Hello! This will be my first attempt at the GTA universe. As of right now, Be True is a side project, but I hope you'll enjoy it, nonetheless. Please, please, please, I'd love to hear back from all of you! A writer can only get better through constructive criticism and I'd be so grateful for the feedback. Of course, I will get back to each and every one of you if you review. Feel free to PM me about ideas or concerns you may have. I'll get back to you as soon as I can.

Ok, obviously, I do not own Grand Theft Auto, any of it's characters, the song briefly mentioned, or etc. My only claim will be the OCs that will appear as the story develops.

Without further ado, please enjoy!


Everything was blurry, and the world kept spinning round and round. Colors mixed together, too. Soft whites eventually merged with the dark solid grey of the sky heavy with rain, the softer and grainy grey of the concrete upon which he stumbled, and the green from what grass was growing in between the concrete's cracks. His stomach lurched with each swaying motion his surroundings took, threatening for what little contents it held among the vast amounts of liquor to make a comeback. Still, Michael De Santa kept walking with the near empty liquor bottle tightly clutched in his grasp.

The sound of the running traffic registered in his mind, but he paid little heed to it. It was just like that every day. Every one's life kept going on and on like the highways and roads that riddled Los Santos. But his, Michael's, life had either been taken out by an explosion or had just veered off into the sea. He just could never get it fucking right! When he had been a criminal with a family, he had wanted the normality of a life without crime so they could be the icon of what a family should be. Tough fucking tits! Once he had obtained it, his family had crumbled into a nightmare. Michael wasn't entirely blameless. He had cheated on Amanda and had never been much of a father to his kids. And he had pined for missing the thrills and power that Michael had experienced with every heist until he became a fat fuck wasting away by a swimming pool. Franklin's coming had been a mixed blessing. On one hand, Michael was able to live in what he did best, shoot the obstacles before him and selecting the smoothest course possible; but, with all his glory, his family had gone, and he had felt their absence as he had never before. Yea, he could be one of the coldest persons on Earth, squeezing the trigger of his rifle without a second thought (that is, until it was all over and he was sitting in front of a therapist), but he wasn't untouchable. As much as his family had annoyed and driven him insane, Michael loved them. Then, for a glorious moment, he had all of it: the biggest score in history and the family life he had wanted, plus his psychotic best friend, his overgrown and ill cyber comrade, and the ever faithful and capable protégé. But no! Life had a nasty way of pulling the rug from under him. Even with all the money he had obtained, his and Amanda's crazy and dysfunctional marriage had fizzled and died. They divorced and the kids had followed their mother. She had kept the house and Michael had been left living in a fancy apartment all by his miserable self. To the very day, some years later, Michael was still unsure what he had done wrong. He had obliged to every of Amanda's whims, watched her face and body become more prosthetic than flesh, but it hadn't been enough. He had gradually felt her distance and experienced more of her temper. There was always something wrong, something he had forgotten to do, or whatever crap happened to first pop into her mind. Enough had been enough. Michael had made the mistake of sleeping with another woman in a pathetic effort to feel wanted again and Amanda had found out. Granted, he probably should not have cheated on Amanda again. Not that it mattered, everything was his fault and Michael had the feeling that it would have come to the divorce sooner or later.

