#Fake AH Crew | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shadeofazmeinya · 1 year

Text

How to Plan a Simple Heist: A Guide for the Current Sorry Soul Leading the Fakes

A/N: Here’s my fic for the Achieve! Zine that I was a part of! If you enjoy, I highly recommend the rest of the zine! As always, reblogs and comments are super appreciated!

AO3 Link

A man stands outside the tall marbled columns of the Maze bank, sunglasses reflecting the heat of a Los Santos day. The city bustles with movement; cars, people, planes soaring up above. But this man is stopped, considering the imposing structure in front of him as the doors swing in and out with people.

He leans back against the parking meter, hands buried into the pockets of his brown leather jacket, a wolf snarling on his back. No one cares to look at him and he doesn’t care to look at them. After a moment he adjusts his baseball cap a little lower over his brown curls and his eyes flicks to his watch. His mouth twists as he counts down the seconds before he pushes himself up and heads inside.

Pushing past the glass doors, his shoes echo across the marble floor. A second story balcony hangs above and he spares a glance up. There, a lithe man in a tailored suit stands. His blonde hair shines in the light, matching the gold around his neck and wrist. He stares down at the people going about their days alone. The two men catch eyes. Smirks pull at both of their lips and just as suddenly the man up top slips back into the crowd. And the man below continues his march to the teller's window.

“What can I help you with?” the teller says pleasantly, unknowing of the plan already unfolding. The parts already moving into place.

The man in leather grins and starts to hand a note-

“Then you seduce the bank teller!” Joe interrupts with a grin, a hand slamming down on the wood table that is sprawled with various maps, scrawled notes, and surveillance photos all centered on Maze Bank.

“What?” Alfredo laughs, others in the room bursting into giggles. “Why do you always want to fucking seduce the marks on the heist?”

“I can do it! Let me try!”

“No,” Trevor sighs, hand pinching the bridge of his nose. This planning session has already gone on for two hours and they’ve yet to even properly plan getting to the vaults. “No seducing. Michael just passes a note saying that this is a robbery.”

“That’s so boring though,” Joe huffs.

“He’s right, we can do better than a note,” Lindsay nods.

Trevor sighs, able to tell the battle he’s losing. “Then just tell the bank teller you’re robbing them. The note was the finesse.”

“Am I supposed to ask to go in the back or hold up the front?” Michael says, turning them somewhat back on track.

“You are the distraction. Your job is to keep the focus on you, while the others are setting up in the back-“

A large, detailed painting hangs in one of the meeting rooms, something expensive even if the subject is hard to make out with the mesh of colors. The room sits empty, silent until the painting creaks. Thudding against the wall, once, twice, third time it knocks off the hanger and clatters to the ground.

Replacing it is a hole with two figures inside. Both are dressed in all black with masks covering their faces and slip out with bags of gear on their back.

They move swiftly with practiced ease. They pause at the doorway and one leans out to listen. They listen closely and then give a quick hand motion and they both move out. Running down the hallway.

The camera flickers, red light blinking. Connected is a screen that shows the figures moving around. Then the screen flickers; the figures disappear mid walk. The screen shows just an empty hallway. Leaving silence and a lulled peace once again.

“How come Matt always gets to be the man in the chair?” Alfredo huffs, leaning back as Trevor is again trying to explain.

“Because I’m the hacker. That’s what I do. Besides, you said you wanted to be the one in the tunnel.”

“I did say that,” Alfredo laments. “Joe convinced me on the outfits.”

“Black and slim is sexy,” Joe grins. “And we get to use the big drill.”

“The hole will be made before the heist even begins,” Trevor reminds, pointing out their floor plans and maps that were labeled with the drill spots.

“Ky and I get to do it, right?” BK beams. “Pretty please, Trevor? We can sneak around and easily get it in place.”

“What?! No, I want to!” Jeremy protests. “Matt taught me how to use it!”

