.
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Heavy bass is thudding indistinctly overhead, blending into the muted sounds of boisterous students. As far as Stilwater U blowouts go, this is one of the most popular I've seen, and I wonder how much of that is down to the Loa Dust my Saints are selling.
As long as our product moves, I'm happy.
I'm currently camped out in the recovery-room for the party occurring above me. It's a poorly-lit basement with the traditional accoutrements: broken TV, plenty of couch and floor space for people to pass out on, backup kegs. Two figures were already slumped in the armchairs when I got down here, a third turned up not long ago. A couple of boys really getting into their makeout session and a few members of Gamma Omicron Theta playing checkers with a chess set round out my present company. None of them have bothered me, and I've just been letting my thoughts tumble.
Earlier I was up at the party proper, did a little dancing, had a few beers, and was even hit on by a pledge too drunk to know any better.
It was actually kinda cute – he must'a been a theatre major to make it through that whole sonnet while hammered.
His less inebriated friends had hauled him off the moment they got a look at my face, obviously recognizing me – I'm pretty distinctive, as if the attire didn't already give it away – but I would have let him walk regardless. Shakespeare's endearing in my book, though it won't shift any clothing: a good opener, with the potential for intriguing sequels. A pity he'll probably be too scared to try again once sober.
I don't toss people through plate glass windows just for asking…aside from that one asshole sophomore year…but he was spiking drinks.
Totally justified.
Not that said fact left me any less expelled.
Over-privileged upper-class jock with millionaire parents versus delinquent on a scholarship? No points for guessing who the administration sided with.
Whatever, ancient history now. If attractive freshmen with a penchant for Shakespeare aren't willing to gamble on one-night stands, I'm not going out of my way for them. I can get my exercise at the gym just as easily.
I have been hitting weights pretty hard lately, trying to rebuild the strength from before my incapacitation. Throwing creeps though windows one-handed used to be cakewalk for me, but now I'd definitely struggle. It's going to be a long road back to my old bulk.
At least I AM getting stronger, however gradually. And I'd swear I'm thirty pounds up from what I remember being able to lift with arms this size. Maybe my muscles are learning to be more efficient? Don't think that's how it works, particularly after a coma, but I'm no doctor. Maybe Shaundi would have an idea. She usually does.
Shaundi is the main reason I'm at this party at all. Not to ask about fitness – though maybe I should, she's remarkably trim for anyone, let alone someone with her lifestyle – but to see what her take on my current difficulties is. She's the best sounding board I've got, and probably a lot smarter than me when it comes down to it, for all she can't shoot too straight. Better that, than the converse – markswomanship's a skill that comes with practice, but you can't teach clever. I could do with a bit of clever right now.
I sigh.
And we arrive at why I'm down here – it's a place to think while I wait for my Number Three.
Now that the whirlwind of the day has settled, I'm left facing some problems, the most pressing of which are currently lodged at our crib in human form.
One adult and nine children, who've all seen hell, and all need someplace to go. What do I do with them?
The kids definitely can't stay with the Saints. They'd be useful as errand runners, but probably get caught in crossfire eventually. One already took a fatal bullet during the stair fight, and while word from the hospital is the one wounded on the bus is stable, I'd prefer not to deal with that again in the future. That's even assuming they'd want to stay, which, if they're at all smart, they won't.
I'd prefer not to just kick them onto the street. They have families to get back to, possibly in distant countries, but can't make it without help. However, I can't exactly drive over to Washington DC and drop each one off at the appropriate embassy either.
Yeah, that's a terrible idea. I'd get stopped before I was halfway done, then there'd be a long list of questions followed by a short trip to jail. And even if I did fight my way out, I'd probably be topping AMW in no time. I need a different angle. Hmm…
If the actual Saints Row Mission hadn't been turned into a damned tourist trap, they could'a gone there, but, thanks to Ultor and their desecration of my home turf, that's no longer an option. I really hate corporations.
Though I guess technically, it was Hughes who set the whole 'Row Renewal' train in motion. Good things he's dead, otherwise I'd be sending him a very special gift for that. Maybe a-
"Hey boss, wassup?"
Broken from my reverie by the timely arrival of my lovely lieutenant, I can't help but smile as we exchange hand slaps.
Shaundi looks well. She's got that easy smile that says her day's been going fine, and an aura of relaxation that's a balm to my churning thoughts. She's also got what looks like four 'Stilwater Skeeters' pennants tucked in the waist of her jeans, forming an impromptu tutu – which makes me grin. More importantly, she's carrying two Stout Louts, wonderful woman that she is.
"Shaundi, you're a sight for sore eyes. Pull up some couch, stay a while, and listen."
She drops down next to me, proffering one of her bottles. I open it in my belt buckle and take a healthy swig.
Ah –that hits the spot. Didn't realize I was getting so thirsty.
"Word on the street is the Samedi are reeling," she says. "So what's got you all uptight?"
Buckle your seatbelt beautiful, this story's a doozie.
It's pretty simple to describe how my day has gone, less so how I feel about it.
On the one hand, I have no regrets about the trail of dead Samedi, or having rescued people who were up against dissection, but on the other, now I've got to take responsibility for them, which means finding them all someplace to go. I don't like kids, and just having them at the hideout is raising my stress level considerably. Then there's the fact that I should probably take this opening to go full-out against the Samedi.
