Title: Twenty-four carat blood
Game: Saints Row 2
Author: Blissy-Kills, aka Sessils
Author's note: All characters belong to those who made them, with a small adeptation of my character. This short story contains spoliers, swear words and tears. Forgive me, it's a violent game.

The chain would not break. I try shooting it but to no effect. I want to scream, to cry, to yell and kill until the water is tainted with so much red we forget it's pure reasons. But I can't, because I'm standing at the corner of a fucking car-park and all I can hear are his whimpers behind me. I don't want to look around because I can't bare to look.

"Why? Why... Why did they do this? Fuck..."

I should not be saying that- I know the answer. But as my voice breaks, crumpling like paper on the last words that proceed to choke me, I wish for an answer that is not genuine in existence That this is a nightmare. A joke. An... I don't know, a fucking illusion. Maybe I'm on drugs, on Lao Dust or some other crap.

But when I finally turn around and see him, lying on the ground in a pool of watered down blood with pain coverting his innocent face into one not suited for him, I know it's reality. Carlos Mendoza is dying, because I couldn't save him. Beause I wasn't fast enough, nor bright enough, nor fucking worth enough to be the heroine.

I take a few steps back towards him before my knees collapse, depositing me right beside the younger male with one knee in the tainted puddle. It's ok- This is where I intend to end up. On my knees, willingly for once. In a moment of weakness and self hatred I let run down my cheek, even through the rain that pounds my face hids any trace of them. I know they are there- their salty texture wetting my lips is a bitter enough reminder. A chuckle leaves me, humourless and choked, never allowing me a second's glance away from Carlos.

"W-when I said I'd turn you into a banger, I meant I'd die. Y-you're not allowed to."

Somehow, past the pain, Carlos offers me a shaking smile. The bastard. How can he be a saint, pure as a twenty-four carat diamond, when he lives like this? Like me? They say there is no honour amoug thieves, and I'm betting all my fucking dollars that there's another saying along the same lines about killers and gangsters. But they don't know a fucking thing about us. About the boy who got himself stabbed to bust me out. About my friend, dying in the rain with a comforting smile brushed upon his face, pointed at me. Me. Of all the people who should be comforting, it should be me comforting him. Not... not this.

I can take insults, I can take bullets. I can take stab wounds and cars crashes. Hell, I can even take motherfucking explosions to the back. Kindness? Now that's a different kind of pain all together.

So lost in my thoughts that for a few moments I did not to notice Carlos's hand, held straight up and only inches from my leg. It is not nearly as badly torn up as the rest of him, but that disturbing clash of pale skin and red blood still colours it lifelessly. Without hestiation I slide my left hand into his right, feeling the strength of his grip as he holds me like a lifeline. It is now that I finally take my eyes off our hands and to his eyes, to meet the look in those doeful orbs. Blood rolled down his chin as another cough gets out and I choke up once again, biting my lip hard to stop any noise coming out. I was the fucking Boss, the female leader of the 3rd Row Saints. I was meant to be strong.

Which is probably why I can so easily read the real wish in his eyes. He doesn't want an ambulance; he doesn't want a hospital. He simply does not want another minute of pain. And he's watching me like I'm his saviour. Because he knows I can give him that simple wish.

As the cold metal of the pistol touches my hand, slipped out of the pocket of my soaked jeans in such a small movement, I feel things I haven't felt for years. Emotions, ones that aren't related to my kind of life. Given a few hours they'll be gone- Given a few months, maybe years and I'll be gone. But as I flick the safety catch of the gun and pull it up, pointing the barrel to Carlos's shredded forehead, my hand still laced in his, I don't give a shit about the future. I just blink back the lump in my throat as Carlos gives me the smallest of nods, indictating that he knows. He understands. And he forgives, never having blamed me in the first place..

"Go in peace Carlos. You are... The best man I ever met. I'm so... Sorry."

And then, I pull the trigger.

I couldn't tell you how long I just knelt there, letting the rain wash over me. Holding his hand like a little child, even though he stopped holding mine a long time ago. Feeling nothing because I am holding onto the shock with white knuckles. Soon the hatred, the anger, and the feeling of murder that would cloud my vision until every motherfucker belonging to the Brotherhood was dead, would come. Until then, until that moment when I seeked my revenge for my Saint brother, I will kneel in the rain holding Carlos's hand, never letting go.

Until I do. Until I do.