A/N: A lot of this chapter happens via flashbacks, watch for: blood, violence, and brief suicidal thoughts. Locations from GTA V are referenced but no knowledge of the game is necessary.

There will be eventual smut in this fic, but explicit scenes will only be available for reading on the Ao3 version of this story.


His heart rate was impossibly fast, the thump loud and hard against his chest as it threatened to break through his ribcage and spill his blood everywhere in sporadic convulsions. Tensed with fear, an inhale for much-needed oxygen caught in his throat, suffocating him, painfully squeezing the life from his lungs. He was going to die, he was going to die, he—

A strangled cry of fright, one he didn't even recognize as his own initially, startled Dipper into consciousness with a jolt. Panting and covered in a thin layer of sweat, his eyes fluttered open to adjust to the low light of the guest bedroom while his clenched fists slowly loosened on the silky sheets they'd held in a death grip mere seconds before.

To his surprise, he realized he must have fallen asleep somehow, though wasn't sure how he'd managed that considering…

It felt like his mind stopped for a split second. It was the calm before the storm as an intense wave of grief washed over him while the memories came flooding back, tears forming in the corners of his eyes — he couldn't do this.

Much like his dream, he found himself unable to breathe, chest painfully tight.

In a desperate search for comfort to quell the rising panic within him, Dipper looked to find Mabel among the copious sheets on the king-sized bed, gaze landing on his sister's sprawled out figure, peacefully asleep.

Dipper felt nauseous. He wanted to wake her, to cry with her again, sobbing together until they were utterly incoherent. His face hurt from how much they'd cried.

Her closed eyes were puffy, cheeks flushed, brunette hair a mess, but Dipper was certain he didn't look any better. He gently brushed a hand over her back in an attempt to be soothing, wondering if her sleep was as tranquil as it seemed since his had been far from it. He didn't know how he'd ever sleep decently again after what'd happened tonight.


There was a crash. Glass shattering. Sudden flashes of color ignited in the sky, bursting into a million pieces as the roar of fireworks filled his ears, the sound deafening and not quite right. It was so loud, so incredibly close, and...

A cold truth chilled him to the bone: they weren't fireworks. They were gunshots.

A zap of adrenaline had Dipper awake instantly, the terror hitting him like a wall of bricks as the thunderous echo resounded throughout the house, confirming that his nightmare followed him from his dream.

He was overcome by disbelief, by the sheer horror of the situation.

He was frozen, muscles not cooperating, unable to move or think or even breathe as the unrelenting grasp of fear held him in place.

The piercing noise was nonstop, the entire foundation of his family's mansion shaking from its force. A blood-curdling scream joined the gunshots, and Dipper's stomach lurched, panic rushing over him as he recognized it as his mother's voice.

This couldn't be happening — he didn't even know what was happening, all he knew was…

Mabel!

Dread swept through him, mixing with the basic desire for self-preservation and the growing urge to flee. But he wasn't going anywhere, not without Mabel. She had to be okay. She needed to be.

Dipper jumped from his bed, running on pure adrenaline as he crossed the room in record time to shake her, her grogginess fading instantly as more gunshots rang out.

It was like everything was moving in slow motion as all he could do was stare down at her, wide-eyed and petrified for their lives. Their eyes locked. There was a singular, downright terrifying truth in the air. And finally finding his voice, all he could manage was a single, choked word:

Police.


The tang of blood drew him from his thoughts, only now noticing that he'd been biting his lip hard enough to break the skin.

Dipper sighed, unsure how to cope with this right now when everything felt overwhelming. He wished there could be an off-switch for his racing thoughts.

Shuffling from the bedsheets while being careful not to disturb Mabel, Dipper wandered out of the bedroom and entered the penthouse's main living space.

What he saw made him feel like he was in a fever dream. Sure, he'd seen it once before, but… he'd never taken in its elegance and in his dazed state, that was seemingly the only details he could absorb. The pale moonlight streaming through the mural-esque wall window accented the room, bringing a ghostly blue tint to the undoubtedly expensive furnishings. It was cold, unwelcome and unfamiliar.

