with the FAHC can be wildly beneficial; so long as you play by their
rules. So long as you pay your dues, defer to Ramsey and fulfil your
promises, so long as you remember that for all their wicked laughter
the Fake’s do not play around when it comes to threats. When it comes
to debts. If you don’t produce what you owe, if you fall behind, try
to deceive or slink out of the city, you’ll quickly find yourself
hosting an unwelcome visitor.
FAHC have three key enforcers, three heavyweights who enact the
majority of the crew’s dirty work. There are others, of course, some
that come and go, some that have other roles, but all of Los Santos
recognise these three. The guard dogs, the brawlers, the muscle; the
violent core of an inherently dangerous crew, they keep order,
deliver punishment, deal with any who grow more problematic than the
FAHC are comfortable with.
they merely accompany one of the others, shadow Ramsey to a meeting
or the Frontman to a deal, they’ll be silent warning, visible
promise; so long as everything goes to plan they are no danger,
unnecessary unless they aren’t. If they come alone though, if one
comes knocking all by himself, shit is about to hit the wall and
nothing you do or say can stop it. There’s no telling which enforcer
will show, and there is great debate surrounding which of the three
is the worst, which is the one you should pray to avoid.
Vagabond is a popular option, the obvious choice for worst of the
worst; no one want’s to open the door and see that skull grinning
back at them. Nobody wan’t to explain their shortcomings to the
boogieman of Los Santos, to the mercenary who’s said to have no
mercy, who’s said to have no restraint, whose lust for death is
curbed only by the wishes of his master. Everyone’s heard the
stories, everyone’s seen the aftermath; the Vagabond is not a man to
be taken lightly.
quietly, privately, some have admitted that when it comes to a
shakedown, to a threat and a nasty reminder rather than an actual
punishment, a visit from the Vagabond might not be the worst Ramsey
has to offer. There’s something meticulous in the Vagabond, something
endlessly patient; it’s an unspeakably horrifying quality in a
killer, but not quite such a bad thing in an enforcer. He’s
terrifying, yes, and if he actually plans on carrying through there
is no escape, but in terms of deadlines and ultimatums at least he’s
upfront. At least he’s clear; there are rules to interacting with the
Vagabond, and so long as you abide by them you won’t attract his ire.
He’ll fulfil Ramsey’s wishes to the letter but so long as you keep
your head down and your nose clean that’s as far as he will go.
is not always the case with the Fake AH Crew’s resident short fuse;
Jones, Mogar, rage incarnate, the walking personification of
destruction. If Jones is sent to knock some heads together there is
absolutely nothing stopping him from throwing in a few broken bones
for free. As loyal to the boss as the Vagabond but where the
mercenary seems willing to carry out orders as requested, Jones likes
to embellish on them. There is no overstating the volatile nature of
the mans temper; Jones can jump from complete calm to irrevocable
rage in the blink of an eye, can seem utterly reasonable one moment
and irrationally furious the next.
fully capable of unexpected bouts of tolerant patience Jones has no
time for perceived idiocy, no sympathy for broken promises. He is, in
a way, a man of honour and once you’ve lost his respect there’s no
coming back. Even those he leaves unscathed may not escape unmarked;
like a dog with a bone his disdain will follow you, a dark blot noted
by all who fear his wrath. He might not have the same reputation as
the Vagabond, might not swing the same flavour of danger, but stories
of his temper are no less prevalent, warnings against pinging his
radar no less profound. If Jones turns on you not even your gods will
there’s Dooley, Little J, the newest of Ramsey’s attack dogs. Based
on looks alone he seems like he could be trouble, compact but visibly
strong, handling his weapons with practised ease, but unlike Jones or
the Vagabond Dooley always comes in smiling. Comes in with a slap to
the shoulder, a friendly chat, some commiseration over the
difficulties of the job. It’s easy enough, after that, to think that
he’s a light touch. To think Ramsey’s newest enforcer lacks the
presence of his partners, lacks their eager viciousness, to think he
is easily the best of the three to have turn up at your door.
for all that banter Little J is no less committed to his crew, no
less judgemental of your disappointing display, no less
breathtakingly ruthless. When the Vagabond brings up your failings he
gets begging. When Jones sneers at your incompetence he gets excuses.