“Cmon, Jeremy, you know Team Friendly Fire has it covered,” Ky cuts in.

“Ky and BK can do it, Jeremy we’ll need you for setting up other parts of the heist,” Trevor says.

Ky smirks and sticks her tongue out at Jeremy, who returns the gesture.

“Now let’s focus and talk about how we’re getting out-“

The back door bursts open, several figures flooding out into the back alley. Voices shout and the wail of sirens isn’t far off. But the figures don’t stop moving, each carrying a bag draped around them. Cash sticking out from every stuffed pocket.

The figures bolt, taking off running in the same direction. All sharing bright grins as they run with their steal.

“We’re almost at the pickup spot,” one shouts, tapping a small piece in their ear.

“I’m right there,” a voice responds, a curl of red hair shouting over the loud roar of a helicopter. A shadow crosses over them, a cargobob hovering as the wind rips around.

Below the machine, there was a chain hooked to something hanging below it. A bright pink plastic box, swinging, with words on the side of it reading-

“We’re not using the fucking Porta Potty!” Michael shouts as Lindsay bursts into giggles.

“It’s the perfect plan, Michael!” Lindsay defends. “Listen-“

The room floods with bickering and teasing and complete lack of focus as they battle out the pros and cons of the portable toilet. Trevor lets out a deep, but fond, sigh. He knows when they need to focus they will. In the meantime, though, it's like herding cats.

Out of the corner of his eye, Trevor spots Jack give an amused smile as she lounges back in her chair. A knowing smile, having seen the chaos of these people the longest. But when she locks eyes with Trevor, she gives a subtle nod. An encouraging look, a deep set of trust. Trevor feels his nerves settle, looking back over all the maps and notes. All the work they’ve already put in. Trevor takes one more deep breath and gives a sharp whistle to get the room’s focus.

“Alright,-“ he says, leaning over the table and looking them all in the eyes. “Let’s take it from the top one more time.”

#achievement hunter #rtah #fake ah crew #fahc #ragehappy #my fics #its a gen fic so no ships haha #but i hope you all enjoy!

32 notes · View notes

bdbriggs · 11 months

Text

Two Truths and a Lie - FAHC

(holy shit guys I wrote a Fake AH Crew fic for the first time since 2020) It was always going to end this way.

The end is the true beginning.

It begins with a card.

Two truths and a lie. The lie is not the one you expect.

Michael idly flips the card between his fingers. It’s a pretty thing, creamy white with golden script, bright white lace-like designs sprawling across the length of it. Two words on one side: be there. An address, date, and time on the other. What Michael should do is throw the card out and pretend he never saw it, pretend that it got lost in the copious junk mail that plagues his apartment mailbox. He should stay on the far, far side of town on that day and time, avoid sticking his nose into whatever is going on. He should expect that it’s a trap, a setup, a bad fuckin’ idea.

He should do a lot of things. Curiosity and cats, and all that, but here’s the thing; nobody ever remembers the end of that saying. Curiosity killed the cat, yes, but satisfaction brought it back.

Sue him. He’s curious.

And why shouldn’t he be? An inconspicuous little business card lands on his welcome mat. Solicitors leave pamphlets and business cards and shit by his door all the time—this one shouldn’t be special. The golden script, though. That makes him pause. Makes him consider. Makes him weigh his options carefully.

And in the end, there’s really only one thing to do.

See, gold is a recurring theme in Los Santos. It’s nothing out of the ordinary considering the millionaires, billionaires, movie stars, models, gold diggers, yada yada—the city is full of rich folks and folks wanting to be rich. Every third guy on the street has a gold watch. Every other lady has something gold—a ring, a necklace, whatever. Movie stars and gang leaders and girls dressed to the nines—they’re all flaunting golden jewelry, exotic cars, fancy clothes.

So why, then, did the color gold become such a tell in the city’s underground?

