“We’re going to where Michael died when he first joined” sounds like a peak immortal fahc quote
Gavin wasn’t a bad person, in the past. That’s not to say he was a good person, but he wasn’t a bad person. Normal, maybe, for the time. For the place. Lived as an okay- a fine- person.
Gavin Free: completely neutral person.
Gavin thinks, maybe, it would hurt. To realize you’re a bad person, when you thought you were a good person. Like falling off a building.
Hitting the ground and feeling yourself break.
He didn’t make the fall from good to bad. He did make the fall from roof to ground. An accident. Something no one saw. (Something no one would notice.) No one would know about it, until morning, when they found his body.
They never found his body.
He was a good person, once. At the very least normal. Jeremy Dooley wasn’t planning on becoming what he did. Had thought his life would be average, to the end.
Who expects immortality, anyway?
Geoff had always loved the city.
He was a man that grew up in small towns with close communities. The suffocation of expectation had eaten him alive as a young man. Now that he was an adult, free to roam as he pleased, he went to any city the beckoned him.
He hopped from place to place, never wanting to set down roots, like his parents had. He wanted the wild ride that freedom gave him. The uncertainty of tomorrow was so inviting. The lost of yesterday was nothing to him.
Until the day the city became to much for him.
He’d just been walking down the street. Not a good street. A dirty, empty, wet street with shaded alleys and hooded figures.
Geoff was headed ‘home’. He was walking back to his hotel, which was just as much of a piece of shit as the entire city. He hadn’t realized that he was being followed. He was still riding the high of night before and was practically skipping down the road in his crumpled suit. A suit that he had stolen and one that drew more attention then he’d realized.
Realization came after it was to late.
He was shoved into one of those dark halls, a knife in his face and a pair of crazed eyes behind it.
"Gimme your fucking wallet!“
Geoff was speechless. He’d been to twenty cities at this point, yet this had never happened to him before.
"Are you fucking stupid?! Give me your god damned money before I kill you!”
"I don’t have any money!“ He cried, half telling the truth. He didn’t really have 'money’, but he had a trail of fake names and empty credit cards behind him. Geoff never stuck around anywhere long enough to get a job.
"Yea? Then why you walkin’ down this part of town with a suit like that, huh? Your just fucking begging someone to mug you!” Before Geoff could argue, the man in front of him jabbed his knife forward with practiced ease, stabbing him right in the throat. Blood started running down the front of him. The man pulled away, letting Geoff put a hand to his own throat and slide down the wall with wide, teary eyes.
The stranger walked away, grumbling to himself.
Meanwhile, Geoff was dying.
He was crying and gurgling, his arms and legs shaking like a screen-door in a hurricane. His body felt so cold. So empty. So numb. He was scared and he was alone. No one in the world would know he was dead.
Geoff would bleed out there, in an alley, in the middle of a city. And not a soul in the world would care.
It took longer then he ever thought it would. The immensity of death settled over him like a heavy blanket and if he hadn’t already been stabbed, it would have been enough to scare him to death. As he laid there, leaking, the world faded to black.
After a while, Geoff Lazer Ramsey, died.
Then he came back.
He’d never closed his eyes, in his terror. He didn’t want to stop seeing the world, but he’d run out of blood at some point. His eyes had stopped working.
But when they started working again, he was still sitting there, staring down at the concrete with wide, dry eyes.
When he breathed again, it was slow, like he’d woken up from a deep sleep.
The next breath was faster and more panicked.
He sat up straight, his hands going for his throat. There was no hole. No wound. But when he looked down, he was still smothered in blood. His blood. The blood that had dribbled out of him when that gangster fuck had stabbed him.
Geoff didn’t know what was going on. Had it all been a dream? A bad trip? He hadn’t taken anything last night, but he’d been rolling through a number of bars. Someone could have slipped him something at any time. Yet, the blood was still there. It was real. Crusted against his suit and flaking away as he shakily pushed himself to his feet.
One of his hands slipped from his throat to his chest and he held it there, feeling his heart hammer within.
He was alive.
But he hadn’t been just a few minutes ago.
Geoff didn’t know how he was back, but he knew that he had been dead. He didn’t know what god or demon gave him this second chance, but he knew what he was going to do with it.
First things first?
Find the man that had killed him.
