Gamers' Intersection

"San Andreas" was last year's best-selling video game, so far selling more than 6.6 million units despite or perhaps because of a recent flap over a hidden sex scene. "Liberty City Stories," the latest in the series, will be available next month.

For gamers, the beauty of the "GTA" titles lies in the staggering scope of their meticulously detailed and open-ended environments. When you steal an expensive car, you hear Mozart on the radio. When it rains, the screen blurs and the road becomes slippery as you drive. When you beat someone with a baseball bat, blood spurts with astounding verisimilitude. In more conventional games, you go down a specific path, Level 1 to Level 2 to Level 3, to complete the mission and defeat the enemy. Then you're done. In "Grand Theft Auto," as the gangsta, you have the freedom to go where you want and do as you please.

Tito and Brendan are part of the "GTA" generation -- 17 and 16, respectively, deemed too young by the Entertainment Software Ratings Board to play "GTA" but too resourceful not to get their hands on it anyway.

The difference is that South Central Los Angeles is where Tito has grown up, in a cramped bedroom that he shares with his older brother. In his own bedroom in McLean, the fictional "South Central Los Santos" is the closest Brendan can get to a place folks call the inner-city ghetto.

In their bedrooms, hands on the controllers, Tito plays a game that mirrors his life and Brendan plays one that has nothing to do with his.

All About C.J.

When Tito starts talking about Carl Johnson, better known as C.J., he sounds as though he's referring to a cousin or a next-door neighbor. "His mom got killed in a drive-by shooting," says Tito, hair buzzed, shoulders stooped, his low, quiet voice trailing off, almost skimming the words. "He's gotta get even."

But C.J. is a leading video game character, a black street thug at the very center of "San Andreas."

It's nearly 9:30 p.m. in South Central. A school night. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Tito just got off work. Long day at Jefferson High. Long night at Foot Locker. He's a salesclerk, clocking at least 20 hours a week, working weekends and a few weeknights. His older brother, Francisco "Cisco" Ortiz, 23, is plopped down on the other twin bed, tongue hanging, controller in his hands. "Why are you tryin' to fight me, dawg?" Cisco yells at the big-screen TV, as if the gangbanger he's stabbing on the screen would talk right back. A childhood friend from the down the street, Danny Ibarra, also 23, is waiting anxiously. Never mind Tito's ringing cell phone; just give him the controller.

"I'm next," Tito tells Danny.

Danny gives Tito a "yeah, right " look -- jaw locked, brow curled, lips tightly pursed. "Nah, nah, I'm next," Danny, a senior at Cal State-Los Angeles studying business management, finally says. Then he bursts out laughing. "Just kiddin', Tito. Just kiddin' . It's your house."

Danny, Cisco and Tito, all sons of Mexican immigrants, grew up together on West 47th Street. ("We don't say we're from L.A. We say we're from South Central," says Cisco.)

Though the Ortiz family -- Mama cleans houses, Papa recycles scrap metal -- lives in public assisted housing, their two-bedroom apartment has two big-screen TVs. There's one in the living room, with Mama falling asleep on the couch, sitting a neighbor's two babies. There's another in Cisco and Tito's room, with posters of the rapper Tupac Shakur and the film "Scarface" adorning the walls. There's no personal computer, no laptop, no Internet connection. Just a PlayStation 2, a few games, and stacks and stacks of CDs, from Biggie to Mos Def.