Author's Note: So I've decided to try writing a story based around the events of Saints Row. I'm trying my hand at first person PoV, and this Protagonist is based around the Female #2 voice from SR:TT. Those of you that have read my other stories should know who she is ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Either way, let me know what you think :) I've split the first chapter into two parts at the suggestion of someone whose writing I very much admire, and I think it'll help a bit with the pacing. Hopefully this doesn't confuse too many people who've already started reading this.

Also, I've been working on a collaboration with the amazing Double H19 and shadow182angel :D Story of a Third Street Clusterfuck is a pretty wild ride lol.

Ch 1 - 3rd Street Saints Pt I

I was looking in the mirror, studying my pale face before heading out with my girlfriends. My cheeks and nose are being dusted with freckles, and blue eyes more like ice stared back at me. There was a knife scar down my right cheek, and a smaller one being at the left corner of my mouth. Those men had been cruel with their blades, but they were all being dead, now.

I pulled my long, black hair into a pony tail with a purple tie and added a bit of pink lip gloss. It was about as presentable as I could be making myself. My black t-shirt was being a little faded, the blue jeans worn, and the sneakers were being old, but comfortable.

Satisfied, I grabbed my Volition Lites and headed out the door. My apartment was being a real dump, but it was all I could be affording. As I was closing the door behind me, I noticed an eviction notice.

"Čert voz'mi v ad!" I spat, crumpling the paper and shoving it into my pocket. That is basically how you are saying 'dammit to hell!' in Russian.

Money was being tight while paying for classes at Stilwater University and I was being behind on a lot of bills. Losing my job at Nobody Loves Me was not helping.

I sighed, tapping a cigarette from the pack and putting it to my lips. Flicking my cheap little lighter, I inhaled the hot smoke and then blew it out in a frustrated stream. Tucking the pack into my pocket, I walked down the street, taking in the sights of the Row at night.

"Watches! I got watches here!" a black man was calling from the doorway of a brick tenement. He was having a coat against the chilly night air. He was turning his attention to me as I was walking by. "Yo, hey girl, this shit'll cost you six hundred dollars in tha sto'…"

I ignored him, I had places to be going and not near enough money for whatever it was asking.

"Oh, whatever!" he called, and then started his mantra again for the next sucker.

Next to him was a being a hooker, dark skinned and wearing very little clothing other than a pink top with red kisses all over it, and matching booty shorts. If I was cold, she had to be freezing.

"Hey, baby," she called and I stopped. "I can show you a good time."

I only shook my head silently, reaching into my pocket for the last of my money. It wasn't being much, but if it would be keeping her off the street less tonight, I would be paying it gladly.

"Oh hell naw!" someone called, getting both of our attention.

A fat white boy with a yellow bandana wrapped around his head in a loop was staring at a Rollerz tag, wearing a yellow track jacket with red stripes. Along with him was being two black men, one bald having a yellow headband, the other having some sort of long, corn-rowed mullet and a yellow t-shirt.

"Man, fuck the Rollerz," the fat one said, looking to his comrades.

"Levar," the one in the headband said to cornrow. "You gonna let those bitches disrespect us?"

"Shit, what'choo think?" Levar told him, and I recognized the voice that was getting my attention moments ago. I noticed he was having a spray can, and he started covering the tag with yellow paint.

Two white boys thugs and an Asian walked up behind them in blue shirts.

"The fuck you think you're doin'?" the middle one asked them hotly, waving a bat. He was having one of those silly, cocked to the right golf hats on, in blue. The other caucasian was having a white baseball cap on backwards.

The Vice Kings crew turned to face them, the fat one speaking to the Rollerz. "Just bein' civic-minded is all."

"That so?" the asian asked.

"Yeah, some dumb ass cracker just went and shit on all over this wall," headband told them. "We just cleanin' it up-…"

Golf cap hit him with the bat, sending the banger crashing to the ground.

Cornrow mullet hit him with a right hook, then dodged a punch from the asian and sprayed him right in the face. The asian screamed, falling to the ground and crying out in pain. Golf cap took off running while the fat one was decking his baseball cap wearing comrade, and cornrow threw the can of paint, nearly hitting the me and the prostitute.