I would personally like to thank whoever decided it was a good idea for the Achievement Hunters to reenact scenes from the past in Achievement Haunters because that shit gives me MAD Immortal Fake AH Crew vibes
Infamy is itself, a kind of fame, and in Los Santos, the FAHC were the most famous of them all. They were brutal, murdering, vandalizing bastards, who stole cars casually and wrecked them effortlessly. Even still, they weren’t exactly unpopular. With the exception of those with a personal grudge, the normal everyday citizens of Los Santos largely found the FAHC amusing. They were the town’s own personal soap opera, and everyone tuned into the local news each night to catch up with the escapades of the immortal crew. Every once in a while in everyday life, the sky would fill up with heat and light, just like an action film, and it reminded everyone that their city was special. That they were special for living in it.
As a result of this, and to a lesser extent, out of fear, the citizens gave the Fakes a pass when they met them on the street. They gave Mogar directions when he got himself lost for the thousandth time, occasionally paid for the Kingpin’s coffee when they were behind him in line, even held the door open for the masked Vagabond.
Except lately the citizens of Los Santos were annoyed. The post office was a bureaucratic hivemind that could reach DMV levels of administrative frustration on a busy day, and thanks to one misplaced sticky, the FAHC had managed to destroy one of their buildings. Now, the lines at the remaining branches were overly long, newly heightened security added an extra tedious step to the whole process, and any and all packages and yet-to-be-sent letters that were housed in the destroyed branch got demolished in the inferno that punched through the old brick wall. This was how the FAHC had managed to piss off an entire city.
So the citizens of Los Santos were understandably frustrated. But up against an immortal agency of chaos, there could be no big revolution, no push to destroy the FAHC as they had destroyed their post office. They only had their small rebellions. People who passed Gavin on the street would “accidentally” spill their coffees on his nice shirts, any garish orange and purple car parked innocently in a given parking lot got its side keyed and its tires slashed, Jack consistently had to wait over an hour longer to get her planes refuelled. The Fakes had lost the support of the city and it was really starting to become a nuisance.
So the Fakes decided to make it up to the city. A little bit of public service to right the wrong they had done. And in typical FAHC fashion, it was violent and creative.
They rented out a little ranch north of the city for a week, acquired a bunch of costumes, and set the scene. Taking inspiration from a certain popular television show, they created a small town in the style of the old west, with various buildings and barns from the ranch standing in for actual saloons and sheriff’s offices. It was perhaps not the most loyal re-creation, what with the lack of production value and the motorcycles replacing horses. But the point wasn’t really the aesthetic. The point was letting the citizens of Los Santos blow off a little steam.
Because there was no better therapy than destruction, no better way to deal with anger than to destroy the object of your rage, especially when there were no consequences to your actions. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, to kill the Fakes over and over and over again with no fear of retaliation. To play the ultimate game of good versus evil, with true antagonists standing in for villains, letting people believe, regardless of the truth, that they were the heroes.
Michael became the owner of the local saloon, authoritative and strong, begging people to defy him. Jack became a gambler at one of Michael’s tables, ready to bet real money while Trevor counted cards beside her. Jeremy became the cowboy he always dreamed of being, with his purple and orange mechanical beast purring as he rode around the ranch, drunkenly pretending to herd cattle and occasionally stopping by the saloon for a drink. Geoff became a corrupt sheriff, with Matt as his drunken prisoner, rare moments of incompetence demonstrated by the former, and rare waves of rage shown by the latter. Gavin and Lindsay worked at the bank, the only building in their “town” that was researched in any formal way, existing only to offer the temptation of robbing it, full to the brim with monopoly money for people to take if they could get past the security. Finally there was Ryan and Alfredo, always willing to play the role of the villains, rolling into town as a bandit and his sharpshooter, adding the only real element of plot to their vignette. Every role or persona was chosen to antagonize, to give people a temptation for violence.
The Fakes were all outfitted with paintball guns, but their guests had the real deal. What the people did with those guns were up to them, there was no safety seminar, no screening for experience, and the Fakes would not be held responsible for those dumb enough to aim the gun at themselves. Most scenarios were predictable enough, Ryan and Gavin tended to die more than the others for example, many citizens of Los Santos having long dreamt of being the ones to take down the local villains, many more dreamt of being the ones to join them, to take things, to be free and selfish in the way the Fakes had always managed. But no matter how they played the game, they were always the hero. Always.
It was a long, violent week for the Fakes, thoroughly unused to letting others get the last laugh, but it worked. The city was calm once again, the post office was fixed and everyone’s frustration died with the Fakes, again and again. It was lucrative enough for the Fakes too, between charging a couple hundred dollars per head and money won on the betting table, the short week provided more than just therapy. Only now it was their turn to blow off some steam, their turn to have some dark fun. The Fakes were once again in the good graces of the city and they were going to make the best of it.
