Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

First: A Charismatic Leader

Geoff Ramsey, kingpin of Los Santos, was charming, when he wanted to be. There was a lazy confidence about him, something in the way he walked, something in the way he looked at you. This was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, who was used to having others bend to his will. This was the man who ran the top crew in the city, who had the most dangerous men in the state on leashes.

They said Ramsey asked for payment in blood, that his pockets never ran dry, that this city lived and breathed Ramsey, that every gang quaked in their boots at his name, that every criminal who had met him was mesmerized, that when he spoke you could do nothing but listen.

At least, that's how the citizens of Los Santos saw them. An elite group of criminals, who were ballsy enough to make a penthouse their base, who viewed the law as a soft suggestion. The police force in Los Santos was the most corrupt in the country, but word was Ramsey had a man in each department, that his soldiers had infiltrated every level of the government. They said Ramsey had eyes everywhere, that if you wanted to try and keep a secret from Ramsey you'd have to whisper it to a corpse before burial, and still the wind between the grass might betray you.

This cultivated impression was years in the making, one part folklore and two parts mafia, a crime lord whose empire stretched across the entire underground of Los Santos. They said he was almost magic, that he was almost immortal. And this was Geoff Ramsey, if you had never met him.

But if you knew Geoff Ramsey, you'd know he was more likely to be flippant than grave, quicker to make dirty jokes than threats. And he was all the more dangerous for it. Because is where Ramsey's real power lay: not in threats, not in interrogations, not even in firepower, but in the inexplicable loyalty he was given, the absolute trust he'd managed to worm from some of the most dangerous people in the city. Sure, other gangs had tried to infiltrate before, but the agents sent in either left in body bags or they didn't leave at all. They said Geoff Ramsey could turn anyone into a convert, could convince someone to kill their own father if given half the chance. They said he'd already done it twice.

Geoff Ramsey knew how to read you, how to sell you a dream. He was kind and compassionate, and ruthless and cruel and it was breathtaking. But if you got close enough, you'd see that there was something good still left in Ramsey, something softhearted in this god-forsaken city. If you got close enough it might pull you in. If you got close enough you might see something genuine, something worthwhile, something worth fighting for.

If you were looking for something to believe in, if you were looking for people to watch your back, if you were looking for a family, there was no place better than by Ramsey's side. And it was like a family; the penthouse was a haven for those welcome in it. In full view of the entire city and yet no where safer because you were under Ramsey's protection. It was heady and intoxicating, and if you looked out the window you might realize how small everyone else looked, how insignificant, how unworthy. You just might think you were better than them.

Los Santos knew Ramsey. The Fakes knew Geoff.

God forbid you cross any one of them. His crew paid Geoff in loyalty, and he gave it back tenfold. Some may ask how he had gathered the best in the city, how he'd collected Mogar, how he'd forced the Vagabond to heel. It was through this; the gentle hand. Where others punished, Geoff rewarded, where others would have given up, Geoff persisted. It was through this; the slack in the leash.

But never forget that it was a leash.

Make no mistake, the FAHC is no utopia. It is no democracy. Los Santos leaves no room for hesitance. And even though Geoff cares about his crew, he's still got a job to do. They are soldiers, even well-loved. Geoff does not try to coddle his army. He does not protect them from the dangerous jobs, does not keep them home. Geoff leaves no room for weakness.

Everyone in Geoff's crew is there because they belong, because they survive. They are the most strong, the most ruthless, the most clever. The FAHC is a trial by fire, and only the ones who are strong enough to survive ever enter the inner circle. Only then are they allowed into the penthouse, allowed to get to know Geoff, allowed to get to know each other. Allowed to love each other, maybe. Because maybe they do love each other, care for each other. Maybe when they are the most protected, the most safe, they relax for even the smallest moments.

