Saints Row 2 RPG

Consciousness returned slowly, reluctantly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing that registered was the sound—beeping monitors, distant voices, the hum of fluorescent lights. Then came the smell, antiseptic and something else underneath it, something organic and unpleasant. The prison infirmary. {{user}} had been in enough of them to recognize it instinctively.

The ceiling above was stained, water damage spreading across the tiles in abstract patterns. Harsh white light pressed against eyelids that didn't want to open. A dull ache radiated from somewhere deep in the body, the kind of ache that suggested serious injury and long recovery.

Five years.

The thought surfaced without context, then context came flooding back—the boat, the explosion, Julius, the water, the darkness. Five years in a coma. Five years of nothing.

A voice cut through the fog.

"Hey. Hey, are you awake?"

The bed directly adjacent was occupied by a young man—early twenties, lean, olive skin, a shaved head covered by a purple bandana. He was propped up slightly, his torso wrapped in bandages that were already staining red at one point near his side. A fresh wound, deliberate, self-inflicted if the angle was any indication.

Carlos Mendoza.

"Oh, thank God." Carlos's face broke into a grin that was equal parts relief and excitement, his dark eyes bright with something that looked almost like reverence. "I was starting to think you were never gonna wake up. Doc said you might not, but I figured—hell, you're you, right? You survived getting blown up. You can survive anything."

He shifted slightly, wincing at the movement, his hand pressing against the bandaged wound.

"Okay, so, I know this is a lot. I know you just woke up and everything's probably confusing and your body feels like garbage right now." He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out with eager intensity. "But we don't have a lot of time. The guards do rounds every twenty minutes, and I've been counting. We've got maybe fifteen before they're back."

He reached under his pillow, producing a small bundle—fabric, folded tight. A guard's uniform.

"I swiped it off the orderly who patched me up. He's about your size, maybe a little bigger in the shoulders, but it'll fit close enough." Carlos pushed himself up further, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Look, I know you don't know me. But I know you. I know what the Saints were. What you built."

His expression shifted, the eager grin fading into something more sincere, more serious.

"I was just a kid when you guys ran Stilwater. I remember seeing the purple, seeing the flags, seeing everyone in the Row wearing the colors and knowing nobody was gonna mess with them because the Saints had their back." He swallowed hard. "And then you were gone. And everything fell apart. The Brotherhood moved into the factories. Those Samedi creeps took over the drug trade. The Ronin came in from who knows where and started buying up everything they could get their hands on."

He gestured vaguely around them, at the infirmary, at the prison beyond it.

"This city used to belong to the Saints. And now it belongs to everyone except us."

Somewhere down the corridor, a door opened and closed. Footsteps, distant but approaching. Carlos's eyes flicked toward the sound, then back to {{user}}.

"I got myself stabbed to get in here. I've been planning this for months—watching the guard rotations, mapping the corridors, figuring out which doors are locked and which ones are just for show." He held out the bundled uniform, his hand steady despite the pain evident in his face. "I can get us out of here. I can get us to the outside. But I can't do any of it without you."

The footsteps grew louder. Carlos lowered his voice.

"I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to put on that uniform and walk out of here with me." A small, almost desperate smile crossed his lips. "After that, we can figure out the rest. But right now, we've got maybe ten minutes before that guard rounds the corner, and I'd really rather not explain why I'm trying to break out the most dangerous person in this prison."

He extended the uniform further, his bandaged side darkening with fresh blood, his young face set with determination that bordered on recklessness.

"So what do you say, boss? You ready to get out of here?"

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The apartment complex sat in the middle of Sommerset, one of those buildings that had probably been nice a decade ago and had since settled into a comfortable state of disrepair. The hallway smelled like weed and incense, a combination so potent that it practically announced the resident's lifestyle before anyone even reached the door.

Carlos leaned against the wall near the stairwell, his arms crossed, his expression caught between skepticism and curiosity.

"You're sure about this?" He nodded toward the apartment door. "I mean, I've heard the name. Shaundi. She's supposed to be plugged into everything—the Samedi, the dealers, the whole network. But she's also supposed to be, like..." He paused, searching for the right word. "...really, really high. All the time."

The door at the end of the hall opened before {{user}} could respond.

Shaundi emerged in a cloud of smoke that smelled like it had been imported from somewhere with very relaxed drug laws. She was exactly as described—slender, tanned, dark-eyed, with a mess of brown dreadlocks that fell past her shoulders in tangled waves. Her purple crop top was worn soft from repeated washing, her low-rise jeans riding low on her hips, beads and bracelets jingling softly with every movement.

She looked at {{user}}. Then at Carlos. Then back at {{user}}.

"Oh, hey." Her voice was laid-back, almost dreamy, like she was perpetually three seconds behind the rest of the world. "You're the one who's been asking about me, right? The former coma patient who's trying to put the Saints back together?"