It was the book that brought Ryan to Los Santos, though he never realized it. He had a good life in Georgia, a safe life, a boring one. There was always something about Los Santos, the crime capital of the world, that spoke to Ryan. There was something dangerous about the city, and he craved the adventure. Craved the spotlight. He wanted to make something of himself, and it was only here, in the City of Ash could he do that.
There was something, call it fate, destiny, or simply coincidence that led Ryan to that particular street that night. A high, sharp scream drew Ryan’s attention upwards, to a rooftop from which a human figure was falling. The man landed, almost at Ryan’s feet, practically served up to him on a silver platter, holding the old book. And Ryan wanted it, this clearly valuable item that was apparently worth shoving a man off a rooftop for, that was going to be retrieved any minute now by the killer. So he picked up the book from the man’s chest, and ran. He ran until he couldn’t run anymore, until he felt secure in slinking back into the shadows without being followed in.
The Fake AH Crew didn’t come until much, much later. They had hired him for a few jobs until eventually he stuck around, became a part of their silly little family. With them, Ryan had the life he had always dreamed of, one full of adventure, one that led him to the top of the city, one that had every pair of eyes watching his every move. He loved his crew, messed with them, worried for them when they got hurt. Ryan never wanted this life to end, and so for the first time in years, he opened the book.
It was a book well suited to the reaper of Los Santos, a book of spells, a book of necromancy, and not for a moment did Ryan doubt its power. There was a mysticism, a magic, that spewed from the book the moment Ryan opened it, one that came with the promise of knowledge. With the power offered by the book, Ryan could take over the city in a heartbeat, become invincible, turn iron into gold. But there was only one spell he was interested in learning.
It was frankly a miracle that no one in the Fake AH Crew had ever died, what with their high risk lifestyle and general disregard for safety. They had all crawled their way to where they were now, relying on stealing and killing and fighting just to survive. Each and every one of them had earned their place, and now that they were at the top, their recklessness did nothing but increase. It wasn’t like they had nothing to lose, in fact they never before had so much that could be taken. A fall from grace would be a long fall indeed, but what was the point of being at the top if you couldn’t lean over the railing every once in a while and see the city below you? What was the point of fighting an inevitable future if you couldn’t tempt fate every so often? The fakes had grown comfortable with their spot within their city, grown comfortable with each other. And that’s what made Michael’s death just that much more devastating.
Immortal doesn’t mean untouchable. Ray picks up on this sooner than the others.
In a world where people can be brought back from the dead, it’s not so strange that there are certain people that defy logic in one way or another. That there should exist the amazing and unexplainable, even outside of cursed books and the strands of fate. It’s not so strange that sometimes the people themselves are special, and that they might not even realize it.
People always said that Gavin was lucky, but he would generally disagree. There was nothing lucky about the way he tripped over his own feet on the way out of the apartment that morning, nor how a weird ricochet from a bullet Gavin fired landed Ryan in the med bay yet again. But there was something, Gavin called it intuition, that seemed to guide him. Like when he went to shoplift a watch from a fancy department store one day, and had a flash to all the ways it could go wrong: a clerk with an abnormally good eye for detail, a plain clothes cop who knew better than to leave his gun at home, a silent alarm that was pulled the second Gavin walked into the store. So Gavin left the store, and listened to the sirens wail in the distance, just barely too late to catch him. It worked like déjà vu, a flicker of memory followed by what could have been. Like some primal memory buried deep within him. And it was strange, the longer he knew Michael, the more it seemed to happen. Or, no, not longer. It wasn’t like a length of time. There was just… more.
The way Gavin did jobs was like a choreographed dance, it was graceful, elegant, and effortless. It was beautiful, the way he would stoop down to tie his shoes at an inopportune time, both managing to dodge a stray bullet that would have otherwise caught him in the eye and also avoiding getting his shoelaces entangled on the same door on which Jeremy, now in front of him, had managed to get his own untied shoelace caught; afterwords stepping keenly to the side and not barrelling directly into Jeremy as he stops suddenly in the doorway. Gavin’s negotiations went much the same way, he knew instinctively what made his marks tick, what was the best way to get people to trust him. He even knew to avoid perfectly regular topics with this one particular crew boss because he had a weird feeling that it might set the man off and ruin the meeting, despite there being nothing in his research that would have suggested as such.