Which is frustrating, since the Ronin are on the back foot at the moment, and I kinda owe it to Johnny to facilitate his revenge first.
Sure, Jyunichi's dead, but the ones who held his chain, Akuji Shogo and his father Kazuo, are still at large. I won't be comfortable fighting a war on two fronts until my Saints are better armed, but that means I'm gonna have to pick my battles for now. Don't even get me started on how frustrating it is to be leaving Maero and Jessica and all the Brotherhood unopposed at the moment.
If only all those kids had been grown-ups, this would be simple. No need to lockdown our crib, or have four whole squads tied to babysitting duty. And I still need figure out what to do with the one adult I DID find.
"At first, I thought to just drop him at a hospital and be done with it," I tell Shaundi, "but now…I don't know. Harry showed some spirit. Ran the length of a burning bus to bring me ammunition, all while tripping out of his mind. That's got potential."
"You think he'd make a good Saint?"
"Maybe. Tell you what, Shaundi, that's your new assignment. Feel him out, and if you think he'd be good to have on board, recruit him. If nothing else, pump him for everything he saw during his time with the Sons before you cut him loose."
"You can count on me Boss."
There, one problem down.
Flopping over onto Shaundi's lap gives me a comfortable place to rest my head and a new perspective from which to appreciate her physique.
Which is remarkable. I totally planned this. Suave like a fox.
"I just don't know what to do with the damn kids," I reply, returning to my larger issue. "Can't hold them indefinitely, can't drop them off somewhere they'll be killed or recaptured – which rules most of this city out – and if I try and take them across state lines to DC, I'll probably get arrested."
"Sounds like we need a third party to negotiate for us, Boss," says Shaundi, tapping her fingers against the armrest in thought while her other hand toys with my hair. "Trouble is we haven't really been making those sort of friends."
I scowl at the ceiling fan.
"No shit."
Not that I regret going after my competition first – instead of building connections – but that's left us without fronts to help in the legitimate channels when needed.
"It's too bad most of the old Saints are gone," she muses. "I met a few people while I was on the inside and Johnny might know more, but most of the one who were really connected are dead or missing."
True enough. Hell, Johnny and I are the only first-generation Saints still Saints, and at liberty in Stilwater, that I know of.
Julius has completely vanished, which is probably for the best, since I'm pretty bitter about his not reviving the Saints whenever he got out of prison. If I could trust Troy not to arrest me, I might bring this directly to him, but I haven't yet made up my mind on that score. Dex is still alive somewhere, but in a line of work that pisses Johnny off, ruling him out. Everybody else I remember is certifiably dead.
I barely had time to meet most of our affiliates before I was blown up anyway, and I sure as hell don't remember their names, doubt they'll remember me. So much is gone…
"Maybe I can find someone at college willing to act a go-between for us," Shaundi says meditatively. "My ex, Ray, he's a librarian, and's got access to all sorts of information…"
A go-between…information…access…
Lightning bolt.
If the old bastard's still alive-
I surge to my feet, wondering how good my luck is.
"Thanks Shaundi, you're a gem!" and I've got some bars to visit.
She smiles in wry confusion as I kiss her forehead and stride away.
"Take care of yourself Boss!" she calls after me. I toss her a wave as I fish for the keys in my back pocket.
Time to play some long odds…
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If I had actually hit the casino tonight, I would've made a killing. The person I'm looking for, who might've moved, been promoted, retired, or even died for all I knew, is sitting in the second haunt I check.
Good old 'Cranberry' Scagnelli, crookedest cop in Stilwater. He told me his actual first name once, back when he booked me for littering, but I can't remember it. His wife made lovely flan caramels though, I'd never forget those.
Before my coma, Cranberry was my go-to for official bribery. So long as you had some money to share, patrol cars would change routes, raids would be delayed, and paperwork would get masterfully bungled. To be sure, he passed everything he learned along to his superiors eventually, making himself indispensible to both gangbangers and police higher-ups, but for once, I don't care.
Today, that's exactly what I want him to do.
Scagnelli looks ten years older and twenty pounds heavier, but he's still got the same red face, greasy sideburns, and triple chin, with the same twinkle of amenable corruption in his eye. He spots me entering almost instantly, and his eyebrows rise, but nevertheless, he grins as I approach and sink into a seat across the table.
"Well, well, well, you look mighty familiar. I heard someone matching your description busted out of the pen not too long ago."
"Whole lotta people in the city" I reply blithely. "Some of them gotta have similar faces."
Though I'm not exactly easy to doppelganger.
"Well, whoever you are, I'm hoping you're not here to cause me trouble girlie-girl. I've already had a few, and couldn't swear to your identity in a court of law. Just looking to have a quiet evening out on the town."
I smile and signal for booze.
"I'm not looking for trouble either. Buy you a drink?"
"I wouldn't object."
It's good to see some things haven't changed. Plausible deniability has kept Cranberry safe for years, though I'm pretty sure that his appearance of low alcohol tolerance is just that – a façade. No matter how much I've seen the man drink, I've never seen him get stupid, merely strategically unable to remember certain things.
"Just enjoying my own quiet night out," I say. "I'm a little behind on news, figured I'd find a place to drink and hear what's happening. You seem like a pretty approachable guy, and I figured it's no fun to drink alone – you'll just end up talking to yourself."