Even the sectional sofa with its downy pillows, strategically surrounding the exceptionally-large flat screen television didn't seem inviting to Dipper. While there were homey items like a baby grand piano situated near the spacious kitchen, whiteboards with confusing equations and maps, and a fireplace, the fact that people (three, in fact — five if he and Mabel counted) lived in this space—gangsters and criminals, no less—was beyond him since nothing appeared to be in disarray or an inch out of place. It was neat, clinically so, and he felt stifled by it all.

He still felt sick. He needed to get out.

Stepping onto the penthouse balcony was a change of pace, the city below bustling with its bright, colorful lights and fast cars and bleating horns, quite different from the strange stillness inside the penthouse.

Although he'd debated collapsing onto the patio sofa, Dipper drifted toward the railing instead, leaning forward and clasping the metal between his fingers, discovering it was cool despite the hot air of Los Santos.

A polluted night sky loomed above the overpopulated and noisy city, and he wished the stars would crash down around him, desperate and yearning for reprieve.


In his sheer panic, he told Mabel to hide.

He didn't know what was coming after them, what danger had burst into their home, but he didn't want her to face it.

But as quickly as it'd started, the crackles of gunshots had tapered off but left his ears ringing; he could hear shuffling and movement and yelling, safety was an illusion.

Dipper's hand, trembling wildly, lingered near the doorknob of the bedroom. Uneasiness was clawing at him. It settled like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. Every inch of Dipper, the last shreds of sense he had in this state, were screaming at him. Screaming don't go out there.

The house had gone silent, all he could hear was his ragged breathing.

Despite the heaviness in the air, he felt light-headed as he stepped into the hallway that led to his parents' bedroom. It was chaotic, a mess: the fur rugs were ruffled, the paintings eskew, windows with broken glass. The end table was knocked over, the small golden lion statue that usually rested atop it completely missing — he knew his parents treasured it, a luxurious wedding gift they'd received so many years ago. Gone.

A... robbery?

Dipper's attention drifted down the hallway illuminated only by eery beams of moonlight. The blazing, fiery scent of gunsmoke lingered.

The first smears of blood and bullet holes peppered in the wall had his stomach doing queasy flips, internally begging it not to be true; it couldn't be. Then the smears turned to splatters, turned to giant splashes and a crimson red puddle with limp, lifeless bodies… The edges of his sight started to become increasing black and fuzzy as he could do nothing but stare at the familiar corpses, sickened. Head and heart pounding, even if it seemed the world stopped for several seconds.

It was unreal, he couldn't believe it, couldn't begin to process.

It couldn't be. He screamed.

With shock as his guide, he numbly began to walk to them, what grisly remains there were, but he was dizzy, his head spinning while his vision blurred and ran together and adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he felt himself falling.

The world seemed to twist around him in a flash of pulsating technicolor; Dipper never felt the moment of impact as his consciousness slipped, and he plummeted toward the floor.


And now he stood on a balcony, hundreds of feet above millions of people that didn't care, didn't even know yet.

A shuddering exhale fell from Dipper, shaking his head as if that would rid the intrusive thoughts from his mind and clear away the crushing grief that seemed to be intent on consuming him whole. He was drowning in his own sorrow with no end in sight, not that he believed there was one to begin with.

His life would never be the same after tonight, and he wasn't sure if what was ahead could be considered worth living through — there was Mabel, but everything else… everything he'd ever known, it'd been ripped away in a single night, drastically altering his present and future. Dipper couldn't imagine it, there was no returning to okay now, no way to go back and change it.

He kept his eyes trained on the city as tears trailed down his cheeks, chest constricting while muffled sniffles escaped him.

A part of him was still convinced this wasn't happening, couldn't be happening to him of all people, that this was nothing more than a wild dream to ride out until it was back to normal and he was with his loving family once more.

This reality simply wasn't possible. There wasn't a chance he was truly living this in the wake of his parents' murders… but here he was, wading through the shock and afraid for his life while trying to grapple with the tides of grief.

