Chapter 2: May 1st

The last week of April came and went. Michael decided to tell his entire family that he had "important business" to which he had to attend. At the time, Jimmy and Tracey had been at their respective universities. The only other resident of the house left was Amanda, and she knew what the cryptic message meant: she would have to get far away from her current location very quickly.

Trevor told Ron to keep watch over the meth business while he was gone, and make sure that Wade didn't get into any trouble while he was still useful for profit.

Franklin, still not having moved on from Tanisha, didn't have anyone to whom to make excuses, making his part of the job much easier, as well as worlds more painful.

Lester prepared the plans for Michael to do some in-depth, close-proximity research on Percival, giving Michael Percival's location, among other peripherals.

"I'll need you to tail his daily routine through San Andreas. The more we know about where he goes, the smaller the maze the architect will have to construct the day we move on the job. This could possibly mean less of a cut, but you shouldn't hold your breath. On top of that, I'll need you to take notes on some of his emotional connections to other people. Also, make sure to find as much information as possible on whether or not this guy's subconscious is militarized, we need to know how much ammunition we need to bring into the actual dream sequence. All in all, we'll be creating three dream layers, with a fourth layer for limbo, which you do not want to go to unless you've been there before. I'll get someone on that too."

"Christ, Lester, that's a lot of shit. Can't you just give some of this to Trevor? He's a lot better at tailing people than I am."

"Eh...do you honestly trust Trevor with much all these years later? I mean, I'm just as surprised as you are that he didn't kill you over Brad, or, rather, hasn't yet. "

"I suppose you're right...for the sake of saving me some work, you know anything about this Percival guy?"

"Specifically, I know about his militarized subconscious to a nonspecific degree. He's been training for this type of stuff since the Union Depository: five years. This could possibly mean that deception will not be on our side come the day of the job. That being said, we're going to have to daze and confuse this guy as quickly as possible-either that or gain his trust in some strange fashion."

"Well, that should work just fine; we haven't met. None of the three of us has ever actually met this guy. We only know what he looks like because of Google and what-not. This means that we can gain his trust in the physical world, possibly translating that trust into the dream world once we get down to that level. That reminds me-we're going to need some sort of sedative, a powerful sedative, aren't we?"

"Already thought of it, Mike. I know a guy...name's Yusuf, in Mombasa. Going to have to take a flight there to pick up the sedatives; can't bring him, though. He was on a job just like this about eight years ago, went pretty well. Unfortunately, however, some motherfuckers couldn't keep their mouths shut, so he's going to be useless on the actual 'heist.' What we're going to need is an expert on anesthetics and these types of anesthesia in general. He should also be a good driver; if he isn't, we'll find someone else."

"Lest, you can understand, I'm a little worried here. If Percival even catches a whiff of what's goin' on, we'll have the whole of Merryweather breaking down our doors. If he finds out after the job, it'll be the same thing."

"Relax, Michael. It's not like you haven't been looking over your shoulder for the better part of fifty years. You're used to it."

"No, Lester, I'm not used to having to worry about a private army sending multiple assassins to kill me. I'm used to plenty, but I'm not, nor do I ever want to become adapted, to that."

"Oh, just do your job. Always such a complainer. Whining about everything. I have to work too, fuckface! You think I won't get heat for this? I'm the ringleader of this bullshit! Been the ringleader since the Nineties. And now it's almost the Twenties...I got to get out of the game..."

"Fine, I'll find Percival. Just don't want this to get too hot."

"Thank you-it'll pay off, I promise. It always does! I don't know what you're worried about."

"At this point, I not worrying would be cause for a little anxiety."

And, with that, Michael left Lester's dilapidated Murrieta Heights complex, in search for the elusive and wealthy Don Percival. Mr. Percival's coordinates were given as follows: he was leaving his Chumash home for some legal negotiations with the IAA and FIB in downtown Los Santos. For the first time in a while, Michael wouldn't be tailing someone to kill them, but just to study their daily routine, their mannerisms, their emotional connections; he was becoming a professional stalker.

The drive didn't take long; Michael's car intercepted Percival's at some place in Vinewood. He began tailing the man. Percival acted as any pretentious, wealthy, and successful man would: he was driving his Truffade Adder through the intersections of the classic Vinewood, stopping occasionally to go into Starbucks and get himself a Frappuccino and Espresso, always turning a blind eye to the poor on the streets of the small burrow, stationing a gun on his dashboard in case anyone got crazy, and so on. For the most part, he was your average rich man, as commonplace as that could be, but, then again, it was Vinewood, burrow of the cunts. He bobbed and weaved through the immediate streets, going past multiple malls, finally arriving in the downtown area. All that was left was for him to exit and firmly lock his car, and enter, first, the IAA building, with its ornate glass windows and gleaming federal stairs and doors.

Michael knew that he couldn't tail his target any longer without being spotted, and, as such, withdrew from the immediate vicinity. So, he decided to attend the local attractions around the area: he decided to go to the pier, despite the fact that it was miles away from where he was supposed to be. It was here that he found Trevor, screwing around.

"Trevor, the fuck are you doing?"

"Research, my 'friend,' research! Lester told me to inspect the geography of Los Santos, Blaine County, and Mount Chiliad. Is that not what I'm accomplishing right now?"

"Trevor, you realize we have to move on this before the end of May, right? It's May fucking 1st! I want my 25 mil just as bad as you do-well, maybe more, considering the fact that you're beating it at the pier. Get off your ass and go to Blaine County!"

"Don't you fucking talk to me like that, you Reptilian motherfucker! Don't you forget that I have every reason to pop a cap in your skull this very minute! Give me a reason, Mikee. GIVE ME A FUCKING REASON!"

"Sigh…Trevor, just do your job, please? I don't feel like getting into a fight with you again. Besides, you may be too unstable for that right now, but, then again, you're always unstable..."

"Eat a dick, asshole. And I am going to Blaine County, but it's not because you told me to. It's...it's because of my meth business! Yeah, you don't tell me what to do, I tell me what to do. My meth business is in deep need of being checked up on, and I intend to adhere to that responsibility. You know what that is, Mikee? Responsibility? Taking responsibility and ownership for your actions? Don't worry, you still have a month before it's too late again.

"Fine, Trevor. I'm going back to the IAA building, Percival's probably done there anyway."

"Fucking hypocrite, coming here and chastising me for dickin' around at the peer when you're here to do the exact same thing. See you later, Snake."

"Bye, Trevor. Oh yeah, one more thing: didn't you forgive me for all this Brad shit five years ago? What's making you so angry about it again?"

"I...nothing! I'm just pissed that I can't trust anyone, even my best friend of over twenty years! Just fuck off, Mikee. I need to go to Blaine County, and I don't want you in my presence at the moment."