((SO I found this photo that looks so perfectly like Ollie, then I found out it's fREAKING ANTONIO BANDERAS GOOD JOB VPG WHY DON'T YOU JUST SUBCONSCIOUSLY MODEL YOUR CHARACTER AFTER LIKE THE MOST FAMOUS LATINO GG but *sigh* if you gave him green eyes, this is n̶o̶t̶ ̶A̶n̶t̶o̶n̶i̶o̶ ̶B̶a̶n̶d̶e̶r̶a̶s̶  OliveyOliver.))

Oliver swung the door open, instantly wrinkling his nose as the distinctive smell of marijuana drifted out to meet him.

"Ey, Ollie!" One of the Mexican men in the room held out a smoking joint to him, "Come here! Take a load off! Relax!"

Oliver rolled his eyes, pushing past the crowded, dilapidated room and walking into his own bedroom.

Well.

What constituted as 'his' bedroom was a dingy, rotting room with five beds pushed in, all pressing against each other in awkward angles, no real order. Clothes and bags and rotting food lay everywhere.

It was disgusting.

He looked over at the bed next to his and noticed the linen had been completely stripped off. Seeing as bed-sheets were rarely washed in this hovel, it meant only one thing. Another kid had been deported. The latest one was only eighteen. It was always sad when the young ones got caught. It reminded him of himself at that age.

No, that's not true. He'd never seen anyone struggle into the group camp just as desperate as Oliver had been.

Nobody knew his life story; and nobody gave a cogida. And that was the way he wanted it. The illegal Mexicans that lived in this godforsaken dump were only out for themselves. They'd all escaped some kind of traumatic experience, and they used America for drowning their sorrows in drink and cocaine.

All except Oliver.

He shut the door to the bedroom, locking himself inside. The other occupants of the house expected he had a stash of weed hidden in his personal belongings - that or there was some dirty, disgusting thing that he liked to do with himself in his spare time. The truth was nothing like that.

He sighed, dropping to his knees and pulling a dusty suitcase from under the bed. He let his thumb stroke over the silver case. In here were his life savings. He was just a few hundred off. In a few hundred dollar's time, he'd finally have enough to apply for a legal American citizenship, move out of the slimy rat-hole where he lived and get a proper house. Maybe, eventually, he'd have enough to settle down with someone.

Yeah. As if.

He smiled, relief washing through him. Just a few more weeks of hard work and he'd be out of here for good.

Fumbling through his pockets, he pulled out sixty dollars from his latest shift. He spun the case around on the rotten wood floorboards and reached down to the little padlocks, one on either side.

The smile disappeared.

The padlocks had been smashed open, completely broken and only just hanging on the case.

"No..." He said to himself, throwing the case open.

It was empty.

He felt his throat close over. No. No, no, no. This was not possible. There's no way in Hell that his money was really gone.

Oliver stood up, slamming open the door and storming out to the hazy living room, "Listen here, you drogadicto inútil, where's my money?!"

"Your what?" One of the Latinos asked, his voice slurred from the affects of the drugs.

"No me jodas, I said, where's my money!" Oliver hollered, picking up the nearest man by the collar of his shirt and shaking him, "Give it back, you gilipollas!"

"Is gone!" Another one said, standing up, "Calm down, hombre! We spent it well!"

"Spent it- Spent it?!" Oliver screamed, throwing the man he was holding to the ground, "What did you spend it on!?"

That was when it hit him. Only yesterday, these low-down dogs had been complaining that they had run out of their stash of cocaine, ice, weed and whatever else they were shooting up.

Oliver felt rage slowly consume him, taking over him, creeping up from his toes to his hair, "You spent my money on drugs?! Qué chingados?! I'm going to kill you all! Pudrete en el infierno, you sick bastards!"

"Hey, hermano, chill out," A third Mexican stood up, his pupils wide-blown, high as a kite, "At least it went to good use, yes?"

