Three days after winning the race, Richard was in the Blue Hill Apartments studying the upgraded mini-map when Lamar called, his tone as mysterious as a snake-oil salesman.
“Richard!
Come to Vinewood, there’s a big deal!”
“It’s ‘Richard’.
What kind of deal?”
“You’ll know when you get here.
It’s absolutely legal, absolutely profitable, and absolutely won’t require the three of us to go to prison.”
Richard hung up the phone and thought to himself: Every time Lamar says “absolutely,” it’s worth doubting.
When he arrived in Vinewood, Lamar was standing in front of a defunct laundromat with two people he didn’t recognize—one tall and thin, wearing glasses, looking like a frightened accountant; the other chubby, wearing overalls, holding a wrench.
“Who are they?” Richard pointed at the two people.
“New partners!” Lamar spread his arms proudly.
“This is Glasses, a hacker; this is Wrench, an explosives expert.
The four of us—plus Franklin—are the most badass team in Los Santos!”
Richard looked at the “hacker” who was trembling in fear and the “explosives expert” who didn’t look like he knew how to use a screwdriver, and was silent for three seconds.
“Lamar, where did you find them?”
“An internet cafe.”
“An internet cafe?”
“Yeah, I met them while I was playing games at the internet cafe.
Glasses said he could hack into any system, and Wrench said he used to be in charge of demolishing buildings at construction sites.
I thought it was a good fit.”
Richard took a deep breath, using all his restraint as a Transmigrator to keep from cursing on the spot.
He pulled out his phone, pretending to check a text message, while actually using the system mini-map to scan the information of the two people.
The result almost made him laugh out loud.
System annotation: Glasses—Real occupation: Internet cafe cashier, Hacking skills: Can modify the internet cafe billing system.
Wrench—Real occupation: Kitchen helper, Explosives skills: Can use a microwave to heat up canned food.
“Lamar,” Richard pulled Lamar aside, “these two are scammers.”
“Impossible!
They were very sincere to me!”
“Think about it carefully.
Would a real hacker sit in an internet cafe playing games and then tell you he’s a hacker?
Would a real explosives expert show up to a meeting wearing overalls?”
Lamar opened his mouth, his expression shifting from unwavering belief to hesitation, and finally to anger.
He turned and roared at the two men, “You’re scamming me?!”
Glasses and Wrench exchanged a look and bolted.
Lamar chased them for half a street, couldn’t catch them, and returned panting, kicking a trash can.
“Fuck!
I even bought them tacos twice!”
Richard patted his shoulder.
“It’s okay, at least you know now that there aren’t many people you can really trust.”
“Franklin counts as one, you count as one,” Lamar muttered.
“Just you two.”
“That’s enough.
Three people in Los Santos can do more than thirty.”
Lamar was depressed for about four minutes, then his eyes lit up again.
“Right!
I have another idea—this time it’s for real!
Let’s go steal Merryweather’s weapons!”
Richard almost choked on his own saliva.
“What?”
“My cousin’s neighbor’s friend is a security guard at Merryweather, and he said they have a temporary warehouse at the docks with very loose security.
If we go in and move two crates of guns out and resell them to the Korean gang, we could make thousands!”
“Your cousin’s neighbor’s friend?” Richard repeated the sentence.
“Lamar, listen to me carefully—Merryweather is the largest private military company in Los Santos.
They have armored vehicles, armed helicopters, and well-trained mercenaries.
Stealing from them is no different from suicide.”
“But that friend said the security was really loose…”
“That friend is most likely a Merryweather mole, deliberately leaking information to set up a sting operation.
Whoever goes to steal it will get caught.”
Lamar was silent, and this silence lasted quite a long time.
Finally, he sighed.
“Fine, you’re the strategist, I’ll listen to you.
So what do we do next?”
Richard thought for a moment and said, “Wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Wait for an opportunity that can truly change our destiny.” Richard looked at the luxury mansion area on the distant mountain.
“Soon, at most one or two months.”
That evening, the three of them met in the garage at Franklin’s aunt’s house.
Lamar told the story of his “internet cafe hacker” adventure.
After listening, Franklin glanced at Richard, his eyes saying, “Are you cleaning up Lamar’s messes every single day?”
Richard shrugged innocently.
Franklin placed a stack of cash on the table—the two thousand bucks won from the last race, plus the money from selling two of his old clothes, totaling two thousand one hundred and twenty bucks.
“This is start-up capital,” Franklin said.
“Richard, you said you’re ‘waiting for an opportunity,’ but I’m not the type to sit around and wait.
Give me a direction, and I’ll get to work.”
Richard felt a warmth in his heart.
