WRITER'S NOTE / I understand that there must be some kind of confusion as where "Vinewood Beach" is in Vice City-what I've done, much like GTA IV and V is remap Vice City into a new environment. For your benefit, you can imagine it shaped much the same as previous iterations of Vice City, but reworked to be larger, some of the streets, avenues and locales to be renamed and with a more divisive urban/paradise polarity about it (I found that all of Vice City in the original game just kind of blended together. I'm using the modern iteration of Los Santos as a working example. You can imagine Vinewood Beach to be in the area of Washington Beach and of course, named and modeled after Hollywood, Florida. Thanks and enjoy.
The evening streets of Vinewood Beach, Vice City wound down from a hectic urban bustle to an unsettling evening calm. The blocks of houses, cafes and mom-and-pop groceries, graffiti'd and aged; the cracked asphalt and oil and blood-stained pavements; the attentive nod of one of a cluster of Hispanic youth in David's direction as he stomped down said pavement, in his Hinterland boots, jeans and leather jacket, his hands tucked into its pockets as the evening chill wasn't uncalled for in the cool December twilight, even in Vice City.
He rounded a corner and popped through the front door of a small Cuban cafe, the door chiming with a little string-tied bell at the top; the aroma of cigars, espresso and fried food invaded his nostrils and gave him an odd sense of rustic comfort. He took a seat on one of the stools at the counter and looked around, peering over and behind, no one to be seen.
"Buenas tardes." He greeted in Spanish. His call was answered by the emergence of a squat, elderly, Cuban gentleman, toweling his hands and tying a yellowing apron around his waist.
"Buenas tardes, senor. Lo siento," The barista apologised "How can I help?"
"Un cafe solo-strongest blend you've got." Ordered David and the senior barista gave an affirmative nod.
"Tell me," Said the barista, as he unrolled the mouth of an opened bag of beans, pouring them into the grinder. "where're you from? I don't think I've ever seen you around the neighbourhood." His Cuban accent was thick, layered under a gruff growl of a voice. He tamped the finely ground beans into the basket and placed it in the machine, running it and pouring a rich, dark brew into a small, ceramic mug.
"I come and go." Answered David, looking about the empty cafe.
"Really? I've been in this same Cafe for over thirty years'nd don't think I've ever seen you 'round." He set the steaming espresso in front of David, who offered a grateful nod, placing a crisp five dollar note on the table.
"I keep to myself pretty well." David took a sip of the strong, steaming brew and winced at the hefty, yet invigorating, bitter flavour.
The barista leaned over the counter, pushing the five dollar bill back to David and shaking his hand, "On the house, amigo."
David cocked an eyebrow and set the espresso down, while the aged barista chuckled, stroking his greyed handlebar moustache. "Calm down, amigo. I like the look'f you. You remind me of a guy I knew a long time ago. Cabron was cold as ice, but was a real man; he had real cojones, real fuckin' integrity."
David picked back up the mug and held it to his lips, closing his eyes from the billowing steam.
"Umberto." The barista held out his hand.
David, delaying a response, stared at the open hand before grasping it and giving a firm shake, "David."
Umberto gave an accepting nod. "David, I like that." He approved, "A real man's name. Here, cabron, let me get you another." he suggested, as David polished off the rest of the espresso.
"It's fine." David waved dismissively.
"Ey, I insist." He said as he tamped another batch of beans. However, he was interrupted by the shout of voices from outside of the cafe. An energised mixture of Spanish and Creole, Umberto's eyes widened as he dropped the portafilter and ran from behind the counter and out into the street. David merely craned his neck and turned his gaze to outside, where a small gathering of Afro-Caribbean men circled around a Hispanic man. Umberto scurried out to the group and barking at the top of his lungs, demanded that the aggressors back away.
"Ey! Ey! Get the fuck away from him!" He bellowed as he squeezed in between the standing group and it appeared as if they would indeed comply, but as he reached for the downed young man, one of the group pushed him to the pavement so that Umberto tumbled right on top of him.
At that, David got up from his seat and methodically strode towards the open door of the cafe onto the evening Vinewood Beach streets and stepping outside, made a headcount, mapping the position of each man.
"Eh? You got a problem, man?" Hissed one of the group with an understated Haitian accent that David could identify.
"No." David shook his head, "Not unless you let these two get up and move along."
His brash statement captured the angry glares of the rest of the group, who turned toward him and separated from the downed Umberto and the other young Hispanic man, presumably also Cuban.
"What did you say?" Questioned another of the group of Haitians, "Who the fuck you think you are?"
David edged closer, which caused the group of Haitians to put themselves on guard, especially as some noticed his .45 which stood in its hip holster beneath his leather jacket. He stopped as he stood a mere yard away from the men and raised his hands pacifistically; "I'm someone that doesn't any shit to happen, either to you or to them."
"Shit? I'll show you some shit." Growled the one at the front of the pack as he lunged in, swinging a wild punch. David reflexively brought his elbows up to his face and guarded it, then ducking under the extended arm, delivered a low elbow to the chest, knocking the wind out of the attacker. David glided under and around, grabbing him by the face and pulling his head back before driving a kick to the thigh, dropping him to his knees and slamming his head forward onto the concrete.
The rest of the group looked stunned, but their shock was short-lived, as almost all of the remainder of them dove in to rip David apart. David danced around them, weaving through, in and out the bunch of four or five Haitians. A blur of fluid, rolling elbows and low kicks and the group tumbled down. It came down to one more who stood before David, shuddering as he watched his groaning comrades roll and whimper on the asphalt-in a fit of desperation he darted forward with a fist, but David tucked his body and delivered a shoulder thrust to the solarplexus, before twisting his body with an upward rear elbow to the face; his opponent stumbled back and lifted a feral kick, but David brought in his elbow and knee, guarding, before sliding forward and taking out the supporting leg with a low shoulder thrust, hyperextending and buckling the attacker's knee as he dropped like the rest, wailing and clutching his knee.