Thunder softly rumbled overhead, barely audible over the noise of the vehicles. It wasn't long until he became aware that a wind had picked up, bringing the clean scent, or as clean as it ever was going to get in the godforsaken city, of rain and the promise of a storm. It didn't make his stumbling any easier, though Michael was becoming conscious that the effects of the liquor were starting to wane ever so slightly. No sooner had he made the realization, he downed the rest of the contents in the bottle. Just great, now he had nothing in which to drown. A really loud and obnoxious horn sounded to his right, hurting his eardrum. Suppressed anger erupted within; anger at Amanda for leaving him and pushing him away; anger at being left alone again, and at whatever prick had temporarily broken though his stupor. He hadn't realized that he was standing in the middle of an intersection and was holding up traffic. The offender was a young man in some fancy ass car who was quite obviously cussing at him from the safety of the confines of his car. "Well, fuck you, too!" Michael shouted, showing him his middle finger. Another loud honk had his eardrum and head hurting as the driver retaliated. Furious, Michael threw the empty bottle at the windshield of the shiny red car and heard it shatter on impact before making his way to the other side. Maybe if he hadn't been drunk, Michael would have heard the angry shouts of the owner of the car or the heavy footsteps that splashed from the rain that had begun to fall, but all he noticed was a sudden pressure on his shoulder that had him spinning around, followed by an incredible pain from the bottom of his chin. He heard himself groan at the punch but could do nothing to retaliate nor prevent himself from falling on his back to look at dull gray clouds and feel the rain falling on his face. This wasn't so bad, was it? The concrete was cool on his back and the grass sort of cushioned his head, but he was starting to feel the cold seep in. Michael wasn't sure how long he laid there, only vaguely aware that the gentle rain had turned into a torrent. All he managed was to shift to his side so the rain wouldn't go up his nose.

All of a sudden, he was aware of small warm pressure underneath his arm and opposite shoulder, urging him upwards. He really didn't want to move, but the pressure kept insisting on hoisting him off the floor. With a groan, Michael complied and would have fallen to his knees if it hadn't been for the support of whatever he was hanging on to. New warmth was beginning to seep into his side and, for once, Michael was very grateful. He took step after step until his surroundings shifted, exclaimed in pain when his head collided with something hard, heard an alarmed voice, and then found himself sitting somewhere dry and clean. It was the inside of a car. He recognized the soft feeling of the seat beneath him, the restraining force of the seat belt, the purr of an engine, and the sound of a door slamming shut. Whose car was it, though? He seriously doubted that Franklin or Trevor had chanced upon him and were taking his sorry ass home. Nah, it couldn't be them. For one, whoever was driving was much smaller than either of them. The car owner also carried the scent of something flowery or fruity so that sure as hell wasn't Trevor. What the hell did it matter anyways? Sleepiness was overtaking him and had almost won him over when he was being urged again to move.

The cold air from an A/C had him and his support shivering. His mind was lucid enough were he could tell a few things and comply with what was asked of him. There was soft light from the confines they were in; an elevator, if he was correct. Not much made noise beside his companion's breathing, slightly uneven with exertion. Something jingled close by, then they were moving again into somewhere unfamiliar but not alarming. He should be alarmed, though, right? Michael was left sitting for a little while on something comfortable and had nearly dozed again when he was gently shaken into a little more alertness. He complied almost robotically and felt warm water coursing down his tired body. A shower, huh? Well, what the hell. The water was nice anyways. Sleep would be much nicer, though. It was not too long before he was enveloped in something warm, fuzzy, and soft, before he was finally placed on a bed so comfortable and warm that sleep immediately took him.


He didn't want to move, that's for sure. His eyes remained determinedly shut, until, finally, the last of the booze cleared his system. Slowly, he allowed himself to become aware of his surroundings. He was wearing what he was sure was a bathrobe. Besides that, his clothes were MIA. The bed was slightly small, definitely smaller than the huge bed he had in his own apartment, but enough for two people to sleep in. Everything was covered in that sweet scent he recognized from the car of whoever had felt sorry for him. He was very glad that it wasn't a very pungent scent, though. Often, he had complained to Amanda of the headaches her perfumes and lotions caused him, but she had always dismissed his complaints. He and the kids had often joked that she used the perfumes instead of water when she bathed. No, this scent was soft, kinda like an afterthought or how the wind carries the scent of moist earth but doesn't leave it behind. When he finally opened his eyes, the room was covered in semidarkness, illuminated by the gentle glow of a lamp by the nightstand next to him. The bed was opposite a large, nearly floor-to-ceiling, window which was obscured by curtains of a light blue. A door to his right was slightly ajar into what he assumed was a bathroom. That was fortunate, because his bladder was near bursting. Reluctantly, Michael separated himself from the bed and headed into the clean bathroom. He couldn't help but notice that everything was in perfect order, not a thing out of place, to a point where he felt he was intruding. Well, he really was. Once done with his business, Michael returned to the room, wondering what to do. He couldn't stay forever. Whoever she was, and he was sure his rescuer was a woman, she might have family that probably wouldn't sit tight while she let a stranger into her home.