(And here's a secret; it does happen. The soft smiles and the warm hugs, they keep the crew going. And here's a secret; they just might care about each other so much it hurts, so much that they'll doing anything for each other. And here's a secret; they just might be as human as the rest of us; they are cruel and vicious and so easily disregard human life, and they are still just as breathtakingly human.)

But still everything for Geoff, everything for the people Geoff had brought together, the family Geoff had stitched together from murderers and criminals. (Murderers and criminals, and people who still loved each other.)

If you were a newcomer in the crew, maybe you'd find it odd, find it creepy. See how devoted the others were to Geoff and not understand. See how much they believed in him and wonder how.

Or maybe you'd already be sucked in, maybe you'd see, you'd understand, maybe you'd look at Geoff Ramsey and pledge yourself to everything he asks of you. Maybe he wouldn't need threats, wouldn't need drugs, wouldn't need to even lie to you.

Maybe he'd just start talking, two parts honesty and one part folklore, he'll tell you what he wants from this city, what he can do with power, how he can change this world. And he'd ensnare you, starry-eyed. And you'd do anything that would further his dream, you'd do anything to keep his eyes bright.

You might just give up your soul to Geoff Ramsey. If he asked for it.

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Second: Zealous and Protective Members

If you learned that Ramsey's right hand was a woman, and you thought any less of the Fakes, then all you were doing was proving your own stupidity.

And if you looked at Pattillo and you thought she was any less than the others, any less ruthless, any less deserving, then you would soon realize how eager she was to correct that assumption. If you thought for one moment, when you saw the two of them standing next to each other, Ramsey and Pattillo, that he was protecting her, then you didn't know the FAHC very well.

Anyone who had lived long enough to be part of the main crew had learned that lesson very early on. Los Santos leaves no room for weakness, and if there was anything soft, anything compassionate in Jack Pattillo, it had long since been washed out by the crew, it had been stomped out by the underbelly of the city.

But she did have, as they all did, an affection for the crew. God forbid you hurt one of them, she'd track you down. God forbid you insult her family, she'd meet you in the alleyway with a baseball bat and a grin. But that didn't mean she was here to coddle anyone. Jack is here to drive fast and drink good beer, she does not have time for people who aren't pulling their weight.

Jack won't let anyone mess with her crew, not even the people who are a part of it.

And if you did anything to hurt Ramsey, you’d find yourself on the business end of more than a few lethal weapons. He was their leader, their savior, what had brought them together and what had held them tightly as they sunk their teeth into Los Santos and bit down. It was a rule many competitors and business partners alike had recognized; if you tried to go after Ramsey you’d have his whole kennel of guard dogs snapping at your heels at every turn, hear their growls in your nightmares, have them catch up to you when you were at your weakest and tear you to shreds.

And at this front of this pack of avengers is Jack Pattillo. It doesn’t matter if you’re friend or foe, soldier or civilian. Anyone who tries to hurt Ramsey gets a face full of Texan bruiser and two black eyes.

Sometimes she patched everyone up when the crew doctor was unavailable, but never forget, if you can't save a limb, you have to cut it off. Jack is not afraid to defend what is rightfully hers. Jack is an angel on the battlefield, saving lives and sawing off limbs with the same motion, giving you nothing but a bullet to bite for the pain. Jack is never afraid to make the difficult choices, never hesitant to sacrifice what is rotten.

The crew was Ramsey's dream but she believes in it equally, she fights just as hard to preserve it. Geoff Ramsey drew people in, and in exchange received undying loyalty. Jack was a prime example. She was someone who didn't just follow Ramsey, she believed in him, she fought for him. When a rival tried to cheat them, it was Pattillo who brought them to their knees. When a policeman gets so close to arresting Geoff that he's unarmed standing with his hands up, it's Pattillo who lands a bullet between the policeman's eyes. It's Pattillo who kills the rest of the squad before they can retaliate, it's Pattillo who fills the intersection with upside down smoking squad cars.

It's also Pattillo who shoots up fireworks above their bodies in celebration, a friendly hello to whomever is brave enough to clean up the scene.

