Q: "Chaos, what was your inspiration for this chapter?"

A: "I watched Fury Road too many times"

Thanks to Bel, of course, and to everyone who's drawn MDB fanart thus far! You are guys are too nice to me, you don't deserve anything that's about to happen.

Chapter Twenty: Viper Bite

The faint gray light of dawn pierced through plumes of thick black smoke, and Spy could only pray that Radigan Conagher had been enough of an eccentric recluse that the town would not consider his ramshackle house that much of a loss. If the fire were to spread, though…

Fear and panic fueled an odd sense of elation, and an inappropriate bark of laughter escaped him. He saw Sniper glance his way and shrugged. "This isn't the first time I've been charged with arson."

"Tell me about it," Pyro muttered from the back. She sat with her cheek to the window, watching the smoke disperse in the air. She wasn't sure how to feel: Irene watched the embers floating in the air with a sense of dread, but she couldn't help the small twist of excitement in her stomach at the same time. The Pyro stirred, roused by the sight of dancing flames, and she forced herself to look away.

The van passed through the streets of Bee Cave, empty save for a commercial truck that pulled into the main road behind the van. Sniper hissed as the truck's high-beams hit the rearview mirror, forcing him to squint against the light. "Asshole."

He sped up, and, it seemed, so did the truck. The bright lights grew closer and closer. Spy popped open the glove box and retrieved his butterfly knife. The vials of Medigun formula clinked together softly, nestled in a protective cocoon of ten years' worth of restaurant napkins and stolen ketchup packets. The red liquid flashed in the bright light, and Spy was suddenly, dizzily, reminded of Australium. He twisted in his seat to look at the two briefcases of faux Australium in the back. Then his eyes rose to dangerously-close truck. "Lawrence," he said in a low voice, "get us onto the highway."

Sniper understood immediately. "Think we can lose 'em there?"

"That is the 'ope." Spy turned back around and buckled himself in with a resolute click. "Of course, knowing your driving, we might as well do them a favor and crash ourselves."

Sniper grinned—a small, fanged grin—and made for the highway. Minutes stretched into a breathless eternity. The air in the van was thin, taut, and charged with energy. Everyone tensed, waiting for the inevitable release, and just when it seemed that they would be frozen in this moment forever the on-ramp came into view, and Sniper slammed his foot against the gas.

The Mundymobile responded with a roar of the engine and shot ahead of the following truck. The van went careening up and onto the highway at sixty miles an hour, and it was only Sniper's death grip on the steering wheel that kept the van from skidding off the road. The highway was empty at this hour, leaving Sniper free to swing into the middle lane at full speed.

As the van pulled free of its pursuant, Scout looked out the window and snorted at the receding truck. He then turned to the Sniper, a triumphant grin on his face. "Don't you worry, Snipes, there's no way that tank is moving faster than—" Blake shoved him, hard, to get his attention, and Scout looked back out the window "—than we—than…ah."

For, splaying out from behind the truck in order to flank it, were six motorcycles, each ridden by a mercenary armed to the teeth. Blake's eyes widened in recognition. "I know them!"

Scout looked to him in bafflement. "You KNOW them?!"

"Those are BLUs!"

Scout looked back to the bikers. Sure enough, each one was dressed in faded blue fatigues, and each was old enough to be a grandparent. For an instant he didn't know whether to laugh, curse, or pray. They watched in an oddly contemplative silence as the old BLUs pulled individual weapons from their harnesses. One revved his engine and blasted forward, skirting dangerously close to the edge of the van. Pyro grabbed both boys by the neck and flung them to the ground. Not a split-second later, a bullet shattered one of the back windows into pieces.

"Scout, I take it all back," Blake groaned into the carpeted floor. "You can be Peter Fonda."

In the driver's seat, Sniper gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The speedometer was creeping up past ninety now, and the old van was beginning to rattle in exhaustion.

"C'mon ol' girl," Sniper murmured, "c'mon, don't fail me now. C'mon, you can do it, c'mon."

Spy whipped around to watch three of the motorcycles speed around the truck. With resounding roars they burst forward towards the Mundymobile, the riders skillfully wheeling around each other as they reached for their weapons. Spy's gaze then shot to the distracted Sniper. His eyes narrowed.

"PYRO!"

Pyro was on her feet in an instant. Spy twisted to face her, unbuckling himself as he did so. "Cover this side."

She didn't have to ask for clarification. Instead she just reached for her mask.

