A/N: I think I let my lurid imagination get the better of me in the first bit, but I think it works to darken the tone.

Chapter 12

Shaundi had been kept in isolation ever since the flight group landed back on the penthouse helipad. She was kept in a small, windowless room, and was handcuffed to a chair. She had tried to use brute force and clever manoeuvring to free herself, but it was impossible. Besides, even if she could get out of the chair, the door was locked, and beyond it were armed guards keeping her friends.

Pierce had loyally refused to play ball, and so he was kept in the room next to her. Oleg was being restrained so that Viola's scientists could take his blood. Viola was very keen to resume cloning Brutes, so no time was wasted. The other rebels were kept under observation.

The door to her cell opened and Viola strode in, a gloating expression on her face. This was, Shaundi could see, exactly what she had wanted ever since her coup against the boss succeeded; her arch enemy at her mercy. Shaundi tried to keep all traces of fear out of her eyes as she made eye contact with Viola.

"You have to admit, I'm all about the consistency," said Viola as an introduction. "I told you I'd find you and make you wish you'd never been born."

"Yeah, ya did," said Shaundi, flippantly. "But right now the only thing I'm wishing for is that I couldn't smell your breath. What'd you eat for dinner? Garbage?"

Viola threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, you're funny, Shaund. Really funny. I almost regret that I'm going to take your sense of humour away from you."

"Yeah, yeah," said the prisoner. "Come on, then. The game's over. I guess you won. Do I get to pick how it happens? If so, I want a bullet in the head. The back of the head; that way, the last thing I see won't be your ugly face."

"A bullet?" asked Viola, sweetly. "Why do you think I want to kill you, Shaundi? If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it with the business end of a VTOL cannon pointed at you. No, I took great pains to see you brought here, alive. Wanna know why?"

"What the hell? I've got time. Apparently."

"Your rebellion wasn't a little thing," Viola said, leaning on the door as she talked. "No, it was a serious challenge to my authority and it cost the lives of some of my best men. A civil war is the worst thing to happen to a leader's approval; even if they win, they find themselves in trouble. What they need to do is send a message." Her eyes suddenly became intense as they locked into those of her captive. "When I was at Harvard, I loved history. My degree was in business, of course, but I loved history. Now, one guy who knew how to deal with a fallen enemy was Julius Caesar. 52 BC: Caesar invades Gaul. That's France, for someone with your education. He beats Vercingetorix, leader of the Gauls, who surrenders to him personally. What does he do? Does he give the chief a warrior's death? No! He doesn't want to make him a martyr. Instead, he has him taken to Rome in chains. A sideshow attraction to show just what happens to people that mess with the will of Caesar. Then you've got his cultural descendant, Cesare Borgia. 1500: he captures Caterina Sforza. He doesn't kill her, he rapes her and locks her up. As a warning to any others that might oppose him."

"There a point to all this?" demanded Shaundi.

"Oh, yes. There's a point. I'm not going to kill you, Shaundi. I'm going to break you. When people ask who started the feud that killed their buddy, people will answer 'Shaundi. You know, Viola's bitch.' What's going to happen is, at some point, you're going to come out of this room into the main penthouse. Everyone will be watching; your friends, my friends, anyone who wants a seat. I'm going to hitch down my panties and you are going to kiss my ass. My victory will be complete."

"You're crazy, Vi," said Shaundi. "If you ever think that's going to happen, you're crazy."

"You have no idea how crazy I am," said Viola. "In a week, you'll be begging to kiss my ass." But her words were interrupted by a sound from downstairs. She suddenly pricked her ears up, and reached for the pistol on her hip. "What the hell is going on?"

The Luchadores were already amassing outside the Saints' headquarters when the boss and the others arrived. They were shocked when they saw Johnny Tag, but most remembered the news reports from when he had broken out, and were more impressed by the cloning than terrified. By the time the boss arrived, they had already killed the sentries guarding the front entrance, the loud shots from which alerted Viola upstairs.

"You started without me!" said the boss, annoyed.