It's a warning. Don't fuck with Jack Pattillo's crew.

Sometimes the media, the public, they try to paint it nice, try to pretend a romance in between them. Oh Pattillo's blinded by love, she's protective, isn't it sweet. Oh they’re the king and queen of death and destruction, they’re like Bonnie and Clyde, how lovely, how tragic.

They have no idea. It isn't like that.

She’s not his wife, she’s his disciple.

Jack's more than the getaway driver, she's more than just the second in command. She's the first and most zealous soldier, the loudest voice of support. She's the first to call Geoff on his shit, and the first to defend him at any sign of dissent in the ranks.

If someone wants to get to Geoff Ramsey they're going to have to go through every single crew member, and first in line is Jack Pattillo.

They say Ramsey picked up Pattillo at the races. She was placing bets on herself and then sabotaging the competition. It wasn't about the money- it was about winning, it was about seeing the pileup in her rear-view mirror, it was about the smell of burning rubber and the crumble of sheet metal. It was about moving fast, and not letting anything stop you.

It was also a little bit about the money.

This was before anything else, before the penthouse and before the crew. Geoff was still working for someone else, still part of his old crew, and Jack had only just started drinking legally. She'd been driving for almost ten years, hadn't let a little thing like legality steal away something from her that felt so natural and right.

They said that Jack Pattillo was born at 60 miles per hour, that her father had one hand on the wheel and one hand grasping his wife's fingers. They said her mother birthed Jack with both feet up on the dashboard.

They say Ramsey hand-picked his crew, but Pattillo chose him.

She must have seen something in him. The raw power, a vision of what he could be to this city. A vision of what he could do to this city.

Geoff didn't pull her out of squalor, wasn't her white knight. If Jack had needed someone to save her, she would not have lasted in Los Santos. No, Ramsey just saw potential, saw someone who wanted to rule this city. Geoff saw someone who would execute his vision. He saw her as someone desperate to fight, and he gave her a cause, gave her something to fight for.

Geoff gave her a chance, gave her a little trust when it mattered, when it was crazy to trust anyone in this city.

Ramsey didn't give her Los Santos; he didn't need anyone who accepted handouts, and Jack didn't want anything she hadn't taken with her own two hands.

He gave her a palace to worship at, a dream to believe in. She gave him undying loyalty and the heady satisfaction of knowing someone is willing to step in front of a bullet for you. Knowing that they will. It’s only a matter of time. Ramsey doesn’t have employees, he’s got a family of martyrs set up in lines like cocaine, ready to be inhaled by the city, ready to infect the bloodstream of Los Santos.

They straighten their backs like good cadets, ready to die for the ground they stand on.

When Geoff met her, Jack was the best driver in Los Santos, and damn proud of it. Within three years, she was a pilot, and well on her way to becoming the best at that, too.

There was something intoxicating about being at the helm of something so powerful.

They said Ramsey knew everything in the city, but Pattillo was the one who saw you. Every vehicle on the highway, every helicopter hovering above could be Pattillo, watching. She was her boss's eyes, reporting back on every action. They said there was no one more loyal than Ramsey's right hand. Pattillo gave everything to the crew, gave everything she had to Ramsey. And what she got back she took with both hands.

A friendship like that, a partnership like that (if you could call it such), only grew with time. A crew like the Fakes depended on trust, it feeded on the loyalty the soldiers payed it. There would be no crew without followers. There would be no Fakes without crew members who believed wholeheartedly in Geoff Ramsey, who would defend him to their dying breath, who would rush foolhardy into anything and everything as soon as they had the order.

They said Ramsey's voice was an enchantment, that he ensnared his victims into rabid fanaticism. If that was true, here was the strongest proof; Pattillo, who could have easily run her own crew, content to play second fiddle to Ramsey. Any one of the crew, actually, could have built up their own successful gang and done quite well for themselves. And yet they stayed, preferring to further Ramsey's dream then try and create their own.

