Chapter Text
The interrogation block of the FIB headquarters was eerily quiet, despite the block being sent into code red for the man sitting inside one of the rooms. All guards were on edge, and no agents wanted to go even attempt to try and get info from the one Trevor Philips.
"He's planning something. We need to do something."
"We need to put a bullet in him. He shot me!" Dave sighs, watching the camera pointed straight at Trevor.
"We will, it's just that he's extremely unpredictable." That statement makes Michael roll his eyes.
"Understatement of the century, Davey." Michael was on edge. After the conformation, he'd been a mess. Despite Trevor being in cuffs in the FIB building, he was worried about him breaking out, which he knew he would. He knew Trevor.
"Make Townley talk to him. Maybe he can get him to give us any info." Michael froze. No way was he was going in there with him. But before he could protest, Dave spoke up.
"That could work. He got really emotional when he saw Michael, so we could use that to get info from him."
"I am not going in there." Dave sighs.
"Michael, I know there's bad blood between you two, but please, he could have intel about the drug trade in Los Santos." Michael scowls, clenching his fist. This would only end with Trevor strangling him with his cuffs, but he was in no position to refuse Dave's order.
"Fine. But I want two guards in there with us." Dave nods, looking away from the camera.
"Ok. Fine. I'll send you with two agents." Dave motions for two guards to follow Michael as he slowly makes his way to Trevor's cell. He wandered what his angle was, he hated the government, yet he was sitting in a FIB interrogation room and hadn't killed anyone yet? He was planning something.
Michael stared at the door Trevor was behind, trying to work up the courage to face him again. He finally steeled himself a little, opening the door.
Trevor sat with a guard behind him. The guards following Michael practically pinned themselves to the wall behind them, leaning towards the door. Despite the guards, Michael felt alone. Defenseless.
"Michael." His name being said calmly was enough to be snapped out of his worries. He didn't expect Trevor to be calm, he expected yelling, threats, him pulling out a weapon from somewhere and stabbing a guard or himself, but not him being calm.
"Trevor." Michael cautiously took a seat in front of him, making sure there was distance between them.
"Didn't know the FIB hired ghosts." Trevor replied, this time with a noticeable edge. Michael looked away.
"Do you sell your meth to any other groups?" Michael tried to sound stern, professional, but his voice lacked the punch it usually had.
"How'd you get here, Michael? Being the FIB's lap dog? Did you make a deal behind me and Brad's backs?" Trevor's voice got considerably louder, more angry, putting Michael even more on edge.
"That's not what we're talking about right now." Trevor slams his cuffs down on the table, making all the agents jump and raise their weapons.
"No, we should talk about it, why did you sell us out!?" He was basically yelling now, and Michael was frozen.
"I had a family, Trev! I couldn't continue that life! I knew you and Brad wouldn't agree, I did what I had to!" Michael hated how the nickname still easily slipped past his lips, even years later.
"Please, the government is no better then actual criminals! At least we have the fucking balls to admit we're awful people!" Michael scowls once more. He was right, he knew it.
"I had to make the deal! I needed to be there for my family!" Trevor grits his teeth. His glare hardening.
"A deal, huh? What, in exchange for me and Brad you got to walk free? Be an American family man?" Michael had no response, his mouth just hung open wordlessly.
"Yes." He replied quietly, looking away from Trevor. It was quiet again for a moment, then a chair scraped against the floor, then the sound of someone choking. Michael looked up to see Trevor choking out the guard behind him.
Before any of the agents could react, a sicking crack was heard, and the guard's lifeless body slumped to the floor.
"Fuck this, man!" One guard said, running out of the room. The other guard followed him out, yelling 'code red! Code red!'
Michael followed in suit, as more agents running past them to try and stop Trevor. Shots rang out in the hall, and he could hear yells and the sound of bodies hitting the floor.
"Michael!" That was the only motivation he needed to keep running. He could hear running behind him, not being able to tell if it was from Trevor or the other responding agents.
Michael looked behind him for a brief moment, just long enough to see dead agents lining the floor, along with a pissed off Trevor running close behind, and catching up quick.
He rounded a corner, pulling out his radio.
"This agent De Santa, requesting back up, heading towards the lobby!" Michael yells into radio, panting from the effort of running.
"We got you, Michael. Agents are en-route." Dave's voice came through, sounding stressed. Trevor's footsteps were getting closer.
Michael finally got to lobby, trying to keep up his pace. Some people ducked or ran away, some agents pulled out their weapons to try and fire on Trevor, but he quickly mowed them down.
As he neared the front doors, agents entered to try and stop Trevor. Michael turned, firing a shot, but only getting shot in the hand in response. He yelled in pain, stumbling slightly. He could hear his fellow agents going down behind him, Trevor was getting closer.
Michael stumbled outside, seeing a red, beaten truck outside with a man inside staring at him. He ignored it, trying to get to his car, but suddenly he was grabbed by his collar, being shoved against the old truck.
"Oh, no you fucking don't!" Oh god no. Trevor. Michael struggled against him, but couldn't get free. Trevor ignored his struggles, instead, shoving him into the truck and taking his pistol and throwing it at the man in the drive seat, Ron, Michael remembered.
"Ron, drive!" Trevor barked out as Ron stepped on the gas. Agents filed outside, firing on Trevor's truck. The vehicle weaved through traffic wildly, it was giving Michael slight whiplash.
He could feel Trevor's glare and the cold metal of the weapon he was wielding pressed against his head. Trevor was going to kill him.