Hey guy, welcome to my first ever Saints Row fanfiction. I finished the third game a couple of weeks ago and finally decided to try my hand at writing some fanfiction for it. It's not a genre I usually write for (I prefer Gears of War or Fallout fiction) and I'm really out of practice at writing. I need to do more of it so expect some more SR fiction in the future. We need some more Killbane fiction on here.
Summary: The Boss was bored. Johnny had left her waiting at a bar. Surely there was no harm in accepting a glass of champagne from an almost likeable masked wrestler? *Set between SR2 and SRtT*
Almost Likeable
"Mister Killbane sir?
Killbane looked up from his desk, his expression set into a sour scowl at being disturbed yet again. A security guard, stood in the doorway – trembling and looking as if he wanted to do nothing more than turn and run in the opposite direction. The Luchadore leader eyed the guard, displeased at his obvious sign of weakness but then waved him into the plush office none the less. The guard wasn't very old, only half Killbanes own age and had probably drawn the short straw. "Yes? Make it quick I'm a busy man", Killbane rumbled as he returned to his paperwork, his fountain pen flashing.
The security guard gave a little squeak that out Killbane in mind of a rodent being stepped upon. "Y-Y-Yes Killbane sir. One of the barmen has just reported something very...odd." The officer stopped and swallowed nervously. Out of the corner of his eye, Killbane out see the gleam of sweat upon his forehead and held back a snort of disgust. "And you came all the way up to tell me that why?"
"N-No sir. He swears that the leader of the Third Streets Saints is down in the bar right now. He thought you might want to know."
The fountain pen paused in mid air and Killbane looked up, the shock visible through his mask. His mind went from zero to sixty in two seconds flat. The Leader of the Saints? In Steelport? And The Syndicate didn't know? Dark brown eyes narrowed and he was suddenly possessed with the urge to throttle the life out of Matt Miller. The self-proclaimed Cyber punk knew everything about everyone. He had half a dozen secrets on all of them (himself and Loren included) and flaunted this knowledge to their faces; knowing that his useful hacking skills stayed Killbane's hand. How had Matt missed the fact that the Saint's Leader was in Steelport? He made a mental memo to maim Matt at the earliest possible convenience.
Killbane dropped his pen, tidied away his papers and stood up from his desk. He had best go and see what the harbinger of the Saints was doing. "Thank you. That will be all," he replied. The Security guard looked as if he might die from relief and promptly turned tail and fled from the office before Killbane could utter another word. And just as well too. The visible trembling irked the masked wrestler. He stood up and straightened his signature green suit. A smirk crossed Killbane's face as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. Let it never be said that he was not classy. The masked wrestler crossed his office and flicked the light, plunging the room into darkness.
A smooth elevator ride later five minutes later found Killbane standing in the lobby that was 3 Count. In a city of sin, the casino and bar was busy as always – especially so during the late afternoon period. The sights and sounds never failed to lift his spirits. 3 Count was a reminder of all he had accomplished and all he had done to reach the top. The wrestler stood in the elevator for a moment to appreciate his empire in all its glory. Sassy, sexy samba tunes played out over the buzzing chatter of the casino. Bronze and gold statues gleamed in the overhead light as if they had been recently polished. The bright, colourful lights of the gambling slots twinkled and winked at the wrestler as if trying to attempt Killbane over to try his luck. He, however, knew better and fondly remembered how he had ordered all the slot machines fixed.
After all, the house always wins.
The thought made his mouth curl into a smirk
Keeping his smile plastered upon his face, Killbane made his way through the casino towards the bar. He moved through the throngs of patrons carefully. These people were his fans after all – civility was expected of him. Luchadores nodded respectfully to him as he passed. Fans squealed with delight at seeing "The Walking Apocalypse" in person, their eyes wide and brimming with admiration. "Oh my god, it's The Walking Apocalypse. Will you please sign my shirt? I'm such a huge fan," gushed a young man no older than twenty, wearing a t-shirt with his logo on it. The girl with him gave a giggle and adjusted her own lime green shirt, the skull head motif shimmering away happily upon her torso.
Killbane gave a practiced smile and reached for sharpie marker that lived in his back pockets of his slacks. "Anything for a fan." In truth, he did not particularly feel like autography t-shirts as his mind was troubled by the appearance of the Saints leader. As he signed the t-shirt of the particularly chesty female, Killbane saw a dash of amethyst out of the corner of his eye and looked up.
