Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Vic Vega and Vincent Vega and many other familiar faces in this fanfiction. They belong to Quentin Tarantino. I do not get any money from this fic but I do enjoy hearing reviews and constructive criticisms! Read and leave me a review. Rated M for violence, strong language, gore and sexual situations.

Vic

Everything flashed before Vic's eyes: the heist, the unthinkable blood, the gunshots...the ear. It was all there. But the man who had been torturing a cop only minutes beforehand was now out for the count, thanks to Mr. Orange. Fucking Orange, now they'll never know he's the rat. He shot his colleagues to save a boy in blue, and that doesn't go down well with me.. Vic thought to himself, unable to move or talk from the three crippling gunshot wounds in his chest. Though he knew that whoever Orange was, he had a mighty fine tactic in staying still. Blonde had almost forgot that the fucker was still alive. After all, a man unconscious in a pool of his own blood is not likely to get up and dance to Stealers Wheel as Vic had just done.

Clowns to the left of me,
Jokers to the right, here I am,
Stuck in the middle with you...

Mr Blonde could only chuckle in his own thoughts at the irony of the song lyrics and his current situation. He was bleeding out between a man who had begged for his life and cried like a faggot, and the man who had lied straight to their faces and assumed that he would get away scot free. The bleeding hole in Orange's stomach was a reminder though of what happens to those who fuck with a Vega. Even if he hadn't delivered the bullet himself, he wished he did.

"I'm a cop..." Orange said through gritted teeth, looking up at the disfigured cop tied to the chair. Mr Blonde scrunched up his eyes, taking his mind off of the pain and onto the situation behind him, but he would be subtle. No looking over, no acting on it, but play dead. It was his rock bottom plan. He wanted to slaughter that son of a bitch, that rat, that fucking cop, but he would wait. The anger radiated from him as Orange and Nash discussed if they had met, exchanging real names. Freddy Fuckin' Newendyke.

The next hour was painful for Mr Blonde, who through it all still did not empathise with Orange or Nash, who were also in pain. In Vega's eyes, they deserved whatever came to them. He knew that when Joe and Nice Guy Eddie showed up, they'd get it. They'd get old school justice.

He didn't look up in relief as Joe and Eddie stormed in, followed by White. Eddie flew into a blind rage at the sight of Blonde on the floor, a trusted employee who had even done time for them, and shot the earless cop multiple times, unloading the barrel into the man who had only just escaped death at the clutches of Vic. He started yelling at the top of his voice, and wanted to shoot Orange right then and there, Joe having shared his suspicion of Orange being the rat with his son in the car. White was already cradling the cop in his arms, blood soaking his crisp white shirt. They were all bloody now, Vic noticed, thinking it was ironic that they all blamed him for the violence, yet they had all committed some themselves, or bore witness to it. Nobody here was innocent. Not White, not Freddy, not Nash.

White was yelling in Joe's face when Vic regained consciousness, a gun pointed at Joe, only to have Eddie's pointed in his face as well. a true Mexican standoff. If only they knew that it was all over the fate of a cop. Mr Blonde waited anxiously, his eyes still firmly shut when the gunshots rang throughout the room. He assumed that Joe and Eddie had been shot and a brief sharp pang of guilt ran through his body. Well, he couldn't tell whether it was guilt or just the /fucking bullet wounds/. But he had lost two close friends and accomplices in that instant, all for nothing. He heard White groaning. He's been shot too? Fucking deserves it. Saving that piece of shit.

White began to cry as he cradling the dying Orange in his arms, the both of them now bloody, and it not just belonging to Orange. He stroked Orange's hair away from his face and cried, him also feeling the loss of Joe and Eddie. The only other one, apart from Vic, who would ever understand what it felt like to lose them. He dropped his gun and sighed, leaning back as his own bullet wound began to trickle red. The violence appeared to be over, but the dense tension still hung in the air, and refused to move. "I'm a cop, Larry."

The sounds of Mr Pink came from outside. The sounds of sirens. The sounds of guns, and police. It was at this point that Vic thanked the gods that he was the only one smart enough to wear a vest under his shirt. Sure, it didn't stop the bullets, but decreased their fatality. The cops had then stormed the warehouse, gun barrels staring directly at Larry on the floor. He was crying, with his own gun now pressed up against Orange's cheek. Vega smirked ever so slightly as White pulled the trigger, but then stopped as the police unloaded into him.

This was his chance to escape.

The police had checked the room and taken all of the guns, briefing each other and the surplus arrivals outside of the warehouse. Vic's eyes flicked up towards the back exit of the warehouse as he struggled up to a standing position. The pain rushed through him like the thrill he had gotten with the straight razor. As he stumbled across the warehouse, with both time and his own body against him, he stopped to pick up the bloody razor from the floor, gently wiping the blood away on the sleeve of his shirt, before tucking it back into his boot. He also picked up Nash's severed and blood encrusted ear as a grisly souvenir, a 'Don't fuck with me or expect the same' token, and safely deposited it in his pocket.

The exit was now in sight, and Vic shoved the door open with his good side, groaning at the pain that ached in all of his muscles. He blinked at the beaming sun, having only felt darkness for the whole ordeal, and staggered outside towards what he considered freedom. Only this was just the beginning. he'd need somewhere to stay, someone who wouldn't tell the police and also had a dab hand at tending to gun wounds, or had connections. Spotting the payphone just across the street, Vic rushed over to it, arm covering the wounds to make him seem just a little more normal.

He called the only number he knew off by heart, something he'd had to learn in prison. It rang, and rang, and rang, but eventually the person on the other end picked up. Vic winced at the sound of his voice, memories flooding back to him. He'd never been one to rely on anyone, but now was a moment of weakness. He'd get this sorted and then get back to revenge. "Vincent? I need your help. Quick."