Invitation to Ruin
Towers, Suns, and the Island that wasn’t on any map
By Valentina Van Voughn
I knew the moment I put the mask on, I felt like this wasn’t going to end cleanly.
Aurafarming is an art.
Today was the day.
The message had arrived the night before.
No sender, no context, just coordinates and an arcana assigned to me.
The Tower.
Collapse. Upheaval. Structures built on faulty foundations. Rebuilding after destruction.
I stared at it for a while.
Fitting.
I bought a cheap black mask. Nothing ornate. Nothing memorable. Kept my bike helmet on longer than necessary. It hid more than my face, it hid hesitation.
The warehouse was already alive when I arrived.
Engines cooling. Boots scraping concrete. Voices low and distorted.
There were more people than I anticipated.
Some stood rigid, like soldiers waiting for orders. Others leaned casually against crates, pretending not to care.
Everyone wore masks.
Everyone was pretending to be someone else.
Some voices brushed against familiarity. The way a laugh cuts off too sharply. The way someone says a word they always say.
But I didn’t look too long.
That’s the rule.
Tower x2
The Sorting
More masked figures entered. Not participants. Organizers.
They moved differently. Until us, who abide by the rules, these people bought firearms.
Told us to get in line and to find others assigned the same arcana.
I didn’t rush. I listened first.
Eventually I heard someone shouting, asking about “Towers.”
Team Servo formed!
I stepped forward.
He didn’t hesitate. Just understood.. No wasted words.
We asked around. Only two of us.
Turns out, some of us must have not made it.
The organizers decided we would merge with “The Suns.”
Sun and Tower.
Optimism and collapse.
Radiance and ruin.
It felt like a joke.
The Transport
We were told to get into vehicles.
No countdown. No explanation.
Just go.
There weren’t enough seats.
Hands grabbed me before I could protest.
Thrown over someone’s shoulder like cargo.
Again.
There’s something humbling about realizing how frequently I end up carried in this city.
The drive was long enough for doubt to creep in.
Then my GPS died.
No signal.
No map.
The air changed.
We weren’t just outside city limits.
We were somewhere deliberately isolated.
An island.
The Rules
Escape.
One million reward.
Masks optional.
None of us removed them.
Because anonymity is safety.
And safety is leverage.
The Team
We introduced ourselves quickly. No real names.
The man with the low, steady voice, we called him Roba. Or Jaws. Or Chiseled. It blurred.
What mattered was this: he radiated control. His presence mattered.
He stood like he’d already calculated exit routes.
Oni. The other Tower. Grey hair, natural authority. The kind of man who doesn’t ask for leadership, he assumes it.
Racoon. Fiery red hair, she moved lightly, almost playful. But her eyes never stopped scanning.
Papers. His mask was a Burger Shot wrapper. I appreciated the irony.
He and Roba moved like men who had worked together before.
And me. Motor.
I figured I’d contribute observation and aesthetics.
Just standing and looking pretty.
I underestimated what I’d witness.
The Crates
The island smelled like salt, damp concrete, and faint oil.
Crates surrounded the drop point like bait.
We moved carefully. No one rushed. No one joked.
The first crate snapped open.
Sandwiches. Water. Bandages.
The second crate carried weight.
A handgun.
Oni picked it up a little too excitedly, a glee in his eyes.
Checked it with fluid precision.
The way his thumb tested the slide told me everything.
This was not unfamiliar to him.
That unsettled me more than the weapon itself.
Then the lock.
Complicated. Deliberate.
Not something you brute force.
Super fun puzzle
The moment my fingers touched it, I understood the risk.
I focused.
Breathing shallow.
Mapping tension.
Tumblers shifting one by one.
Almost there.
Almost…
I slipped on the final rotation.
The internal mechanism jammed.
The click wasn’t loud.
But in the quiet of that island, it felt catastrophic.
Failure pressed against my ribs.
I admitted it immediately.
Before doubt could spread.
Racoon stepped beside me.
She picked up some lockpicks from one of the other crates earlier.
She worked the broken mechanism like she was undoing a mistake she’s seen before.