And with that assurance, Spy kicked his door open, swung out of it, and onto the hood of the van. Sniper nearly slammed on the brakes as Spy shimmied across the hood, but caught himself just in time. "WOT ARE YOU DOING?! Phil—!"

Spy, having made it across the hood of the van to Sniper's side, swung down and balanced himself onto the driver's side of the van. With one hand he clutched at the van door; in his other hand he gripped his revolver. The van's engine roared in his ears and the wind kept him swaying, but nevertheless he grinned as Sniper rolled down the window. "Bonjour."

"What in the hell are you doing?" Sniper hissed.

A bullet pinged by Spy and he ducked slightly. He shifted so that he was covering the bulk of the window with his body. "They'll try to take out the driver first. This way—" he shifted with a grunt "—they'll 'ave to try twice as 'ard to kill you. Now, drive!"

"They're going to kill ya!"

"They will try," Spy answered, as calm as if Sniper had just asked about the weather. And with that, he drew his gun and fired at the first BLU foolish enough to try their luck on the driver's side of the van. The motorcyclist pulled back a little, alarmed, and Spy fired against at their wheel. The motorcycle skittered to the side before swinging around to the back of the van again.

"Thanks," Sniper breathed.

"All in a day's work," Spy said, redoubling his precarious grip on the van door as he did so.

Pyro, meanwhile, mounted the flamethrower against the open window and pulled on the trigger. Fire blasted out of the van, forcing any BLUs fool enough to draw near to skirt backwards. The truck was gaining ground on them, and Pyro could see the gleam of the driver's goggles in the bright flames. For an instant she was reminded of Dell, and she realized in an instant there was an Engineer behind the wheel of the truck. She gnashed her teeth. "Faster, Mundy!"

"I'M GIVIN' HER ALL SHE'S GOT, PY!" Sniper shot back.

The truck swung to the side slowly, ramming into the side of the van, and everyone lurched to the left. Blake caught Scout, who went flying, and Pyro tumbled backwards onto the seat, nearly losing her grip on the flamethrower. The truck slammed into them again, and Spy shouted in alarm as the van skittered dangerously close to the road barrier. His fingers slipped from their precarious hold, and for an instant all Spy could feel was empty air around him.

Then Sniper's hand shot out of the window and grabbed him by the wrist, hauling him back to safety. "Careful!" he bellowed, even as he gave the steering wheel a hard jerk to the right.

"Thank you—" Spy froze in the middle of his sentence.

For one of the motorcycles had begun to gain speed, weaving between its fellows with an unnerving carelessness in order to ride even with the back of the van. But Spy's eyes were not on the bearded driver; he was watching the passenger, who slowly rose to a standing position on the back of the speeding motorcycle, arms stretched out in order to balance himself.

Spy was suddenly deaf to the gunshots exploding in the air around him, as the Viper steadied himself on the back of the motorcycle. He raised his revolver and fired, but he was a fraction of a second too late—the Viper had deftly jumped from the back of the motorcycle to the van's ladder, either oblivious or disinterested in the bullet that had missed him by a breadth. There was a grin stretching across his face that had Spy's mind racing. His gaze shot from the roof of the van to its back. The Viper was going to get inside the van if he wasn't stopped—and kill everyone in his way.

"Do me a favor," he called to Sniper, "and take very good care of this!" He shoved his revolver into Sniper's lap. And with that, he planted one foot on the side mirror, one foot on the open window, and hoisted himself onto the hood of the Mundymobile's cab.

Sniper poked his head out of the window. "Wot—NOW WOT ARE YA DOING!? Ya daft Frenchman, get back here—!"

A stray bullet shattered the side mirror into a million pieces, spraying Sniper with glass. He grunted and drew back into the relative safety of the van. The Cajun, meanwhile, lowered his smoking gun with a grin.

Sniper bared his teeth—and nearly bit his tongue as the truck slammed against the back of the van, jarring it to the left and nearly off the road. Ignoring Scout and Blake's shouts in the back, he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"Sorry, Phil."

The van swung back to the right, flinging Scout and Blake against the wall. Scout yelped as he was rammed up against the kitchenette counter. The cabinet doors overhead flung open, and Blake grabbed Scout of the way as empty jars tumbled out of the cabinet.

"Thanks," Scout gasped.

"Don't mention it." Blake breathed. His grip on Scout tightened as the van lurched again, and more jars toppled out of the cabinet. He looked out the shattered window at the motorcycles in pursuit and licked his lips. "Scout…"

"Yeah, Blakey?"

