to call themselves a family, but they don't know the meaning of the yucking word. They prey on people living in desperation. They feed on fear. Yucking gangbangers.

Ray starts to pace as she talks, looking at the metal in front of her feet.

"So, of course, I joined Chang Gang. They offered me a roof over my head and a way to make money. At first, it was easy, you know? Little jobs here and there, but then…he started using me for everything."

Her pacing quickens. Instead of walking back and forth across the beam, Ray begins to circle him. Feet following the spiral of her thoughts, she becomes a dizzying tornado.

Chatterbox fights down a smile.

"I worked to pay his tax too, you know? Just so that he'd keep talking to me and including me in stuff. I thought I was his number one. I worked myself thin…Vinny noticed. He tried to step in, but I was reluctant at first. I just wanted to make my mentor proud. I wanted him," her voice softens, "I wanted him to love me."

Hiccuping, she stops pacing and looks up at him.

"You know what I mean?"

A knot in Chatterbox's throat keeps him from speaking, but he nods. He knows exactly what that's like. Trying to earn Bobo's love made him into a monster.

"It was just never enough," she begins pacing again.

"Then, um…something happened. The gang found out that he was…he was keeping money he wasn't supposed to. That wasn't all. He was flirting with this girl from another gang and telling her stuff he wasn't supposed to. It got some of the boys robbed. T-they…" Ray's voice breaks.

"You don't have to tell me or nothin'..."

Ray takes a deep breath.

"They took him somewhere. I never saw him again. I didn't get to say goodbye or anything. He was just…I was so mad at him, Chatty. I almost lost everything because of him. The gang all looked at me funny for like ever until…I had to give up a lot. And I don't mean 'haha' funny, either. They all hated me. They saw me as him, you know?"

He's not quite sure what to say. She's been through a hell that, while different, echoes eerily of his own past.

"I…um…"

"I promised myself never to get that close to anyone ever again. It hurts too much. Because…because everyone leaves me."

"Everyone?"

She glances over at him, moonlit eyes reflecting in the pond of salty tears threatening to fall like rain. A quiet hiccup escapes. Clearing her throat, she sniffles softly. He watches as she composes herself. Her posture straightens, and she becomes rigid once more.

"Everyone. Not my birth parents. Not a single foster parent. Not…not anyone. No one stays forever."

"My birth parents weren't no good either," he offers.

Her shoulders relax a little, her arms falling out of their cross against her chest.

"My Ma…she left. Couldn't take any yuck from my dad no more. I wasn't good enough to come with, I guess; maybe, she thought I'd be too difficult. Maybe I was bad like my Pa. He'd hit me when I was bad. I think I was bad a lot because I got real skinny and hurt a lot. Then…well…I don't really remember how I got to Grapeseed. Only that things got better after I did. Things got a lot better after I met Tessa. Tessa didn't ask for nothing. She was a cop back then, you know. Helped me out a lot when the other cops would put me in the small cell or shine flashlights in my face. Tessa won't ever leave me, I know that much, even though I'm stupid."

Ray frowns.

"You aren't stupid."

He stutters uncomfortably, "U-uh well, uh…thanks, I guess."

"I mean it."

There's a serious look in her eye, pointed like the tip of her blade.

"Okay," he answers reluctantly.

The sun shimmers on the ocean's horizon now, a deep blue taking over the sky.

"Thanks for telling me all that," he offers.

A tender smile pulls at the corners of her lips.

"Thank you for listening…no one has ever really asked me about that stuff before."

Confusion stitches his brows together. She seems…interesting. Why would no one care to ask her about herself?

"Ray Mond?"

"Yeah, Chatty?"

"Not everyone leaves. I don't know too much, but something I've learned is that the people who leave probably shouldn't stay. If the people around you only want what you have, they're not real friends. Not real family. People should be your friend because they like you, Ray Mond. 'Cuz you're fun and you're kind. Not 'cuz you can give them stuff."

"You think I'm fun?"

She sounds shocked.

"Well, I ain't been around you much, but you're not too bad. Still a gangbanger sack of yuck," he laughs.

Ray giggles, another small hiccup making her shoulders jump.

"Okay, and you're a clown, yuck of shit. I mean sack of shit. I mean sack of yuck."

"Close enough," Chatterbox chuckles.

"Can I ask ya something?" Her eyes squint.

"Maybe."

"Why do you wear a half mask? All the other clowns wear face paint or full masks. Is there a reason you wear the half one?"

Chatterbox's blood runs cold.

"Does it matter?" he snaps.

Wincing, she draws away from him for a moment. Blood spills out of her chest in an inky waterfall, pooling at her feet. She's drenched in the stuff. It streams toward him until he's standing in an ankle-deep river of her lifeforce. Another victim of the beast lurking underneath. Squeezing his eyes shut, Chatterbox lets out a shaky breath.

"Yuck…I…uh…"

"Bad memories?"

Chatterbox looks back down at his feet and pulls at his ear nervously.

"Maybe you can tell me about it another time?"

The light dips below the horizon as darkness settles in over the city.

"Another time?"

"Well, we are going to hang out another time, right?"

Her voice subtly quivers at the end. Chatterbox meets her eyes. There's uncertainty lurking there in the abyss, reaching out for a glimmer of hope.

"I'll make you a deal," he decides.

"What's that?"

"A deal? It means like…an exchange. I do something and you do something."

Ray laughs, light flooding back to her face.

"I know what a deal is, silly. I meant, what did you have in mind?"

His heart hiccups, a stuttering beat at her joy.

"If you come up with a clown persona and can hang with us for a whole day without being a total yuckbag, then I'll consider it."

"You'll consider it?" Ray crosses her arms.

"Let's see how fun you are, Ray Mond."

"Deal," she holds out her hand to shake.

"Deal."

They give a brisk handshake, but before she breaks away, she squeezes his hand. It's a slight gesture. Something so small, he's unsure if it actually happened or if he imagined it. Do I want to imagine it?

Chatterbox runs his hand through his hair to rid it of the sensation.

"You should probably be getting back. Don't want people questioning where you went."

"They probably didn't even notice," Ray rolls her eyes.

"But you're right. It's getting late. And I have yucking grinding to do."

Ray sticks out her tongue.

"Yuck," he smiles.

"Bye, Chatty!"

"Bye, Ray Mond."

As she heads back down to the city, Chatterbox cannot help but notice a change. She seems lighter, as if she's floating down the bridge. Like a hawk, he watches until her small figure disappears into her car below.

"Yuck," he curses.

Rubbing his face, he looks out onto the sea of skyscrapers and lights.

I'm so yucked.

His phone chimes.

Ray Mond

it's okay that I call you chatty, right?

Me

yeah? all my friends do. and the clowns.

Ray Mond

okie :>

He considers whether he should clarify that they are not friends, but he locks his phone instead. There's something nice about the way it sounds on her tongue. The clowns make it sound harsh and annoying. Tessa makes it sound safe. And Ray Mond? She makes it sound like a song.

Chatterbox likes music. The old radio in the barn echoes off the cracked wood, making the dust look like fireflies dancing in the sunlight streaming through the cracks. He liked sneaking back there as a kid to skip out on his chores. Finding spots to hide the empty cars was hard work.

The barn is still his favorite spot to hide out. The music helps him to pretend that his life is something different.

Maybe she does too.