There was the leader of the Third Street Saints perched on a bar stool; her waist coat the only speck of purple among a sea of green and pink. She was in her mid twenties with bottle blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail that put him in mind of a cheerleader. This Saints leader was young and easy on the eyes, not quite as voluptuous as the stunning Dewynter sisters but still had a certain classy appeal to her. Killbane felt the corner of his mouth twitch into a vague semblance of a smile and the wrestler released the shirt. "Please excuse me," he said, flashing his fans another practiced smile for good measure. They were both giddy with excitement and probably did not even notice his abrupt departure. He hoped it meant they would go and pour money into his slot machines.
Killbane straightened up his suit one last time before sizing himself up to go and tangle with Saints leader.
Show time.
Johnny was right.
The 3 Count Casino didn't have nearly enough stripper poles.
In fact, it didn't have any stripper poles. Period.
The leader of the Third Street Saints drummed her fingers impatiently on the polished mahogany tabletop. The bleach-blonde haired woman checked her wristwatch for what left like the fifth time that minute. She was not the least bit surprised that Johnny Gat was late. He was always late. The gangster would probably be late to his own funeral. Her brow furrowed with annoyance and suddenly, she was seized with the urge to throw a tantrum. How long did it really take to secure the tenancy of two shop spaces? She glanced behind bar, looking for her right-hand man and friend but was met with the sight and sounds of the most popular casino in Steelport. It was brighter and classier than she expected.
At least, for a casino that was owned by a masked wrestler.
The Boss swirled her half empty wine glass around gently, watching a bartender pour shots out for table of rowdy Luchadores. She considered briefly buying another bottle of wine; perhaps something a little expensive just to make her feel better. Pricey wine never failed to lift her spirits. An expensive bottle was a reminder of all the Saints had accomplished, all they had bled for and all they had done to reach the top. She knew Johnny wouldn't touch the stuff unless he was really desperate, claiming that drinking wine was like drinking piss. He preferred his spirits and beer – he could be so stubbornly old school gangster at times.
At least Johnny hadn't really changed. The Boss did not know what to make of her other lieutenants. Pierce was always doing deals abroad and as for Shaundi...The Boss frowned. She barely even knew who Shaundi was anymore and the thought left a bitterness in her mouth that wasn't from the chardonnay. She grabbed the leather cased menu sitting on the countertop and scanned through the alcohol section; suddenly in the mood for something very, very strong indeed.
The Boss was so busy scowling down at the menu that she did not notice that she was approached – she had been too busy debating between red or white. The countertop gave a groan, as if a great weight had settled upon it. Out of the corner of her eye, the waiter behind the bar visibly tensed. The Boss glanced to her side and it was easy to see why the young man had suddenly gone pallor.
The masked owner of 3 Count Casino was leaning on the bar next to her. Steel grey eyes trawled over him, appraising the wrestler known as Killbane. The man was at least six foot five or six and seemed to span in almost every direction. She was surprised the bar top didn't give way and collapse underneath him. His mask was a combination of black, green and swirls of crimson with little glimmering studs sewed into the seam lines. He wore a high quality green suit with the "Killbane" skull motif logo snaking over his back. His shirt was lime green and should have been tacky, only she found it wasn't. Gold chains and medallions jingled around his neck, causing her gaze to involuntarily flick down to the expanse of his wide chest. The sight made her swallow. Her gaze flicked back up quickly and she was surprised to see Killbane skimming over her with the same mild appreciation.
"I recommend the Jacob's Creek chardonnay," remarked the masked man. His voice was rough, strong and seemed to suit his image nicely. She schooled her face into a perfectly charming grin as he slid onto the barstool next to her. "I was thinking about getting something stronger actually. I need it right about now." she replied, keeping her tone playful and flirtatious. Her first thought was to play it cool. She was just another sinful alcoholic – granted a very well dressed one – but an alcoholic none-the-less. She could not be certain that he didn't know who she was already and suddenly, she felt self-conscious of her bright purple waistcoat. The little silver fluer de lis buttons were a dead giveaway.