Michael can’t pinpoint the moment it started. Spray paint, metal plating, smoke, and ink. Something dripping gold sunk its fingers into the city in a way Michael’s never seen before. And while he hasn’t been in Los Santos overly long, he can tell you it’s not the norm. It wasn’t like this in Liberty City or in Jersey, certainly, and it wasn’t like this when he first arrived in LS. The city was gritty. Grey. The pollution is so thick you can feel it between your teeth, like grit after a fight or soot from an explosion. The cement buildings are grey, grey like the fog over the ocean, like the bleak alleyways and bleaker lives of the average people who live here. The first touch of gold was like a breath of fresh air in comparison.

Something stirs in the city of saints, and Michael wants to be there when it wakes.

Jack’s cleaning up shop when she sees it. A little white business card, fluttering in the cool breeze provided by one of three fans she’s got spread in her garage. Every time there’s a heat wave, power cuts out in her neighborhood. There’s little to do besides power up the generator, grab a beer, and settle down to work on her cars. Machines are easy. People, less so. It’s for this reason Jack owns a garage—people drive cars, sure, but they don’t pay her to talk. They pay her to fix.

It’s odd, then, when this little white card flutters towards her, skipping along the floor with a bounce in its step that Jack hasn’t seen in years. This city has a way of beating people down. Even the lucky ones like her have fallen on rough times, and the golden script on the card is therefore what catches her attention.

Four words: I have an idea. A location, date, and time on the other side. Jack considers the card carefully before slipping it in the pocket of her shorts.

It’s a bad idea, is what it is. There’s no reason she should go looking for trouble. Times are hard, even for the lucky ones like her. But the gold script gives her pause.

There’s been a shift in the city, these last few years. Jack has lived here long enough to have felt it. It’s no different than a little rolling earthquake; the rolling sensation means it’s far away, but it shifts the ground and everything on top of it. Sometimes things fall, and sometimes the walls or pavement crack, but life goes on around the reminders of that little split-second event.

The evidence remains, however. Something has settled into the city, cracking the pavement and the walls, and slowly the cracks have filled with gold. Kintsugi, it’s called, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with gold. Few people would look at the withered and broken city of saints and deem it worthy of repair, but something has. Gold slithers into the city like snakes, and it leaves its mark on things. An influx of exotic cars. Looser lips at the bar by the racetrack. The wealthy place bets like never before, on cars, on racers, and Jack notices.

If she has a chance to see where all this gold is coming from—why shouldn’t she?

Jeremy’s lip curls up into a snarl when a waitress brings them a drink with a business card underneath it. She’s already disappeared back into the throng of the club, or they would have called her out on it. Jeremy lifts their beer in one hand and flicks the business card with the other, watching as it twirls away with a flash of gold.

Wait.

Jeremy reaches out with the toe of one boot and slides it back to their chair, picking it up carefully and quickly. The card itself is white with lacy designs spread across it. On one side is a time and location. The other side reads, Nice job out there =) Bored yet?

It draws an honest-to-god snort out of Jeremy. They take a sip from their beer and tuck the card in their pocket.

Not many people know what Jeremy does. Rimmy Tim is a fair bit different from Jeremy, with the wild getup and crazy colors and loud vehicles. Rimmy Tim just finished a job up in Sandy Shores, their fists deployed against a handful of rednecks with guns and drugs. Jeremy, on the other hand, because that’s who they are tonight—Jeremy has a job as a pizza delivery person and two clueless roommates they’re lucky enough to count as friends.

So who in the world figured out that Jeremy is Rimmy Tim, and vice versa?

It should be upsetting. It is, to a degree, but not in the way Jeremy would expect. Whoever sent the business card clearly wants something. The location and time are evidence of that. And Rimmy Tim just had a spectacular time with a drug bust. It’s more than likely that whoever is behind this wants their particular skillset. But why approach Jeremy, when Rimmy Tim is plenty easy to find on the frequent jobs they take? Why go through the effort?

