Bite the Bullet - Saints Row

1: Civilian

I was lulled into a scant four hours of shut-eye by my rattling air-conditioner working overtime, providing my asbestos-lined, one-bedroom shotgun house some reprieve from Lake Michigan's wrath. Everything made sense in those blank, cozy moments spent flattened on my couch, and I didn't feel the usual ache in my bones I'd grown so accustomed to facing every morning. Still, I braced myself for the same, tired shit: the runny nose, the shakes, the burning bladder... it was about as fun as it sounded.

A strident chime compromised the retreat of my living room, wrenching me from fragile placidity and reminding me to change that fucking ringtone, already. It kick-started my heart pounding out of my chest, worsened by the night sweats that matted my hair into a tangled, crunchy rat's nest sticking to my face, with all of the standard bullshit hitting me like a truck in the following seconds. Right on schedule.

I could only groan through it, fairly convinced my temple was vibrating on top of the cushion it was pressed against. Peeling myself from the corded upholstery, I dragged my numb hand across the floor, swarming in pins and needles, pawing for my phone on the glass coffee table beside me. In my blind sweep, my wrist knocked into the clutter, my keys jingling as they hit the floor. I tried to get some leverage to reach further, pushing out a knee, only to promptly bang it on the table's edge in my clumsy haste.

"Motherf—" I grunted —that woke me up, shoving it away with my foot. A forgotten stack of paperwork tipped and careened across the carpet, lit by the glow of my muted CRT and early morning infomercials. I heard every file scatter as the pages fluttered, finally finding my phone and flipping it open. Squeezing my eyes shut to the obnoxious screen, I brought it to my ear.

"Hello?" I croaked, imbuing my dry mouth with scorn.

"Bradshaw, it's me. What's going on?"

"...Ya' know what fuckin' time it is?" The sun wasn't even up yet, which sure as shit meant I wasn't supposed to be. "...5:00, Rich, a'ight? Whattaya' want? What happened?"

"I have a meeting with Mayor Winslow in an hour, and I need a rundown on that shooting down on 5th. If the press ain't filled in they're gonna' go sniffing around."

It wasn't my job to brief him; I had enough to answer for as far as my own agency was concerned. While my thoughts regrouped, I cleared my throat lightly and switched the phone to the other ear, leaning up from the cushions. "...I thought this was uh—uh," I tripped over my own words, trying to remember the douchebag's name. "... Marquette; I thought he got that one; I saw him clearin' the scene on the news. Ya' gotta' talk ta' him about it."

"The good Commander left out a couple key details...Since you were there and he wasn't, I want another opinion. Saints Row's near and dear to Winslow. He's not gonna' just let it go."

"I ain't testifying, Rich; I'll get shot."

"Off the record. I just want the truth."

The truth was that his head of the Investigative Department had never worked this shit a day in his life, but he was very eager to look like he did. It didn't help that he had a teenage niece up in Misty Lane with a penchant for ketamine and frat boys.

"...VK and Rollerz." I told him. "Carnales saw an opportunity and took it. They're good for that, but this was outta' network. I got no clue how they knew they'd find 'em there. Someone must've tipped 'em off, or they got eyes on the Row. The woman caught in the crossfire was—"

"Missing person, right. Elder Williams informed the family last week." The thought of SPD's very white, very loaded chaplain delivering the news, hat in hand from that front porch brought a bitter taste to my mouth. "How're we doing on suspects?"