"True enough, girlie. So much going on in this city, you'd think we're the world's landfill some days."
"Gang activity's on the rise lately, I think?"
"O, certainly," Cranberry responds, a sly gleam flashing in his eyes. "Why only today a bus went and got stolen before being shot to pieces by Greens and driven into the river. No one's sure why."
He always had a knack for ferreting out the heart of the matter.
"Very interesting," I speak casually. "Why, I even heard that bus had terrified kids onboard in the process of abandoning their involuntary organ-donor cards."
Scagnelli's face darkens at that, and he scowls.
"Hadn't come across that little nugget. Stilwater didn't used to be so bad – damn trade port's bringing in all kinds of international trouble now. What compels you to bring this up?" he asks me, eyes narrowing.
I take a slow sip and cut to the chase.
"Well, our police department doesn't look too good when they can't seem to do much about gangs in the streets. But…say they were able to report on the absolute destruction of a Sons of Samedi black market operation, and parade some rescued kiddies in front of the media? If the concerned citizens who facilitated such a thing stayed out of the spotlight, it wouldn't really matter who they were, would it?"
A slow smile glides onto Cranberry's face and he chuckles.
"I like the sound of this hypothetical you're spinning, girlie-girl. Let me see if I can add some detail…"
It takes four beers and over an hour, but I walk out of the bar with a solid plan for offloading the kids onto the PD without anyone being the wiser. Finally back at my apartment, I fall asleep almost instantly.
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The next morning passes in a rush of coordination, car trips, and, finally, shipping off the kids. I get my translators to inform the brats of what's going to happen beforehand so nobody panics, and in the end things go surprisingly smoothly.
The children are bundled into a few of my gang's cars – ones without Saints liveries – and driven to an underground parking garage, where we wait while the condemned apartment over our heads is raided by the city SWAT. By the time the news vans get wind of the action and show up, the top floor of the building is a smoldering ruin, and plain-clothes officers have turned up to escort the kids out to the waiting municipal SUVs while cameras roll.
Each of them gets a wad of cash from me in exchange for forgetting they ever saw us, and then we just hold tight until the circus has packed up and we can drive back home. That night, I catch the news broadcasts proclaiming 'significant advances in fighting corruption in our city' and praising the efforts of the 'noble heroes in uniform.' I laugh so hard microwave casserole goes up my nose, and Shaundi has to hit me repeatedly on the back.
Still, with that major headache cleared up, there's nothing to distract me from tomorrow, and I spend the rest of the evening curled up in bed. A large part of me wants to put the funeral off, which is stupid and just denial speaking. Nothing's going to bring Aisha back; all we can do now is pay our respects.
It's only really beginning to sink in that there'll never be a chance talk to her again. The last couple months and those I had before my coma are all the knowing her I get. And with Aisha gone, Johnny's my only friend in the world that I've had longer than half a year. These thoughts hurt, but I can't stop them.
It's not like I'm really alone. Shaundi is finding her feet as a Saint, and she's pretty likable, if a bit naïve. Pierce…honestly isn't too bad either, though I'd never admit that to his face. He's irresistibly teaseable, but shown he can back up his big mouth. I should make a point of hanging out with him more. They're all good lieutenants, inexperienced, but good. I've got to protect them though. Carlos was just the same, and he died anyway.
There have been too many fucking funerals already.
We've lost quite a few others besides Carlos and Aisha, their names I don't all remember, but I go to every wake. Good men and women, loyal, killers…Saints.
Agh, I just need to stop thinking.
I urn the radio up, and lose myself to music for the remainder of the evening.
Before I finally doze off, I hear the announcer forecasting rain.
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I end being the one to pick up Aisha's sister at the airport. Remi moved away from Stilwater nearly six years ago, and there's nothing much I can say to her, but she doesn't seem to want conversation anyway.
I'm not feeling social myself, admittedly.
Loop traffic is light, and my Raycaster purrs contentedly as we weave through it, a stark contrast to my own unsettled spirits.
I feel that damn itch, but no one's handy to shoot at the moment, and I know a drink would do almost as well. I'm pretty sure Johnny'll want to get plastered after we've put Aisha to rest, so at least that's in the cards. My shrink would probably have a mouthful to say about our coping methods, if he were still around. Not that I'd care, but I almost miss his disappointment in me sometimes – it reminds me of my Father.
The morning's been punctuated with light rain, but the sky really opens up just as we arrive at Mourning Woods. Based on the darkness overhead, it's going to be coming down for a while, and I'm glad Remi thought to pack herself an umbrella. There's one somewhere in my trunk, but I hate the thought of having to hold one still, so I don't bother looking for it.
Sooner feel the rain on my skin anyway.
Johnny is already there, also sans rain guard, along with the two Saints I'd had watching over Aisha's house. I have to grope for a moment to recall their names, but I do: Jasper and Santana. Both newly-minted, just canonized a week ago. I tell them I appreciate what they've done, and their new duty is guarding Remi. They nod like eager puppies and something within me shifts unpleasantly.
I was that way once. It didn't turn out well.
A third vehicle brings us the priest, and that's our full assembly. It's a painful thing to realize how few people Aisha had in her life, how isolated she was in her retirement. Tears are forming in my eyes, and I am thankful for the rain.