"Hey, we're with you, man," said Weyland, "but we're fuckin' Luchadores. We do things our way!"

"Fair enough," he replied, grinning and grabbing the AR-40 Weyland had given him. "There's two ways in, the underground garage and the front door. Go to the garage, take the lift up to the first floor. We'll regroup there." He turned to face the Luchadores that were following him through the front. "Don't start firing until either they do, or I give the word. I'm hoping we can negotiate. Are we ready?"

"Yeah!" was the chorus that rang out. In a massive, solid line, they stormed into the front. The defenders had heard the shots and were not taken by surprise. They had their guns trained on the door, expecting to see Luchadores, and ready to open fire. Instead, they saw the boss.

"What the…?" asked one of the Saints nearest the doors. He nearly dropped his gun in surprise. "What the fuck are you doing here? With the fucking Luchadores?"

"I'm back, Mikey," said the boss. He didn't always have a knack for remembering the names of his soliders, but Mikey Angelisti was one of the first new members from Steelport. Knowing someone's name always gave you that personal touch. "Viola had me deported so she could take over."

"Holy shit," said Jesũs Velasquez, another man, this time from Stillwater. "You're kidding!"

"I never kid, Jesũs," said the boss, lowering his weapon. "I spent weeks in an English prison. But I broke out, and now I'm back." He stepped forward. "I know you've got your orders. But Viola was never your leader. She was a usurper. I learned that word in the nick. Sometimes, there's nothing better to do than plan your escape and read a dictionary."

"Too right we got our fuckin' orders," said another man, who the boss did not recognise. He could have been one of his newer recruits, or one of Viola's. The unknown Saint raised his gun in a threatening manner. Jesũs, springing into action, wrestled it out of his grasp.

"Fuck's the matter with you? This guy's our leader."

"He ain't my leader," said another man in the crowd. "Viola's my leader!"

"Yeah!" was the resounding opinion from several of the men in the back of the crowd. Some of the soldiers from the first floor had come down to participate in this high-emotion standoff, uneasily looking from the boss to the Luchadores.

"That's as maybe," said the boss, with enforced casualness. "Mikey, I need to get a word across. Not just to these guys here. Does the intercom work between the floors?"

"Sure, boss," said the Saint. "All you have to do is change the frequency to broadcast all over the building. I'll do it." He moved through a door, followed by the boss, that led to the far side of the lobby. The Luchadores stayed put, and so did the undecided Saints. The two armies kept guns on each other, but no one would dare pull a trigger.

There was a security office in the room opposite. Mikey adjusted a few knobs on a microphone and handed it to the boss. There really wasn't room for anything other than the best, here; if he stammered, or made a poor choice of words, it could set off the fighting in the other room, and bring the remaining Saints downstairs to finish off him, Johnny and the others.

"Hello, Saints," he said, and Mikey nodded. "Yeah, it's my voice you're hearing. I know it's been a while, but you all remember my voice, don'cha? I'm downstairs. I know there's been some crazy rumours going around over what's happened to me. That I'm dead. That I've been grabbed by the enemy. That I've been grabbed by the Old Bill. I'm sure there's a load of Chinese whispers about it. The fact is…." he paused, unsure of how to continue. "The fact is, those of you that heard Viola was responsible for my disappearance, then you're right. She had me arrested by British police. I only just broke out. I know that most of you, when you heard that, you didn't believe it, or thought it was the other side telling lies. If you had a doubt and you still stuck with Viola, then that' okay. I forgive you."