When Little J asks about the complications you had, friendly and
understanding and naively inexperienced, you’ll open right up. You’ll
spill your fucking guts, and he’ll let you. He’ll listen and nod in
all the right places, he’ll smile like you’re buddies and you’ll be
so sure you’ve gotten away with it that you’ll fail to notice the way
he never let go of your shoulder. The way he never stepped out of
your space. You’ll keep digging your own grave right up until his
hand tightens and shoves you into a wall, until he holds you there
effortlessly despite your struggles, until he leans in close and
explains just how badly you’ve messed up. There’s no room for excuses
now, not after you’ve admitted everything, no chance to change your
story; all you can do is nod, is agree, is promise and grovel and
plead, say whatever it is you need to say before Dooley is satisfied.
He’ll step back then, let you go and straighten your shirt, clap you
on the shoulder as he turns to leave, still chattering away like
nothing happened. Still smiling like you’re buddies.
great debate about which of Ramsey’s enforcers is the most
intimating, which would be the worst option to find knocking at your
door. Its a conversation with no resolution, an eternal loop; they
argue about the worst, because god knows which of the three is the
best. God knows which could be called relief, called merciful. They
argue about the worst, all knowing exactly what the answer is.
Knowing nothing could trump a visit from more than one, nothing could
be more dangerous, more worthy of abject terror. If Ramsey sends a
pair of his enforcers things are guaranteed to get nasty, things are
guaranteed to get wildly unpleasant, but even two cannot compare to
all three. If all three come knocking there is no escape, if all
three come knocking the game is up, your run is over. It’s overkill
to the extreme, the rare combination of raw threat, blinding rage and
subtle menace so powerfully unnecessary it can only be a message. If
the Fake’s key enforcers come knocking the very best you can hope for
is to be the one chosen survivor left to spread the word.
Alright here we go I just asked @anarchetypal about this because I am on a Spree™ but I need your take on shithead Ryan. I'm pretty sure you've done this before but I've read all of your everything and I need m o r e
Not sure if you meant just generally or you actually wanted something specific but here we go~
Listen, any one of the Fakes would tell you Ryan’s mask is less about hiding his identity than it is about hiding the fact that he is nearly always laughing. It didn’t take him long to realise that with his reputation literally anything he does will be interpreted as threatening and even the most innocuous activities are treated as utterly unnerving. If people knew just how often Ryan was flat out messing with them there wouldn’t be nearly so many desperately worried discussions trying to unravel what depravity the Vagabond is getting up to with a bucket of paint and a dust-buster.
While most of the others find accompanying Gavin as the muscle in a meeting somewhat monotonous and dry (there are exceptions of course, the contacts that Gavin plays ridiculous roles for, or the meetings that go south and kick off, but for the most part its a bit of posturing and trying not to tune out while Gavin does his thing) Ryan always has a ball. Ryan is just about the only Fake who could give Gavin a run for his money in regards to a flare for the unnecessarily dramatic, so when the two of them head off together they invariably go well and truely overboard. Whoever the pair meet with, no matter how well they’ve done their job or how many positive interactions they’ve previously had with Gavin alone will spend the entirety of their meeting tracking Ryan’s movements around the room, absolutely sure they’re about to die.
After watching a few too many episodes of Brooklyn Nine-nine Ryan picks up the habit of making the occasional outrageously out of character confession just to watch people squirm with the realisation that no one will ever believe them if they tell. After all the unspeakable horrors Los Santos has witnessed from the Vagabond none are prepared to entertain for a single moment the possibility that he might also enjoy the Spice Girls, cry in Disney movies or hula-hoop at a competitive level.
Any time the Fake’s accept a new member Ryan tends to silently shadow them everywhere they go for a couple of weeks in full Vagabond get up. Everyone assumes, quite reasonably and with no small amount of blind terror, that the Vagabond is protective, distrustful, and all too eagerly awaiting the chance to kill them off at the first sign of a slip up. In reality Ryan knows just how vetted anyone has to be before Geoff will let them into the family, and just really enjoys toying with their emotions while he can.