"Yeah. Actually, brother, you know, it's kind of selfish to keep all that money from your friends," A fourth stood up. The leader of the gang, Jesús. This one had been on ice, Oliver could tell. That meant he was going to get aggressive, and fast.

Bring it on, bitch.

"We're your family. We let you stay here by our good grace, and here you are, locking away... how much was it, amigos?" Jesús  looked over at the other Mexicans, inviting them to join in.

"Two thousand, five hundred and sixty eight hard-earned American dollars," Oliver snarled, "And you low-life creatures are not my family."

Oliver only just caught the flash of the knife as the Latino let out a roar, running towards him. Oliver dodged messily, then punched him in the back of the head. He felt something warm run over his knuckles as he pulled his arm back.

Jesús spun around, growling like an animal, blood dripping from where Oliver's fist had connected. He held up the knife and ran at Oliver again, slashing wildly with the blade. The knife caught Oliver on the arm as he tried to deflect it, leaving a long gash from his shoulder to his elbow. Oliver swore, retreating and clutching at his wound.

"Oh no," Jesús snapped, the chemicals in his bloodstream turning his thoughts dark, "You're not getting away that easy this time."

Oliver's green eyes darted around the room. Spotting an empty beer bottle, he picked it up and glared at the man in front of him. He knew how things worked around here. You fought back. You asserted yourself as worth the others' respect.

Jesús ran at him, and Oliver threw the bottle. Time seemed to slow as it spun through the air. His aim was way off; the glass shattered harmlessly against the wall, and Oliver knew he'd been beat. Turning around, he pelted down the hallway at full speed, only just making it into the shared bedroom and slamming the door shut as Jesús caught up to him.

Jesús laughed, and the knife was plunged through the wood, narrowly missing Oliver's nose, "You can't hide in there forever, puta."

"What happened to you, man?" Oliver asked, shaking his head, "You used to be a good man before the drugs got to you. Now you're bajo la vida, la fluencia repugnante. El diablo tiene su alma. The devil has your soul. I hate all of you."

"I'll see you in Hell, then," Jesús left the knife hanging in the door, and walked off, shouting something about where his joint was.

Oliver growled, turning around and picking up his suitcase. With a sudden fit of rage, he screamed, throwing it into the wall. The case broke, falling into two fragile pieces.

Oliver sunk to his hands and knees, and cried.

------

"Is this the street?" Linda asked, taking her eyes off the road to look back at Vincent and Scott, who were sitting in the back seat.

"Yes, it is! Now watch the road or we'll all be in an accident!" Scott said hurriedly.

"Eh," Linda looked back at the front, turning into the street on which Vincent lived. She'd offered to drive both Scott and Vincent back to their houses and then take the bus back home. Her excuse was that she needed to make sure Vincent's house was good enough for Scott if he ever moved in. They were driving in Scott's old car, Linda having left her Jeep at home. There was no need for it. "So, that Ollie was a real character, amiright? Honestly, though, Vincent, you almost got the poor guy deported."

"Deported?" Scott asked, "But... surely, he's here legally, right?"

"Oh, no," Linda said. "When Vincent brought up that passport thing, his eyes instantly flicked over to the nearest security guard. Checking to see that they didn't overhear. That's why he shouted his reply so loudly - trying to make certain that the guard wouldn't ask for his ID."

"Sounds about right," Vincent growled sourly - the whole incident had put in in a shocking bad mood. He clung on to Scott tightly the whole way home as if he thought that if he let go, Scott would simply disappear and go to wherever Oliver lived.

"Don't be so harsh on him," Linda tutted, "He's been through a hard time, that boy. You can tell it from the way he carries himself."

"What?" Scott scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Yeah, right. He's always so cheerful! Acts like nothing in the world could ever be wrong. Probably grew up in the best part of Mexico."

Linda turned in her seat to face him, deadpanning, "Wow, Scott. You really know a lot about how people's brains work. It's almost like you're the psychology graduate."