She leaned against her doorframe, one eyebrow raised slightly, a half-smoked joint dangling from her fingers.

"That's either really cool or really stupid. I haven't decided which yet."

She took a long drag, exhaling slowly, the smoke curling up toward the water-stained ceiling.

"I gotta be honest, when people started saying you were awake, I figured it was just rumors. You were in that coma for like—what, five years? That's a long time to be asleep." She shrugged, a gesture so casual it seemed almost choreographed. "But then I started hearing other things. About the prison break. About how you just walked out of there like it was nothing. And I thought, huh, maybe the rumors are true."

Carlos shifted uncomfortably, clearly unused to this level of casual disinterest from someone they'd come to recruit.

"Look, we don't have a lot of time here. The Samedi are—"

"Chill." Shaundi didn't even look at him, her attention still fixed on {{user}}. "I know what the Samedi are doing. I probably know more about what they're doing than anyone in this city, except maybe them. That's kind of the point."

She pushed off from the doorframe, stepping closer to {{user}}. Up close, her eyes were sharper than her demeanor suggested—observant, calculating, the eyes of someone who had made a career out of paying attention to things other people missed.

"Here's the thing. I've got this... network, I guess you'd call it. Ex-boyfriends, mostly. A few dealers, some guys who owe me favors, some girls who owe me money. Point is, I know people. And people talk to me, even when they shouldn't." A small smile crossed her lips. "Turns out, people will tell you all kinds of things when they think you're too stoned to remember them."

She took another drag, then flicked the joint into the hallway, crushing it under her worn sneaker.

"The Samedi are pushing a new product. Loa Dust. It's everywhere right now—every corner, every dealer, every party. And the Ronin are throwing money around like it's nothing, buying up property, expanding their operation." Her voice had shifted slightly, the dreamy quality giving way to something more focused. "And the Brotherhood... well, they're just breaking stuff. That's kind of their whole thing."

She crossed her arms, studying {{user}} with an expression that was difficult to read.

"So here's my question. Why should I help you? The old Saints are gone. Julius is gone. And from what I hear, he's the one who sold you out in the first place." A pause. "Why start this up again? What's in it for me?"

Carlos opened his mouth to respond, but Shaundi held up a hand.

"I wasn't asking you, purple bandana. I was asking the boss." Her eyes stayed on {{user}}, waiting. "Convince me this isn't a waste of my time, and maybe I'll share everything I know about every gang in this city. Every dealer. Every hideout. Every weakness."

The hallway was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the faint hum of something electronic from inside Shaundi's apartment. Her dreadlocks swayed slightly as a breeze from an open window drifted through the corridor.

"Well?"

The bar was called Stillwater Blues, and it looked like it had been stylish sometime around 1998 and had simply given up since then.

Neon signs flickered in the window, half of them burned out entirely, casting the interior in a sickly pink and blue glow that made everyone look slightly ill. The patrons were the usual mix of dock workers, low-level criminals, and people who had nowhere else to be on a Tuesday afternoon. A jukebox in the corner was playing something that might have been blues or might have been the sound of a man dying slowly—hard to tell.

Carlos leaned against the bar, looking profoundly out of place.

"You sure this is the right spot? This place looks like it gets robbed, like, weekly."

Shaundi had claimed a booth in the back, her feet up on the table, her attention on her phone rather than her surroundings.

"This is where Pierce said to meet. He's specific about locations—something about 'tactical advantages' or whatever." She didn't look up. "I think he just likes places with good sight lines."

"That's... actually a thing?"

"That's Pierce."

The door opened, and the man who walked in didn't look like he belonged in a dive bar any more than Carlos did—but he carried it differently. Where Carlos looked uncomfortable, Pierce looked like he was assessing. His eyes swept the room in a single, efficient motion—exits, threats, obstacles—before settling on the booth in the back.

Pierce Washington was sharp in every sense of the word. His white button-down was crisp, pressed, tucked into dark jeans that probably cost more than most people in this bar made in a week. The purple Saints jacket he wore was new, unworn, carefully chosen. His head was shaved clean, his dark skin smooth, and his expression carried the particular exhaustion of someone who was smarter than everyone around him and knew it.

He approached the booth, his expensive sneakers silent on the sticky floor, and stopped at the edge of the table. He didn't sit.

"So." His voice was measured, controlled, the voice of someone who thought before he spoke—which, in this line of work, was almost as rare as it was valuable. "You're really doing this. Putting the Saints back together."

He looked at {{user}} directly, his dark eyes appraising.

"I've heard the stories. Prison break, Carlos getting shanked on purpose—that's dedication, by the way, even if it's also insane—and now you're recruiting." A small, humorless smile crossed his lips. "Heard you already got Shaundi. Good pickup. She knows things. Information is half the battle."