With another quick glance around the room, Michael noticed a few things. The place wasn't lavished in the expensive items he had once had in his Rockford Hills house, nor the apartment he was staying at. Every item was of moderate make, neither invaluable nor useless, but well taken care of. The woman must not be doing badly at all to afford such a place. Amanda, used to her new life, though, would have scoffed at the cheap material of the curtains, and the value brand of the hand soap. A slight growl of irritation escaped from his lips. Why did everything always went back to Amanda this and Amanda that? It was stupid and idiotic, but he just couldn't let it go. Fuck Amanda! At the very least, he couldn't associate the books he found around the room to her. The books that had been at the mansion had been his. The irritation that he felt wasn't quite leaving him. When he found his clothes neatly folded on one corner of the bed, there was a tad bit of aggression as he put them on. Damn, the woman had even taken the time to wash and dry his clothes if the scent of fabric softener was any indication. What was she? A fucking saint or what?

With one last look at the bedroom, Michael exited it and closed the door softly behind him. Soft music reached him. His ears involuntarily began to attempt to decipher the song but the volume was set too low for him to make anything out. As he neared the small hallway's end, he picked up a soft voice singing in almost a whisper. "...you are all I long for, worship and adore. In other words, please be true...,*" his ears made out. Michael wanted to chuckle. Of course she'd be a sap for the lovey stuff. He had to give her some credit, though. He kind of recognized the song and, if he was correct, it was a very old song; older than his obsession with the 80s. It was kind of a disappointment when he rounded the corner and saw she wasn't dressed in a pencil skirt, red heels, pinup curls, and polka-dotted apron as he imagined. Instead of a skirt or dress, she had a pair of comfortable-looking grey pants and a loose blue shirt with sleeves that reached her elbows. There were no heels, just a pair of comfortable light brown flats. And she was young, at least 10 years younger than he was. He could tell right away by the smoothness of her peach skin. Her hair wasn't even short but a long mane of black hair held loosely by a hairband. The woman was unaware of his presence, much to his irritation. He could have quickly gone up to her and snapped her neck before she even realized what had happened. Did she not have any sense of self-preservation? Or was he such a fat and pathetic turd that someone as small as her did not view as a threat? Not knowing what else to do, Michael cleared his throat to gain her attention. She turned around with startled green eyes and, he did not fail to notice, knife in hand from where she had been slicing some vegetable. Neither said anything, awkward to the situation. She had brought a stranger to her house. He had passed out drunk on the side of the road. Both situations weren't exactly conversation starters.

"Uh, nice song," Michael tried, noticing her phone was hooked to a speaker via a cable and the song had ended. Not wanting to seem like he was scrutinizing her, he looked around. The rest of her apartment was divided into three sections: kitchen, dining room, and living room. There were no walls for subdivisions, save for the kitchen island that divided kitchen and dining area, so he was able to see everything. A few cupboards lined what was the kitchen area, and shelves filled with more books and movies lined the living room. A few side tables were placed against the walls. There was a TV that looked so small compared to the projector he had had in his living room, but, he assumed, was of a modest size.

"I hope I didn't disturb you," she answered, placing the knife on the island, next to the bowl of sliced cucumber, and turned off the music player.

"No, no, I slept great, thank you," he assured, clasping his hands together, confused as to how to go on or if he should hightail it from there. She smiled contently, obviously pleased, before stepping forward with her hand extended.

"Alice Mertes, pleased to meet you," she offered, waiting for him to answer.

"Michael De Santa," he said, shaking her hand but not without noticing how much smaller it was than his. Her body must have ached from dragging his fat ass into her car and thereafter.

"Are you hungry, Mr. De Santa?" she asked, moving back to her stove, turning off the heat, and finished slicing the cucumber. He was about to answer 'no' when his stomach growled a little too loudly. Whatever she was making, it smelled delicious. Michael wasn't sure when he had eaten food that wasn't from a bar or from a box. Alice turned around with another smile and motioned for him to sit at the table. Michael sat, still uneasy about the whole thing. "Tea, Mr. De Santa?" she asked, taking two glasses from a cupboard.

