AN: This is the first fic that I've managed to pluck up the courage to publish on here. Since it is set post-game, it will contain spoilers for ending C and the majority of the story. Feedback is appreciated!
Trevor rarely did favours for old accomplices, mostly due to his insistence on killing people who severed ties with him, which translated to a severe lack of them. The maniac had taken up many accomplices since setting the foundations of his drug empire up, but the vast majority had turned out to be traitorous scumbags that were now buried deep under the sandy oblivion of Blaine County.
The only partnership that had ended properly, so to speak, was a long-winded one with a guy named Trent, who Trevor had both admired and loathed. Trent was strong-willing and stood up for himself, despite being a bit of an all around valley boy who didn't really belong in the drug peddling business, accompanied by a ridiculously annoying voice to boot. He reminded Trevor of an Australian tourist he'd once thrown in front of a train back in North Yankton.
Since Trent's constant presence had started to eat away at Trevor's will to live, they'd reached a comfortable compromise. Trent would run the weed side of things, way over in Los Santos, and he would call Ron whenever he needed anything, so Trevor never had to hear that annoyingly casual drawl that sounded like something out of a shitty teenage romance movie ever again. It was a nice arrangement, one that hadn't ended with Trent's innards splattered all over Trevor's trailer, which he supposed meant a lot. And while Trevor got little from it beside pocket change, it had made him feel a little better at a particularly low point in his life.
Of course, the bliss didn't last for too long. Just when Trevor had begun enjoying life again, he'd received a phone call from an unknown number. Initially assuming that it was a potential employee at the strip club, or Michael's new phone number that had come hand in hand with his shiny 'new' iFruit model, he was beyond the point of dismay when greeted with a simple drawl that he immediately recognized as Trent. It had made Trevor want to tear what little hair he had left out, just hearing his smug, vague tones, the voice that he'd evidently lost his tolerance for in the male's absence.
"We had a deal, Trent!" Trevor had barked down the phone at the male, expecting a heartfelt apology, too wound up from the speed he'd taken that morning to realize the world didn't react to his whims.
"I know we did, man. I called Ron, told him about my little... Problem. And he told me to call you." Trent drawled disinterestedly in response.
"Fucking Ronald. I'm going to have to discipline the shit out of him when I get home." Trevor muttered, standing from the chair he'd been inhabiting for the majority of the morning and pulling up his pants before flicking his internet browser back to its homepage abruptly. The male flicked his phone onto loudspeaker, leaving it on the office's desk as he went to wash the grime from his face.
"What do you want, you prissy turd?" Trevor snapped after a moment of listening to Trent's mouth breathing.
"Well... There's this guy who said he'd do some work for me. Benefield, is his name, Stan Benefield. He wanted to get into dealing, mostly, maybe growing, though he didn't sound... Well, he made off with a good fifty percent of my product, sold it to some gang types around his apartment, and kept the money. All to himself." Trent sighed wistfully, giving Trevor the time to consider.
"So... You want me to teach this guy a lesson, get the cash, or both? 'Cause, you know, I'm not partial or anything..." He asked, feeling a little giddy despite himself. He hadn't done any jobs that didn't involve stealing alcohol for one of the clubs he owned for a while.
"Both. Do what you want with him, I mean." Trent sounded vague, was probably high.
"Fine. Send me his details and I'll go get your money, rough him up a little for 'ya." He took his phone back, making to hang up.
"Actually... Y-you're at the strip club, aren't you? Ron said you owned the place, now."
"Yup. I'm expanding my empire." Trevor responded, having made his way back to his desk, fist clenched
"He lives Chamberlain Hills. Crystal Heights, apartment 9. You're not too far away. What, five minutes? Oh, but the traffic-" By that point, Trent's voice was beginning to make Trevor beyond the point of tense, so he hung up, moving to the blanket-strewn sofa that he usually slept on and shoving his boots on. The male made to leave the grungy office room that he often lived in, proceeding to the back of the strip club and idly smacking the backside of a blonde dancer on his way past, a hop in his step.
It was spitting with rain, but Trevor didn't really care. He liked the rain and the smell made him feel alive. He hopped into his truck, starting the rusty old thing up and drafting a quick, threatening text to Ron. It took him less than five minutes to reach Chamberlain Heights; Franklin's old neighbourhood, he remembered with a slick grin. He could easily go and torment his aunt afterwards, if scaring some defenceless teenager shitless didn't give him his desired kick; the old hag would've deserved it, anyway. Franklin had told him plenty of horror stories about the woman over the passing year, mostly while drunk, and Trevor just wanted to rip her throat to shreds, really.
Crystal Heights was a dealer's delight. Well, certainly that of a freelancing dealer. It housed mainly gang-banger types, Trevor knew, though a few hookers he was mutual with had resided there at one point, too. There were many rental signs scattered around the place, stylized in a neat looking courtyard. It was almost cute, Trevor thought to himself, pointing at two guys hanging outside one of the lower floor apartments, smoking something that wasn't tobacco.