However, this power of Gavin’s did not seem to work around Michael. Michael added this element of chaos to any room he was in, some aspect of unpredictability, like he too knew what was going to happen and rebelled against his predetermined future. Only with Michael did Gavin not feel cocksure and untouchable, only around Michael could Gavin feel fear. Not that it was a bad thing, quite the opposite. It kept things interesting, added an element of pressure and danger to every outing. It kept life from becoming too predictable, too repetitive.
Of course, Gavin did not know why any of this was happening. But Michael did. Whenever Michael died, he returned to the same point in time and space, as the only person who remembered what happened. Except Gavin was learning, remembering in a way that he should not have been able to. Michael knew Gavin as accident prone, he knew Gavin as the kind of person who would get himself killed in a heartbeat if Michael wasn’t around. But Gavin had this strange way of not dying in places that Michael was expecting, always seeming to get lucky, even when luck should not have been a factor. And besides, Michael was tired, tired of keeping a secret from his crew just because they wouldn’t remember it next time around, just because they wouldn’t believe him. So finally Michael told Gavin the truth.
The first time Michael told Gavin, he acted with disbelief.
“You’re starting to sound crazy Michael. There’s no such thing as time loops.”
The second time Michael told Gavin, he reacted with recognition.
“That sounds weirdly familiar. Was that from a movie somewhere?”
The third time Michael told Gavin, he finally understood.
“We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?” And after that point, Gavin didn’t have to be reminded. Now suddenly he knew why people called him lucky, knew what those bursts of memory were, and now that he knew what he was looking for, realities stacked upon realities, he could follow Michael’s timeline, learn in the same way Michael could learn. There was no pair more dangerous in the city than one who knew your next move before you did, none more destructive than a pair who knew that their actions had no real consequence, that there was no real price for messing up. It kept things interesting. It kept life from becoming too predictable, too repetitive.
Part one - Part two
They all started the Roosters, and for awhile, life was good. They ruled the city, the kings and queen of Los Santos, and it remained that way for over 30 years.
Geoff could admit that he dealt with his trauma in an unhealthy way. Jack still didn’t approve of his drinking, but Geoff was an adult who didn’t know how to stop, and Jack was a friend who couldn’t bear to lose him again. But at least Geoff was functioning.
Joel, on the other hand, was not.
He suffered a mental breakdown in 1998. Burnie had found him lying naked in the middle of the living room floor, staring at the ceiling and mumbling in polish about ash. He had been surrounded by the scraps of what had once been his clothing, and his eyes gazed unseeing at Burnie no matter what he did.
They all decided that, for Joel, they should take a break. While Geoff had wanted to help him, all he did was make the illusion of the camps inside Joel’s mind more solid, more real, more able to trap him. So Burnie and Gus had taken him to Chicago, hoping a new place would bring a contrast that would help him get out of his own head. They started over there, while Geoff and Jack held the throne in Los Santos.
When Geoff had seen Gavin again, he was shocked. When he found out he was immortal, he was delighted. The penthouse felt far too empty with just him and Jack, a new member would be more than welcome. Okay, maybe he should have called her first, but he was excited. Three years later Michael and Ray moved in, and the place seemed full again, finally felt just a bit more like home. When Ryan came, it felt like that last piece slid into place, strange animosity between him and Gavin aside.
Geoff was happier than he had been in years, but he still couldn’t let go of that bottle. He still drank far too much, and Jack still frowned just as often. He didn’t like to see that frown, so he started staying up late drinking so she wouldn’t have to see it. Ryan was an insomniac too, but he spent most of his time in his room with his cacti, and Gavin, workaholic that he was, didn’t really notice the quiet drunken man sitting in the corner of the kitchen whenever he briefly surfaced for a Red Bull.
At least, Geoff thought he didn’t.
The piercing green eyes bored into his from across the table.
“I said, do you really think they’d want this?”
Geoff narrowed his eyes at the blonde.
“Your child. Or children, maybe, not sure how many you had. But I know you had at least one. And I know you loved them dearly.”
Geoff was now full on glaring at him.
“And how do you know that?”
Those green eyes now looked just a little bit sad.
“You always hate it when you hear about Father’s Day. You let the guard go at the heist last week when you saw the picture in his wallet of his kids, and though you hide it well the the idea of hurting children is absolutely revolting to you. That kind of revoltion only comes from a parent.”
Geoff heard the sound of a glass breaking and distantly he registered that he had just dropped his glass.
“And how do you know that?”
And suddenly Geoff was reminded that though the man I front of him didn’t look any older than 23, he was centuries old.