Or perhaps it was just a twist of fate and the wrestler was only being friendly. She had heard that Killbane was very enthusiastic about her career and his fans. Perhaps he thought her an admirer?
The corners of his mouth lifted into a flawless smile and the Saint could not help but notice that his teeth were straight and white. They were too nice for a professional wrestler. "Perhaps a Soul Kiss instead?" Killbane replied, looking amused for no apparent reason that the Boss could see.
Never the less, she mirrored his expression; determined to keep the facade up. "I'm too classy for that shit," the Saint replied, chancing a grin.
The masked wrestler laughed, seemingly pleasantly surprised. "A woman after my own heart. Tell me, have you ever tried Dom Pérignon Rosé before?" he asked, reaching over and plucking the wine menu from her hands. The green fabric of his suit pulled against his biceps – that were probably bigger than her head.
She looked away to stop herself from staring overlong. Instead, the Boss focused on the brightly coloured bottles and liquids on the wall behind the bar. "At five hundred dollars a bottle for good vintage? Fuck that. I can't afford it." Yes, it sounded convincing enough despite the fact that she had twice that sitting snugly in her jeans pocket.
The material on Killbanes brow jerked up, as he was raising an eyebrow behind his mask. "Is that so?" Killbane looked to the petrified barman - who looked as if he wanted nothing more than to be swallowed up by the ground. "Bring us a bottle of the Pérignon rosé."
The barman swallowed, the sweat visible on his forehead. "What vintage sir?"
Killbane glanced at her and gave her another perfect smile. She wondered briefly if he actually practiced it behind closed doors. He probably did. "The 1985 vintage I think," he replied.
"Right away sir."
As the barmen disappeared down behind the counter and starting rooting around for their bottle, the Boss gave Killbane a look of great surprise. "So do you buy expensive champagne for strangers often?" she asked.
The professional wrestler gave a half smile, half smirk. "On occasion."
"Stranger don't buy me bottles of expensive champagne very often."
"Really? No worse a tragedy since Prometheus."
"Flatterer," she responded, but amicably. "What are you up to?"
The response earned her another soft chuckle. It was a nice sound and helped to eliminate some of her tension. "Why, nothing at all little nymph," he answered, humour upon his tone.
A smirk at Killbane's blatant flirtation crossed the Boss's face. It certainly had been a while since anyone had approached her so boldly. Johnny had his moments but he never acted upon them. The Saint had accepted that he likely never would. He was still wrapped up in ghosts – a cold truth that still drove her straight to the bottom of a bottle. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say that you're trying to get me into bed. There's easier ways to do it rather than buying me overpriced champagne," she responded, leaning against the countertop lazily.
He glanced over her again in a practiced, almost hungry sweep. "Is that so?"
"Mmhmm," responded the Boss.
"Well, I shall remember that for next time."
"So, are you sure you really want to waste that bottle?"
"There is nothing wrong with sharing Dionysus's gifts."
"Dionysus? As in the Greek god Dionysus?"
"Yes, ancient history and mythology is a passion of mine," Killbane responded, dark eyes gleaming with an intelligence that she didn't notice before. It was a refreshing change. This Killbane fellow was almost likable, almost fuckable if she could be sure that no harm would come to the Saints from such a tryst. Johnny would pitch a fit if he knew she had even considered it – which made the idea all the more appealing. She tightened her hands against in her jeans to stop herself from reaching out an entangling them in the lapels of his suit.
At that moment, the barman reappeared from behind the dark wood counter with a chilled ice bucket in one hand and two glasses in the other. He placed them on the counter than bustled over to another swaying customer on the other end of the bar. Killbane's fingers closed around the bottle; his hand almost engulfing it completely. She wondered briefly what else the large hands could do apart from break bones. A shudder ran down her spine just thinking about it.
Killbane carefully poured the rosy pink champagne evenly into the two glasses. His movements were practiced, precise – as if he had been pouring wine his entire life and not shattering limbs. He then slid the glass to her and dropped the bottle back into the bucket of ice chunks.
The Boss picked up her glass and propped her elbow onto the smooth wooden surface. "It's been a funny sort of afternoon. I'm drinking champagne with a complete stranger with no real reason to celebrate," she lied, thinking of the two new Planet Saints stores she would have before the days end. That was reason enough to celebrate she supposed as she took a drink of pink liquid. The Saint suppressed a shiver as the champagne slid down her throat. It was everything she thought it would be – heavenly and rich. She could taste the dark cherry and candied citrus strong upon her tongue.
It was the money and wealth tasted of.
Killbane swirled his own glass, grinning behind his mask. She felt the urge to reach out and drag her fingers across the shiny fabric just to see what it felt like under her fingertips. "I would say that meeting 'The Walking Apocalypse' in the flesh would be a reason to celebrate."
She swallowed another mouthful of wine, the flavour of it sending her taste buds into a frenzy. "Yeah, I meant to ask. What's with the name?"
"It's warrior's title bestowed upon me by my fans. I am something of a Hercules in the ring. Have you ever been to Murderbrawl?"
"I can't say I have. Why? Do all Luchadors get this sort of ego from it?"
Killbane smirked again. "Only the true gods of the arena."
The Boss could not suppress a snort. "Like you?"
"Veni. Vidi. Vici," Killbane replied, Latin flowing perfectly from his tongue. "You should attend Murderbrawl. You would enjoy it."
"Shirtless, muscled guys beating the shit out of each other? Yeah, I could get right into that," the Boss replied with a devious smirk. Dark eyes flashed again at her, the heat there almost unmistakeable. She was definitely not imagining it. Her heart rate suddenly jumped at the prospect that this wrestler wanted her just as much as she wanted him. How long had it been? The Boss could not even remember last time she had a sober fuck. Too long by her own reckoning.
Surely there was no harm in it…
"Boss! At the bar already? You shameless drunk," a familiar voice behind interrupted her chains of thoughts. The Boss spun around in her bar stool and found Johnny Gat swaggering over to them, looking as pleased as punch. Killbane straightened up in his seat, eying Gat like he would an opponent in the ring. She slid off the chair and folded her arms across her chest. "Johnny, where have you been?"
Johnny Gat – all attitude and gall – waved a hand dismissively as if he cared very little about what she had to say. They had been friends too long for her to even get offended by it. "Fuck, you don't half sound like my mother sometimes."
The Boss resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "You're two hours late. I think I have the right to be pissed with you."
"Sorry Boss, I didn't think I'd take so long." He gave her a wide grin though his stare darted to the hulking mass that was Killbane. Something she couldn't read flashed behind his sunglasses. "Besides, it looks like you got company. Eddie Pyror right? You're that 'Walking Apocalypse' guy everyone goes on about"
Killbane – or Eddie Pyror – visibly clenched his jaw and for a moment, the Boss thought he might swing for Johnny. Open mouth, insert foot Johnny.
Instead, Killbane gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Please, call me Killbane." The flirtatious atmosphere dissolved completely, leaving behind tension that was so thick she could have reached out and touched it. The Boss tensed. She had to get Johnny away from Killbane – and fast – before the two super powers clashed. She did not want to think about how it might end. "Well, thank you for the drink but we need to get going now." She reached into the back pockets of her jeans for her wallet, fully intending to pay for the bottle. Killbane, however, slipped his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew a handful of crisp green notes. He dropped them on the counter as if they were loose change, keeping his eyes trained upon the two Saints the entire time. "Please, do drop by again Saint."
The Last penny finally dropped.
Ah.
There it was. At last.
Killbane had known exactly who she was the entire time. It was now glaringly obvious since he had not once asked her name throughout the entire conversation. She had been foolish not to notice it sooner. She had flirted with him and he knew the entire time that she was the Leader of the Third Street Saints. She felt her cheeks heat up. "Maybe I will. C'mon Johnny. Let's go," said the Boss, turning away from the penetrative gaze of Killbane. Her right-hand man didn't protest – despite being in the general vicinity of a bar. Even in a busy casino, she could still feel his gaze settle upon her like an invisible weight and she didn't dare look back.
It was a dire shame really, he was almost likable.
But as sure as she knew her own name, there would be VIP tickets to Murderbrawl XXIX waiting in her mailbox when she got back to Stilwater.
And they would be good seats too.
I don't even know where this came from but it just had to be done. Don't judge me but I sort of ship the Boss and Killbane together. I have a bit of a soft spot for him even if he is a complete jerk. He had a cool way of speaking and was a more complex character than Loren so I preferred him as the main villain.