1This is a fan story for the Grand Theft Auto series, set in an area reminiscent of areas in Illinois and Iowa. The general area is known as Tornado Valley, but its key areas include Windy City (a smaller Chicago spinoff), Bonneville (a spinoff of Joliet, which was named for Juliet of Romeo and Juliet, so too is Bonneville named for Bonnie of Bonnie and Clyde) and a few small surrounding areas from Michigan and Iowa. Seeing as I'm most familiar with these areas, this story reflects those places.
An explanation list will follow, with car names and equivalents, area explanations, and character detail.
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Chapter One: If I Die Before I Wake...
The phone rang and beckoned a masculine hand to pick it up. The voice over the phone was not hushed, nor urgent–neither joyous or melancholic. The tone was strictly buisnesslike, masked by a deformer, and had a simple order.
Carry out the plan. Bring him to me in fear.
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Finally, the last child was put to bed. Lynne sighed, contented that her children now drifted off to dreamland. However, one minor detail gnawed away at the back of her head–
–he's not home yet.
It was this sole fact that kept her awake this summer night. Nothing completely calmed her nerves–not the melatonin tea, not the cool breeze sifting through the windows of the log home, not even the picture of him with her on their honeymoon. Every creeping shadow caused her to worry, every little noise, every change in the wind.
She felt like something horrible was going to happen. She wanted him home, to protect her from the night's hidden demons.
Sighing, she stepped out onto the porch to seek solace in the light of the full moon, still pursued by those unseen dangers of the night–the very same that she feared were only in her mind.
The fear that held a silenced pistol to her head and fired before she even noticed.
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The black Ottumwa strolled into the driveway of the darkened house, slowly inching into the yawning garage. The engine silences, the lights die, and roger stepped out of the car, shutting the door ever so quietly. It wasn't his fault he was late, but he knew his wife would let him have it.
He quietly entered the basement, inching his way across to the stairs. Climbing the stairs he poked his head out into the hallway, then the bedroom.
No one.
Odd, he thought, she would normally be waiting around here.
And then he noticed the breeze. The door to the porch was ajar, the curtains fluttering gently in the wind. Past the curtains, he could make out a dark...pool of something spilling out onto the porch.
He started toward the door, and the closer he got, the more that was revealed.
It was his wife.
She was dead, lying in a pool of her own blood, a single crimson rose laid across her heart. Gasping and trying his damnedest to hold back his tears, he knelt down to try and help his deceased wife to no avail. She was cold and limp–the deed was done. Sobbing like an infant, he laid his wife down gently, kissing her forehead. Then the thought hit him like a brick.
The children.
He bolted up the stairs to his kids' rooms. Johnathan. Dead. Ashe. Dead. Autumn. Dead. The pain striking his heart was unbearable. His family, brutally murdered, a rose placed on each corpse. Four sweet, innocent souls, murdered in cold blood, for what seemed no reason.
Roger Elmhurst fell to his knees and wept.
His life was over.