There’s a narrow window towards the back of the LSPD bullpen - a little unorthodox but the glass is thick and one-way tinted so security isn’t really a problem. What is a problem is the fact that every now and then a member of the force will swear up and down that they saw the Vagabond’s awful skull standing there leering at them through the glass.
Ryan found out, through pure accident, that leaving his mask balanced atop of his hanging jacket is a surefire way to terrify Geoff in the middle of the night. Before it really sinks in he is woken on three seperate occasions by that all-too distinctive shriek; the first incident had the whole crew running guns drawn, the second was met with endless mockery and by the third Ryan just lays in bed, listening to the others thundering into the hallway, and grins. From that point on Ryan just gets more creative about where he leaves his spectre self; the bathroom, the pantry, and on one memorable occasion, suspended right outside Geoff’s door.
Happy Birthday to our dear Kim Wonshik. You have been a great part of our lives and your music continues to inspire us everyday. Whether it be your solo music or VIXX music, you have come so far and words cannot describe how proud we are. Thank you for everything, thank you for being born. ✩
Do you have a take on Ryan's tragic backstory? (I know you said you actually have a nicer background for him but i thought you might have a dark version too!)
Anonymous said: What are some of your head cannons for FAHC Ryan?
didn’t set out to be what he became. Few children dream of becoming
devastation. It’s a trope that is thrown around in all kinds of media
– redeemable bad guy, killer with a heart of gold. How quaint. Like
most things, the real life version is so much darker.
something bleak and awful in a world renown mercenary who still feels
for every victim. Something inescapably tragic in finding
satisfaction in an act so personally distasteful. Because Ryan’s
never been cruel, exactly. Would never dream of torturing an animal,
of hurting a child. Doesn’t even enjoy the majority of the dirty work
he’s surrounded himself in. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t enjoy any
of it. Doesn’t get some level of dark gratification from his own
competence, from the fear he’s sown, the reputation he’s nurtured,
the safety he’s crafted from blood-soaked screams and scorched white
bones. There was a time when the Vagabond was truly as dispassionate
as they say, but since joining the Fake AH Crew the mercenary
certainly lived up to the gang’s notorious affinity for flare; Ryan
always was a bit theatrical, and the only thing worse than an
apathetic killer is one who can see the morbid humour in it all.
criminal career actually begins years before the Vagabond crashed
into being. Started like so many others; young and bored, too clever
for his own good and desperate for a way to prove it. He drifts into
a group who wanted bigger, wanted better, wanted a life society told
them was forbidden. It would be easy to say he got caught up in the
wrong crowd, pulled along in their wake, but it wouldn’t be accurate.
Ryan has been many things but never meek. Never a blind follower.
Ryan who could never settle for simply trusting what others tell him,
never believing in absolutes he hasn’t tested for himself. Not when
he could find another way around, a way under, when he could take the
problem apart and find a solution no one else ever expected.
he joined, he fit in, he rose and he flourished. Ryan wasn’t a killer
back then, criminal yes but not a mercenary; they were thieves
mostly, would posture and swagger and inflate their own egos but they
kept away from the big gangs. At least at first. Because sooner or
later things are going to go south and it wasn’t pretty when they
did. The group fractures, those who can flee back to their old lives,
or into the relative safety of bigger crews, and those left behind
have blood on their hands and a bounty on their heads.
a life isn’t quite as difficult as Ryan had anticipated. Awful, of
course, and not something he would do without necessity, but the time
for scruples has surely passed and if death is what it takes for the
last dregs of his gang to live then Ryan will paint the streets red.