“Takes one to know one, Geoffrey.”
They were both quiet for a long time. Geoff wondered if Gavin had a daughter like he had, if Gavin’s little one was as amazing as his little miracle, is Gavin’s little one had just as gruesome an end. Geoff wondered if his son would have grown to look anything like the hacker; after all, he and Adelene both had golden hair and bright eyes, and his goddess’ eyes had been green.
Geoff wondered a lot of things.
“Look. I know that this is how you cope. I know that this is how you deal. But if your child was anything like my daughter, seeing you like this would break their heart. Just because it can’t kill you for good doesn’t mean it’s good for you.”
A golden gloved hand was holding his. When had that happened?
“I can’t make you do anything. I can’t make you stop. Your child might not be here anymore, but we are. And I know that we can never replace your family then, but we’re your family now. Me, Jack, hell, even Vagabond. We care about you Geoff. It kills us to see you like this. And I know it would kill them too.”
The blonde gave his hand one final squeeze, then rose from his seat.
“Just, think about it, okay?”
And then he was gone.
Had he ever even been there in the first place?
Geoff stared at the broken glass on the floor, then shifted his attention to the whiskey bottle on the table next to him. He could go and get another glass, or just drink from the bottle like he had a million times before.
But when he reached for it, Adelebes eyes flashed in his memory.
Whether he had really been there or not, Gavin was right. Adelene wouldn’t have wanted this for him.
He picked up the bottle and stumbled over to the sink, glass cutting into the soles of his feet. Without a thought the opening of the bottle was at his lips, ready to provide some relief-
He couldn’t keep drinking away his pain. He couldn’t keep muffling the memories with liquor. He couldn’t keep drinking away his mistakes. It was time to face them.
He yanked his hand away from his mouth and poured the bottle down the drain. And then he worked his way through the whole liquor cabinet, until every bottle in the house was empty.
Immortality was a curse, but he had what everyone always wanted more of. He had time. And he was wasting it at the bottom of a bottle. No more. Time to be a man that his daughter would be proud of.
When Jack woke up the next morning and found him passed out on the couch with glass in his feet, she was resigned to it being like every other morning.
But when she walked into the kitchen and saw every bottle of liquor they had around the sink, empty, she dared to hope.
And when a golden globes hand appeared on her shoulder, attached to a man who was beaming, she dared to hope a little more.
Together she and Gavin cleaned up the glass on the floor and got rid of every bottle. They sprayed air freshener all over the kitchen to get rid of the smell of alcohol, and carefully removed the glass from Geoff’s feet.
When he woke up, Jack offered to shoot him to get rid of the damage, finger already on the trigger, but-
“No, Jack. I can’t keep taking the easy way out. It’s time to face it.”
Then, and only then, did she allow herself to cry.
Shit guys, we’re almost at 400 followers! I love all of you so much!
Warning, this is really sad. My editing process involves putting the fic through a text to speech program to make sure it sounds right and I almost made myself cry.
Behold, the story of how Geoff descended into alcoholism and how he started to recover.
“Do you really think they’d want this?”
Geoff hadn’t always lived at the bottom of a bottle.
Before, he had been happy. He’d drank a lot back then, everyone did, it was the only drink you knew was safe most of the time. But he hadn’t needed it. He hadn’t craved it.
His wife, Griffin, had been a hell of a woman. She had never taken the role of housewife that she was expected to have. She went out and chopped wood with the best of them, and they had hunted together as a team. If gods exist, then she had surely been one of them, because she brought him a miracle.
His darling little Adelene.
It wasn’t an easy labor, granting miracles never was. It lasted hours, the midwives calming the soon to be mother as she screamed, Geoff waiting outside the room a wreck, flicking at her every shout.
After more than half a day, the screaming of his wife was replaced by the crying of his baby, and one of the midwives called him into the room. There was his wife, exhausted, smiling, holding a bundle to her chest. She beckoned him closer and held out the bundle for him to take.
From the moment he laid eyes upon her wrinkled face, he was a goner.
His darling Adelene, his beautiful daughter. She was the most precious thing Geoff had ever laid his tired eyes upon.
He and his lovely Griffin shared the duty of parents. Tradition and society dictated that Griffin would be the sole caretaker, but they had never cared for that, and the thought of missing so much of his daughter’s life broke Geoff’s heart. So they shared as much as they could, though it was made difficult given that Griffin, as a woman, was the only one who could feed her. After she was two they transferred her to solid foods, and they shared equally.
