CHAPTER 1

SANDY SHORES AIRFIELD,

GRAND SENORA DESERT, BLAINE COUNTY

The Buckingham Vestra taxied out to the end of the runway, before turning to face the long stretch ahead. As the Vestra's twin engines began to power up, the black-clad figure watched from the side of the hangar. Bringing his flame of the zippo up to the end of the cigarette between his lips, Hayden inhaled – as best he could, considering his dead lungs – and the end of the cigarette began to glow orange.

His ravening inner demon, his Beast, snarled and fought to take control, but with the flame being so tiny Hayden was able to force it into submission. 'Back to your cage,' he thought, and the Beast ceased. Then, he turned and looks around at the expanse of desert which surrounded the airfield, the lights of Sandy Shores off in the distance. "Sandy Shores. Ever the shithole," he muttered aloud to nobody but himself.

Next came Hayden's iFruit, the latest in the line of smart phones, as he pulled it from his pocket and dialled the number for the Downtown Cab Company – which despite the name serviced every part of the State of San Andreas. Sure, it had began simply servicing Downtown Los Santos, but over the decades it had expanded until it eventually covered the entirety of the state. Up to his ear came the phone, then he ordered his cab. "There's one just around the corner, sir."

Sure enough, it instead took twenty minutes for one of the yellow-and-blue cabs to arrive. Pulling up nearby, the driver beeped the horn, signalling to Hayden. The brief trip to Sandy Shores followed, and when Hayden's ride pulled up outside the motel, he exited before heading to reception.

-x-

The next night Hayden awoke in the grimy bathtub of his hotel room. The bathroom being the only room no sunlight would enter, Hayden was glad he didn't find soft bedding a necessity to a good day's sleep. Climbing out of the tub, he dressed, then checked out at reception a short while later.

Hours passed, and Hayden found himself walking north along the Grand Senora Freeway, his right arm out, thumb raised toward the sky. For the past half hour he had been trying to hitch a ride, but unfortunately there had been no takers. Sighing, he began to lower his arm, convinced he was going to need to resort to more drastic measures.

His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a horn blare, then the source of the horn pulled over to the roadside just ahead of him. As he reached the rust-red Canis, the paint worn from years of exposure to the elements, he addressed the driver. "You got a spare seat?"

"Sure. I could do with the company. Hop in," the driver replied. Hayden ignored the dishevelled look of the man, his filthy stained shirt and tattered jeans, the boots that appeared to have never seen a polish in their lives, the matted mullet which crowned the bald patch atop his head. And the stench... Hayden was rather glad he didn't need to breathe. "Where you heading to?"

"Paleto Bay. Thanks for picking me up, by the way. I was convinced it was going to hit sunrise before anybody pulled up," Hayden spoke.

"Nah, no worries. Paleto Bay, here we come." The Canis pulled back out onto the road, then accelerated up to speed. "So, what's your name, bud?"

"Hayden. Hayden Morris. Yours?"

"Trevor. Trevor Phillips."

The Canis turned off the freeway and toward the desert, Mount Chiliad looming in the distance.