Empty words about peace and the afterlife and grief float by, and I have to keep pushing the ache in my throat down into the ball of anger in my chest so neither can get the better of me. The last thing I need is to break apart when Johnny deserves my support. He hasn't said a word since we got here, just keeps standing, watching the grave with the most unreadable expression I've ever seen on his face. My heart aches for him, and for the wound I can't heal, can't even soothe.
Small memories keep welling up, as if sprouting in response to the water soaking my hair and suit.
Aisha and I braiding each other's hair while we try and one-up each other with bad date stories. Laughter in the car as we drive away from the ruins of Kingdom Come Records. Aisha spluttering over Thai food. The smile on her face when I turned up after disrupting Johnny's trial. Aisha hugging Johnny. Aisha singing. Aisha kickboxing. Aisha grinning at jokes she didn't want to admit were funny.
So many moments of life lost to the past, with no more to come.
Fuck off, I'll cry if I fucking want to. Not like anyone will see.
Then, even through the staccato burr of precipitation, I catch the whine of motorcycles. I stiffen.
That cowardly shit of a motherfucker wouldn't dare-
Except he has.
Akuji Shogo and his posse of incompetent pricks are pulling up to our ceremony, heedless of propriety, pushing their fucking noses into a place they have NO business being. I turn to order my crew to get Remi out of here, but they're already halfway to the other car with her. Smart boys.
This is going to get ugly.
I am going to make SURE of it. Twenty men with you, Akuji? I've got Gat. You needed an army. Fuck that, you needed TWO armies.
Akuji Jr. has no idea how much shit he just stepped into. He starts whining like a trust-fund kid losing car privileges.
"You two have humiliated my family for the last time!"
Dead.
Man.
Walking.
Pistol in my suit. Fifteen steps to the car. More guns in the trunk. Plenty of cover.
"Leave little boy," Johnny replies, absolutely poker-faced. Akuji doesn't know Gat, and he's too stupid to take the hint anyway, but I can feel the threat building behind that controlled mask.
If you'd opened fire immediately Akuji, maybe, MAYBE you would have had a chance.
Instead, he's too busy with his hissy fit. Even those girls in my Lit class weren't this annoying.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Johnny spares him a contemptuous glance before returning to his attention to Aisha's grave.
"Fuck off Akuji," he says in that level tone only one millimeter from mayhem. "I'm not killing anyone at Eesh's funeral. Tonight, tomorrow…you name a time and I will gladly fuck you up…but not now."
I can see the idiot ignoring this, just like he ignored everything else that might keep him breathing a little longer. He sneers.
"How noble…nobility is sorely overrated."
He takes his time drawing a sub-machinegun and racking the slide with all the pointless arrogance of youth.
If you had acted with nobility, you wouldn't be about to die, I think, but there's no pity for him – I'm going to enjoy this.
My hand whips up, faster than any of the Ronin are in following their leader, and my first shot hits squarely on Akuji's firearm, cracking the housing and rendering the weapon useless. I savor the consternation in his eyes as I dive behind a gravestone, Gat splitting seamlessly the opposite way. There are yells of terror and alarm from the priest and the Ronin respectively as gunfire breaks out and battle is joined.
The next few moments are all running, rolling, and firing back. Five Ronin are dead before I even make it to my car, one to me and four because of Johnny, who is firing his pistol with the careful mechanical precision of an assassin.
Bullets whicker past my head and ricochet off the Raycaster and thru its windows, but I don't care – I've found what we need. I grab a 34 and my shotgun, shoulder a couple of K-6s, and pause.
I'd forgotten that was in here.
The AR-200 SAW I'd used on the farm raid gleams up at me, along with its two remaining boxes of ammunition. I feel the smile tugging at my mouth but can't linger over the good fortune - there are a great many people to kill.
I dodge my way back to Gat, who's taken shelter behind a little mausoleum and is still whittling down Shogo's meat-shields with his careful shooting. Dumping our arsenal onto the muddy ground by him, I lean out and cap a yellow-clad figure trying to get behind us. Johnny takes only a moment to trade his pistol for the SAW and deftly checks the feed as I keep us covered. Satisfied that nothing is amiss with the weapon, Johnny taps my shoulder.
"You go left and flank them to shit," he says. "I'll bet Akuji runs…don't let him get away."
We briefly clasp hands.
"I won't, Johnny."
No matter what I have to do to stop him, the bastard stays alive until I bring him back for you.
I leave my rifle hanging off its strap and sprint out with my shotgun leveled, as a hurricane of fire erupts behind me. The SAW screams like a rampaging demon, one long continuous snarl of thunder and metal. The group of Ronin surrounding Akuji are caught completely off-guard, many torn apart by the high-caliber fire while the rest start falling back in disarray. I weave through headstones, yellow figures blooming with red each time my gun kicks, the sheeting rain blurring my sight and muting cries from the wounded and dying.
Get to Akuji.
A Ronin ahead of me is using someone's grandmother as a shield, wildly spraying an Urban in my direction…to no effect as my leap lands a solid heel to his face, and he staggers backward to the ground. I land in a crouch, then bring the butt of my weapon down on his face. Twice. His twitching only stops when the old lady pulls a derringer from her purse and shoots him cleanly through the heart from where she's taken shelter behind a gravestone.