"Do you have a driver's license?"

Pyro barely noticed as Blake swung himself over the divide and tapped her on the shoulder. She was too preoccupied jamming her flamethrower on the window and spraying flames at any motorcycle fool enough to come close. "HUDDAH!"

"Ya don't need to tell me twice, Py," Sniper muttered. The world had narrowed to the steering wheel beneath his hands and the long stretch of road ahead. Nothing else mattered.

"PYRO!" Blake bellowed. "PYRO! I NEED YOU!"

Pyro spun towards him, masked eyes framed by flame. Instinctively Blake scooted back, pressing up against Sniper in a sudden rush of fear. Then he remembered where he was. "I need you," he breathed. "WE need you."

"Mmmprfo?!"

"Because neither of us have our license!" Blake exclaimed as though this cleared up everything. He glanced at Scout, huddled against the rear door with his scattergun in hand. Even as he watched the speedster craned his neck upwards, firing off a few haphazard shots before ducking down again. "Here—I'll take your place—"

Pyro swatted his hand away with a stream of gibberish. Sniper looked down at him from his other side. "Don't try it," he warned, "you'll burn the flesh right off yer hands."

The van lurched to the side again and a wordless growl left Sniper. Blake looked up at him, watching the beads of sweat trickle down the side of his face and the way he bared his teeth at the empty road ahead. He'd never seen Sniper this way before. The acidic taste of fear filled his mouth as he swung back to Pyro. "The motorcycles," he breathed, "we want one of the motorcycles. No, correction, we NEED one of those motorcycles."

Silence ensued. Sniper arched his eyebrows over his aviators at Blake. "Ya want to steal one of those motorcycles? While it's movin'?"

"That is the idea, yes," Blake admitted.

"Porter, I dunno if you're a goddamn genius or a fucking lunatic." Sniper, genuinely impressed by Blake's gall, grinned. "Py, d'ya mind?"

She yanked off her mask and shook her head, drops of sweating flying from her dampened hair. "Not in the slightest, Down Under! This oughta be fun—I haven't been joy-riding since I was Scout's age." She twisted to clamber back over the divide, then paused in sudden consideration. She yanked the glove box open, retrieved one of the Medigun formula vials, and tucked it into the pouch on her belt. "Just in case," she explained to Blake as she moved to the back.

Sniper cursed suddenly in his ear. Blake jumped at the sudden noise, then followed Sniper's worried gaze out the window. White smoke plumed out from beneath the hood. A quick glance down confirmed his fear: the temperature gauge on the dashboard had sunken to red. "The engine's overheating!"

"She ain't supposed to go this fast," Sniper admitted. He rubbed the steering wheel in a reassuring sort of way. "C'mon girl, you've come too far for this, c'mon!" Overhead there was a sudden bump and a shout, and Sniper's gaze shot upwards to the ceiling. "PHIL!"

Spy didn't answer. Sniper forced himself to ignore sour taste of fear in his mouth and looked back to Blake—or where Blake should have been. "Porter?—BLAKE, NO!"

Blake had followed Spy's lead by swinging out of the van, only this time he edged himself the side of the rattling hood. In one hand he clutched a water bottle; his wrench was clamped firmly between his teeth. Sniper looked from Blake to the white smoke and swore again. "BLAKE! THE VAN AIN'T WORTH YER LIFE YA STUPID LITTLE—"

Blake looked at him, shook his shaggy head, and then disappeared. For an instant Sniper's heart stopped, but then Blake popped up again with a thumbs up. The roar of second engine sounded from on the passenger side, and Sniper twisted in his seat to see one of the motorcycles zooming closer and closer, drawing even with his passenger side window. The BLU raised his gun, dead-eyed on the preoccupied Blake.

A gunshot cracked through the air and the BLU's head exploded into a fine red mist. His twitching body jerked wildly, and his motorcycle went careening off the side of the road, under the wheels of the speeding truck. There was a sickening crunch and the shriek of grinding gears, and the truck dipped behind the van a little.

Panting, Sniper lowered Spy's smoking revolver. He looked from the hood of the van into the rearview mirror, at the motorcycles still in hot pursuit. There was a sudden rush of something through his chest, a something that didn't have a proper name, but nevertheless hardened his resolve. "C'mon, then," he said under his breath, "jus' you try an' kill him."

