The sliding glass doors of the Los Santos International Airport pet terminal hissed open, venting a puff of recycled air into the stifling California heat. Jaxson Sterling stumbled onto the sidewalk, his arm nearly wrenched from its socket by the frantic pulling of a Husky.
It was the peak of the American summer. The sun beat down on Jax's garishly bright pink short-sleeved shirt and a pair of green shorts that looked like they had been stolen from a cartoon wardrobe. One of his flip-flops, snapped under the dog's relentless lunging, dangled uselessly from his ankle. Amidst the sea of travelers dressed in sleek blacks and neutral tones, he stood out like a neon hallucination.
Jax halted at the curb, squinting at the shimmering haze of the city. He was over a million dollars in debt, a weight that usually pressed behind his eyes, but his attention was diverted by a sudden change in tension on the leash. The Husky had gone silent.
He looked down. The dog was hunched over a storm drain, its shoulders heaving as it frantically vomited. The beast had clearly been airsick since the wheels touched the tarmac, which explained the mad dash for the exit.
As he waited, the phone in his pocket buzzed.
"Yo?"
"Is that Jax? It's Mike. Traffic is a nightmare on the 405, so you'll have to hang tight for a bit."
"No problem," Jax replied, wiping sweat from his brow.
"And listen to me," the voice on the other end grew stern. "Whatever you do, don't go off with any strangers."
The line went dead. Jax looked back at his dog. Bruce had finished his business and was now sprawled on the pavement, looking half-dead, yet his eyes remained sharp, darting toward the crowd. He was staring at an alternative-style girl in a short skirt and a spiked collar walking past.
A stray breeze brushed Jax's cheek, carrying a drop of moisture. He wiped his face, glancing up at the massive airport canopy. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. He frowned, sniffing his fingers. Why did the water have a faint, metallic... fishy smell?
He shook the thought away and gave the Husky's rear a gentle, reprimanding kick.
"Stop staring, Bruce," Jax muttered. "I really don't get how a dog can be this much of a lecher."
Bruce scrambled up, his eyes trailing the girl with a look of human-like sleaze. He turned his head toward Jax, his jaw moving in a way that defied biology.
"You wouldn't get it," the dog said, its voice a gravelly baritone. "You didn't see how beautiful the scenery was. America really is the land of the free."
Jax froze. The air between them turned brittle. Bruce's ears flattened.
"How can you talk?!" Jax hissed.
"You can understand me?!" the dog yelped.
In that instant, a cold, synthesized chime rang out inside Bruce's skull.
[Welcome to America, Beast Overlord Bruce!]
[Subordinate Recognition System successfully loaded.]
"Who! Who is talking inside this master's head!" Bruce barked, but the sounds that reached Jax's ears were a frantic string of panicked questions.
Before Jax could wrap his mind around it, a blue translucent panel flickered into existence before his own eyes.
[System binding error... Processing...]
[Error resolved. System bound to your pet 'Bruce'.]
[Critical Hit Return System installed for Host: Jaxson Sterling.]
[When Bruce claims a subordinate, you will gain the same ability with a random intensity multiplier.]
Jax scratched his head, staring at the floating interface. He was quick to adapt; a lifetime of misfortune had taught him to accept the absurd. He watched Bruce, who was now spinning in circles and barking at the empty air in a fit of territorial panic.
Before he could pull Bruce back to reality, the scream of high-performance tires echoed through the terminal pickup zone. A gleaming red convertible sports car screeched to a halt inches from their toes.
The driver was a middle-aged man with puffy cheeks and eyes that looked like they hadn't seen a full night's sleep in a decade. He leaned over the door, sizing Jax up.
"Jaxson?" The man nodded. "You've changed. Grown up."
Jax stared back, a wave of recognition hitting him. The man looked exactly like the character from the screen—the weary, retired professional.
"Mike?"
"It's me. Michael De Santa."
The name confirmed it. Jax had tumbled into the digital sprawl of Los Santos, 2013.
He worked quickly, shoving his luggage into the trunk and tossing a resisting Bruce into the back seat.
"You bastard! This master doesn't want to ride—Stop hitting me! I'm in!"
Jax climbed into the passenger seat, his mind racing through the timeline. Michael was still in his "retired" phase. The Union Depository, the tons of gold—it hadn't happened yet.
"So, Jax," Michael said, steering the car onto the freeway. "What's the plan? Your father left a million-dollar hole in the ground. I imagine that's a lot of weight for a kid to carry."
Jax leaned back, looking at the palms lining the highway.
"I think I'll start small," Jax said. "A pet clinic."
Michael frowned. To a man who had made his fortune through high-stakes theft, the idea of earning a living through pet care sounded agonizingly slow.
"It's an honest thought," Michael sighed. He reached into the center console and pulled out a plain plastic bank card. "Take this. It's what your father left behind. Company dividends, mostly. And I added a little something of my own. It's eighty thousand."
"The password is your dad's birthday."
Jax took the card. In Los Santos, eighty grand was a war chest if used correctly.
"Thanks, Mike."
"Whoa! Rich overnight?" Bruce's head popped up between the seats. "Don't forget who got you here! I want roast duck!"
Jax shoved the dog's snout back into the rear.
They were merging onto the main highway when the roar of engines drowned out Bruce's complaining. Two sports cars—one red, one white—tore past them, weaving through traffic with suicidal confidence.
"Crazy bastards," Michael cursed. He glanced at Jax, noticing the boy's intense, fixed stare. "Relax, kid. That's just Los Santos."
Jax nodded, but his eyes never left the receding taillights. He knew those cars. He knew the drivers. Franklin Clinton and Lamar Davis.
The wheels of the great robbery were starting to turn, and Jaxson Sterling finally saw his path to the gold.
In the back seat, Bruce ignored the cars. He was staring intensely into the sky, his eyes locked onto a lone Bald Eagle circling high above the smog.