Disclaimer: Special thanks go out to the Third Street Authors for general support, as well as to LynGuerra for pushing me over the edge when it came to starting this project.
Chapter 1 — The Streets of Stilwater
He was wandering aimlessly, hands buried deep within the pockets of his patched-up leather jacket, just one more lost soul that haunted the streets of Saints Row that night. The air was slowly cooling after a hot day, and the patchy net of still working streetlights was bathing everything in a dim and shady-looking twilight. The sidewalks and alleys were littered with toppled trashcans and their contents. Hookers, hobos, hustlers and Brown Beggar pilgrims all went about their daily businesses. Strangely enough, Morgan was considering himself in good company amidst them. He was in a mood, and between all the other failed existences, his own shattered dreams somehow seemed less significant. On nine out of ten days, he was able to suppress and hide those feelings, and looking the way that he did — tall, athletic and handsome with his clean-shaven head and regularly trimmed stubble — people usually did not picture him as being of the depressed kind. Son to a Caucasian father and an African American mother, Morgan could have easily passed for some home-rooted football star, walking the streets of his childhood because of solidarity rather than necessity. Unfortunately, today was one of those days were all the penned up frustration and bitterness had risen to the surface to down him in a torrent of suffocating misery, and no amount of suppressing or distracting himself had been able to silence the gnawing voice that ate away at his soul.
It had been awfully nice of his boss at the Sea Roses to give him the night off. Between bartending, his day shift as a taxi driver and the occasional gig as a bouncer for one of the nearby clubs, Morgan sure could use the breather, but how exactly a walk around the Row was supposed to make him feel better about himself was beyond him.
"Just get out there," Hubert had said, stuffing a crumbled twenty into his hands. "Get some air, get wasted, get laid; whatever gets that cranky streak out of your system, you hear me?"
Easier said than done, Morgan thought gloomily. At the same time, the thought of returning to his grandfather's now empty house, to some cheap beer and another session of meaningless TV held no allure either, and so he walked on, searching for something — for anything really that would somehow validate his continued existence. On the Row, that pretty much meant looking for a needle in a haystack these days.
He was walking down 5th Street, minding his own business, when trouble finally found him. First, he was merely jumped by some hustler, trying to sell him some obviously either fake or stolen watches. Morgan managed to blow the guy off by simply ignoring his sale pitch, and the street vendor quickly lost interest. It was not as if Morgan could have afforded even the peddling price that the guy was asking for.
Past the hustler, he walked right into the arms of a prostitute. "Hey baby," she cooed, hips swaying suggestively as she moved into his path. "I can show you a good time."
Morgan stopped and looked her over. Her eyes were dull, the seductive smile charming but too rehearsed to fool him. She did have a nice figure, though, and to his surprise Morgan found that he particularly liked her curly black hair. Not that it would have made much of a difference. His body was reacting to her advances, letting him know that it had been too long and this woman just might have been the right kind of trouble for him today. He was about to turn on his charm and start the sweet-talk when a sudden, high-pitched curse further down the street caused both him and the girl to forget their pending business for a second. Morgan's onsetting smile died on his lips when he caught the flashes of bright yellow.
Like most people living on the Row, Morgan had built up a habit of avoiding flashy colors. Brown, gray, black and maybe a pair of jeans in a faded blue, that was about the pinnacle of what his wardrobe had to offer. Everything going beyond that only served to draw unwanted attention to yourself in an environment like this, and at worst got you mistaken for something you weren't. So when Morgan saw the group of young men all in yellow, he knew exactly who he was dealing with.
Vice Kings. Gangbangers belonging to one of Stilwater's most notorious street gangs. With that, all his thoughts about pleasant company vanished into thin air.
The Vice Kings moved off the street and into one of the alleyways, continuing their talk around the corner. They still didn't sound happy, and Morgan could hear how somebody began to shake what sounded like a can of spray paint. That was when the squad dressed in blue appeared, and moved into the alley as well. They were from a rivaling gang, and the condescension and hostility that underlined the ensuing conversation made it ample clear that things were about to get physical.