Engines could be heard roaring in the distance, and they were getting closer.

A red, blinged out Hollywood convertible slid to a stop at the curb having three hispanics inside. One of them was having a fucking Krukov and he racked the bolt.

"Hector says beunas noches," the man in the passenger seat said, red bandana bandit mask covering his features.

He pulled a T3K Urban from his lap and started firing, along with his comrade in the back.

Yellow and Blue fought back, but they were quickly gunned down by the Red. But then a Roller showed up with a Krukov, screaming 'Fucker!' before he was opening up on the car as it sped away, engine roaring.

I'd decided to be getting the hell out of there by that point.

The driver lost control as he was being hit several times, and he was suddenly careening straight towards me.

I dove out of the way as it was crashing into a wall, narrowly avoiding being hit, but when I was landing it was badly, and I twisted my ankle. Pain ripped through my leg and I grit my teeth against it, and I'd lost my smoke along the way.

The wrecked Compton burst into flames.

"Trahat' bandy!" I swore. 'Fucking gangs!'

This sort of shit was happening all the time lately, though not always this bad. I'd escaped a war-torn Eastern Europe to be finding myself being stuck in a poor neighborhood with gang warfare going on all the time. Joyful.

A Krukov rattled close by, and I saw the Roller making sure the Carnales crew was dead. Then a Vice King, headband, shot him point blank in the head with his VICE 9, turning to me as I scurried backwards in fear. I had too many memories of men with a gun in my face to not be afraid.

"Wrong time, wrong place, bitch," he said angrily, pointing his gun at me.

I closed my eyes, and was wincing at the gunshot. But I was feeling no pain, and opened them to be seeing two men, a black man in a backwards black newsie cap, purple turtleneck under a black leather jacket, and a gold crucifix hung from his neck. The other was white and having a thin mustache and beard, wearing a purple t-shirt with a wide purple stripe across the chest. A cigarette drooped from his mouth, and with his hair style I was thinking he was looking like some vice cop from the television.

He was also holding a gun, sideways like thug he was so not looking like.

"You okay, playa?" the black man said to me, reaching out to help me up. His voice was strong, a little rough, but was seeming almost fatherly.

Everything inside me was screaming to not let him touch me. But there was being a kindness to his eyes, and I let him help me up, fighting off the revulsion I was feeling at his touch.

"Yo, Julius, let's move," the other man said, scanning for trouble. Police sirens were sounding in the distance, coming closer.

Julius helped me be walking as the Compton exploded, pain screaming through my ankle as we stumbled against the shockwave. Julius walked me to a nearby sidewalk, and I sat down, gritting my teeth.

"That don't look so bad, you should be fine," Julius said, kneeling down, then was jerking a thumb over his shoulder. "That's Troy. You can thank him later."

"Hey," Troy said to me in greeting.

"The Row ain't safe no more, girl," Julius went on. "We got gangs fightin' over shit that ain't there's. And you in the way? They don't care if you representin' or not."

I swallowed, nodding, too stunned to be responding.

"Julius," Troy said quickly, arms opening. "This is no time to recruit."

Julius turned, glowering at the man. "We need all the help we can get, son."

"No, we need to get our asses outta here," Troy retorted, gesturing away from the scene.

"In a minute!" Julius shot back, turning to me. He was clearly being the one in charge of things. "Look, the Row has got a problem. Come to the church when you wanna be a part of the solution."

Julius got up, then, and he and Troy were leaving me there alone.

Frowning, I got up and limped away from the scene, hurrying back to my apartment while I was still having it.


The next morning, after a shower, I paced my living room, drawing on a cigarette.

"Vy dejstvitel'no hotite èto sdelat'?" I was asking myself, exhaling the smoke. 'Are you being sure you are wanting to be doing this?'

I was not being sure. The last time I fought in a war, I was captured and tortured by the enemy. It was being the worst five months of my life.

And one of our own had betrayed us.

"Oni spasli svoju žizn', po krajnej mere, vy možete pojti vyslušat' ego," I said, the matter settled. 'They saved your life, at least you can be going to be hearing him out.'