When Griffin fell pregnant again when Adelene was seven, they were overjoyed. Geoff’s beautiful goddess would gift him with another miracle, and he couldn’t wait. Adelene would talk to her mother’s belly, telling her new sibling all about her day, and what to expect from the world. She told the baby about rain, about sunlight, about how delicious their mother’s bread was, and how their father couldn’t cook to save his life.
When Griffin went into labor, Geoff waited outside again, this time with his little miracle by his side. It was no less painful hearing his love in pain the second time around, but they said each labor was easier than the last.
They were wrong.
The labor lasted much longer than Adelene’s had, and his daughter had fallen asleep long before. When the screaming stopped again, he listened closely for the first sounds of his second child.
It didn’t come.
One of the midwives opened the door, covered in far too much blood. She looked at him in pity. She said he was needed in the room, that Adelene should sleep and she would watch over her for him.
Geoff couldn’t remember much after that.
He would have had a son, a beautiful baby boy, had the babe not been stillborn. Griffin had lost too much blood, and though they tried everything they could, there was nothing they could do.
He probably would have turned to alcohol then were it not for Adelene. He was all she had left now, he had to be strong for her. He held her while she cried for her mother, and he finished raising her as best he could. What had once been a shared burden was all on him now. He would not marry again, no other woman would compare to his goddess. So he worked and raised her and slept as much as he was able in the meantime.
By the time she was 16 she had blossomed into the most beautiful girl in town. Geoff got offers from every man, each wanting to make her theirs.
Geoff had fended them off as long as he could, but he knew he was not long for this world. He had grown old, and grief had only aged him faster. He knew what world he lived in. If his daughter was not married when he died, she would get nothing, and have nothing. She would be homeless and as good as dead. She needed a husband.
She met every one of her suitors and cared not for any of them. She knew her situation, and she told her father that it was up to him.
He chose what he thought was best.
Mathieu was rich, he had plenty of land, he was an upstanding young man, and he was close to Adelene in age. He had several younger brothers, so if he died Adelene would still have several buffers between her and ruin. He had never been anything but a perfect gentleman to his little miracle. Geoff was sure that as his bride Adelene would be taken care of for the rest of her days.
They married when Adelene was 17 summers and Geoff himself was approaching 40. It was a grand affair, the whole town coming to celebrate. His little miracle was beautiful in her white dress, her golden blonde hair shining in the sun. She did not love her new husband, but she was fond of him, and he made her happy. So Geoff had no regrets when he handed his miracle off to her husband at the altar.
Mathieu, unbeknownst to either of them, had spent the whole of the previous summer building a house in the woods for his new wife. It was quiet, it was secluded, it was large, and it was ready for the new couple immediately. Adelene, who had never been fond of noise, was thrilled.
She visited him as often as she could. She was like her mother in the sense that she ignored what tradition laid out for her, and helped him hunt and cut the wood for the fire. She would tell him stories of the sweet does that grazed around her new house, and of how her husband had nearly set the place on fire one morning when he was trying to surprise her with breakfast. She was happy, and so was he.
He wasn’t really sure how he died, to be perfectly honest. He remembered telling Adelene a story about her mother, and then waking up in a grave. A heart attack, maybe? He wasn’t sure.
When he crawled out of the dirt, he was confused. How had he gotten there? What happened to his daughter?
It was night when he rose, so Adelene would be at her home instead of his. He headed there first.
The sight he came across would haunt him for centuries.
He would later curse himself for not noticing how the stories of Mathieu tapered off, how the smile on his little miracles face seemed to dim just a bit. He figured she hadn’t wanted to make his final days stressful, had wanted him to die happy even if she wouldn’t.
He almost wished he had.
He would never forget how the blood looked in her golden hair, the pain in her bright blue eyes before she had seen him, and they turned hopeful and understanding, thinking that her hell was over and she’d be with him and her mother again. He would never forget the faint smile on her face as the light behind those eyes died.
He would never forget the shock on that bastards face, the fear in his eyes when Geoff had turned to him with all the fury only a parent can have, and choked him to death with hands still covered in his little miracles blood.
Oh, his little miracle. The greatest gift his goddess have ever bestowed upon him. Dead, and it was all his fault. If only he’d seen the signs, if only he’d lived longer, if only he’d married her to someone else.
He turned to the bottle after that night. He didn’t remember much of the next few centuries, stumbling through France in a drunken stupor. It wasn’t until he met Jack that the memories managed to clear up.