It’s wrong, he knows. It’s bad, immoral, everything people aren’t
meant to be; it’s wrong and
Ryan does it anyway. Figures morality is all well and good but won’t
help at all if they’re all dead.
a while it works, their group is small but it’s solid, together they
were magnificent. Not that anyone cares about all that, not when the
story everyone knows comes after. Comes, of course, with the birth of
no real surprise that the prominent story surrounding the origin of
the most notorious mercenary in the country is as dark and
unforgivable as the man himself. A tale of betrayal, of protecting
his identity by wiping out all who knew him before the mask, making a
name off of the death of those he once called friends. It’s chilling,
horrifically fitting and almost entirely untrue; the crew dies, yes,
treachery as the hands of one of their own but Ryan is not their
man who traded away their lives for the right price was Ryan’s best
friend in all the world, close enough to call brother, someone he
trusted so blindly he’d let himself be beaten half to death before he
even thought about retaliating. The only crew blood on Ryan’s hands
was, it turns out, the most undeniably clean-cut case of self
defence, not that it matters in the long run. Not when it plays out
in the dark, out of sight, without witness. Not when he’s the only
one who walks away, the one who dons a mask and buries his name,
retreats from humanity and loses all semblance of mercy. Against all
odds Ryan managed to survive. The man he had once been did not.
story takes on a life of its own and the Vagabond does nothing to
stop it; he is, after all, a killer. People should
fear him, should run and hide and pray he doesn’t darken their doors.
He killed a man who he loved dearly; what line was there left
to cross? What sin could be thought too great?
from distraction the Vagabond throws himself into his work, takes job
after job and sets to building the most terrifying image possible, a
reputation full of atrocities which grow with every telling. There
are no weak spots for his enemies to target, no useless emotions
dragging him down; they say he’s heartless, say he’s inhuman, call
him evil, call him corruption,
call him nightmare. Eventually Ryan grows used to the way people
shudder when they see him, confident in his talents and comfortable
with his image. He finally acclimatises to the way mirrors reflect
nothing but a cold black skull, and perhaps he couldn’t quite call
himself happy but he isn’t exactly
displeased with his life.
becomes cathartic in it’s own way, a sense of satisfaction born from
devastation, a sort of peace found in ruin. It makes him his own kind
of damaged Ryan knows. Makes him unfixable, maybe. Or maybe it’s that
thought in and of itself that condemns him, self awareness of his own
desecration, a self
fulfilling future of irredeemable wrongness. Either way he knows
there’s no going back to how he was. Either way he knows, deep down,
that he isn’t sure he wants to. Isn’t sure he’d take back soft,
harmless Ryan even if he could, even with the nightmares, the fear
and self doubt, the guilt. The glaring absence of guilt.
isn’t ashamed of what he is, of who he became. He can track his path
directly, has run his choices over and over in his mind and comes to
the same solutions every time; the Vagabond has always acted with
intention. Ryan has always done what he needed to, what he wanted to,
always evolved and advanced and overcome. So he isn’t ashamed,
but he’s not always proud either. Not always confident that a life
spent doing what is necessary rather than what is right is a life
easier now, in the island of misfit toys, the family of selfish
entertainment and bloodstained choices. Easier to justify the
savagery of necessity when it is more than just his own life he is
protecting, more than just his personal goals he is chasing. In the
FAHC Ryan has found the acceptance he never knew he wanted, rekindled
emotions he’d have sworn were beaten out of him in a dark alley all
those years ago. Like stitching together a ragged wound he’d borne
for so long he’d forgotten how to live without it; the scars would
never truly fade away, still twinge on the worst days, but all of a
sudden he’s faced with a life free of constant misery.
is no way to repay them for that, for showing him a world where death
and joy do not cancel each other out, soothing his conflictions
without changing who he has become, for kinship between the equally
wicked. Ryan knows
they believe he’d die for them, and he would. Would jump right in
with eyes wide open, just as self-aware as when he let’s Geoff make a
show of his obedience, let’s Jack drag him out looking for
ridiculously specific vehicles or let’s Jeremy tag in on a job he
could have handled alone. As when he slows down a new trick Michael’s
covertly trying to replicate or resigns himself to indentured
servitude when Gavin plays him like a puppet; affection clearer in
action than he could ever conceptualise in speech, trusting his team
they don’t seem to understand is the fact that, if they needed him
to, he would do so much more than die for them. To
die is nothing, is brief sacrifice, but Ryan would ruin.