I shut the door behind me as my landlord was walking up.

"You're late again you Russian cockroach!" he was shouting. An ugly, hateful man, fat and pale, balding and with beady eyes, I was having a major disliking of Mr. Donalds. He was being a bully of the highest order.

"I, I am being sorry, I will be having money soon!" I promised, not really knowing if I'd have it or not. I dug into my pockets, and handed him the money I was going to be giving to that hooker. "Here, be taking this! Is all I am having."

"This is maybe a third of what you owe from last month!" he shouted, and I winced.

"Times are being hard, please, I will be getting you money…"

"You better, you stupid whore, or you're out on yer vodka-swilling ass, you hear me!" he screamed, walking off in a huff. "I don't care if you have to work tricks on the corner!" he called angrily over his shoulder.

I sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat, heading slowly for the old abandoned church.


The old church was being covered in graffiti, from the steps to the walls, it was a testament of spray paint and gang tags. Apparently I had arrived just in time, I saw Julius walking out to the porch and addressing the gathered crowd.

"Every motherfucker here knows what we need to do," he told us, raising a hand. "Now, those bitches be ridin' around here thinking they own these streets. I don't care what flags they flyin'! Rollerz, Carnales, Vice Kings… no one's makin' this nigga afraid to walk the Row! We about to lock this shit down right now."

Cheers rose from the gathered people, and I was looking around, being a little uncomfortable to be here.

An asian man having glasses and black hair with frosted tips shouted, "Fuck yeah!" then he was looking over and saw me. "Who the fuck's this bitch?"

Suddenly eyes were being on me, and several bangers were surrounding me, eyeing me like a pack of wolves finding a deer alone in a clearing. I swallowed, looking from side to side, fear clawing it's way into me under their predatory gazes. Something was happening, but I was not knowing what it was. Had I made a bad choice?

"Troy and I found her," Julius told him. "We gonna see if she'll ride with us."

"Julius, if she wants to run with the Saints she's gotta be canonized," the asian said, grinning darkly.

Troy looked over to their leader, shrugging. "Hey, he's right, Julius. Everyone had to do it."

Julius pointed at me. "You ready for this, playa?"

The men surrounding me started cracking their knuckles.

"Prostite, tovariŝi, za to, čto ja sobirajus' sdelat'" I murmured, heart hammering in my chest. I'm sorry, comrades, for what I am about to be doing."

"The fuck you say, bitch?" the asian asked, but then the Saints were on me.

I ducked under the first one's lunge, using my short stature to my advantage. I knocked his feet from under him, tripping him, and dropped, punching him in the windpipe, but not being hard enough to kill. Just disable. It was a move my cousin Niko had taught me.

Then I was jerked back by my hair and I cried out, my mind being suddenly back in that prison camp. Chest heaving, I twisted, kneeing him in the crotch and he let me go, falling away to the side.

"Blood in, blood out, bitch!" Another man was shouting, grabbing me from behind. I shrieked, ramming my heel down on his instep, and then turned and punched him, my eyes wild, fear fueling my strength. I blinked hard, trying to shake the images of prison guards from my sight.

A blow was hitting me from behind, and I staggered forward several steps. Turning, the last Saint was looming over me, swinging a dark, meaty fist. He was being huge, towering over me, and almost as wide.

"She can scrap," the asian commented, chuckling low. "I'd hope so for that fucked up face of hers."

I fell back onto my ass when that huge fist hit me in the head, seeing stars.

"Woo, baby! Come on wit' it!" the hefty man shouted, kicking me in the side.

I cried out sharply, and he stomped on my middle. I convulsed, a sob ripping from my throat.

When he was trying to step on me again, I rolled away and got to my feet, hand clutching my side. I was seeing red, and something in me snapped, that same something that had finally been allowing me to escape my hell.

"Shoulda stayed down, little girl," he was jeering, and this time I was the one who was charging.

I leapt onto his hateful chest, clinging to his shirt and pulling a knife from my ankle, stabbing it down at him. A hand grabbed my wrist and I was being bodily pulled off of him, arm around my middle, and I was screaming raggedly with my rage.