Under the circumstances, he figured it was impressive that he hadn't crumbled under the stress, and oh, it was so very tempting to. He wanted to give up, stop the suffering that stung sharp as knives embedded in his heart, and it was like each thump caused their pointed ends to go deeper.


"Really fucked up…"

"God damn it!"

"...unbelievable. Even the child…?"

Distantly, he could hear the sound of something crash, but the object was lost to him. "Son of a bitch, I'll kill 'em!"

Voices echoed around him as he drifted back into consciousness, unfamiliar and gruff, and he couldn't stop himself from emitting pained groan from how his head throbbed. The world was blurry, shapes shifting in and out of focus.

"...may be alive…?"

There was a hand clutching at his chin, forcing his head up as Dipper's dazed eyes stared into another man's who was looking back at him critically in examination. "Stanley, he's… stunned, but not dead."

"He's alive?" Another man approached, less spiffy than the last. Both wore strapped guns and hardened expressions, though the first seemed more concerned. "Well, ain't that some good news in a sea of shit! Can you hear me, kid?"

Dipper couldn't formulate a reply, hardly alert enough to understand what was occurring. Once again, it was as if the world was moving around him, a slow motion film that he was a helpless pawn in, able to do nothing but watch it go by.

"Kid?" he prompted again, and the first man looked more worried.

"Do you think—?"

An unintelligible noise tumbled from Dipper, a mess of vowels that even he couldn't decipher.. but it was something, better than no noise at all. He was blinking now, trying to get his surroundings to come in clearer, wishing his head would stop attempting to self-destruct.

"...that he's special needs?" he interjected, finishing the other man's sentence. "Probably. Son, if ya can understand us, and I know that may be hard, nod your head."

Something snapped into place.

Fear catching up with him, Dipper jolted back, eyes as wide as saucers as he stared at the two strangers who had barged into his home, clutching at his chest as he struggled for breath. "Wh- who are you?!"

The man who had been holding his chin retracted his hand quickly, appearing startled by the sudden recovery and resulting coherency. "Ah, we're…"

"I'm Stan," the brute of his companion interrupted with his thumb pointed back at his chest. "This here's Ford. What's your name, kid?"

Trying to recollect himself and put distance between them, he started to rise to his feet only to have a rush of dizziness crash over him; he settled for scrambling backwards, eyeing the two with suspicion. Although they didn't have their guns pointed at him, nor were they particularly threatening in how they spoke, Dipper was still terrified given the circumstances. His parents… oh.

Oh god.

He was going to be sick.

"Kid? I asked your name." Stan reached over to prod his shoulder, causing Dipper to flinch back with wild eyes. "Jesus Christ, take it easy. We're not gonna kill ya."

"Pleasedon'thurtme!" It was a panicked squeak in response to the promise that he wouldn't be killed (how reassuring), and he found himself sincerely hoping Mabel had located a hiding place so she would be safe from these people… whoever they were. "What do you want?!"

"Your name, boy." The other—Ford—muttered.

He swallowed hard, grasping at the tattered rug for purchase with shaky hands. "...Dipper."

That seemed to be the wrong answer from how Ford shot Stan a questioning glance, then looked back to him. "Did ya hit your head or somethin'?" Stan asked, gaze scanning his head for signs of injury. "That ain't your name, kid."

Confused, he wondered why they'd asked if they weren't going to accept his response, but before he could say anything, Ford cut in. "Are you not Mason?"

Oh.

"I am," he confirmed evenly, hoping to appear more confident than he felt. "It's… I go by Dipper."

Stan's laugh, though devoid of any joy, boomed through the silent house. "Christ, we'll deal with that later. Have ya seen your sister?"

Anxiety bubbled in him at the mention of Mabel, worried they had hurt her. "How… how do you know—?"

"Kid, your family's information isn't exactly private."

While fair enough, he wasn't thinking straight right now — all his mind kept going back to was the thought of his parents, dead. The puddle of blood, the gut-wrenching smears on the wall. The dizziness had returned, the hallway shifting in the corners of his sight.