"My n-words. Good to see you both." The men both shot Trevor slightly confused glances, watching as he stumbled through the door and to the top floor, the apartment that he'd been requested to head into; nine, as he vaguely recalled.
Trevor, not being the sort of person who tended to knock, pushed on the wood of the door in an attempt at testing the waters, surprised that it was unlocked, when it didn't generate much of a reaction. He'd been looking forward to kicking a door down, frowning a little to himself as he stepped into the smoky, beyond-cluttered apartment, the sound of a television blearing into the apparent argument taking place in the living room. Nobody had noticed Trevor was there, which he was somewhat glad for. His fitness wasn't exactly the best. The male stepped over cracked glass and around heaps of garbage that would have undoubtedly rustled if he'd stepped on them, under a door that had been pulled from its hinges. He armed himself with a simple pistol, just in case, though he highly doubted that these people would be the gun-brandishing type.
There was a raven haired male who was haggard in appearance, knelt in the only space of the room that wasn't littered with masses of rubbish, holding a slender female in a tight grasp, by the throat. A woman with long, dishevelled ginger hair, clumped together with masses of clashing blood. Trevor watched in silence as the man's fist hit his captive's face once again, thumped at bruised features, pale skin that Trevor knew was probably cold.
"I fucking told you, what did I fucking say?! That was my money, you whore, my money, and you spent it all on that... That mistake!" The male dropped the redhead to the floor abruptly, standing up and staring down at her. Trevor felt oddly nostalgic.
"You bitch. You piece of shit, get up!" The bloodied female didn't respond, staring blankly at the ceiling.
"Uh, she's dead, Jim." Trevor piped up lightly, emerging from the other side of the door, his pistol pointed directly at Stan, who didn't react, swaying in his spot.
"She's not dead. She's a whiny, lying, stealing bitch, and this is just another lie, because she lies all the time!" The raven spat back at Trevor. The reasoning behind Trevor's presence had just changed, the male watching the woman bleed onto the carpet.
"Oh, of course, you have a right to be angry. She stole your hard-earned cash." Trevor dropped onto a tattered armchair, crossing his legs and knocking an overfilling ashtray from the arm of the chair in the process.
"I mean, it's not like you... You yourself stole that green, right?" The color drained from Stanley's face, and he dropped to the floor beside his victim's body, shaking her slightly by the shoulders.
"She ain't gonna save you now, brother. You two close?" Trevor knew a battered woman when he saw one, having grown up with a temperamental-at-the-best-of-times father and an ambivalent mother. It almost made him feel bitter that he'd spent a large chunk of his childhood protecting her from his father's vicious temper.
"She... She was my girlfriend, m-my... We were gonna get married, she was my-" There was a sharp bang, and with a burst of crimson, Stan fell silent, Trevor blowing the smoke away from the edge of his pistol as if it were nothing, just an average day. After a few moments of examining his surroundings, pocketing two small baggies of crystal and smack, he stood, tearing Stan's body from his girlfriend's in an attempt to allow the poor girl a little peace in death. She probably deserved it.
Trevor attempted to look for the money, but he assumed it had already been spent on harder drugs. He made to leave, the bounce gone from his stride. It was frustrating that the simple job hadn't gone as well as he'd wanted it to, that it had made him feel pretty downtrodden, reminded him how shitty and broken the world was.
The male stopped in his tracks when he heard a sharp cry, emanating from the dark, dingy room that was missing a door, that Trevor hadn't really noticed when he'd initially passed. It was almost like that of a pained cat, desperate and sudden. The shock made Trevor's throat dry, and the male swallowed, slowly approaching the room, curiosity and adrenaline pushing him along. He stepped over a large pile of old, dirty clothes, on an already shattered picture frame of a happy looking couple by the beach.
The room smelt of rotting and decay, a scent that, although familiar to Trevor, was disgusting in such high exposure. It was a bedroom, from what Trevor could grasp, a bare mattress piled high with various blankets, all the coverage needed for a San Andreas summer. The cries that Trevor had initially heard had softened into whines, Trevor approaching the corner of the room, a darkwood crib that was barely visible in the faint lick of sunlight that was dripping into the corner of the room. Trevor already knew what he was expecting, yet it didn't seem real, the male stumbling almost drunkenly to the side of the cot, peaking over.
There was an infant in the crib, a flick of shocking auburn hair, milk crusted around its mouth. The child was dressed in a dirty red baby grow, that smelt the sort of sickly sweet of unwashed clothing, even from afar. While the creature smelt awful, it was of a good weight, had enough energy to wiggle at the sight of Trevor, who was gaping at the infant, genuinely horrified by his discovery.