Would create and destroy and conqueror. Were he asked to he would
tear down the whole world around them, set it alight and shelter them
from the blaze; a level of devotion that scares even himself when he
considers it late at night, beyond thankful for their ignorance.
Well, Geoff probably knows, something dark and thoughtful in his eyes
when he looks at Ryan, something deeply confident in Ramsey when he
commands the Vagabond. Assurance that no threat is idle, no harrowing
claim is merely theatrics, and that knowledge alone should be enough
to send Ryan running, to remind him of what happens when he lets down
his guard, but it doesn’t, not anymore. Not since he recognised the
clear display of trust in all that conviction, relishing in the
opportunity to prove himself worthy; eyes alight with dangerous
promise he now merely looks back at Geoff and has faith.
not perfect; no matter how happy he is with his crew Ryan will still
lose himself inside his own head sometimes, a place no other can
follow, no other can ever truly understand. For all he is the ghoul
in the nightmares of so many others Ryan never could quite extinguish
his own demons. After all this time he still goes back and considers
all his choices, still asks himself endless questions, gives endless
answers, constantly assessing his place in the world, his counts and
tallies, his debt. It’s how he reassures himself of the truth.
Chicago. It’s insane and violent and corrupt and vital and artistic and noble and cruel and wonderful. It’s full of greed and hope and hate and desire and excitement and pain and happiness. The air sings with screams and laughter, with sirens, with angry shouts, with gunshots, with music. It’s an impossible city, at war with itself, every horrible and wonderful thing blending together to create something terrifying and lovely and utterly unique.
hard, sometimes, so unbearably hard for Ryan to stay.
are days and weeks and months when he doesn’t think about it, where
this crew is everything he needs, everything he could ever want, and
nothing on earth could tear him away. But then there are those
moments, terrifying and bleak and inescapable in a way the rest of
the crew will never really understand.
a paranoia that seeps through, ideas he can’t stop himself from
imagining. The way he thinks about the ease with which he could snap
Gavin’s neck, soft and vulnerable, already tucked underneath his arm
while the movie plays, explosions more than loud enough to cover any
sound. The way the ever growing bounty on Geoff’s head is burnt into
his brain, not temptation so much as reminder, this wanted man who
doesn’t even stop to think about the danger of falling asleep in
Ryan’s presence. About how easy it would be to mess with the
explosives Michael gets him to hold, how no one would ever suspect
anything but a faulty timer, a tragic accident. How Jack has him
check her parachute when she doesn’t have time, blind faith that he
would never let her fall. The unprotected slope of Jeremy’s back,
walking ahead down the tunnel, utterly unconcerned by the loaded gun
Ryan carries, unaware of the way his spine is in the sightline even
with the gloom.
not fantasies, there is no secret wish to hurt his crew, this
mismatched collection of disturbing affection, it’s
just the deep unshakable knowledge that he could.
That nothing and no one could stop him if he were so inclined, not
with how unsuspecting they are, how trusting.
forgotten, he knows, inexplicably forgotten all the ways that they
are different, the ways he is not the same. This pack of junkyard
dogs, who are scrappy survivors, downright vicious when they want to
be, but not savage. Feral, maybe, but not wild like Ryan is wild, the
wolf they have welcomed into their midst without truely understanding
what that means. What he is. What he will always be. They’ve let time
and familiarity blind them, dangerously desensitised by fondness,
like they can no longer see his ruin.
It’s not like it’s easy to miss. It’s not like
outsiders don’t notice immediately. Maybe
that sense of unknown dread, bone-deep wrongness setting off
primitive alarm, is what has the Vagabond’s reputation spreading as
far and wide and feared as it is. There’s something
heavy and inescapable in being a real life bad example, being the one
thing every man, woman and child is taught to avoid. To be known as
pain, as violence, as death, to be inevitable betrayal before you
even open your mouth. A relationship that ends in bloodshed before it
even starts. The kind of stain that never washes out.