Morgan should have left there and then, yet for some reason he found that he couldn't. He was mesmerized. Even when things ran their course and the punches started flying, he still didn't move. One the blue gangers came darted around the corner and raced up the sidewalk, straight to where Morgan was still standing next to the skimpily clad woman. A Vice King followed in pursuit, but quickly fell behind, resorting to throwing the can of spray paint he was still carrying. The projectile hit the runner squarely in the back of the head, almost succeeding in toppling him over, but the Roller righted himself at the last moment and sped on towards his car further down the street.
From the opposite direction, the sound of howling engines approached. A red convertible screeched to a standstill right next to the alleyway, and with it a third faction entered the conflict and at once carried it to a hole new level. "Hector says Buenas noches... " said the masked gunner on the passenger seat even as the and his fellow brandished their automatic weapons. The next second, the bullets started flying. Everything descended into chaos.
The very real threat to his life was finally enough to shock Morgan out of his revelry. Beside him, the hooker screamed in terror and fled. She ran down the sidewalk as far as her heels could carry her, only to be shoved to the ground by the blue-clad Roller who was returning to the scene of the fight bearing a fully loaded assault rifle. Not intending to be caught in the crossfire, Morgan kept close to the ground and hurried across the street, screams and gunshots ringing in his ears with every step. Another rifle chimed in, just as the car's engine growled to life again. Morgan risked a glance over his shoulder, turning just in time to see the driver getting shot in the head and the car turning out of control, coming at him with its bloodstained windshield like some rabid animal baying for his blood. With fear and desperation surging through his veins, he ran on and — at the last moment — leapt. The car missed him by mere inches, and crashed into the next house with the murderous sound of shattering glass and deforming metal. Shards and engine parts were blown in every direction, and flames surged up within the car's crushed front, quickly spreading all around as leaking fuel ignited.
One of the car's passengers had been tossed out of it during the crash, and was writhing half-stunned upon the burning ground. He did not need to suffer long. The blue rifleman strode up to the wreckage and executed the survivor with almost casual disinterest. A disregard for human life he would not have the chance of over regretting, as he was so absorbed in dealing with the car and its passengers that he did not notice the Vice King that snuck up on him and in turn executed him with a point-blank shot to the back of the head. Blood and brain matter were sprayed all over the place. The echo of the shot hung in the air for a moment, then faded slowly into nothingness, followed by silence. The fight was over.
Morgan groaned. His heart was beating so fast in his chest he thought it was about to burst. Gasping for air, he rolled unto his back. There wasn't a part of his body that was not threatening him with the promise of excruciating pain. He was covered in minor cuts and bruises, especially where his palms had been cut to shreds trying to break his fall. They were bleeding profusely, and burned like fire.
None of that mattered much to Morgan, however, as he was finding himself starring down the wrong end of the barrel of a gun. Instinctively, he tried to back away from the threat, but the shiny handcannon followed after him, maintaining its firm aim on his head. I don't want to die, he thought, desperation taking over. He hadn't done anything wrong, and still, as he gazed into the weapon's barrel, Morgan somehow knew that he was starring into the emptiness of the abyss, and in that moment even his pitiful life, with all the emptiness and disappointment seemed unbearably sweet.
"Wrong time, wrong place, dawg," came the voice of the Vice King, and Morgan gritted his teeth. As if that was sufficient reason for a person to die. Suddenly he blinked. Wait a minute, he thought, trying to find through the adrenalin-fulled haze clouding his addled mind. He knew that voice!
For the first time, he looked past the gun and on to the person actually holding it, and as his eyes lit up in recognition, the name came bursting over his lips. "Darnell!" he cried, throwing up his hands in defense. "Wait man! It's me, Morgan. Morgan Barnes! From high school, remember?"