The gold inscription on the card calls to mind a particular golden gun. Rimmy Tim has only seen it a few times, and never the person wielding it. It’s small. Silenced. And the hands holding it never miss a shot. The golden gun means a swift end to whatever opposes it, and not in the way that a bullet means death. No; that golden gun stops gang wars in their tracks, assassinates the most corrupt politicians, brings genuine fear into the eyes of the LSPD.

Jeremy sips their beer and steadies themself. Whoever is behind that golden gun is worth standing beside. Things in Los Santos are about to get interesting.

Trevor stares slack-jawed at the wallet in his hands. He’s got half a mind to chuck it off the pier and into the waves below, because it’s way too good to be true. Muggings don’t usually score him one thousand dollars. Either his unfortunate victim was loaded, or this is a setup. He shuffles through the bills quickly, and ah-ha! There’s a little white business card nestled between them.

Want more? It says in smooth golden script. The other side simply lists an address along with a date and time.

Trevor definitely should throw the wallet off the pier. He does, upon further consideration, but only after tucking the bills and card into his pocket. He may be an idiot, but he isn’t stupid enough to pass up what appear to be ten real hundred-dollar bills. After a quick scan of his surroundings, Trevor steps back into the crowds and blends right in. His victim is a quarter mile up the beach, and the LSPD have already given up their search for the mugger. Unfortunate, really.

Could his so-called victim have been the person behind the gold and white card? He wasn’t anything special looking. Messy brown hair so light it bordered on dark blonde, expensive sunglasses, nice clothes. One of Los Santos’ elite, or more likely the kid of one of Los Santos’ elite. Some rich shmuck with more money than sense who poked his nose where it didn’t belong. At least, that’s what Trevor understood from looking at the guy, and his intuition is rarely wrong. See, Trevor’s good at figuring people out. He’s good at finding what makes them tick, at learning how they move and act, and he’s even better at using that knowledge against them. Muggings are easy, then; give him a target, and he can have them all figured out after a few hours of observation. This guy was no different.

So why, then, is Trevor so unnerved by the presence of a little white business card?

The golden script gets his brain going. He pulls out the card again and turns it over and over in his hands, studying it. It’s high quality. The golden text is actually engraved into the creamy white paper, and a textured finish has been added overtop the card in a pattern akin to lace. Someone spent a pretty penny to make this card.

Someone with more money than sense.

Trevor considers this. Considers the fact that this job was a setup, and not an ordinary mugging. His judgement of character is rarely wrong—but perhaps he saw what was meant to be seen, and not what was truly there.

He smiles and whistles as he walks back to his apartment. It’s not the end of the world; he’ll just have to get a second look. And he has a convenient little card that gives him such an opportunity.

Matt is going to scream.

Something’s wrong with his tech. And that’s decidedly not normal. He’s built eighty percent of this stuff himself. He knows his computers and his network better than the back of his hand. Nothing should ever go wrong with it to the point he can’t fix it.

Matt curses under his breath and locks his door. His roommates are home and he’d really rather not have them barge into his, uhm, gaming setup while shit’s going haywire. His lights turn off suddenly, plunging the room into darkness. Matt flicks the switch on and off a few times—no power. And it’s odd, too, because he can hear Jeremy and Trevor playing a video game in the living room. The apartment itself still has power.

It’s just Matt’s setup that doesn’t.

The thought sends an icy chill down his spine. He’s compromised. Someone found his location and managed to out-hack the hacker. Names and faces flit through his mind along with hastily cobbled-together escape plans. Who could have figured him out? Honestly, the weakest links in the chain are his roommates, but he’s been so careful and neither Jeremy nor Trevor have seemed off lately. And they’re perfectly fine in the next room, arguing loudly over Halo.

So who…?

Without warning, the printer comes to life with a godawful clattering sound. Matt shrieks and whirls around to face the offending machine. Fuck, he needs a new printer. If that thing made his whole goddamn side of the apartment short out…

But no, it appears someone is fucking with him after all. The printer happily slops ink on the fake ID he’d been in the middle of designing, spitting the card out with a horrid rattling scream. Matt picks the card up with shaky fingers and flinches when the lights flick on again, allowing him to read what’s been printed.

