There are shouts of anguish. Somebody's dead, and Geoff knows it.
"Secret Gavin? Secret Gavin!" Geoff knows, in the back of his mind, that the kid's not going to ring in with a 'sorry, I was just busy' and everything will be okay. He knows that Gavin's gone, somehow, and he knows that somewhere a member of the crew is crying.
Just a moment later, shouts of "Secret Ray! Come in, Secret Ray!" intrude upon his ears, and it's all too much. But he doesn't have much of a choice of how much of this he'd like, now does he?
There's static, static invading his ears, and Geoff desperately fixes the radio channel to tune himself back in. "No, Secret Ryan! Secret Ryan's gone!" There have been to many deaths, too quickly. None of them will recover.
Suddenly, the radio gets all static-y and shit again, and Geoff's very soul is struck with fear. He frantically tunes back in, only to hear a shriek and, "No! Jack!" Then, there's a gargle pain.
The headsets are meant to be communication between them - that's the only thing. And now, it's Geoff's hell. They're linking him to the deaths of those closest to him, something he can't hear. There's a wet cough from the other side of the headset - Michael, who's the only who could possibly be alive. Geoff can't bear the sounds of a friend dying, not again. So he mutes the radio, just after muttering a small 'I'm sorry, Michael.' Michael might be able to hear him, but Geoff won't know if Michael's dead yet or still okay. Like a Schrodinger's Cat, but for one of his best friends instead.
Geoff stands still for a moment, and then the truth hits him like a wave lapping on the beach. He paces back and forth. "Michael... what did we do?" He shakes his head, and chuckles darkly. He's defeated, this time. He has no tricks up his sleeve anymore. There's not a Plan B. And there's no escape from death, not for the others. "Heh... god dammit. I wouldn't have wished this on any man... I can't get you in time... I'm sorry." He ceases his walking.
The only thing he can see is the bleeding, scratched up face of one Michael Vincent Jones, somebody who was too young for it. Geoff has no idea what's happened to Michael, and isn't sure if he wants to know Michael's fate for the moment. Logically, he can assume that Michael is both dead and alive. But only God knows Michael's situation, so it's all left to Geoff's pessimistic imagination.
"I'm... I'm so fuckin' sorry, Michael." Radio silence.
Geoff grits his teeth, and looks at the ground. Tears shine in his red-tinted eyes, and he clicks his tongue in an odd attempt to repress a sob. "But... it wasn't my fault. And it wasn't yours, either, or any of ours! We did our best. We did our parts and... it just wasn't e-enough." Geoff sucks in a breath of cool night air, barely keeping the tears in.
Instead of breaking down, Geoff chooses the unhealthy options. Anger, pure fury, spikes throughout his very being. He lets out a growl and unleashes his rage on a trash can, kicking it and sending it spinning across the boardwalk. It lands some three meters away. "Fuck!"
But of course, he hasn't finished.
His rampage takes him through the tent shops, leaving everything strewn or broken across the wooden floor in his wake. His hands get nicked and smashed - blood is drawn, but it only fuels him.
"We had it all figured out! It was so fucking easy!" He seizes a gumball machine, and uses it to swipe everything off the table in a nearby stand. All of the products fall to the ground, and make a satisfying smash as they shatter. He rips through the side of the tent, and stalks through it.
His blind fury brings him to the railing, where he looks down at his water jet below him. He resists the urge to throw some sort of bomb at it, and instead clenches his fists so hard he draws a little blood at his fingertips.
His furious thoughts burn inside his mind, bringing his anger to a white hot rage. He stares at the world, so particularly beautiful tonight, and wants to curse whatever terrible god is out there for mocking him with something so good, so pure and perfect. Tonight, of all nights, is not the time for goodness and purity and perfection. Not when everyone he cares about is gone from the world, having left him there alone. "What was the god - damn - point?!" His voice cracks painfully.
Geoff puts his head in his hands and takes a deep breath. He wants an answer, just one fucking answer, because the world is too big, and confusing, and he needs just one question answered; why?
He smashes his fist against the wooden railing, only worsening the condition of his hands. It hurts like a motherfucker, but this pain means nothing in the scheme of things.
Then, from his earpiece, comes a small, slurred question. "The fuck... you talkin' about?"
Geoff swears he muted that earbud. He would cross his heart and hope to die (although death doesn't seem too much of a consequence now) that Michael had been cut off. And yet, there it was, the inexplicable miracle of life (or death), that had somehow made Geoff fail to mute him.
Everything has stopped - the waves on the shore, the flapping of seagull's wings, the beating of Geoff's heart. All caused by pure shock.
"We did it... for the fun."
Then the truth actually hits him, and he realizes that Michael is actually alive - Huzzah! The cat was not poisoned.
"Wha- Hello?! Secret Michael! Hello? Come in, Secret Michael!"
Nothing.
No, not nothing - Michael had said something about fun, they had done it -
"For the fun..." Geoff said in a whisper and slowly looked up to the horizon, a look of creeping wonder spreading across his face.
And then he grinned
"Ha - haha."
Oh, it was gold. Probably the best thing he'd ever heard.
"Hahahaha!"
He turned to the glowing skyline of Los Santos, a clusterfuck of a city full of crime, drugs, strip clubs, and destruction. The most beautiful pile of shit he had ever seen.
"You hear that, you filthy fuckin' pigs? We did it for the fun! The fucking fun!" What a glorious proclamation! The thought of all those officer's lives laid to waste - all for their entertainment. It tickled him, greatly, to know that they'd suffered in numbers, but it could have been worse.
And one piece of brilliance dawned on him. It was the last thing left to drive him forward: revenge.
"And WE, THE FAKE AH CREW, AREN'T EVEN DONE YET!"