He paused again, knowing that he needed something deeper to bring the Saints around. "As all of you know, I've been in this gang since pretty much the beginning. Back when it was Julius Little, running around and protecting people against the gangsters. I've seen us grow into something so much more. The Saints aren't some poky little crew from a Godforsaken corner of the Midwest. We're a bad ass motherfuckin' army who can do anything we want. D'ya know what I felt when I 'eard this little war had erupted? I felt sad. I wanted to think of the Saints as more than that. A team where blood was thicker than water." He shook his head, as if everyone could see him. "But there's a good side of all the fighting. All the hatred. A lot of you have been wonderin' about our priorities recently. Johnny Gat did. I did, to an extent. Shaundi, if you can hear me now, I know you did as well. Somewhere, in the last few months, we've crossed that fine line between the powerful gangsters who can do anything to the famous gangsters who become more and more like media whores everyday. I 'onestly reckon we've been refreshed by this. It's made us grow. We've coped with fame and we've coped with people who tried to rule your lives. And I bet…I bet more than anythin' that those of you who have been with Viola for the last few weeks have started to hate turning into some sort of army. We ain't an army. Ultimately, we're friends. Sure, there's a hierarchy, and we're always gonna be making money, but seriously. Look to the bloke on your right. Or the girl. Aren't they your mate? Aren't you friends, even after all of this?"

He knew it was the right time to make his main point. "I'm comin' upstairs now. Whoever's with me is gonna come up with me. Also here are the Luchadores. They're not here to fight you. They're only with us because they're more under threat than anyone. Once this is over, we can start anew with them. Become friends. Or enemies, but at least worthy enemies. There's one more man with us, and some of you might be surprised to see him. He's not Johnny Gat yet, but he will be. Thanks to a genius scientist who's the truest Saint I've ever known, he will be. If you've been touched by what I've said, come an' greet us with open arms. If you can't do that, fair enough, but you're our enemy. Die like you were always supposed to, with honour."

He switched off the microphone. That was enough. He turned to Mikey, who was still listening in rapt attention. When the boss put down the mic, he made a single clap.

"Cheers, mate," he said. And was about to turn around when he heard it again. He looked at Mikey's hands, but they hadn't moved that time. He heard it again, and again, getting louder and faster. He opened the door and everyone in the lobby was clapping him. The single claps got more frequent until the entire floor, both Saints and Luchadores, were joined in applause. The crowd had grown considerably; several of the other floors had obviously taken the elevator right down to him.

"Jesus, lads," he said, "you'll start me tearing up in a bit." He grinned as the applause subsided, and the troops faced him, ready for instructions. Many hadn't come down, but many had. He called Weyland the Luchador and Mikey over to him.

"We're gonna do this, lads," he said, in fight mode. "Me, Tag, and my friends are gonna take the lift to the penthouse and rescue Shaundi." Turning to the Lucador, he asked, "do you think your boys are fit enough to climb a lot of stairs? We need someone to sweep to the top, picking up anyone who wants to join us. If any hold out, we need them taken out. Dead or alive. We can't afford a counterattack by loyalists. Mikey, we'll send the elevator down as soon as we get up. Fit as many Saints into the elevator as you can. You'll need a few trips."

"Got it," said the lieutenant. The boss gestured for Johnny Tag, Jimmy, Jamal, Kinzie and several of the Luchadores to join him in the first lift to the top. Each of them had a rifle, with the exception of Tag, whose fists were a perfect weapon.

None of them spoke as they made the slow journey to the top of the building. They had their guns at the ready, in case an immediate firefight greeted them as they got to the top. After several minutes, they stopped.

"This ain't the penthouse," said the boss, panicking slightly. "This is the next floor down."

"Try pressing it again," said Kinzie. She did it herself, and the lift wouldn't go up. Or down.

"They've jammed it," Kinzie said. "We can just take the-"

The next second was an absolute blur. Without warning, the lift doors had slid open, but the first thing they saw was not the oddly garish wallpaper that covered the saloon room directly below the penthouse suite. It was a rarely used floor due to said penthouse being a much more glamorous place to relax. It was normally only used as sleeping quarters.

No, what they saw first were three heavily armoured men pointing guns at the lift door. Their armour was dark purple, Viola's colour, and one look at their Kevlar and rifles told the boss these were elite.

Unfortunately, the reflexes of these heavies were a lot faster than his or his friends. They had been waiting for the door to open, and their orders were to fire as soon as flesh presented itself. The rifles roared violently as they sprayed bullets into the lift. The boss put his hands up to his face, knowing death was imminent.