David gathered himself as he noticed one more of the Haitian, who had the wisdom to stand off, but felt like he had the upper hand as from his waistband drew an UZI which he aimed at David with a shaky hand as his spindly arms looked barely strong enough to hold it.
"You and I both know," Began a reasoning David, "that pulling that trigger is the stupidest thing you could do right now."
The jittery Haitian youth could barely structure a sentence, hardly letting out "F-f-fuck y-" before David quick drew his .45 and fired. The bullet went through the youth's shoulder and he screamed girlishly, dropping the UZI which misfired a stray shot as it hit the ground, at just the same time he did.
What was left of the group tried to gather themselves and the other fallen as they encircled David, before quickly scattering. All the while, Umberto and the nameless Cuban youth had managed to find shelter in the cafe-they watched on, stunned at what they witnessed.
"Roberto, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Umberto handed an ice pack to the bruised and beaten Roberto, who rested it against his face, groaning.
"Sorry, papi. It's just, those Haitian putos, they were talkin' shit about you, about abuelo."
"That's no reason to get yourself killed!" Berated Umberto, before slapping Roberto on the back of his head, causing him to flinch and almost drop the ice pack. His demeanor flipped and he faced Roberto, grabbing onto his shoulders and staring him in the face; "You're my only, Roberto. Mi hijo. I don't want you gettin' shot up in this turf war bullshit. Your grandfather and I got out of that shit a long time ago, for a reason."
Roberto hung his head, "Sorry, papi."
David stood outside the cafe, leaning against the wall and his arms crossed in front of his chest as he stared at the sun as dipped beneath the horizon, the coast a stone's throw away. He grabbed his jacket which was draped over a chair at one of the outdoor tables and made his way onto the street. Umberto jogged behind him, calling out to him-
"Hey! David! David!"
David turned, his jacket slung over his shoulder.
"I just wanted to say, amigo... thank you. You saved my son... you saved me."
David shook his head, "No problem." and quickly turned about.
"W-wait, wait! Listen; if you ever need something, stop by, I'm always here... or... look, here-" Umberto handed David a napkin which had his number jotted down onto it. "-give me a call."
"Thanks."
And as the cascading orange glow faded into night, began the trek back to the safehouse.
"Any luck?"
David peered over Tristin's head as she tapped away at her computer, lines upon lines of incomprehensible code flowing down the screen as she added, removed, tried and retried.
"I'm not sure." She said, "It's been a lot of guess work for the most part."
David grunted and checked the kitchen, where Oscar was working on a bottle of Logger Lite, while staring out of the window above the sink; then the bedroom, which was then empty.
"When did they leave?" He asked.
"About an hour after you did. Kaito woke up and they called a car, it came by and picked them up in about ten minutes." Explained Tristin.
"They're not safe, out in the open like that."
"D'you actually care?"
"I do." He paused, "I just didn't think it was our fight. I'm not heartless, I'm rational."
"No one's really rational, ese." Oscar had managed to silently drift over from the kitchen and took a seat on the back of the sofa, "So long as you're a human, so long as you feel, you're emotional."
David shrugged and Tristin continued.
"Erm... wait." She went quiet. "Oh... no! Fuck! Shit-shit-shit-shit..."
"What's wrong?" David snapped forward and gazed at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"One of their last firewalls, I couldn't avoid its counter-measure. It's tracing me." At a point where just anyone would be panicking, she calmed herself and kept her cool, typing away as she sought to fight back, David and Oscar leaned further in, trying to make sense of what they saw until finally, Tristin let out a laugh and threw her hands in the air.
"Suck it, Fort Baxter. You've never seen a bitch like me."
"Good job." Oscar nodded affirmatively.
"How much longer until we're in?" Asked David
"Right about... now."
The page of code became a make-shift user interface, probably replicating that of the Fort Baxter database as best as it could. It comprised of one page, on which there was a massive grid of folders and subfolders, each of them labeled with jargon that Oscar and Tristin were oblivious to.
"Where the hell do I start?" She asked, while David examined the screen.
"Let me see." He leaned in and nudged her hands aside with his own, he began typing and clicking away, the interface proving much more familiar to him that Tristin's screen of cascading code. A few clicks and he stopped, scrolling down the page of information.
"This looks like something..." He mentioned.
"... Icepick." Uttered Tristin as she gazed at the screen.
"Perdon?" Asked Oscar.
"Project Icepick." Reinforced David, "This might be what we're looking for."
"Really?" Quizzed Oscar again, "Because that sounds pretty fuckin' estupido hermano. Like a cartoon."
"These operations get their names for a reason." Explained David, "Icepick means something."
"All right, well... what does it say?"
"Nothing." Said Tristin.
"Eh, what? Say that again mami."
"There's nothing there." Added David again. "Nothing helpful anyway."
"So..." Oscar was puzzled, "... what does that mean?"
"It means," Replied David, "that this is some very serious shit we're getting into. They keep information very need to know-probably a few hard copies-they keep the soft file minimal, almost empty."
"They want to make sure that anyone who isn't supposed to see this, doesn't." Whispered Tristin to herself, but still loudly enough for the others to hear.
David leaned back and straightened up, while Oscar eyed him, downing the rest of his beer, and as he scratched at his stubble, he pressed the question: "The fuck are we in the middle of?"