Lovely little place, it reads in golden ink. The other side lists a day and location.

The computer flickers back to life along with the rest of Matt’s tech. All of his screens should be displaying CCTV footage, but each individual camera’s footage has been replaced with a stylized sunglasses emoji, gold lines stark against a black backdrop.

Matt sits down at his desk and smiles sharply at the screens. Game on, motherfucker.

Jack scouts the area from her Entity. It’s a nondescript little building up the Great Ocean Highway, well outside of town. She pulls into the nearby gas station at sunset, buys a soda and some snacks, and settles in for a stakeout. She doesn’t plan to go in, but she plans to see who does. She’s got a gun in each of her thigh holsters, a full tank of gas, and a pair of sharp eyes that miss nothing.

The sun sinks below the waves and casts a lovely pink hue across the sky. The light fades slowly to purple, then grey, then the inky blue of night. Stars wink into existence. The time stamped on the white business card in golden script fast approaches, and one man approaches the building across the highway on foot.

Michael eyes the run-down building by the side of the highway as he approaches. It’s old and worn and grey, and from the looks of it, nobody’s been living or working there for a long while. The windows that aren’t boarded up have been shattered. Headlights from the highway illuminate a sea of glass on the concrete foundation. The back corner of the building is nearty tucked into the hillside with a high concrete wall with thick barbed wire warding off any attempts at break-ins. He can’t see inside, but Michael would bet money that there’s no easy way into that back corner from the inside, either.

And Michael has never been the lockpick kind of guy.

He hefts his rocket launcher with a grin, aims, and fires.

Matt’s in.

Despite being abandoned for twelve years and eight months, someone has kept a CCTV camera running in a little decrepit building on the coast. The building itself used to belong to some loan servicing company that went out of business. Everything useful seems to have been stolen from the building, according to LSPD reports responding to break-ins. Except—Matt found plans, blueprints for a room in the back of the building. It has no entryway.

Seems like someone had something to hide.

Matt watches the camera like a hawk for days leading up to the date printed on the card. Nothing changes until five minutes prior to the printed time, when an explosion rocks the building and debris tumbles down the hallway. Through the opening provided, a solitary figure slips inside.

Trevor slinks through the shadows and into the previously sealed room. Someone had blown it open from the far side, causing the rest of the wall to cave in. It allows Trevor to get inside easily. The explosion was a surprise, yes, but Trevor knew there was a possibility of others being here, of this being another part in the setup he’s allowed himself to walk into. The thousand bucks he got the other day will keep him and his roommates fed for several months, easy, but if there’s more…

Well. Trevor knows people. And he knows how to keep them away from his score. Whoever fired the rocket will wait for a response before entering. The woman staking out the place at the gas station has a loud car that he’ll hear long before it approaches his position. And the buff guy with the gun and parachute backpack crouched high on the hillside above will have to get past both of them in order to get down here. Unless—unless they’re teamed up. Shit.

A thump on the roof has Trevor regretting every decision that led him here. He pulls out his pistol and backs himself into a corner, surveying the room around him. Nothing stands out, no briefcase, no vault, no treasure. Nothing to hide behind. He grits his teeth and flicks off the safety.

Jeremy’s pretty sure they’ve got about thirty seconds before the guy with the rocket launcher reaches the building. So, they do the most stupid thing and jump in ahead of him, hoping to secure whatever’s in the sealed room and make a stand inside. Maybe not the brightest idea when they’re up against a rocket launcher, but they’re banking on the hope that rocket-launcher-guy wants this score as badly as they do. Jeremy dives into the room and eats a bullet with their vest.

“Oh, ass!” Jeremy shrieks. They scramble further into the room, away from rocket-launcher-guy, only to roll out of the way of a second shot. Fuck, oh fuck, the gunman is inside the room!

