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The city shines like a great jewel in the desert, sparkling against the ocean. They call the city Los Santos, the city of the saints. The name is a lie; there are no saints here, but sinners all. Look closely and you'll see the great jewel is merely glass and paste, trying desperately to pass itself off as something more. There's a lot of that around here.
People hold on to the things they think will make them more important, something that will make them stand out against the filth and rise to the top. Some people choose their looks, flaunting what they have and pretending not to notice what they don't. Some people choose talents, singing or acting through two-bit parts under the vain hope of being something more. And some people? Some people choose violence, knuckles blood-red and smiles knife-edged, carving their way to the top, damn the consequences. Most of these people never rise far; their lives are short and bloody, a mess of frenzied violence feeding in on itself. The ones that do rise? Well there's a reason they're on the top.
The current king of Los Santos is one Geoffrey Ramsey, erstwhile scion of the RoosterTeeth gang, long since headed out to carve out his own place in a new city. At the top, of course, he'd never settle for anything less. He's been on top for longer than anyone else has, and he's not even grasping at power the way most crime bosses do but is instead secure in the knowledge that this is his city, won through blood and by blood it will be kept. You wouldn't know it to look at him though, he looks every bit the two-bit crimeboss, intoxicated on success and whatever liquor he can get his hands on. Don't be fooled, not even all his tattoos can hide all the blood on his hands.
His right hand man is a Jack Pattillo. Not much is known about him, other than he's been with Ramsey since the beginning and can pilot, fly, or drive any vehicle the gang has and can get them access to any vehicle they don't. He is also, as far as anyone can tell, the unlikely core of the group, the one who remembers that despite as much they might act otherwise, they are still men made of flesh that can tear and bone that can break and blood that can be spilled. He is the one to remind them to sleep, to eat, to talk. He is the core and they will close ranks around him. For all that they mock him, he is theirs.
If Pattillo's the stability of the group, then Gavin Free is the chaos, always ready with a plan that makes perfect sense to him, and little sense to everyone else. No one's quite certain where the Brit came from, or how he and Geoff know each other, but Gavin was the second person to join up with Geoff, for reasons known only to him. The boy plays the fool, clumsy and loud with constant questions and a wide grin. It's not until closer examination that it becomes evident that the grin is a mask, behind which is a man who is far smarter, far sharper than anyone would ever give him credit for. His very chaotic nature serves him well, to keep things interesting, to keep them on top. Because no one opposing them can ever plan for Gavin.
Gavin wears one mask, but Ryan Haywood wears many. He'll spin a thousand different stories with a million different lies about who he is and where he's from, but never deviate from the truth that he is dangerous. He paints his face like a skull and wears a mask over that, a reminder for all that death is constant. Blood stains his hands, this mad vagabond who showed up out of nowhere and integrated himself into a group of people almost as dangerous as he is. It's said that he's the one who's sent when fear is needed, he was a legend, a nightmare long before he joined with Geoff. He's betrayed groups before and there's no guarantee that he won't do it again, but for now, he remains content with where he is.
Haywood's the quiet destruction, the ruthless and calculating destruction, but Michael Jones is the loud destruction, the destruction done gleefully, like a boy setting off firecrackers on a much larger scale. The boy from New Jersey with fire in his veins and blood on his hands, as loud and as dangerous as the explosions he sets off. He makes explosions, he is an explosion, temper sharp and voice sharper. For all his anger, there's a loyalty there that cannot be beaten, but will rear up, teeth bloody and eyes dark. This is his, this anger, this gang and he will spill blood, another's or his own to keep it that way.
Where Michael is loud, Ray Narvaez Jr. is quiet, almost forgettable. He's small, folded up in an oversized hoodie, attention fixed on the DS in his hand. It's easy to not pay attention to him, he fades into the background of the group, his hands jammed into his pockets and hood pulled over his eyes. No one would think that the infamous BrownMan is a smart-mouthed kid wearing scuffed checkerboard vans. Which is exactly how he wants it; everything's so much easier when your target never even thinks to look at you. He's the last thing that they never saw coming.
The six of them rule the city, with fists and blood and steel and high-velocity lead and fire and a fierce, exuberant joy, teeth bared in what could be a smile if you ignore the threat. They rose to the top through blood and there they will remain until someone else manages to take them down. That's the way life is in the city that calls itself a Saint. It's brutal and bloody and where they belong. Remember, this is their playground. Wanna play?