Grand Theft Auto IV:
City of Lies

A story, by Mokrie Dela

Niko stood, staring straight down. Rain tricked down his face, dropping off the tip of his nose with a slight tickle, but he ignored it. His clothes were soaked - the brown leather raincoat doing a poor job of keeping the precipitation out. He lifted a hand and wiped his face with his palm in a futile effort to dry it. Within seconds it was wet again.

He sighed, and lamented his cousin's absence. It was all his fault. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of Vodka - the same brand that the cousins had found in the smashed bar back in the old country.
Niko opened the bottle, throwing the lid on the floor, and took a mouthful. He swallowed hard, and poured some vodka onto the ground. Even in the pitter-patter of the rain, Niko could hear the trickle as the vodka reached the dirt. He took another sip and crouched down, emptying the bottle.
Then he stood and took a step back.
"Happy birthday cousin." He said, his voice broken. "I'm sorry I wasn't a better cousin." He held the bottle up in a toast, then turned away, heading to his car - the last of Roman's original cabs and the only thing of Roman's he had left, apart from the apartment. Mallorie inherited the business.
He sat in the car's driver's seat for a moment and took a few deep breaths. Then he drove home - to the apartment Roman had bought almost two years ago.

Niko didn't notice the gray Washington following him.

Life is sh*t, Johnny said to himself. He sat in his trailer in the damned trailer park, looking out the window at what his life had become. For a time it was good. He had the brotherhood, but that was taken from him. He had nothing left, so he left town. Now he was alone, working in a hellhole of a bar.
Jim's wife had met someone new, his weekly email told him. Angus was the only person from his old life that he still spoke to, and he kept Johnny up to date on the basics. Clay was hitting the bars and clubs, intent on 'sewing his goddamned seed,' and working in a bike repair shop in Bohan. Terry worked security in some strip club. As for Ashley - who gives a f*ck?
Johnny went outside, into the morning sun and stood there for a minute. Then he heard his phone ring. He sighed and went back inside.
It took him a minute to find the cell in amongst the mess that he lived in. He contemplated not answering - after all it's probably just Michael, wanting to give him another goddamned lecture about his life. Ever since he returned from the middle east he'd had this holier-than-thou attitude that reminded Johnny of Billy.
He cursed under his breath and answered the phone.
"Hello Johnny." The voice spoke softly.
"Angus."
"How's it going?"
"Five star hotels, sex drugs and rock 'n' f*cking roll."
"Same old Johnny."
Johnny frowned. There was something in his friend's voice. Firstly he rarely phoned, and second, he sounded worried.
"What's wrong brother?" He asked. "Has Ashley's habit finally killed her?"
"No." There was a pause. "It's your brother."
Johnny sat on his bed, which squeaked in protest.
"He's dead, Johnny."
Johnny blinked.
"F*cking Iraqis..." He whispered.
"No Johnny. It was some pair of gangsters."
Johnny let out a pained sigh.

An hour later he stood at the storage garage several miles away. He opened the door and walked inside. He stood for a moment then pulled the gray material aside. His Hexer stood winking in the semi-dark.