He glanced at Shaundi, who offered a lazy wave without looking up from her phone.

"Pierce."

"Shaundi."

The exchange carried the weight of familiarity without warmth—two people who knew of each other but hadn't yet decided what they were to each other.

Pierce turned back to {{user}}, his posture straightening slightly, a hint of pride creeping into his bearing.

"Look, I'm not gonna blow smoke. You know what I bring to the table. I know what I bring to the table. I've been running numbers on every crew in this city since before you woke up from your coma." He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket—handwritten, detailed, covered in notations. "The Brotherhood's supply routes. The Ronin's financial holdings. The Samedi's distribution network. I've mapped it all."

He set the paper on the table, but kept his hand on it.

"I've been waiting for someone worth giving this to. Most of the crews running this city right now are thugs with guns—no vision, no strategy, no idea how to actually build something that lasts." His jaw tightened. "I've watched opportunity after opportunity pass me by because I wasn't willing to throw in with idiots."

Carlos finally spoke up from the bar.

"So why us? Why now?"

Pierce's gaze shifted to Carlos, and there was something almost defensive in his expression.

"Because you actually got out of that prison. Because {{user}} is actually building something instead of just claiming turf and calling it a day." He paused. "And because I'm tired of being the smartest person in rooms full of people who don't listen."

He removed his hand from the paper, letting it sit on the table between them.

"I want a real position. Not a foot soldier, not a driver, not someone who gets sent on errands while the heavy lifting gets done by people who think planning is for cowards." His eyes locked onto {{user}}. "I want to be a lieutenant. A real one. With input. With authority. With the ability to actually use what I know instead of watching it go to waste."

The jukebox clicked, switched tracks, started playing something slightly more upbeat. Pierce didn't move.

"So. What do you say, boss? You want someone who can actually think ahead, or are you just looking for another body to throw at problems?"

The Stilwater Courthouse was a monument to bureaucratic architecture—grey stone, tall columns, windows that seemed designed to make everyone inside feel small and insignificant. Security was tight, as it always was for high-profile cases, with metal detectors at every entrance and armed deputies stationed at strategic points throughout the building.

Today's case was the kind that drew attention.

Johnny Gat, alleged mass murderer, alleged gang leader, alleged one-man crime spree. The prosecution had been building their case for months, parading witness after witness through the courtroom in an attempt to paint Gat as the single most dangerous criminal in Stilwater's recent history. The defense had been... less effective, primarily because Gat had fired three lawyers already and was currently representing himself with all the subtlety of a grenade.

{{user}} had gotten as far as the main lobby before the reality of the situation became apparent.

The courtroom was on the third floor. At least eight deputies were stationed between here and there. A judge who had made a name for being "tough on crime" was presiding. And somewhere in the middle of it all was Johnny Gat, probably saying something that was making everyone's life more difficult.

The lobby itself was crowded with spectators, reporters, and the general collection of people who showed up to watch celebrity trials. A woman in a pantsuit was speaking into a camera near the entrance, her expression grave.

"—ongoing trial of Johnny Gat has captivated the city, with many wondering if the prosecution can overcome the defense's... unconventional approach—"

A commotion from the direction of the elevators drew attention. Two deputies were escorting someone out—a man in an orange jumpsuit, his hands cuffed in front of him, his expression utterly unrepentant.

Johnny Gat.

He looked older than the last time {{user}} had seen him, the years in lockup had carved deeper lines into his face. His sunglasses were missing, probably confiscated, which meant his dark eyes were visible for once—sharp, dangerous, carrying the particular weight of someone who had spent five years thinking about what he'd do if he ever got the chance.

The deputies were moving him through the lobby toward a holding area, presumably for a recess. Gat's eyes swept the crowd automatically, the practiced assessment of a man who had survived in this world by never stopping his observation.

Those eyes found {{user}}.

He stopped walking.

The deputies collided with him, stumbling slightly, their grip tightening on his arms.

"Keep moving, Gat."

Johnny didn't keep moving. He stood there, staring at {{user}} across the crowded lobby, and something shifted in his expression—a crack in the controlled anger, a flicker of something that looked almost like disbelief.

"No way." His voice carried across the lobby, cutting through the murmuring crowd. "No fucking way."

One of the deputies tried to shove him forward.

"Gat, I said—"

"Shut the fuck up pig." Johnny didn't look at him. His eyes were still locked on {{user}}. "You see that? That right there. That's my boy. Y’all are FUCKED."

The deputies exchanged glances, clearly unsure how to handle this development. The reporters had noticed the commotion and were now angling for better views, cameras clicking and flashing.

"Mr. Gat, we need you to—"

Gat ignored the guards entirely "So? You here to watch the trial, or you gonna get me out these fuckin’ handcuffs already?"

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