"Pozvol'te mne čertovski idut mudak, prežde čem ja ub'ju tebja!" I shouted hoarsely.

"Whoah there bitch!" the asian's voice said, and I came back to myself, dropping the knife, and breathing hard. "Earth to the crazy Russian, it's over! Canonizin' ain't about killin' each other!"

Breath being shaky, I knelt to pick up my blade and then put it away, nodding. As I stood, Troy was approaching, offering his hand, and I was taking it.

"You earned your colors today," he said, bumping his shoulder into mine.

"Yo, that's some impressive shit," someone said, clapping a hand to my shoulder. I flinched, suppressing a yelp and glancing over to see an african american man, purple golf hat tilted to the left, and wearing a denim jacket over a purple shirt. "The only other Saint that kicked ass like that was Johnny."

I nodded, slowly getting my breathing under control.

The asian nodded to me, gesturing to me with his arms, and voice cocky. "Shit, took me half the time."

Julius was walking up then, and I turned to him.

"Welcome to the 3rd Street Saints," he told me, offering a fist bump, and I met it with a grin.

"Let's get down to bidness," Julius said, looking around. "If we're serious about takin' back the Row, we gotta let those mother fuckers know what time it is. Now, you break it down, and its all about respect. Get enough of it, they gonna back off, and we're gonna move right on in."

Julius looked around at us, and was continuing. I was finding my self being caught up in his charisma, and nodding along with everyone else.

"We got some friends in town that could use some help; give 'em a hand," he went on. "'Course, you can always drop any mother fucker flyin' the wrong flag, so long as word gets out that the Saints is on the Row, I don't give a damn how you do it. You feel me?"

I found myself nodding again, grinning from ear to ear, and Julius left us in the yard.

"You're all right," Johnny said to me. "I ain't never seen nobody pull a fuckin' knife while bein' canonized. Think I might start callin' you Crazy Ivana. You didn't back down from Big Tony for shit."

I grinned back at him, ghosts of my past finally fading fully into the background for now.

"Say, you hungry?" he asked. "Let's go get some Freckle Bitch's, I'm buyin'."


After Johnny dropped me off, I went back to my apartment to find the door open. Being cautious, I entered quietly, pulling my knife but I was finding it completely empty. There was a note on the floor. Picking it up, I frowned.

'Dear deadbeat Russian bitch,' it read. 'I sold all your shit to pay for past rent. I didn't get near enough for that worthless crap you called your stuff, but fuck it, the locks are gonna be changed and your ass is gone. Thanks for the cash.'

I frowned, furious. Now I was being homeless, having nothing, but then a thought hit me. I had a home with the Saints, now, yes? Surely they'd be letting me crash in the church until I got back on my feet.

I left the door open as I was leaving my old life behind, yet again, heading for the old church on 3rd Street.


As I was approaching the old church, Troy met me outside.

"All right, girl," he was telling me as he walked down the steps. "Time for you to buy a piece. I'll loan ya the money so you can start runnin' jobs for us and pay me back."

"Piece?" I asked, confused. Learning of English was being bad enough, but keeping up with all the slang was being even harder.

"A gun," he said with a chuckle. "Let's hit up Friendly Fire."

I bit my lip, nodding as a feeling of embarrassment was coloring my cheeks.

We left the courtyard and walked down the sidewalk towards the gun shop. The days were growing chilly, too, and I was not looking forward to tonight with only a t-shirt. As we walked inside, the warm rush of air was being welcome, and the owner greeted us with a gruff, almost sneering voice.

"Hey there little lady!" he called. "When it comes to self defense, you can't beat our grenades."

"Is being good to be knowing," I said quietly, going over to a display case, but ignoring it's contents and eyeing the K-6 Kurkov on a rack along the wall. The owner stiffened at my accent and broken English, but was remaining quiet about it.

"Let's go with somethin' a little less dramatic," Troy advised, tapping the glass. "And if it's on my dime for the time being, a little less expensive."

