wzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

On the 9th of September, 2001, when the towers came down, Percival Evans was there. The collapse claimed almost 3000 lives, and it sent ripples through many more across the world.
22 years prior, a New York firefighter met a school teacher and liked her enough to stick around. They had a kid and named him Percival. Surname, Evans. There were rich people, poor people, smart people, dumb people, and in the middle was the kid Percival. He had an average upbringing with the kind of teenage struggles you’d see in a John Hughes movie: passing exams, dealing with bullies, impressing girls—or at least trying to—and working odd-jobs like the local paper route. His grades were constantly slipping downwards, but with his mother’s personal tutoring, he kept going till the end of high school.
The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Like his father, an academic career path just wasn’t a thing for Percival. But also like his father, he wanted to help people. After drifting through food-service jobs and manual labour, Percival found April, a woman to give his last name. Minimum-wage jobs wouldn’t cut it anymore for a married man with kids on the way. Percival joined the New York Fire Department in 2000. 21-years-old.
He liked the work and for a year could see himself staying for a prosperous career.
Two hijacked airliners came for the World Trade Centre. One hit the north tower, and the other hit the south tower. It’s still pondered to this day, who was involved in the attack. That didn’t matter to Percival or half the other city firefighters. Dispatch ordered Percival’s unit to wait, but Percival rallied his squadmates to protest to the lieutenant.
‘Let’s go,’ they said. ‘Those people need help.’
The lieutenant held steadfast and complied to the orders given to him. The unit waited, while others rushed to the scene. Other units lost men.
When Percival Evans’s unit arrived it looked like a movie. Dust and smoke and ash in the air that invaded your lungs, and people just running and screaming in aimless terror. Percival and the other men did what they could. They searched through crumbly debris that was like a tangled mess of unmade blankets on a bed, only stone-hard. They looked for people, but could only find bodies.
Nothing was the same after that. The world wasn’t as bright in Percival’s eyes. He could visit any food joint with his uniform and he’d be offered a free meal and a beer, and the government provided free counselling and paid leave, but he wouldn’t accept any of it. His wife would hug him and he’d barely hug back. He walked around with a slump; a defeated posture.
Percival didn’t try with people anymore, so eventually they got sick of trying with him. His wife filed for divorce. She got the two kids. Two boys, Cory and Trevor. They moved to the west coast. Percival stayed in New York for a few more years, and he learned how to pretend. He learned how to smile and laugh and shake hands and to make it all feel genuine. Fake it till you make it.
He came to Los Santos because that’s where his wife and kids were, though he’d never admit that. The official story was that he needed to get out of New York, and that Los Santos was as good a location as any since his old buddy Aiden Fletcher had transferred there.
It was a chance to rebuild.