An engine roars. Heavy footfalls in the rubble outside draw closer, closer, and Jeremy swallows thickly. Rocket-launcher-guy comes into view with his own gun in hand, and while it briefly points at Jeremy, it quickly trains on the gunman further in the room.

Fuck. Jeremy whips out their own pistol and points it at the gunman, wincing at the realization that a CCTV camera is pointed directly at the commotion. Not only that, but there are more footsteps making their way through the building.

Oh, they are so fucked.

Jack’s glad she brought multiple guns. She trains one on the tall and thin gunman in the corner of the room, and one on the garishly colored guy crouched in the rubble to her right. The man who’d blown the building open snarls at her, and aww, isn’t that cute?

“What the fuck is going on here?” Jack demands. “What’s the big idea?”

The gunman in the corner shrinks in on himself. Poor guy has three guns trained on him at the moment. Jack doesn’t envy him.

“Fuck!” the guy blurts. “I came for the score! Jesus Christ, you guys can have it!”

The gunman to Jack’s right freezes. “I’m sorry, Trevor?!”

Trevor, if that’s his name, points his gun at the walking fashion disaster. “Jeremy?” he demands.

As if by some unspoken agreement, both of them move. Trevor points his gun at Jack; Jeremy points their gun at rocket-launcher-guy.

“Dude,” rocket-launcher-guy says. “Which of you told me to be here? This is confusing as fuck.”

Nobody answers.

Rocket-launcher-guy does a double take. “Wait, seriously? Then who the fuck was it?”

“Wasn’t me,” Jeremy says. “But I bet you it’s whoever is watching through the CCTV camera.”

Jack looks over her shoulder and, sure enough, there’s a camera pointed right at them. Shit.

“Nope,” a distorted male voice says through whatever shitty intercom system was left in the building. “I also would like to know what the hell is going on.”

Jack lowers her guns. “Did none of you send the business card?”

Rocket-launcher-guy lowers his own gun and fishes a white card out of his jacket pocket. “Not me,” he says.

Jeremy and Trevor lower their guns and pull out their own white cards.

“I got one, too,” the guy on the intercom says. “Someone used my printer to print it out.”

Jack holsters her guns and frowns. “What was the score, anyways?”

Trevor shrugs. “I dunno,” he admits. “I mugged a guy with a grand in his wallet, plus the card. I figured there’d be money in this place.”

Jack fishes out her own card and shows it to them. “That’s not what mine said.”

Rocket-launcher-guy crosses his arms. “So there’s nothing here? Well, that fuckin’ blows.”

“Aww, Michael,” a new voice coos. Jack whirls around and has both guns up and aimed at the newcomer before he can blink. “I wouldn’t say there’s nothing.”

Jack hears the sounds of guns being raised behind her, but the newcomer seems completely unintimidated. He leans back against the wall of the hallway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, smirk on his face. He’s got messy brown hair, a blue dress shirt, jeans, and sneakers. He’d look completely uninteresting if not for the golden sunglasses, the golden gun holstered at his hip, the golden watch on one wrist.

“You’re the guy I mugged,” Trevor says. “Who the hell are you? And what do you want?”

The golden boy grins. “I had this idea,” he says. “There’s this lovely little place that’s never successfully been broken into. I’ve robbed every other bank in the city. I’m bored. I want more. And I need a crew if I’m going to pull this off.” His grin turns sharp, menacing. “Will you be there?”

Los Santos has a way of beating even the most stubborn and resilient of its citizens down. It’s easy to get lost in the grit and grey of the city, what with the pollution and fog and bleak concrete everywhere you look. But something, someone, looked at the city and saw an opportunity. A fresh start.

The end is the true beginning. And it was always going to end this way.

The true beginning, then, was not with the card.

#fahc #achievement hunter #fake ah crew #rooster teeth

13 notes · View notes