"It's Michael and yea, I'd appreciate it," he answered. He knew he was much older than she was but Mr. De Santa made him feel ancient, not to mention that this was her home. Alice nodded in acknowledgement and set a full glass and pitcher before him. Michael watched her as she moved about, noticing that there was an almost imperceptible limp to her right leg. Poor woman must be sore, he thought. "Listen, Ms. Mertes, I wanted to apologize and thank you for helping me out," he said. She set a plate of chicken, rice, and cucumbers before him before taking a seat with a plate and glass of her own.

"Alice," she said, "but you have nothing to apologize. I couldn't leave you in the rain." Michael nodded, accepting the utensils she offered before digging in. Neither said a word while they ate. Alice, it seemed, was quite content to simply be, but Michael had been alone for so long, he wanted a little conversation. It would be nice to have a normal chat instead of Trevor's rants or the sound of his TV for companionship.

"So, uh, Alice what do you do for a living?" Michael asked. He had just about wolfed down the food before him except for the cucumbers. Amanda had tried making something with them at one point in time, but that had been an absolute disaster that he'd become wary of cucumbers as a whole. Alice, on the other hand, was munching on a piece of cucumber, unaware that he was trying to think of a way to get out of eating them. Not wanting to be a complete asshole, though, Michael picked one up with his fork and plopped it into his mouth. The taste of lemon and salt was the only thing he tasted, much to his relief; this he very much liked.

"I work over at the USLA," Alice said. "And you?"

Michael felt that maybe it was best to leave things as it should be. "I'm retired," he answered, please let her drop it. So much for wanting conversation. Maybe there was a reason why he could only have conversations of any length with six people, more or less. They were all either involved in his messes or criminals like he was.

"How do you like retirement?" Alice asked and something snapped within Michael. How did he like retirement? Oh, everything was rainbows and sunshine until someone decided to screw him over! Or better yet, until he decided to screw someone and his ex-wife decided that she'd had enough of his sarcastic self and said 'fuck-you' to all the years they had spent together. It didn't matter that she had been screwing left and right, but it was he who was to blame for everything.

"Oh, it's fucking great," Michael muttered. He noticed Alice's eyes gaze worriedly at him, slightly shifting nervously with the sudden change of his mood. Great, he was making her nervous. Well, good! Finally something made sense since he woke up! It wasn't her fault, though, and he shouldn't take it out on her. He had stood from the table to take a breather when he noticed one of the couches had a folded blanket and a pillow just like the one he had slept with. For fuck's sake, she had slept on the couch in her own house! "Let me ask you on damn question?" he turned to her. Alice didn't move or say anything, simply looked back at him, waiting nervously. "Who the hell brings a stranger to their house? I mean, for all you know, I could be a sicko, or-or a psychopath waiting for an opportunity. Do you have a messiah complex? Or was I just your good deed of the day? Well, whoop-dee-fucking-doo for you!"

"I'm sorry," Alice apologized, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to make herself as small as possible. "I just-just wanted to help."

"Well, why do you give a shit about an old fuck like me?" Michael persisted. "You know what, I don't care. Thanks for your help. Oh, and a piece of advice, don't bring anymore drunken bastards. You're going to get yourself killed, for Pete's sake!"

With one last glance at the woman quietly sitting at her dining table, Michael turned on his heel and slammed the door to her apartment shut. He angrily jabbed at the buttons for the elevator. Anger still coursed through him as the metal box descended and he hailed a cab to take him home once out of the apartment building. It wasn't until he was back in his apartment with a glass of whiskey that regret began to seep in with a touch of shame. "Fuckin' A," he groaned, sinking into a chair and burying his face into his hands. All the while, Alice's troubled face never left his mind. Yea, fuckin' A for 'fucking asshole".


*"Fly Me to the Moon" by Brenda Lee - I do not own this song!

I hope everyone has liked this! Please do let me know your thoughts! Did anyone recognize the song before reaching the bottom to read its name? I know that Brenda Lee is not the only one to sing this song, there's other versions. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed it!

Until next time!

- Dea Lux