At the mere idea, his head tilted, trying to see around the two figures blocking his path, dreading what was down there but morbid curiosity forcing him to look, to try to see his parents...

Stan snapped his fingers in Dipper's face to grab his attention. "Nothin' to see over there, kid."

"B-but my parents—!"

Ford let out a strained exhale, "They're gone. Now, about your sister…"

"She's already called the police! They'll be here any minute!" Dipper was desperate, not wanting to hear the bad news if she was also dead— he didn't think he could handle it. He couldn't, he knew he couldn't.

Without her… he gulped at the thought.

There was a collective displeasure in the air immediately as the threat of police was thrown at them. "Shit," he could hear Stan hiss under his breath. "You better find your sister quick, kid. We're leaving. All of us."

"What?!"

There was no way. Not a chance.

Although relieved Mabel was probably alright, there was a new hefty problem to contend with. Dipper shook his head and again was scrambling to get away. "You're insane! I'm not going anywhere with you!"

He couldn't escape Stan's reach in time, and could feel a fist close around the collar of his pine tree-print pajamas, holding him in place. "I didn't ask." His voice had dropped to a dangerous growl and left not an inch for argument. "We need to get you kids out of here. You can resist all ya want, but it won't do ya any good."

Still in the throes of panic, he squawked with a motion toward where his parents inevitably laid in rivers of their own blood, "So you can kill us too?!" The thought had his stomach twisting in knots, he was going to faint again—

"We didn't kill your parents. We were trying to save them!" He released his grip on his shirt as his companion, Ford, pulled out a pistol from his coat and pointed it at him.

"Best not waste time, Mason. Find your sister."

And that was how he and Mabel, equipped only with essentials and sets of clothes, ended up in the backseat of a car even more luxurious than the ones his family owned… or used to own — that was saying something, but he couldn't find it in himself to care as they raced by the the streets and people and cars of Los Santos, speeding down the freeway to some unknown destination.

Grimly, he sort of hoped the car would crash, letting them all die instantly. But alas, giving them the sweet release of death was too much to ask for.

Trembling, Dipper was collapsed against his sister, and Mabel had her head buried in her nightgown, refusing to say a single word. He didn't blame her, as he didn't know what to say either except that he wished things were different.

Guilt panged at him. The devastation that came with being powerless to the destruction of their lives, as if this was somehow his fault, proved difficult to escape.

He didn't understand why he was alive, what force decided he would survive this. But he knew he didn't deserve it.

Desperate for a distraction to stop his unrelenting thoughts, he tuned in to the conversation happening in the front of the vehicle.

"...have Bill contact them immediately and express our formal disapproval over what occurred tonight." He could hear Ford complain, sounding distressed. "This is unacceptable— not only were there kids but they have utterly doomed this city with their bold, idiotic move."

"Ya know that won't do shit," Stan responded bitterly. "They fucked this one up bad, and the only thing those dumbasses would understand is a bomb planted in their headquarters. Though, that ain't half a bad idea…"

"No, Stanley. The senator and mayor are dead, so we ought to wait before we take action. We don't know what this means for us yet."

Dipper gradually realized this…

The murders…

They weren't motivated by robbery, and the light-headedness made a shockingly fast comeback. "Someone targeted our parents?" he thought aloud, piecing it together but hardly comprehending; nothing felt real, not the loss of their parents or the fact they were being dragged from their home to god-knew-where.

Stan confirmed his thoughts. "Yeah, they did. We knew they were planning on it, but we were too late… we only got a few of them while they were runnin' out."

And with that, Dipper was feeling sick again, curling tighter into Mabel as if that would ease his nausea. His head was reeling, swarming with too many thoughts that he couldn't even concentrate on one for long.

"We'll take good care of ya, though." Stan hadn't stopped talking. "Let things cool down for a month or two, since the Ravagers will be hunting ya and the cops will be on the lookout. Once things do, we'll give ya some cash and ya can do what you wish. As long as you don't talk about us."

He didn't even know what us was referring to.