That's my Stilwater.
A car slews to a halt nearby, and more Ronin leap out – reinforcements. I offer each a personalized hello from my trusty sidearm and they go down in sequence.
Keep moving, keep firing. Get to Akuji.
The sound of a motor is rapidly growing behind me and I spin to open up with the rifle, aiming for the bike's tires before it can run me down. The front tread bursts, and the vehicle wobbles drunkenly before slipping out to catch on protruding masonry and send its rider flying. Her body hits hard and I augment the broken bones with some high velocity puncture wounds.
I continue forward, reloading, closing on my target.
Get to Akuji.
Most of those who rolled in initially are dead at this point, and Johnny has only stopped firing to change magazines. Another of the Ronin's ostentatious gold cars comes screeching around a hillock, but he just holds the trigger down, shredding windshield, occupants, and ultimately, the car itself. As its wreck passes him, it bursts into flame, and moments later meets a tree head-on, sending a wave of fire outward as the gas tank ruptures. I spot a figure sprinting away ahead and give chase before I even properly recognize Shogo. I herd him with sporadic bursts from my K-6 while Gat mops up the remaining Ronin and follows in my wake.
Another wave of his henchmen loom out of the pouring rain and once more gunfire is exchanged.
I drop two, Gat drops three and I feel something hot furrow across my shoulder as I kneel to reload again. Then a stray bullet knocks my gun from my fingers as a figure bursts around the grave I'm sheltering behind. I kick them in the gut and grab the nearest thing to hand – a shovel – which I swing with all my strength right into their face. The shovel makes a sound usually reserved for damp earth and tree roots while the goon goes down sluggishly, jaw peeling open as I extract my makeshift weapon.
Johnny has dispatched the last two opponents facing us and we continue the pursuit of Shogo.
He's running for the caretaker's house, and as I crest the rise I see him reach the already-open garage and hop onto a motorbike waiting there.
You marginally clever bastard.
He had this escape set up.
Bet he wasn't expecting to need it though.
I reach the garage seconds after Akuji burns out of it, a look of fear stamped across his features. Johnny is hot on my heels and I look back at him. Our eyes meet for a moment – and then I kick a second bike to life and slide onto it, while he turns and raises his weapon to deal with the next wave of Ronin reinforcements.
Two more cars are barreling at him, charging through the rain, but Gat holds his ground, slamming home the last magazine into the SAW. I rocket out of the garage as the booms of shotguns and pistols intercut with the continuous chatter of his ferocious weapon. There are screams, and an explosion, but I ignore them all.
Get to Akuji.
The brat took off down the road like the straight-laced pansy that he is, but that's not the fastest way to the graveyard's exit. Slewing hard left, I take off down the fence, clumps of muddy earth and grass blooming out behind me as the motorcycle tears a rut in the wet soil. Steering with the accelerator, I flirt with the edges of control, skidding over the slick ground, slaloming between open graves, statuary, and headstones. The rush is incredible, but it's secondary to my overriding directive.
Get to Akuji.
A small hillock grants me few seconds of air, and then I'm slamming down, sighting the cemetery gate.
A glance locates Akuji racing up the drive to my right. He's bent over the handlebars in desperation, looking back in anticipation of pursuit. Rational thought abandoned, guns forgotten, I open the throttle fully, closing perpendicularly to his direction of travel. At the last moment he registers my approach but by then it's too late. My front tire slams into his and we both are thrown spinning of course and launched into the air. For a moment I'm flying, then-
-Pain, impact, tumbling, rolling uncontrollably before-
-Coming to a halt and immediately springing up to stalk back towards my prey. In retrospect, than was probably one of the stupidest maneuvers I've ever attempted, but I seem to have come out of it unharmed, through a combination of what must be reflexes, adrenaline, and pure dumb luck.
Akuji Shogo didn't have the same fortune with his own dismount, however – he's flopping about dazedly, trying to reach a holdout pistol which I kick off into the scrub. He scrabbles for his sword next, but I pull that away too and snap it before discarding the pieces. A solid nut-shot serves to quell his resistance for the moment, and I grab him by a foot and start dragging him back to meet his fate.
Got you, Akuji. I got you, you fucker.
The bastard isn't light by any stretch of the imagination, but nothing short of a freight train would be able to hold me back. Shogo only starts to regain coherence as I come back in sight of Johnny and even then it's only to spasm weakly and beg for his life. I don't register any of the words.
Pathetic to the end. Fourty-odd against two and now you're the only one left. It never pays to be a coward when your sins come home to roost.
I pull the little shit to his feet by the scruff of the neck and heave him towards Gat, who lays him out with a single punch. Thunder rumbles overhead. I step back and turn away, keeping an eye out for anyone who would interfere, and giving my friend room to work.
"Get up," orders Johnny, his voice absolutely level.
Shogo rolls to his feet, squares off, trying for a kick, which Johnny stops cold before dealing a hammer-blow to the man's leg. I hear a femur crack, and relish the whimper of pain.
Make him suffer.
Before he can recover, Shogo is sent right back to the ground as Gat headbutts him, breaking Akuji's nose. A fork of lightning steaks the sky and the following thunderclap is almost instantaneous.
"Get up," repeats Johnny.