The crate opened.
Inside
A machete.
Heavy.
Sharp.
They expected violence.
The Villa
We stopped at the villa because it looked too deliberate to ignore.
White walls against dark foliage. Windows intact. No visible decay. It didn’t look abandoned, it looked prepared.
We made the decision quickly to search for additional supplies. No vote. Just instinct.
Racoon and I moved together at first. She walked lightly, almost playful, but I noticed how her eyes tracked doorframes and corners before her feet crossed them. I tried to mirror that.
Inside, the air felt stale. Furniture sparse. Drawers empty. No personal traces. No photos. No dust disturbed recently.
It wasn’t a home.
It was a stage.
Then the gunshots.
Sharp. Close.
My body reacted before my mind did. I ran toward the sound.
Halfway there, clarity punched through the adrenaline.
Running blindly toward gunfire without knowing elevation, cover, or numbers?
Stupid.
I pivoted hard and sprinted back toward where we’d left the car, breath sharp inside the mask.
Roba was already pulling everyone inward, gathering us like pieces on a board. No panic in his voice. Just urgency.
But the island wasn’t done with us.
There were noises.
Movement in the tree line.
Not wind. Not animals.
I dropped behind the car, metal cool against my back. Gravel pressing into my palms.
Oni slid into position beside me, firearm already raised, finger resting in that calm, terrifying space just before pressure.
He didn’t tremble.
He didn’t rush.
He waited.
Minutes stretched in a way that felt unnatural. Every rustle sounded amplified. Every shadow felt alive.
The Helicopter
Eventually, silence. Not reassurance.
Just absence.
Roba didn’t waste it. We moved.
We threw ourselves back into the vehicle. Roba drove with steady urgency. Controlled acceleration.
Tight turns. Oni leaned slightly out, firing at shapes that moved too close.
Papers’ perception may have saved us.
He spotted the helicopter before anyone else did. A dark silhouette near the shoreline, blades still.
He guided Roba with short, clear directions.
This team is too OP
Racoon was out before the engine fully died.
Lockpicks again.
She worked the helicopter door like it had offended her.
Click.
Open.
We crouched instinctively while boarding, shoulders low, scanning.
Another problem.
The keys.
They wouldn’t transfer properly. Racoon had them, but she couldn’t fly.
Oni offered.
Roba declined immediately. We needed Oni on gun duty if we were followed.
Racoon tried again.
Nothing.
The keys seemed to refuse cooperation.
Calmly, Roba leaned forward and began stripping paneling beneath the ignition.
No hesitation. Wires exposed. Metal scraped.
A spark.
Then the engine coughed to life.
Hotwiring.
Just like that.
Lockpicking. Gun handling. Hotwiring aircraft.
Who are these people?
These aren’t skills you accidentally learn.
The Return
These are skills you refine.
Oni scanned the island as we lifted. No relief in his posture. Only vigilance.
The helicopter ride was smooth.
Almost eerily so.
The island shrank beneath us like it had never existed.
The landing back at the warehouse was cleaner than the takeoff.
No other teams. No chaos. No sirens.
Just emptiness.
We disembarked in silence.
We all shouted “Team Servo”! Like this whole experience has bonded us for life.
Efficient. Responsive. Mechanical.
We waited.
Not sure what to expect.
No applause. No scoreboard.
Then one of the organizers emerged from the shadows as if she had been there the entire time.
She presented us our awards and continued with.
“You’re free to go.”
No debrief. No explanation.
No acknowledgment of the gunfire.
Just dismissal.
And that might have been the most unsettling part.
On the ride back, helmet still on, I replayed it.
The coordination. The composure. The comfort.
My contribution?
Observation. Breathing. Not panicking.
Standing where I was told.
I chuckled to myself. But the truth is…
I learned more tonight than I let on.
Would Los Santos believe this?
Masked invitations. An island extraction.
Weapons staged like props.
Strangers functioning like a trained unit.
It sounds like hysteria.
But this city doesn’t deal in normal.
And if this was hysteria…
It was organized.