"Can't we just go now?" Dipper mumbled, a mournful sound. Where they would go or what they'd do as newly-made orphans, he didn't know, but… "We promise we won't talk, right Mabel?"

Dipper's heart fell slightly when there was no response, not that he'd really expected one when she was like this, and one glance at her was crushing since he knew he couldn't do anything to alleviate the grief they were experiencing. Unable to hold back, discomfort expanded in his chest, and he felt fat tears roll down his face. His lithe frame shuddered with sobs.

Ford frowned. "Unfortunately, that isn't an option. For our safety and yours, you must remain with us for a while... but as Stanley said, try not to fret since you will be treated as honored guests would be."

"It's not like we're gonna hurt ya kids," Stan added. "That's the last thing we wanna do."

The car ride continued in silence until they were pulling into a driveway of an astonishingly big complex and being ushered out of the vehicle, soon finding themselves standing in the doorway of the penthouse suite.

Ford encouraged the twins inside, pushing them toward the sectional sofa with the reasoning: "Without the threat of cops looming over us, I'd like to have a look at you both to ensure you're unharmed from your encounter with… them."

Dipper didn't protest and figured he was referring to the Ravagers, having heard that gang's name tossed around quite a bit in the past twenty minutes, with a heap of cursing aimed at them. He decided it was best to allow Ford to check him over since he was too exhausted, too emotionally drained to fight it. The events of the evening were in the back of his mind, but the full gravity of it all hadn't clicked into place.

Stan had left their sides, crossing the expansive room in long strides. "Bill!" he called. "Where are ya? We got some bad news." Dipper glanced away from Ford's examination to observe a blond male in a yellow and black tuxedo and a bowtie enter the room from the balcony.

He was exceedingly tall, and… Dipper's eyes narrowed, there was something familiar about him. He couldn't pinpoint what it was.

"Stan," Bill greeted. "What's up? You look like you've seen some ghosts. How'd your little mission go?"

"We were too late. They got to the parents first… but we managed to recover the kids." Stan beckoned over to them with his hand.

"Damn."

With Bill looking at him now, Dipper was certain he knew him. Somehow, from somewhere… the memory was fuzzy. With so many other things on his mind, he didn't dwell on it.

It didn't take long for Bill's expression to brighten up. "If it makes ya feel better, your aim's better than your timing tonight because Lee's six feet under with Nate now! After you two shot him up, Robbie sent me some death threats over the whole shebang and an image of him– at my request. 'Proof or it didn't happen', you know! We can get out the board!"

The board? What was that?

He noticed something between a grimace and smile flicker on Ford's features for a moment. "While I'd normally express sympathy, the Ravagers had no right to be there this evening. Absolute stupidity, and this is well-deserved retribution," the grimace took over, "though I hadn't intended on killing him..."

His questions about the board were answered when Stan, who had fallen into a fit of triumphant chuckling, retrieved it from a closet. It was a whiteboard with pictures taped to it and lines drawn connecting various people, and Dipper could see the eyes crossed out on a darker skinned male, as well as a female with dyed hair. There was writing beneath the images, but he couldn't make out what each said.

However, his attention was snagged by the multiple question marks scattered near an image of someone wearing a golden owl mask and a top hat. Whoever it was appeared to be sipping a soda through a straw-sized hole in the beak of the mask. How intimidating.

Tilting his head, he asked, "Who… who are they?"

"Them?" Stan glanced down at the pictures. "Your parents' murderers, lil' Dippy. The ones with the crossed out eyes are dead. Excluding Lee," he gestured to an image of a blond, "they all died before tonight. Tragic." He pinned the whiteboard to the wall, pulling out a pen to 'x' out his eyes. "Much better, don'tcha think? Just can't let Wendy see this."

Puzzled, Dipper had only a scarce idea of what was going on, who these people even were. Apparently, the board was filled with members of the Ravagers and their pictures, but… then who was Wendy, and why couldn't she see it? He wasn't sure he wanted to ask.