A crew like Ramsey's demanded loyalty. A crew like that demanded everything of you. Geoff Ramsey did not accept anything less than total and complete devotion.

It is truly right and just.

Chapter Text

Third: Theirs is the Only Path to Truth and Salvation

If Pattillo was Ramsey's right hand, then the Vagabond was his left; sinister and malicious, made for dirty work and unclean deeds.

They said the Fakes were like folklore, that Ramsey ruled them, well here was the king's executioner, the masked villain. He emerged from the darkness to strike and then returned, melting back into the gloom like a mythical creature.

Some said the Vagabond killed without a sound, that when he slit your throat there was nothing louder than your own harsh gasps, that he might as well be a machine for all the emotion that he felt. Others said that he laughed, that his eyes were filled with joy as he cut you down, that nothing made the Vagabond smile more than the sight of blood and viscera.

They said he wore the mask because there wasn’t a person under there, just the snarling face of a beast.

You heard about Ramsey on the news, but you heard about the Vagabond in whispers, in mutters, rumors about Los Santos' shadow. They worm their way into your ears and your brain, flashing before your eyes as you try to sleep.

They called him a monster, a beast. He was Grendel, who attacks at night to demand blood. He was Mr. Hyde, the dark side of the human soul, a creature created to perform evil without remorse.

They said he was a rabid dog, only held back from destroying the whole city by Ramsey's tight hold on his leash. Many said he was a sociopath, that he didn't feel anything, because surely that was the only reason someone would kill and torture without hesitation.

They were wrong. Ramsey didn't hold him back, Ramsey pushed him forward.

Those who knew Haywood, knew Ryan, they knew he wasn't what they all said about him. Ramsey's bunch, the crew, they were the only ones nowadays to meet the Vagabond and live. He wasn't a monster, he wasn't heartless. They had met him and they knew; he was friendly, a little awkward, and smart. Not the kind of person who might, on occasion, be known to fire rockets into crowds, put bullets into brains.

The rumors about what the Vagabond was, were often untrue. The rumors about what he had done, however, what he was willing to do- these were less so. The stories about what the Vagabond had done, what he left behind in his wake, they spawned from truth, from experience, from the people left behind, not sure if they were cursed or blessed to be so.

Ramsey might have found Pattillo at the racetrack, but the devil was born in Georgia, where there's something always breathing down the back of your neck.

Not many knew this, however, not anymore, but if you were clever enough, you might have traced how the Vagabond traced his knife along the bible belt, drawn, like all the others, towards Los Santos and Ramsey. They all ended up there, eventually, like moths to flame, willing to dive bomb into a wildfire just to keep the world aligned.

And that’s how Ramsey snared the Vagabond- he was clever, and he was kind to someone who had only known cruelty. He spoke both words of condemnation and benediction to a murderer, and gathered a lost soul. The Vagabond had been killing for necessity, for money, for bloodlust. Ramsey gave him clarity, gave him a banner to fight under.

Because yes, the Vagabond acted without hesitation, but he was not immune to guilt, doubts, to the last-minute deals, the begging, the bargaining. If you met Haywood, if you met Ryan, you might not know if the circles around his eyes were from the face paint or the insomnia.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t do everything Ramsey ever asked for. If anything, it made him more committed, more zealous.

Ramsey had the whole world convinced they were a bunch of Robin Hoods, stealing from the rich, and only hurting people who deserved it. He had them thinking there was something noble, something gentlemanly about their crimes. A merry band of thieves. And no one was more enraptured than his followers.

The crew weren’t just protective of Ramsey, they were loyal to each other, they would do anything to protect each other. What was one life compared to the lives of their friends, their family? What were two, three, a hundred, a thousand? Because surely it was worth it, surely others would join them if they only saw, if they only understood.

To the Fakes, Ramsey spoke truth, spoke gospel, he would rule this city soon enough, and they would see it done.