Ryan has never really resented that part of
himself before - he made his choices after all, created the Vagabond
and relished in his rise; he’s only got himself to blame, but all of
a sudden it feels like it has cost him something. Like all the guilt
he refuses to feel has reformed into a different kind of punishment,
an awareness that he cannot keep the best thing that has ever
happened to him, that he’ll have to leave before this, too, is
tarnished. Maybe he
can play lost pet for a time but the wilderness in his blood is
always calling, the lonely cry of the hunt keeping him up at night,
relentlessly pulling him back no matter how hard he tries to resist.
Ryan knows, in those moments, that this can’t last. That no matter
how much he wants to stay eventually he’ll have to break away again
and leave them all behind.
whenever it comes up, whenever it’s all too much and Ryan is just
secretly working out what he has to pack before he leaves, his crew
goes and smacks him over the head with their feelings on the matter.
are the days when Gavin will look up at him, smiling so soft and
sweet and terrifyingly harmless that it takes Ryan a second too long
to recognise the blade pressing up between his ribs, or into the
hollow of his throat or the base of his spine, freezing with a
startling shot of adrenaline even as Gavin pulls back, eyes alight
with wicked mischief as he laughs and skitters away, singing gotcha
over his shoulder like
catching the Vagabond unaware is a petty party trick.
Geoff will take one look at Ryan and send him away on a long job, or
pull him off what he was doing and keep him close to base instead.
It’s incredibly frustrating; Geoff offers no explanation or remorse
and the orders rarely align with what Ryan wants to be doing, but one
way or another they always seem to be just the thing to make him
shake off the restless jitters.
Michael drags Ryan out to practise close combat and drops him to the
ground over and over, defies Ryan’s greater size and usual physical
dominance in a hurricane of fists and flashing teeth. The way he
laughs and jeers and riles Ryan into true annoyance, into drawing
blood, and still sends him crashing down as often as not, an oddly
comforting display of bloody competence.
Ryan turns that cold detached gaze on Jack and finds her already
looking back, eyes narrowed and calculating, thoughtful. A simple
look that sends the same flare of shocking panicked fear through him as
he gets when she lets a jet plummet from the air, laughing wild and
reckless, ruthlessly jolting Ryan back into himself.
Jeremy invites himself along on one of Ryan’s less savoury jobs,
matches him hit for hit, threat for threat, nudges Ryan away and
takes over when things get truly nasty. The way he leans into Ryan’s
side and looks for critique when it’s over, as calm and friendly as
ever, like this darkness isn’t the thing that defines them.
is Ryan’s crew. His pack of dogs demonstrating just how clearly they
hear the call of the wild, how violently capable they are of keeping
up. The FAHC, who fight tooth and nail and no regrets, who’ve dug in
their claws and don’t plan on letting go, who’d go toe to toe with a
wolf without an ounce of fear just to prove he’s already home.
unspeakably hard, sometimes, for Ryan to stay, but leaving would be
so much worse.
Here, have Alien!Marco meeting Jean for the first first time after following his red string because he just had to know who was at the end of it after finding out what it was
I feel so bad because I’ve gone through the tags of my other JeanMarco post and a couple of people have sent me asks and they say that they love how I draw Jean and here I am…. butchering the poor man’s face for comedy. I’m sorry
If you wanna keep up with this, I’m tagging this is as JeanMarco!AlienAubecause there will be more
Also, open the drawing in a new tab or something to see it closer
A PSA to the Star Trek Fandom
Russian Names: You're Doing it Wrong
I love Star Trek. I love Star Trek so much. I love reading Star Trek fanfic and hearing head canons and AUs and genderbends. The Star Trek fandom is dedicated. Fanfic authors seem to do their research, and do it well, with one exception.
Motherfucking Pavel Andreivich Chekov.
I love this kid, whether it’s the TOS drama queen sass master or the AOS innocent angelic whiz kid. I love reading everything the fandom puts out on this dude. What I do not love, is the butchering of his name that goes on in this beautiful fandom. So, more out of selfishness than generosity, because if I read one more Pavel getting embarrassed at his “childhood nickname,” because of anyone writes a family fic in which Pavel’s father is named anything but Andrei, I. Will. Fucking. Scream.