Chapter Text
July 14th, 1987
The taste of salt stirred from the ocean, concealing the myriad of bodies relishing in an eternal summer. Darkness shrouded everything in Santa Carla besides the radiant boardwalk, where night thrived. The roar of an infamous engine ripped through the crowd, parting the sea of people who understood all too well what followed.
The spot where Michael parked his Harley every night was waiting for him just like it always was; nobody ever keen on vying against him for it. He kicked up the stand, inhaling the comfort of his domain as he strode onto the rotting floorboards.
The heavy soles of his boots drummed against the wood. His presence inherently drew attention—even in Santa Carla. His jeans were almost worn down to nothing below his knees, save a few strings of denim, and his shirt was in even worse condition beneath his leather jacket, a large slash running across his chest. One lengthy chain linked to his earring was likely the only thing keeping the ensemble together.
His hand, wrapped in a fingerless fishnet glove, reached out and skimmed across the cheek of a blonde girl standing off to the side with a few friends. She looked momentarily dazed before regaining her senses and turning to her friends, fresh color blushing her cheeks. The girl quickly withered away to be just another face in the vast crowd as Michael chased after the boardwalk's alluring glow.
Michael was there tonight; he had been there the last, and he would remain here evermore. Eternally living what everyone craves to catch a fleeting glimpse of once in their lives. He had everything.
Or so he told himself.
Sometimes he wished Star would wholly join him, quietly hungered for someone to share the beauty of the night with who truly valued the grace of its gift. He settled against a pole, watching all walks of human life rush past him. Boys doting after apathetic girls, clusters of friends letting loose before school begins again, families bound by blood. None of them held a semblance of importance to Michael anymore; they hadn't in two years.
Every heart beat just so he could hear it. His stare eventually fixated on a couple he recognized from the Surf Nazi gang who were increasingly grating on his already scarce threshold of patience.
With his mind easily persuaded, he pushed off the bar and into the masses. Fingers flitting across the collarbone of somebody facing away, they spun around to face nothing but emptiness. Michael was already gone, the ghost of his lingering phantom touch the only indication he was ever even there. He prowled behind, eyes never wavering from the skunk-striped hair pulling along the blonde as he stepped onto the spinning carousel.
The clamor of people was drowned out by the ride’s merry chimes. It did nothing to placate the rhythmic thumping of a human heart pounding in Michael's ears. He stepped in sync with the low drum, eyes gilded with the color of anticipation.
He stretched his hand out and brushed through the woman’s wild hair, blanketed in smoke and salt. A smile threatened the edges of his lips. The velvet texture of her blood already felt on his tongue.
The man caught what was happening and ripped Michael's arm back from his girl. "Keep your hands to yourself," he growled, fingers digging into Michael's face. For his credit, if Michael were anybody else, the threat might have worked. Yet he remained completely still, smirk growing feral, and eyes echoing danger.
He reached out, pulling the collar of the man's shirt close to his. The air between them was drenched in the flavor of his encroaching fear. “You’re brave. Stupid, but brave,” he breathed.
The man writhed under Michael's iron-clad grip, the girl only just then acknowledging his plight, and attempted to pull him away to no avail. People around them became increasingly more aware of the situation unfolding, parents tensing their hold on blissful children. The slow rhythm bouncing in Michael's eardrums quickly gained its pace.
The cool steel of a security guard's baton suddenly caressed the curve of his jaw. Michael almost laughed at the futility of the gesture.
“I thought I told you to stay off the boardwalk,” the man grumbled.
Michael sent an unspoken threat to his prey before he relinquished his hold, brushing out any creases in his shirt. “Of course,” he hummed, turning to inspect the guard's features. The bead of sweat trickling at the rim of his hat did not go unseen.
Michael sauntered away from the carousel and moved through the boardwalk back to his bike. Surely enough, minutes later, he watched as the Surf Nazi stepped past him alone, heading for the dim and barren shore, serving himself on a silver platter to Michael.
Michael nearly lost interest in the ease with which he swooped over the rail and started trailing after him. An old Beach Boys tune faded out the further away from civility they got, the ocean waves muffling the sound of Michael's footsteps.
“Behind you,” Michael allowed the wind to latch onto and contort his words as he vanished into the shadows. The man whipped around, startled would be an understatement.
He held his hands up, defensive, “Show yourself, asshole.” He gave a valiant effort to appear unbothered, but the clangor of his heart pumping fear straight into his bloodstream betrayed him. Michael gave a strained chuckle, growing more bored by the second. He stepped forward, illuminated only by the glowing moon. There was a snag in the rhythmic pulse of his prey’s heart, and he took a feeble step back. Recognition struck him square in the face, “No hard feelings, dude. I’ll stay away from you if you stay away from my girl.”
“Sorry, bud. Can’t promise that. My boardwalk, my rules.”
“Wait, I—I know you.” He let his posture go slack, almost relieved, “We used to play in little league together, dude. Greg.” Michael looked closer, and it turned out the man—Greg—wasn’t lying. He could vaguely recall an irritating kid who would always whine about being at practice and not on the beach, “Michael, right? Yeah, I remember, shortstop.”
“Sorry, Greg,” he let his face contort into the grotesque truth behind his guise of humanity, “Little league was a long time ago. Things have changed.” He lunged forward before Greg had any time to react. He got one good gash on Michael before crumpling lifelessly to the cool sand. “No hard feelings, though,” he finished, wiping any sand off his shirt and walking back to the boardwalk.