It takes Shogo a few moments to regain his feet with the crippled limb. He throws a weak haymaker that Johnny doesn't even feel, before collapsing back against a grave under the return blows.
"Get up."
"Please…stop," the coward gasps, clutching the grave marker for support.
"Not so fun when you're fighting someone who isn't tied to a chair, is it?"
"I didn't kill her!"
"You ordered it," replies Gat, still deathly calm. The pouring rain lashes at us as the wind rises, muting the world and narrowing it to a small patch of graveyard suspended in a maestorm. When it becomes clear the Ronin's leader won't stand and face him again, Johnny lashes out with such force that the headstone Shogo is clutching crumbles as his head encounters it.
"…I'm…sorry," he sobs weakly, struggling in the mud.
"Well, that brings her back, doesn't it," Gat replies, anger audibly lacing his tone for the first time. He grabs the bastard's neck and begins hauling him across the ground.
"You couldn't even let her have a burial, you fucking piece of shit."
He stops by an open grave with an unlowered coffin – another ceremony disrupted by our gunfight, most likely. Tipping the casket over sideways, he spills the occupant – not Aisha, who's already in the ground, but some middle-aged redhead – out. Shogo stares at the corpse in horror, while I smile grimly.
"Please…" Shogo's voice breaks, his speech slurring.
Fuck you.
I dislodge a pair of spades from the pile of earth by me.
"No, please, no," he continues, begging.
Johnny doesn't waste his breath, just tosses the cowardly motherfucker into the now vacated coffin, slamming the lid shut. I toss a shovel my friend, which he catches as he kicks the descender mechanism. The casket begins sinking into its prepared pit, gears emitting a rapid clicking that is audible even over the rainstorm. Another peal of thunder rolls across us.
"Kill me, but don't do this!" Shogo's distorted voice pleads. "Just kill me damn it!"
Soon his entreaties devolve into incoherent screaming as he pounds futilely against the lid.
I simply watch the box descend with satisfaction. Johnny is scooping earth before it even comes to rest. After a moment I join him, and soon Shogo's cries are muffled.
After a while they can't be heard at all.
/\
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The thunderstorm has passed and the rain dwindled to nothing, even though the sky remains dark and gloomy as we slip towards evening. I'm lying on the hood of my car - now parked in the empty and undeveloped fields at the southwest end of Tidal Springs - twirling an empty bottle in my hands. Johnny is sitting in the grass, leaning back against the bumper, working on his latest beer. The only sounds are the distant rumble of traffic from the highway, and the lap of water on the bank below us.
I've been watching my breath mist in front of the clouds drifting by overhead, and letting my thoughts wander. My itch is gone - the glorious massacre we just took part in saw to that - which leaves nothing but aching as the finality of Aisha's death sinks in. I'd probably be a sobbing mess if it weren't for the alcohol swirling through my system, muting everything to a tolerable level.
I'm missing her horribly already.
It hurts, badly, in a way no amount of drink could ever fully mask. Aisha was my only friend besides Johnny for a while, and the only one besides him still around when I woke up from my coma. She and Lin were-
NO, I am NOT going to start thinking about Lin, I'm already half a wreck, and if I...AISHA. Think about Aisha. Everything she's ever done for you. How amazing she was. Her 'unimpressed-with-your-bullshit' look. Anything.
Aisha helped bring me out of the shell I'd crawled into in my youth. Got me to talk, laugh, dare to dream of more than being a nobody.
Fuck, I'm crying again.
I throw my empty bottle away, hearing it clatter down the hillside before shattering on a rock.
"Another, Johnny," my voice is rough, thick with the effort of staying level. It's the first thing either of us has said since the graveyard.
If Johnny notices the waver, he doesn't comment on it, just silently passes me a drink from the crate beside him. This is my fifth, he's one ahead of me, and it'll never be enough.
Because Aisha's DEAD, she's GONE, and NEVER COMING BACK-
I open the vessel hastily and tilt it into my mouth, gulping until I sputter and cough as fluid goes down the wrong pipe. But the burning in my lungs is a welcome distraction from the more nebulous pain that keeps curling through my chest.
"Eesh'd kick my ass for moping over this," Gat speaks up suddenly.
That's probably true. Aisha had zero tolerance for pity parties and despair. But even so…
"I remember when…when you were off meetin' with Hughes," Johnny says, derailing my train of thought, and I feel a painful clench in my gut.
"I was at her place, exhausted, just watchin' TV, and waiting for you to get back...I heard the explosion, and I just knew. I knew even before the broadcasts started comin' in that it had been the boat, and that you were dead."
I can't say anything to this, so I push my fist gently into his shoulder.
I would have thought the same, in your position.
"I'm not sentimental, Boss, but you an' me...we clicked, ya know? Different than Eesh and I did, but...the same sorta deep. And when I thought I'd lost you - one of the few Saints who put up with my shit because they liked me, rather than what I could do for the gang - I didn't know what to do. I was just sitting there, numb, an' Eesh comes in, figures out what I'm thinkin' in an instant - and just hauls back and smacks me across the face."
I snort a painful half-laugh, unable to properly articulate my feelings - there's a lump in my throat that makes it impossible to speak. But it's easy to imagine the expression that would have been on Aisha's face at that moment. I can imagine the hit too. Been on the receiving end myself, more than once.
