Author's Note: This an original story, with SOME original characters. Grand Theft Auto belongs to it's creators and all that muck.
Little darling it's been a long cold lonely winter,
Little darling it feels like years since it's been here.
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
And I say it's all right.
Little darling the smiles returning to their faces,
Little darling it seems like it's years since it's been here,
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun,
And I say it's all right.
1
John O'Rourke lit his first cigarette of his new life as the prison gates closed behind him, and grinned at the day, which was blue and beautiful and sunny. He began to walk, dragging off of his Lucky Strike every few steps.
He's a tall man, broad shouldered, with massive, powerful hands. His face is squared and strong chinned, and it looks as though it were carved out of cheap rock. His eyes were gray, cold chips of onyx. The cigarette looked like a toothpick between his thick fingers. He has thick black hair, worn long-ish and brushed—not slicked—back. There's a light coating of stubble on his chin.
John O'Rourke had spent the last seven years of his life in the Liberty City Correctional Facility, doing a five to ten behind an armed robbery rap. He'd originally been slated for five years, but then he'd taken an eye out of another inmate.
As he walked, a taxi cab pulled up beside him and asked if he wanted a ride. O'Rourke considered, then said, "Go to hell." The cab driver said, "Screw you, buddy!" and yanked back into traffic. O'Rourke spat in the gutter, lit his last cigarette, and walked across the Portland/Staunton connecting bridge.
The bridge moved and swayed under his feet from the wind, and it made him angry. O'Rourke's suit, a brown single-breasted with a black silk tie, fluttered behind him in the wind. The suit was limp with age, and no pressing. O'Rourke figured he'd get a new one when he got a job. If he got a job. If.
He got to Portland early in the afternoon, and panhandled a dime from a latent fag with big hips. The diner he went to was called Faye's Place, and O'Rourke ordered a burger and a milkshake, bumming a Marlboro from the waitress. He twisted off the filter of the the cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it with a cheap paper match.
After lunch, he dropped the dime on the counter and walked out.
The waitress called him a limp-dick cocksucker, which O'Rourke ignored as he made his way out into the street.
He walked to the bus stop, moving slow, and caught one to Fenton Street, in Trenton. The apartment building there was pre-war, old and shifting with the wind, and as O'Rourke made his way up the stairs and drunk nearly passed out on him. O'Rourke sent the guy down the stairs, took his wallet, and continued his walk.
He knocked on the door of apartment 7B. A woman with auburn hair and no makeup answered, a slim woman with a delicate build, small breasts, a round and thin face. Her eyes, giant blue eyes, looked at O'Rourke with an odd expression, one edging between love and hate.
A little girl, with O'Rourke's cold eyes, clung to the woman's leg.
The woman said, "Jesus Christ, John…." And embraced him. O'Rourke wasn't looking at her, though, he was looking at the little girl. His daughter.
He went inside with the two of them, and shut the door.