This sentence from Franklin was exactly the same as in the game—he wasn’t blindly busy like Lamar, nor was he hesitant like Michael; he was just a young man who wanted to climb up and was willing to work hard.
“The direction is simple,” Richard drew a line on the table with his finger.
“First, become independent from Simeon.
The jobs he gives you are dirty and dangerous, and he takes a high cut.
We’ll take private jobs ourselves—debt collection, vehicle repossession, escorting—at half the price of Simeon’s, but with twice the service quality.”
Franklin frowned.
“Where will the clients come from?”
“Me.” Richard pointed at himself.
“I met a Korean uncle who runs a restaurant while I was in Vinewood for those few days.
One of his relatives was scammed out of money and wants to hire someone to collect the debt.
Also, the bald organizer from the last race has a friend who needs to transport a batch of ‘untaxed’ liquor and needs escorts.”
Lamar exclaimed, “When did you do all this?”
“While you were playing games at the internet cafe.”
Franklin stared at Richard for a long time, his scrutinizing gaze deeper than when they first met.
Finally, he asked a question that made Richard’s back go cold: “Brother, who exactly are you?
Your information is too accurate; it’s not like that of a newcomer.
Your driving skills, your familiarity with every street in Los Santos, you even know about the relationship between Simeon and me—these aren’t things that can be explained by’street rumors’.”
The air went quiet.
Lamar was uncharacteristically quiet, looking at Franklin, then at Richard.
Richard’s heart rate accelerated.
He knew this question would come sooner or later, but he didn’t expect it so soon.
Should he tell the truth?
Say he transmigrated from another world and knew all their fates?
Franklin would send him to a mental hospital on the spot.
He chose a half-truth.
“I…
worked as a ‘courier’ for a while,” Richard lowered his voice.
“Helping an old man who was dying deliver letters.
He used to be a local kingpin in Los Santos, but later retired.
He taught me a lot of things—the map of Los Santos, the relationships between various gangs, who can be trusted and who can’t.
The old man died last year and left me a phone and a key.
You’ve seen the phone, but I don’t know what the key opens yet.”
Franklin’s expression shifted from suspicion to contemplation.
Lamar chimed in, “What was that old man’s name?”
“He said that the fewer people who know his name, the safer he is.” This was not a lie—because Richard really hadn’t decided what name to make up.
Franklin finally withdrew his gaze and nodded.
“Fine.
If you don’t want to say, don’t.
But remember—in Los Santos, don’t lie to me.”
“I won’t lie to you.” When Richard said this, he added a thought internally: At least not about important things.
Lamar raised a can of soda.
“Come on, let’s have a toast!
From today on, the three of us are the most badass in Los Santos—uh—what was it called again?”
“Temporary partners.” Richard said.
“That sounds terrible.”
“Then come up with one yourself.”
“The Three Musketeers of Los Santos!”
“That’s even tackier.”
Franklin laughed for once, raising his soda can and clinking it with theirs.
“Whatever we call it,” Franklin said, “as long as we can stay alive and make money, it’s fine.”
The clinking sound of soda cans echoed in the garage, accompanied by the wail of sirens, the barking of dogs, and the roar of engines from a distant highway outside.
Los Santos nights were never quiet, just like the fates of these three men, which from this moment on, became irrevocably intertwined.
Richard took a sip of soda, and his phone vibrated in his pocket.
He didn’t look, but he knew the system must be indicating another increase in favorability.
He guessed correctly.
[Franklin favorability +15, current 85.
Lamar favorability +10, current 60.
Team Skill [Cooperative Driving] unlocked — When all three are present, driving stability increases, and the chance of rolling over decreases.]
“Chance of rolling over decreases…” Richard murmured, unable to help but chuckle.
“This system really understands Lamar.”
“What did you say?” Lamar leaned closer.
“I said, we start working tomorrow.
First job, a debt collection task for a Korean restaurant.
The other party owes eight thousand, and we get forty percent.
Franklin drives, I negotiate, Lamar—”
“What am I in charge of?”
“You’re in charge of standing behind us, looking fierce.”
Lamar nodded in satisfaction: “I’m good at that.”
Late at night, the three walked out of the garage, the Japan lights of Los Santos stretching their shadows long.
Richard walked at the very back, looking at the retreating figures of Franklin and Lamar, and suddenly felt that even if this was a game, these people’s joys and sorrows were real.
He pulled out his phone and sent a text message to the numberless “System”—though he knew there would be no reply.
“Thank you for letting me come here.”
Of course, there was no reply.
But in the distance, on a hilltop, the lights of a mansion suddenly flickered on, as if greeting him.
Richard squinted, recognizing the location of the house.
Rockford Hills, High Tower Street.
That was Michael’s home.