She was just as scared and confused as he was, probably more so given that she vividly remembered being led to the Guillotine and forced to kneel beneath the blade. She was a member of the Bourgeois, she had never had to worry about things like where her next meal was coming from. He probably hadn’t been the best teacher, but he had done his best.
They stayed together for centuries. As far as they knew they were the only immortals in the world, and if they didn’t have each other they’d probably go insane. He marked the years by the bottles he left behind, she marked them with names. Christiane, Francesca, Divna, and Roxana had all come and gone by the time their friendship became something more.
She wasn’t his goddess, comparing them would be unfair to both. She was far more like a lion, loyal and fierce.
As much as he had loved her, he needed the bottle more. It all fell apart when she was Cecelia. The war had left them both stressed beyond measure, and he had made more than a few mistakes whose names he couldn’t remember. They split apart in 1943, and he had headed on the first train to the mainland.
Shame he had chosen Poland.
The camps were a hell all on their own. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t have a bottle to curl up in. He met Joel there. He didn’t know how they managed to hide their status as unkillable until the end of the war, but they had managed it together, and they stayed together after that.
They moved to America, and the first thing he had done after drinking himself to death again was get a tattoo. It wasn’t anything special really, just a pure black Fleur de lis on his forearm. He hadn’t put much thought into it, only cared that it was simple and big enough to cover the numbers.
The tattoo helped, but Geoff was paranoid, that it wasn’t enough, that it was obvious, that all he had done was draw more attention to it. So he just kept getting more. By the time he had met Burnie in 1954 he had his entire left arm covered in designs, and by the time he met Gus in 1966 he had covered his right arm to match.
He hadn’t expected to run into Jack ever again, but in 1968 he managed to do just that. She was Kinsey by then, and she was an even fiercer lioness than the one he left behind.
The thing about believing that you are one of only two like you in the world, is that your relationship with the other inevitably becomes unhealthy. You start to depend on each other so much that living without the other becomes unthinkable, and codependency is not a good foundation for any sort of romance. He and Jack decided to remain friends, but nothing more.
He never told her about the numbers. He never told anyone.
Ryan: “Oh, I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you right now.”
Ryan: “Because I don’t want to.”
I’ve always liked the idea that while the immortal fahc have known that they’ve been immortal for a long time, that they can play life to their advantage as a sacrifice is never permanent, goodbyes are never really forever,
that immortal ≠ invincible.
gavin will still remember the biting pain in his abdomen before his first death, leaving him to some dark alleyway. what a stupid way to go, he thinks, tries to laugh but coughs up blood onto his shirt instead. ryan plays with knives and blades in the penthouse and doesn’t understand when he flinches back, curling in around himself as he remembers steel - firelight glinting off sharp edges - piercing, puncturing, going through him as blood runs down his skin -
it’s a long, long fall for michael. it’s not his first, he knows what will come after, but all he can think about is his fingers fumbling with a parachute that isn’t opening, breaths stolen by the wind around him. he collides hard with a branch, then another, then another. his bones are cracked and he can’t move as he lays there in a forest clearing, only able to wait for the injuries to overcome him. in the cockpits of planes and helicopters, they see him clench his fists so hard that his knuckles turn white but he brushes it off as adrenaline, his pulse raging in his ears.
geoff feels his lungs burning as fatigue plagues his limbs. he can’t walk anymore, can’t think straight anymore. men with bird masks, once frequent, no longer visit him. he’s not sure anyone visits him at all as his stare is fixed on the ceiling above his bed. just kill me, he murmurs, over and over and over and over, knowing that a blade would be kinder than the hell he’s in, but all they do is tuck him in tighter, pat the sweat off his brow. the others will complain about his hovering whenever one of them gets sick, but geoff just smiles crookedly and tells them he can’t help it.
it’s raining, and water seeps through jack’s shoes. it’s not an eventful day until someone shouts, incomprehensible due to the downpour before his entire body is immobilized, wracked with sharp pains as the people around him try to stop the electric current. it’s too late, and jack deduces later what had happened to him - he closes the curtains as a lightning storm falls over los santos, rattling thunder drowned out by the music playing on the radio.
jeremy’s eyes are burning as saltwater surrounds him, the thrashing of his limbs wasting the breath he has left. blind and disorientated, he can’t tell which way is up anymore, chokes on his fear and panic as the boat gets further and further away. it’s dark, lonely, and jeremy lingers on the pool edge as he watches the others splash one another, his feet dipped in the water and hands gripping the cement beneath him.