Scott paled frightfully, "Alright, alright! I get your point! Honestly, Linda, you're going to kill us all! Watch the road!" He clutched onto his seatbelt as though it would protect him from oncoming car-accidents.

"Oh, shut up, there's nobody on this road, anyway," Linda shifted back in her seat to face the front, "Which one's your house, Vincent?"

"Just a little further down. Number 46," Vincent sighed, looking out the window.

"Alrighty!" Linda chirped, keeping her eyes out for the house. It was only a little bit longer, and in due time, the car stopped outside Vincent's driveway, "Okay, this is our stop! Everybody out!"

Scott hopped out of the rusty old car, walking around the other side to open the door for Vincent who got out unceremoniously with their bags, still obviously grumpy.

"Cheer up, you," Scott nudged him slightly with an elbow, "As soon as Linda leaves, we can curl up in your bed and watch a movie together. Would you like that?"

Vincent merely shrugged, walking towards his house.

Scott chuckled, "You're so moody when you're jealous, Vinny. It's cute." He caught the flicker of a smile on Vincent's lips before it was quickly replaced with his blank expression. Considering that a win on his part, he happily ran forward and pressed the doorbell, "Mike! Open up!"

A few moments later, there was movement and the sound of locks being unlocked, and Mike swung the door open, "Hey, fellas. You're finally back from your two-day date."

"Mm," Vincent pushed roughly past Mike and walked inside, "Trash the place while I was gone?"

"Nah," Mike said as Scott walked in, "Just stayed inside and drank all your beer." He turned around as Linda walked in, and his eyes widened a little, "Ho now. You didn't tell me you had a sister, Scott?"

"She was at the Christmas party," Scott frowned at him disapprovingly, "You almost tripped over her."

"Well..." Mike glanced at Scott before his eyes were drawn back to Linda, "Guess you had me falling for you in more ways than one."

"Ooh," Linda giggled, putting her hand over her mouth. Finally.

Scott looked from Mike to the now-blushing Linda, "Ohhh no. Oh no! No you don't! I absolutely forbid it! My best friend is not dating my twin sister."

"You can't tell me what I can and can't do," Linda said decidedly. She was in one of her stubborn moods again. Turning back to Mike, she smiled, "Pass me your phone, and I'll give you my number."

Mike's eyes widened, a huge grin spread over his face as he passed Linda his phone. The lock screen was of a virtually naked woman, posing seductively, but Linda didn't pay any mind to it. She swiped it open, opened his messages, and typed in her number.

With a wink, she passed it back, "I'll be in touch."

"Ehehe..." Mike chuckled goofily as he tucked the phone in his back pocket, totally inebriated by her presence.

"Well," Linda glanced over at Scott, "I've seen all I need to see. I better get going, my bus leaves soon. Love you, Scott."

"Love you, too," Scott said, raising an eyebrow. He knew for a fact that her bus didn't leave for at least ten minutes. Playing hard to get, right from moment one.

Linda blew him a kiss, then turned around and exited through the door she'd only just walked through.

"Later, Doll..." Mike mumbled, shutting the door behind her.

"Try not to drool on my carpet," Vincent sounded mildly disgusted. "I'll take these bags upstairs, alright, Scott?"

"I'll come with," Scott said.

"No, wait," Mike turned back to Scott, "You didn't tell me your sister was hot! Like, super hot! Like, what cup size is that?"

"Ew," Scott wrinkled his nose, "Can you please not talk about my sister like she's some Barbie toy? She's intelligent, kind and way too good for you."

"Aim high, strike low," Mike replied simply.

Scott pulled a face, "You're gross."

"You're just saying that 'cause I'm straight, you heterophobe," Mike feigned hurt, putting a hand on his heart.

"Whatever." Annoyed, Scott stormed past Vincent and up the stairs, calling out, "You're still not allowed to date my sister!"

Vincent glanced at Mike, "It is kind of gross." Then he followed up after Scott, with their bags in one hand.

"Oh, come on!" Mike called from downstairs, "Sexist! Heterophobes!"