And if the Vagabond needed to be reminded a little more often, if he needed the reassurance that what he was doing was good, was right, was for the benefit of his crew, his friends and family, then surely that was his own business.

If Ryan needed confession, if he needed absolution, if he needed to be told that he was still human, that he was doing the right thing… then it was a good thing Geoff Ramsey was there, wasn’t it?

The Vagabond was a murderer long before he met Geoff Ramsey, was cruel and evil and guilt-struck all by himself. He was in need of a little salvation.

They say that when the Vagabond met Ramsey, the rabid dog recognized his master and heeled. They saw the Vagabond obeys one man, they say Ramsey’s voice pulls you under, takes you in, just like it did the Vagabond.

If you met them together you might think them magic, a puppet master and his marionette, because surely the Vagabond was more machine than man, because all Ramsey needed to do was give the order, and whatever it was, it would be done. Without question, without doubt.

You might just think that the man before you is the devil, but you might not know which one.

They say the Vagabond’s coat is made of ink and his mask of smoke, that shadows wrap around his shoulders as protection. They say that everyone who meets him can tell there’s something wrong there, something sinister. Every act that Ramsey distanced himself from, every gruesome murder, every cruel revenge, every line crossed he sent the Vagabond to do his bidding.

Ramsey doesn’t need to dirty his hands when he’s got the most loyal murderers at his beck and call. He doesn’t need to justify himself when they follow his every order, his every whim. When all he needs to do is tell them it’s the only way, it’s what needs to be done, it’s good and right and necessary.

They say when you can feel your heartbeat in your throat, that’s the Vagabond. When you can feel the blood thumping in your temples, when you’re gasping but the air is too heavy, and your vision is blurring, and your lungs are collapsing, that’s the Vagabond.

They say the Vagabond can kill you with a single motion. But they say Ramsey can kill you with a single word.

They’re not wrong.

Chapter Text

Fourth: Polarized Us VS Them Mentality

Michael flies all the way from New Jersey to Los Santos, and a few miles up, he can’t help thinking that everything looks so small and insignificant from so far above. He doesn’t exactly lose that perspective after landing.

Some men were born to be killers. Jones was recruited.

For some, it may be difficult to make the switch to killer, to stop seeing the people around you as human beings, and to start seeing them as a means to an end. Not so for Jones.

The police of Los Santos, the other gangs, even civilians, they were nothing but speed-bumps to Michael, things standing in the way of Ramsey’s rise to power. They were useless, pointless, fodder to be destroyed on a whim.

And Michael stands attention over them, ready to act on Geoff’s command.

Michael is the angelic-faced warrior, fighting on behalf of a king, slaying enemies and dragons alike. He deals in righteous anger.

Anyone outside of the family, outside of the crew, was inconsequential. Meaningless. They were to be dealt with swiftly and efficiently. Jones has little compassion for those who try to harm what he protects. The family Ramsey had built in Los Santos, they were worth everything to Michael. They were the only thing that mattered.

The Vagabond was unwavering, he acted on command, and he held back the uncertainty, the doubt, until it could be soothed by Ramsey’s doctrine. Mogar just didn’t care. He wasn’t as cruel, wasn’t as deliberate and bloody, but he never slept better than when he was protecting the Fakes.

Ramsey called for the Vagabond when he needed his executioner. Ramsey called for Mogar when he needed a war won. People liked to call Ramsey a god, and the Vagabond a monster. You would not like to hear what they called Michael.

Ramsey was a ringleader. It’s only natural that he surrounded himself with trained beasts.

Jones came to Los Santos from the northeast, lured in by some kind of supernatural pull, drawn, like they all were, towards Los Santos. Lured in, simply by Ramsey’s word, and the promise of something greater, some divine purpose.

He became, almost magically, fanatically devoted to the crew almost immediately. They are his family, and to Michael, they are the only ones who matter. Everyone else was collateral. They didn’t understand, they didn’t know. If you met the Fakes, maybe you’d get it, maybe you’d love them as Michael so desperately loved them.