Almost too intuitively, Ford seemed to pick up on his confusion, while Dipper was unaware that it'd been written clearly across his face the entire time. "Wendy is in our crew… Used to be in theirs but," he sighed lightly, "there was an… incident. It'd be wise to keep it hushed around her out of respect."

Bill chuckled. "Oh please, she already knows about Lee. I forwarded her the picture Robbie sent me."

Ford was bristling, visibly irritated. "The picture of Lee?"

"Yup! Thought Red might like the proof too."

Dipper felt like he was going to be ill again, this conversation just icing on the cake to the death of his own parents — on the way here, Stan and Ford had convinced him they were perfectly mannered individuals (for being gangsters, at least), but he was beginning to have doubts.

"Alright, alright." Stan had begun to speak. "It's been a long night. Kids, we'll show you to the guest room so you can get some rest."


After they'd been brought to their new bedroom, Dipper had erupted into a fit of sobs and broken down completely, it was as if the weight of the situation had been suspended above them, threateningly hovering, until that very moment.

He couldn't remember how long he'd cried for, but it felt like hours where he sat with Mabel, both in tears and not knowing what to say or how to make it better… so they'd just bawled over the loss, the grief, the total destruction of everything they'd known.

They'd attempted speaking to each other, sharing sad words of semi-comfort when nothing seemed to lessen the suffering they were enduring. It hadn't helped, and he was left feeling distraught over it all.

He wanted the grief to stop, to leave him alone for just a moment, let him recollect his thoughts and sift through them… organize them, but they were a complete wreck. Dipper couldn't think straight, he couldn't even keep his emotions in check when he was bursting into tears every few minutes.

And ultimately, he didn't think he could take this. It was too much, the stress and sadness of it, the unbearable guilt and grief ripping through his soul. Dipper just wanted it to stop.

Perhaps if he could get his mind to slow down for just one second, if he could turn it off— but he couldn't, and he was helpless to his own emotional avalanche. It was agony, being haunted by mental images of his parents in pools of their own blood.

Mind drifting back to the present, Dipper's hands loosened on the balcony railing, and his movements were languid, deliberate, as he edged one leg over the side.

And then the other, so he was perched on the rail, teetering precariously over the city of Los Santos that was a blur of lights and sounds below. The city seemed so tiny from here.

A blissful thought occurred to him: all he'd have to do...

One scoot forward, and he could be done with this, free himself from the terror and despair and anxiety, the insurmountable sorrow that held—

"Hey cutie," came a voice from behind, and Dipper tensed as he was surrounded by the warmth of arms wrapping around him, the feeling of a chest pressed against his back and a chin on his shoulder. He hadn't noticed he was shaking like a leaf until now and in the next second, he was being effortlessly plucked off the rail and set onto the secure floor of the balcony.

Turning around, Dipper was met with the sight of Bill, still dressed in his attire which seemed too formal for the occasion. His stance was casual, a faint smile on his lips curved ever-so-slightly into a smirk that oozed charisma and insincerity. In a flash, his guard was up.

He hadn't heard the other join him outside, but admittedly, his thoughts had him distracted. Acting out of habit, Dipper wiped the tears from his eyes, trying to at least appear somewhat presentable, but also not sure if he even cared anymore once he noticed he was doing it. How he looked to Bill was extremely low on the list of concerns.

"You don't wanna jump, that'll hurt like hell. Come on." He led him away from the railing, instead urging him to sit on the white patio sofa. And Dipper, dazed by the sudden switch of events, couldn't do anything except follow after.

He was about to speak, a protest on the tip of his tongue, but was shushed by a black-gloved hand as Bill went on. "Tell me what's on your mind. If you still want to jump afterward, go for it. I won't stop you."

"Then what's the point?" Dipper asked miserably.

Bill's eyebrows raised. "Well, it'll give me something to tell Stan when he flips his shit because you're splattered all over the pavement."


"You'll see him in your nightmares, you'll see him in your dreams
He'll appear out of nowhere but he ain't what he seems
You'll see him in your head, on the TV screen
Hey buddy, I'm warning you to turn it off
He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru
You're one microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan
Designed and directed by his red right hand."

- "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds