A/N: Yes, this is TheMagicPotatoe. Re-uploading my fic on this new account. Because, unfortunately I had my accounts hacked into by a certain IP-scanning cunt, named Gregory Daniels, and if he ever tries that bullshit again, I shall tear his scrawny lil cock off and re-purpose it as a scratching post for my cat. Just saying. Anyway, bitch-rant aside, hope you enjoy!
The Boss was becoming impatient as she began pacing about the atrium of the Saints Hideout in the Bavogian Plaza situated in the lower class, Red Light District of Stilwater.. The grand sprawling staircases which were normally packed with purple-attired youths and scantily-clad strippers, were bare and the soft neon lighting was muted. It was half eleven in the evening, and most of the crew were either passed out somewhere or raising hell on the streets. The Boss didn't really give two shits how her homies spent their free time. So long as they were loyal and got the job done, then she was pretty mellow with them. Ever since the Saints had won back their city from that pompous asshole, Vogel, the Saints had free reign of the place. And the money they'd earned was certainly turning heads.
Flashy jewels and gold-plated license plates were like droplets in a sea of wealth. The Boss had acquired as much property as she could get her hands on, offering it to her crew for all of their hard work. She dug her phone out from between her impressive cleavage and began flicking through her contacts to see if she'd received any updates. When she found none, she cursed and picked up her pacing yet again. She kept peeking up at the staircases every now and again, becoming more and more distraught every time she saw the hollowness of it. Endless scenarios ran through her head. Her imagination kept tormenting her, as she lost herself in an endless stream of terrified thoughts. The alarm on her phone buzzed. Midnight.
She shook her head, then grabbed the SMG propped up against the white leather couch in the center of the room, and began sprinting up the steps, lunging across the balcony. Just as she rounded the corner she came face to face with just the motherfucker she'd been waiting to see. "Oh." She exclaimed, shoving her weapon into the waistband of her dark blue latex pants.
"Hey, Gat." The dark-haired asian street-tough re-sheated his hunting knife and nodded at her.
"Sup, Boss?" He slurred, the smell of beer on his cloths as he wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his lip. She gave the slightest tilt of her head then lead him back down into the atrium.
"Ultor's a big company, Gat. It ain't gonna exactly sit there and take this shit lightly." Gat arched an eyebrow and smirked.
"And since when the fuck did you let that stop you?" He retorted. The Boss couldn't help but smile at that; a smile that brightened her golden tanned skin and made her pale blue eyes twinkle even in the dim lighting.
"It ain't. I'm just saying, we should probably have our guard up." Gat snorted at that. "I'm serious, Gat. They're not exactly gunna sit there and take it like a bitch." Gat stared off at the wall, his brow furrowed.
"Yeah, well maybe they should've thought of that before they decided to fuck around with some pussified street gangs in the first goddamn place." The Boss and Gat both stood side by side, guns at the ready facing the bar. Lined across the counter were empty bottles of beer leftover from the recent festivities. The Boss clicked the safety off.
"I know," she grumbled. "If only that motherfucking punk Julius hadn't tried to nuke me..." She trailed off, unable to look Gat in the eye.
The Boss knew that the murder of his girlfriend, Aisha was still an open wound for him. It had just occurred to her that if the Ronin had never been established in Stilwater, if the Saints had been around to stop them from taking this city... Then Aisha might have lived. The Boss knew why she couldn't look Gat in the eye; it was because of her actions, because of her quest for revenge, to take back Stilwater, that Aisha had been killed. And yet Gat was the one left to suffer with her loss. The Boss shook off her guilt as she usually did – Gat wasn't the kind of guy that really talked about feelings anyway.
"Nevermind. Lets get to target practice."
Several rounds later and the two of them were somewhat satisfied with themselves. Keeping their skills honed was their own hobby. It had been ever since the Boss had joined the Saints. She didn't know why, but she'd always felt strangely soothed with a weapon in her hand. She'd carried it long enough that it'd began to feel like an extension of her own body – not being armed felt alien to her. The Boss rubbed her shoulder wistfully, feeling somewhat nostalgic for the familiar kick of a shotgun. Gat nodded at the shattered remains of the bottles and sighed.
"Man, fuck this. It ain't the same as moving targets." The Boss eyed him warily. "Hey, don't worry." He said. "I ain't gonna go around killing the crew." He paused. "Just those psycho cops." The Boss smiled.
"Good. Them motherfuckers just love to start shit."
"Yeah, you'd think they'd learn not to fuck with us." Johnny exclaimed, reloading his rifle. "Not after we took out that asshole, Vogel."
The Boss glanced over at him, noting how tensed his upper body was. She smiled, recalling when she first joined the Saints. Not long after she'd been canonized, and picked up her first weapon, she'd taken up target practice on her own accord. She remembered it clearly: she'd been fourteen at the time, short, with red curly dreads that framed her face. The bridge of her nose and cheeks were splattered with freckles and smudged with dirt. She remembered standing opposite the alter, tensed like a jungle cat. She'd been so wound up after her first brush with the Vice Kings that she felt like she'd snap at any moment. She'd mostly been running on adrenalin and gallons of soda from Freckle Bitches for the last few days after Julius had taken her under his wing.
So it came as a shock when as she was about to start up a second round, something cold and wet slapped into the back of her neck. Her shot hit way off target. She pivoted, gazing wildly around her, gun at the ready. She heard a chuckle from behind her, as Johnny brushed up alongside her, a cigarette teetering on his lips. He offered her a pack and she shook her head. Gat'd shrugged then turned and settled on the pew behind her, kicking his feet up and began rustling through his Fist burger. She glanced down and picked up the sweaty wrist band and chucked it aside. She bit her lip, afraid to speak. She gripped her pistol, wiping the grime off her hand, then regained her focus. Although, it was harder now that the tenseness in her shoulders had escalated. She fired a couple of shots that blasted about a meter off target. She sighed and face-palmed.
Gat let out a little chuckle, then licking the grease off his fingers, said.
"How the fuck did you and Troy take out those Vice Kings with shitty aim like that?" He smiled. She glared at him in response, yet he barely noticed. He sat up and walked over, patting her on the back.
"Look, man. You should loosen up." He said. She eyed him curiously. "Alright, here." He reached over and wrenched the gun from her hand. "Hold your gun to the side. One handed." She blushed, wanting to add the immature slur 'that's what she said' but held her tongue, and instead smiled. Gat surprisingly noticed the suggestive look he gave her, however he didn't show it. He continued, tweaking her elbow so that it was level with her shoulder.
"It'll make the kick much easier, than if you hold it double-handed like some goddamn super cop." He proceeded to correct her stance; "Quit standing like you're gonna shit a brick." Meanwhile, the Boss (then known casually as 'playa') listened patiently to Gat's instruction.
And so it had become something of a routine, their equivalent of afternoon tea. She may not have been with the Saints long, but she'd kept her ears to the ground, and it wasn't long until she'd figured them out. Or... She thought she had: she'd trusted Julius, Dex and Troy. All of them had turned out to be lying sellouts. With the possible exception of Troy; as it turned out, he'd grown sympathetic. Or perhaps he was scared of the Boss. Either way back when she'd first joined, she'd been intimidated by Gat's reputation of being the team badass. Now she'd come to know him as one of her closest friends. At the very least, he hadn't turned his back on the Saints. He was loyal; something which she could respect.
And that's why it hurt her to think about Aisha.
The Boss had let her down. Aisha's loss had changed Johnny so much. He spent less time practicing and more time outright murdering. Whenever he did turn up at the Mission house, he often had a haunted look about him, as if he'd aged a decade. The Boss couldn't help but notice that he'd started weightlifting a lot and drinking, particularly when there was nothing to do in town. She could clearly see that being cooped up like this was beginning to get to him. The Boss had entertained many thoughts on which to comfort her friend. Although she knew that all he wanted to do now, was kill every motherfucker that crossed his path.
After the last shell clang to the floor, there came an eerie silence that was thick with tension. And sawdust. The Boss took a deep breath, glancing up at Gat.
"I been thinking-" He cut her off, smirking
"A rare thing, huh?" She forced a smile and sat down upon the couch.
"Look, Gat... Call me a pussy, or whatever but... I'm startin' to get worried." She glanced up at him, her eyes sparkling with emotion. Gat was none the wiser.
"Hey, c'mon. We're the Saints. We already proven we can take down those dickless motherfuckers over at Ult–"
"I'm not talkin' about Ultor." She snapped. There was a long pause as she attempted to regain her composure. "I mean, yeah they are a concern, and it's not like we've got other shit to take care of, but fuck, Gat!" The Boss shot up, head in her hands. She began to pace again. There was an uncomfortable welling in her chest, as she felt a cold sheen of sweat developing all over her body. The unbidden memory of Gat trussed up in countless layers of bandages, pale as a sheet, lying alone on the hospital bed, as his heart rate beeped ever slower, before inevitably stopping altogether.
But it wasn't a memory. Not completely. The Boss worried that it might become a reality. Her heart leapt into her mouth, her throat constricting, going dry. She shook her head, calming herself. She glanced up at Gat's unconcerned expression. His eyes narrowed, seemingly challenging her to speak. She returned his gaze, unflinching and not giving anything away. She sighed, deflating all tension.
"Just... Don't get killed." She affirmed. His hardened expression melted away. He nodded, a small smile replacing his frosty look.
"Hey, no promises, Boss." The two of them bro-fisted, before turning separate ways, each going to clean up their own mess. Meanwhile, the Boss felt a hot flush run across her cheeks as tears welled in her eyes. It would seem, she thought, that losing Gat could cause me more pain than being blown to hell. She then added, snidely to herself; at least that had been quick.