his clothes drape over his body, the dull ache in ryan’s stomach having become a part of him. people shuffle around him, beggars rocking back and forth for a dime and the chimes of the bakery ahead are taunting, a dream that slips through his fingers like sand. he sits, waiting, waiting, waiting, closes his eyes, knowing it’s for the last time. he’s the first to notice whenever someone else skips a meal, from stress or otherwise, and even if it’s just a gas station sandwich, he doesn’t sit easy until it’s gone.
they don’t get scars in their new lives, bodies reborn with smooth, untouched skin. and yet -
it’s not uncommon to see them rub absentmindedly at a wound that no longer exists, to feel the phantom pain that restricts them from getting out of bed in the morning. as they join the crew, one by one, they look at each other and understand; they share their deaths with sarcasm in their voice and heaviness in their hearts. and when it happens again - a lucky shot to the chest, an ill-timed explosion - they feel that familiar pull taking them under, but they’re not afraid, not like they were.
because the others are always there when they come back, waiting with laughter and smiles or a comforting hand and an ear to listen. with popcorn and a movie or a day of quiet and calmness; with the crew - living gets a little easier.
I like how some people have really cool immortal Fake AH headcannons where they’ve been alive for hundreds of years, some have possibly been kings or anything throughout life.
Then there’s me: When they die they just respawn.
What up kiddos, I’m back. Brief news, Polaroid is now a snapshot series of one-shots that take place at different points in the time line, so I can keep giving you content while I work on the big story. This one focuses on Gavin and Ryan, taking place before Ryan is sure Gavin is Midas. I have another one planned that focuses on Geoff and his struggles with alcohol, and one after that that shows the morning after Gavin gets his Golden Touch. Enjoy the update!
Ryan didn’t usually leave the penthouse without his mask. Hell, he didn’t usually leave his room without his mask. But well, it was 3 A.M., and Jack had forgotten to pick up more Diet Coke the last time she went to the store.(She was the only one who went grocery shopping, as the rest of them were banned after Ryan had smashed the cases holding the rifles and proceeded to shoot up the place, Gavin hacked the intercoms to play the Bohemien Rhapsody at full volume, Geoff raided the alcohol section and ended up making molotov cocktails which he then threw into the produce aisle, Ray lit a blunt on the fire, and Michael left the building, hotwired a car, then drove it through the wall. Michael and Ray died in the fire, Geoff was too drunk to drive, and Gavin couldn’t drive for the life of him, so Ryan ended up driving them home. It was probably the most awkward drive in his life. Gavin spent it glaring at him, Ryan spent it trying to ignore him, and Geoff was in the backseat belting french drinking songs. They had returned with a single lunchable and an already opened can of chicken noodle soup, neither of which were on the list. The store burned down. Jack banned them from shopping for groceries for eternity.)
So, Ryan had snuck into an alley, took off his mask and jacket (He hadn’t put on face paint because that would be counterproductive), stashed them behind a dumpster, and made his way to the 7/11 across the street.
Naturally, given the time, there weren’t many people there. There was a cashier behind the counter who clearly didn’t want to be there checking out at least a dozen bottles of 5 Hour Energy for what looked like a college kid dead on his feet. There was a man who looked like he was a trucker surveying the beef jerky, and a pair of teenagers who had clearly snuck out and had run out of shit to do.
Ryan nodded to the cashier, and went straight to the drinks.
Now, he’s not proud to admit this. He’s the Vagabond, the best mercenary in the US, if not the world. He was a shadow. He was a ghost.
He crashed into someone in a 7/11 at 3 in the morning and sent them both spiraling onto the floor.
Not his best moment.
The Immortal FAHC fic where they play GMOD Murder, but for real.
Just a bunch of ~notorious criminals like the Fake AH Crew running around old buildings and whatnot trying to figure out which one of them is the killer, right?
Ryan getting offended when the others immediately decide it must be him, Geoff annoyed that he’s never the murderer.
Various alliances that crumble the moment doubt is cast upon their ally.
The dollar fine for killing an innocent.
The poor cops who go out to investigate after multiple calls of gunshots in the area and find the Fakes trying to kill one another
while yelling like kids on a playground and think they’ve finally showed their true colors. Not so loyal now, what with the Vagabond hunting down the Kingpin and Mogar and RimmyTim teaming up against the Golden Boy.
But really, it’s even better if everyone in the city knows the Fakes are immortal or whatever so they’re like, SIGH, and maybe send a few patrol cars out to appease the public. The cops just set up a cordon around the area to keep people out and bring donuts and coffee while they wait for the Fakes to finish their little game.