"She just looks at me like I'm the biggest idiot in the world and tells me 'don't jump to conclusions, Johnny. Until you know for sure, anything's possible, even miracles.'"
He takes a deep breath.
"And I remember being so surprised to think that somethin' else might be possible, that it might somehow be okay, I just fell right asleep. The next morning, she's shaking me awake for a report about you being found unconscious downriver."
"My coma must've setback your optimism," I try to joke.
He waves it away.
"Boss, once I knew you were alive, it was only a matter of waiting. Me an' you - anything trying to kill us has to do it right in one go, or we'll come back for revenge. Five years is a stretch, but you always were a bit slow on the uptake."
I actually manage to smile this time.
"Condescending asshole," I say, giving him a solid hit.
"Scarfaced bitch," he rejoins, smacking my knee with his beer bottle. The leg twitches. "Point is, Aisha always found a reason to keep going. If I can't keep that alive, I'd be the complete prick I was before I met her. And I'm damn well not going to lose anything she gave me."
It seems my friend is stronger than I thought. Certainly stronger than I feel in this moment. The lump in my throat is back, but I force words out as sit up and lift my bottle.
"To Aisha and the things she gave us."
Johnny raises his own to the toast and we both drink slowly.
And she gave so much. Music, laughter, friendship…bruises…
"You know what she did to me after you got shot in the leg?" I ask as the memory spring to mind.
Gat cocks his head, features settling into guarded curiosity.
"No…"
Wait, really? I'll never forget-
"She punched me in the boobs!"
Johnny stares at me for a long moment, then turns away. He's remarkably still, apart from a sleight vibration in his shoulders, and a moment later I realize he's laughing. My face flushes with irritation.
"It's not funny!"
He turns back to me with a blank expression.
"Of course not, Boss."
I glower at him. My friend waits a moment before speaking again.
"…Which one?"
Twitch.
"Both of them!"
Johnny manages one further second of composure before he falls back braying with mirth.
"That's my Eesh!"
Johnny, I am going to punch you so hard…
"Shut it!" I growl. "The bruises lasted for two weeks! Do you have any idea how painful that makes jostling under recoil?"
"Can't say I do, no."
"Well it fucking sucks! And if you'd like to have some first-hand experience I'll set you up right now, see how you like – stop laughing you dick! It's not funny!"
He doesn't stop though, just keeps chortling until he tips over and rolls in the grass in front of the bumper. Part of me still wants to deck him, but it's fighting a losing battle. Finally, I sigh in capitulation and smile reluctantly.
"Okay…maybe a little bit. At least she apologized for jumping to conclusions after. But man, Johnny, I never guessed your girlfriend had such a temper before that moment."
Johnny pushes himself back to his feet and retrieves his drink.
"How do you think she kept me in line? I know I'm not the easiest to get along with, you think the average doe-eyed empty-headed pop star could handle the Gat? Eesh was velvet wrapped around a bar of fucking steel."
I'll drink to that.
"That's why I liked her right off," I muse through the warm buzz as the alcohol descends. "Aisha wasn't scared by me one bit. I mean, bruises aside, I admired the hell outta her for coming at me like that. Didn't matter that I had over a foot on her, she would'a fucked me up six ways to Sunday for getting you hurt. I could see why you loved her. Confirmed my opinion of the both of you."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. She was an angel with a mean streak and you were a violent ass, but both my kinda people."
"Stop talkin' soft, Boss, you'll make me blush."
"Up yours dickhead, I'll say what I want, and you were both adorable."
I take a long gulp.
"Seriously though, Johnny...most of my best memories are with you two. It's gonna keep tearing me up that she's gone, but I'm hella glad to have known her."
He nods slowly.
"Mine too. Any good I did was for her, and that…wasn't often. I was a hell of a trial most of the time. I didn't deserve her."
WRONG, Johnny you idiot! You- ahg-
I take a moment looking out over the grey water to get my next words straight. This is too important to mangle.
"Don't you dare say that," I finally settle on. "You made her happy."
He goes still, and then lowers his head.
"I got her killed," he says quietly.
"Bullshit," I growl. "The Ronin murdered her because they're scum, and don't you dare tell me after what you've just said that if I was talking to Aisha now, she'd blame herself for your death. She'd be grateful for the time she knew you, torn to pieces that you'd be gone, and cursing the fuckers actually responsible."
His lips quirk.
"She did have an inventive mind for swearing."
"That she did. Quite a voice, too. Angelic in the recording booth, and a devil outside of it."
Again, I've exhausted my drink, as has Johnny. Two empty bottles sail away into the darkness.
"But Johnny, seriously-" I return to the main point, waiting until he's giving me his full attention. "You made her happy. How she died doesn't change that. She said as much a week before I got on that stupid boat. 'Sure the selfish ass has some problems, but he makes me smile, and I've never find someone better.' Her exact words."
Johnny's eyes are inscrutable behind their mirrored shades, but his motionlessness speaks volumes.
"And then when I got you outta court after I woke up," I press on, "I could see how she still looked at you. She loved you, Johnny, for real and ever."
He looks away, but the unbearable tenseness is melting from his posture.
"Damn it Eesh," he finally says, standing up to pace away and look out over the water.