Maybe you’d die for them. Maybe you’d kill for them.

Jack may have been the first solider, the first disciple, but that did not mean Michael’s devotion was any less intense, any less encompassing. It did not mean Michael loved the others any less fiercely.

And Ramsey encouraged this. Why shouldn’t he? Geoff had no need of useless men, had no need of anyone who was not completely infatuated. He needed loyalty, he needed their allegiance, he needed an army.

Ramsey likes to collect people, likes to put them up high where everyone could see, but where no one could touch them. Like glass figurines, like toy soldiers.

They lived in a penthouse, for fuck’s sake. They were kept separate, high above Los Santos, high above the unwashed masses. It invited a certain kind of viewpoint.

If you saw them, lounging in the sky, you might think they were divine beings, ruling over a fallen city.

The Fakes were two parts mafia. One part folklore.

People liked to say that controlling Mogar must be like holding a pulled grenade, but they were wrong. The Vagabond may have needed absolution for his sins, but the only thing Michael ever needed was a point in the right direction and something to protect.

And he needed it. He was gunning for it, chomping at the bit for it, frantic to fight at the smallest insult, desperate to tear down anything that even thought about standing in their way. That thought about hurting his family.

Jones caught Ramsey’s attention, and whether that was a good thing or a bad thing depended very much on where you were standing. Ramsey’s influence stretched far beyond the city, so when he heard about someone with the expertise he desired, it was a small matter of pulling on the right strings.

The marionettes came running. It didn’t take Michael long to become entangled.

Because what Geoff had built? What he’d nurtured, crafted delicately, lovingly? It was perfect for Michael. Good God, people who cared for each other- the Fakes were a team who actually trusted one another, and that was invaluable.

And above all, they loved Geoff, above all, they trusted Geoff.

They say Ramsey could read your soul with a single glance, and it must be true because he knew exactly what Michael needed. He needed a haven to return to, people to protect. Michael needed somewhere to return to when he was done setting the skyline on fire.

Ramsey had no shortage of enemies, and Jones did not hesitate in taking action against them. The Vagabond may be cruel, but Mogar is efficient. There is no room for dissension in Ramsey’s crew, and Mogar embodies the perfect warrior. Good soldiers are not made from good men.

Ramsey collected lost souls, but for someone who killed his fellow human beings for a living, Michael Jones was shockingly well-adjusted. His shoulders were not heavy with guilt, he didn’t see ghosts when he roamed Los Santos.

He didn’t hear them screaming. Wailing. Vengeful, resentful, mournful.

Michael is pragmatic. He doesn’t lose sleep over collateral damage.

It was logical, it was circuitry, it was wires. It was an on switch and a timer and a couple of pounds of C4. Boom. It was force and velocity and heat. It was everything uncontrollable and chaotic and wild, and he loved it. Boom.

Michael had the mind for demolition, but more importantly, he had the stomach for it. He had the heart for it.

He’s willing to do anything required, anything Geoff commanded him to do. And isn’t that a good thing? To protect the people you love at any cost?

Isn’t it sweet, isn’t it kind, isn’t it understandable? Is it worthy of praise, is it admirable, is it a standard to look up to, is it a shining example?

Is it worth it? To kill in the name of love, in the name of others, in the name of devotion?

Is it forgivable?

Michael flew across the country on the word of a man who would become his leader. He stepped into the not so welcoming arms of a city that would soon learn to fear him. He stepped into the arms of a family he would soon come to value above all else.

And if you needed proof they were still human, here it was- in the way they cared for one another, in the way they’d die for each other. Like how they’d die for Geoff, like how they’d die for his cause, his mission.

And if you were a part of that family? You’d see that- you’d see how much Michael cared for the Fakes, how willing he was to do anything to protect them. You’d see how little he cared for the lives of anyone else.

When the Fakes talk about Michael, they don’t call him a monster, they don’t call him a wild creature. He is the warrior, the protector. No less angelic for haven fallen.