I turned, batting my eyes and mock-pouting at him. "But Troy, Krukov is being an excellent design, is most rugged in field, and-…"

"And entirely too conspicuous," he interrupted, grinning. "Get a VICE 9, it's reliable and has a great trigger, I love mine."

I studied the pistols carefully, unsure of which one was being the VICE 9. I was not being so good with weapons in this country and tried to remember which one Troy was using the other night.

"Buyin' yer girl her first gun?" the owner asked, chuckling. "She a dainty thing, maybe she needs somethin' a little less powerful than what's in this case."

"He is not being my boyfriend, bolvan," I growled. Buffoon.

Troy put money on the counter. "She ain't my girl, though after seein' her take out three bangers single-handedly and try killin' a guy twice your size by herself I don't think that'd be such a bad thing."

Fuck and shit, was Troy using this stupid bag of shit's comment to be hitting on me?

The shop owner guffawed, unlocking the case and pulling out a VICE 9. "Well damn, all right then! Can I interest you in some extra magazines and ammo?"

I looked to Troy, painful as it was to be seeking his permission, but it was being his money for now.

Troy smirked. "Yeah, two extra clips and a box of 9mm, hollow point."

"Perfect for the two-legged predators out there!" the owner agreed, setting all the items out on the counter.

Before leaving the store, I opened a box of ammunition, and started loading a magazine. The owner of Friendly Fire stared at me oddly.

"You sure she ain't never shot nothin' before?" he was asking. "She sure seems like she knows what she's a doin' with that mag."

Troy shrugged. "I don't know shit about her, really, but if she can already shoot, so much the better."

I shoved the magazine home, tucking the pistol into the front of my pants. My shirt barely was covering it, but it was not being too noticeable. I loaded the other two magazines and pushed them into the back pocket of my jeans.

Troy grinned, scooping up the rest of the ammunition, dumping the rounds into his own pocket. "Thanks," he called over his shoulder as we headed out the door.

"All right, girl," he said. "Whaddaya say we take that piece, and clean up the Row?"

I nodded, grinning.

We headed back towards the church, and Troy pointed out two Vice Kings strolling down the sidewalk like they were owning the place. We approached them quickly, Troy already having his weapon drawn and shooting. The first of them fell as bullets tore into his back, and I was drawing my pistol as the other turned.

Holding it in a teacup grip, legs apart, like Dmitar had taught me those years ago, I fired twice, hitting him in the stomach each time and the VK doubled over, falling to the side, dead.

"Nice shootin' girl!" Troy called. "But we ain't through yet!"

Two more VKs ran around the corner then, brandishing VICE 9s of their own, and we were quickly taking them down, too.

"Shit!" Troy shouted, grabbing his shoulder as gunshots were ringing out behind us.

"Troy!" I called, turning to find the threat. Two Vice Kings had come up from behind.

"Just winged me," he growled, gritting his teeth and raising his pistol again.

I was already shooting, hitting one of them in the upper chest and the other took a bullet in his forehead. Both were being very dead.

"You might got what it takes, kid," Troy told me, grinning. "Now come on, looks like that got their attention. Whenever it gets too hot go to a Forgive and Forget, they'll cover up everything."

I nodded, breathing a little hard but it was feeling good.

"So, you gonna get us a car?" he asked, tearing off part of his shirt and tying it off over the graze on his shoulder.

"I am not knowing how to be driving," I admitted sheepishly. "Sorry?"

"Seriously?" Troy shouted, walking out into the street. A white Halberd screeched to a stop, and he jerked the door open, smashing the driver's face into the steering wheel and spilling him out into the street.

I ran over and got into the passenger side, laughing.

"What?" he asked, punching the gas and accelerating away.

The Forgive and Forget was not being far at all, and I laughed that it was a drive thru. Troy was pulling in, rolling his window down to be feeding several twenties into the machine.

"That much cash goes a long way in smoothing things over," a man's voice announced from the speaker.

Troy pulled out, looking both ways before turning back onto the street.

"Hey, now that everything's taken care of, you wanna hit Freckle Bitch's?" Troy asked. "I'm jonesin' for a Fun Bag."

"The answer to that question is always being yes, comrade," I told him, grinning.