I go back to cloud watching, and several minutes drift past. Eventually, Johnny returns and secures a new beer, tossing another to me. It smacks in my hand pleasantly and I twist it open, while Johnny hooks his in the hubcaps.
"I had some really good times with her," he says slowly, sitting down by me. "Boss, some of the dates we went on - especially while she was still singing for KCR, and we had to go out in disguise - were some real Benny Hill type shit."
He smiles, gaze fastening on something I can't see.
"I've got a picture of us both in those ridiculous spy nose-glasses somewhere. Once we had to steal a cement truck to get home after my car broke down. And one time we almost got rumbled by paparazzos and had to escape out the bathroom window of some high-class restaurant downtown."
"Since when would you have taken Aisha anywhere besides Freckle Bitches?" I state in disbelief. "And not shooting at assholes with cameras? C'mon Johnny, I know you."
"I can maintain a low profile when I need to!" he replies indignantly. "Shooting woulda drawn too much attention - though I was hella tempted. And I can serve up a high-class date on occasion; the Gat is a far better player than you ever were, playa."
I shake my head in exasperation.
"You gotta go fancy once in a while or you'll forget how good the simple things are," Johnny says. "'Sides, Eesh made any outing fun."
I can't deal with the image of Johnny Gat stuffed into a tux like an indignant penguin, nose in the air and laying into some poor French waiter because his lobster was overcooked, and burst out laughing.
"Aisha did have that way about her," I agree, when I can control myself again. "She taught me how to paint my nails."
Apparently, I've managed to surprise my best friend this time.
"Didn't think you were into the girly stuff. Beyond the fashion mags, at any rate."
I shrug.
"Into, not into, forgot, kept from…people should do what they like. Never went out of my way before – but Aisha made it appealing, you know? Something about that…desire for you to enjoy yourself. She had it so clear it burned sometimes."
"…yeah…she did," Johnny says fondly.
"And I guess…I guess she saw that part of me had wanted to but never considered I could. So she swooped in and showed me how. And it was always like that."
We each drink deeply.
"I've been thinking…" I say after a moment, "I'd like to cut my hair. Short."
"For real boss? It's long since…forever. Since I met you anyway."
"I know, but I think I'm finally over the impulse that kept it that way. Would you mind if…well…I was planning on getting it cut to match Aisha's, so we could look like sisters, was my original thought. Even though she's….gone, I'd still like to follow through with that. But only if you're cool."
He brushes off my concern.
"Go ahead Boss, I know Eesh'd appreciate it…but," and his lips snake into that damn half-grin I know so well, "you'll never look half a good as she did, no matter what you do to your hair."
That draws a belly laugh from me.
"I'm not expecting to, I just…feel like a change. Plus, if I dye the tips pink, I can be your long-lost twin instead, Mr. Frosted-Tips."
"Whatever floats your boat, Boss. Just don't come crying to me when no one wants to sleep with that ugly mug because you got rid of your one attractive feature."
Eeh, whatever. My face is mine, and I'm not trading it. My lieutenants can be the pretty ones.
"I don't need timid amateurs who're thrown off by a few scars. Fucking should be like racing – find someone experienced, with good control and endurance."
Gat snorts and shakes his head.
"If that's your idea of romance, you'll never get laid. At least slow your driving if you're tryin' to seal the deal. Eesh was practically traumatized the one time you took us to dinner. Dates want a scenic cruise, not to scream all the way to the movies. And don't get me started on your flying. That helicopter trip you took me on would be good grounds for divorce."
"Sorry Johnny, it was my first time in one of those. I'd've stayed lower if I knew you were afraid of heights."
"I'm not afraid of heights, you just can't fly straight!" he retorts. "You had us banked at thirty degrees the whole way to the crib! And what do you mean it was your first time?"
"Well, I'd never flown a helicopter before."
"And here I was hoping you just meant that model. So you decided the best time to learn was while under fire and getting my wounded ass outta the hospital!?"
"It's not like I had no idea what I was doing," I reply archly. "I read a manual once."
"Oh there, see, that makes me feel a lot better."
"…Really?"
"Fuck no! You crazy motherfucker!"
"Got us home, didn't I?"
He mutters obscenities for several seconds before finishing off his latest drink.
"I'm surprised you didn't take your chopper to scope that Samedi apartment," he finally grumbles. "Way I hear it, you've spent the last week in that thing."
True. Flying is damn fun, and it's helped keep my mind busy. Still-
"I would've, but I couldn't."
"Why not?" asks Johnny.
"I crashed it."
Silence.
"You crashed it?"
"Yep."
"…Fucking unbelievable, Boss."
"I'm thinking the next one should have more guns than that sluggish medical transport, anyway. You wanna help me break into the National Guard airbase?"
"And fly out with you? No chance in hell. You're the best wingman I could ask for, in every sense besides the literal ones, but I'm not getting near another vehicle you're controlling for at least a year."
Heh.
"Love you too, Johnny."
I take a slow pull of my drink and sigh. It's weird how you can be so happy and so sad at the same time. Some things end, some things go on. Life. What a clusterfuck.
Deep breaths.
Aisha's gone.
Neither Johnny nor I can change that.
We've killed two of the three responsible for her death, which isn't nothing.
And we've still got each other, which isn't nothing either.
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Next time: Harry Potter remembers the past, and encounters the present.