The ganger hesitated, his eyes narrowing suspiciously as he stared down at his prey. Then he frowned and tilted his head, and Morgan got the feeling that Darnell too was taking a good look at him for the first time. Eventually, Darnell chuckled gloatingly.
"Morgan motherfucking Barnes, eh? Damn dawg. Been a long time."
"Yeah," Morgan stammered. The fact that Darnell had not lowered the gun yet worried him. He tried to rise slowly, but instantly Darnell moved the gun closer to his head, sending an all too clear message. Morgan gulped. "Please man, come on. You don't have to do this."
Darnell flinched at that. "You sure about that?" he asked, but could not entirely hide his grin. "Witnesses are always bad news."
The bastard was playing with him, thought Morgan. Darnell was getting off on the power trip of holding another man's life in his hands. Despite being one wrong move away from catching a bullet, Morgan felt irritation replacing a little bit of the paralyzing fear that was festering in his guts. Part of him would have liked nothing better than to stand up and take that gun away from Darnell; to show him what being helpless and afraid felt like.
Again, fate had other plans for him. For exactly in that moment, Morgan noticed how a white guy in a short-sleeved purple shirt snuck up on Darnell, a massive revolver reflecting the light of the city lights. Morgan didn't even think before he acted. He cried out, shouting a warning and pointing past Darnell at the gunman.
Darnell instantly swung around. He was fast, too, but the newcomer still had the drop on him and fired first. Darnell was hit in the shoulder and went down with a cry, but it didn't stop him from squeezing a few shots off himself. The shots went far and wide, but they did suffice to force Darnell's assailant to take cover rather than to place another well-aimed shot. Grunting against the pain, Darnell continued to shoot, sending four more bullets into the corner behind which cowboy with the revolver had taken cover. The shots were answered by loud swearing, followed by resounding footsteps that quickly moved away from them.
Morgan surged to his feet and to Darnell's side. Cowering down beside him, he looked him over. He wasn't really an expert on any of these things, and there was blood everywhere, but to Morgan it looked like a clean through-and-through, and that was a good thing, right? Still, it was quite obvious that without medical attention, Darnell was still in serious danger.
Darnell, for his part, was still conscious, but he had paled considerably and his movements had grown sluggish. "We got to take you to the hospital," said Morgan. "You're bleeding out."
Darnell shook his head. "No cops, no hospitals," he wheezed. "Jus' take me to Sunnyvale. They'll patch me up good there."
Just for a second, Morgan felt the urge to point out that he had no reason to do anything for Darnell. he had just saved him getting shot to death, all the while not even being sure whether Darnell would have actually spared his life if the guy in purple hadn't showed up. Now he was asking him to take another risk and drive him all the way into the heart of the Vice King's territory? Morgan couldn't think of a single reason why he should have. And still. Even while thinking these thoughts, a plan already began to form in Morgan's mind. Not knowing why exactly, Morgan sighed, and began to put it into motion.
The first thing he needed was a car. Luckily for him, he knew just where to get the keys for one. With that in mind, he hurried over to the now headless blue rifleman that Darnell had put down. Rummaging through the man's pockets, he eventually found what he was looking for; the keys to the car Morgan had spotted down the street earlier. He also found a little bit of cash, a fully loaded handgun, and of course the half-empty assault rifle that he corpse had dropped. Morgan grabbed it all. He had no intention of using them, and other than maybe Kirby at Friendly Fire, he sure as hell didn't know anyone he would be able to sell boosted guns to, but the thought of just letting these things lying around on the street just didn't sit well with him.
Keys in hand and the assault rifle looped over his shoulder, he sprinted down the street towards the blue sedan, stopping only on a hunch to pick up the can of yellow spray paint that lay abandoned on the sidewalk. Within the car, he also happened to find an old first aid kit, whose bandages Morgan immediately put to good use. After that, he hauled Darnell to his feet and helped him into the car, stored away the guns, and after taking a few more desperate precautions, began the dubious trip towards Shivington.