…

The wind howled around the speeding van, nearly taking Spy off his feet as he steadied himself. The air around him exploded with gunfire and the screech of tires, but Spy forced himself to ignore it. He stretched his arms out to keep his balance and turned to look at the Viper.

The Viper stood perfectly still, without the slightest wobble even as the van careened back and forth. He didn't even seem to notice as the van slammed itself against the gaining truck, an action that nearly took Spy off his feet. He just stared at Spy with a soft, affectionate smile on his face.

"And now it comes to this," he said once Spy had righted himself again. "Master against apprentice. Old Guard against the New. The best of my generation against the best of yours."

"I am the best," Spy replied, in a somewhat defensive tone. Something about the Viper's calm terrified him, in a deep, primal way all the explosions in the world could not. It was a predator's calm. He forced himself to look away from the Viper's eyes, concentrating instead on the old man's gloved hands.

"They would not have hired you if you weren't," the Viper noted. He tilted his head to the side, looking very much like the snake he had named himself for. That gentle smile still pulled at his lips. "For what it is worth, Philippe, I am proud of you. You and Louis were always the best of my pupils."

The mention of the BLU Spy snapped Spy out of his discomfort. He scowled and reached for his knife, flicking it through his fingers and into his hand. The Viper responded by smoothly pulling his dagger from his belt. For an instant they stood still, sizing each other up, clutching their weapons of choice in hand.

"Mine is bigger than yours," the Viper noted with some amusement.

Spy's expression remained stoic. "That isn't what you said last time."

The Viper laughed—a laugh of genuine amusement and delight—before shifting his stance slightly. "Olé!"

And with that, he flung his dagger straight at Spy. Spy started and twisted to the side, leaving the Viper free to pounce forward and slam his fist into Spy's chest. Spy spun away at the last possible second, kicking the back of the Viper's knee as he spun. The Viper grunted and staggered forward. Spy couldn't savor the blow—his spun sent him teetering too close to the edge of the van, an inch away from the blurred black pavement below. Instantly Spy lost his offense stance, pinwheeling his arms wildly to try and pull himself back.

A pair of firm hands grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him backwards to relative safety. Spy spun around to face the Viper, who cocked his head to the side and grinned. "Watching a little spider get crushed," he explained, "is not nearly as satisfying as killing it yourself." He released Spy and took a step backwards. "Vamos!"

…

"Py, on the list of crazy shit I've done in my life, this might be the topper."

"Huddah-huddah."

"You said it, pal." Scout tightened his grip on his scattergun. He took several slow breaths to steady him, ignoring the smattering of bullets that pinged against the side of the van. "So…how are we gonna do this?"

"Mmpfro!" With something that sounded suspiciously like a cackle, Pyro detached one of the incendiary grenades from the bandolier strung across her chest.

Scout stared down at it as though seeing it for the first time. "Ya mean those ain't just for show?"

"Mmfmph."

"Well, how come ya never used 'em before?! Ya know how many matches we mighta won if you just—"

Pyro shushed him and shoved the grenade into his hands. Then she pointed to the motorcycles zipping around the van behind them. "Huddah-hud."

Realization dawned over Scout. "Ohhhh."

Not a split-second later Pyro kicked the van door open, flamethrower in hand. Two short spurts of flame drove back any pursuers getting too close. Once they'd been given a little breathing room Pyro stepped back. Scout took her place. He found his target, winded his arm up, and lobbed the useless grenade with all the precision of a professional ball player.

The makeshift projectile smashed against the helmet of one rider, knocking them clear off their ride. They went down heavily, and the motorcycle, devoid of control, fell over and skidded a few feet to a stop. Scout grinned, but had no time to savor success—for Pyro had grabbed him close and flung them both out of the van and onto the pavement.

The world became a blur of black and purple, and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Scout groaned, sitting up slowly to assess the damage. It wasn't much, fortunately—Pyro's squishy suit had cushioned much of his fall. "Ya all right, Py? Py?"

Pyro, who was lying flat on her back in the middle of the road, raised her arm up and gave Scout a thumbs up. A shaky laugh of exhilaration left Scout and he stood, taking by her the arm and hauling her to her feet. He retrieved his scattergun while Pyro set the motorcycle back on its feet. "Ya think it'll run okay?"

Pyro shrugged before swinging herself onto the motorcycle. Scout made to follow, but paused as someone behind him groaned. He turned to look at the BLU who was sitting up, rubbing her cracked helmet in a dazed fashion. "Erm…sorry, man," Scout shrugged, "we gotta borrow this."

As the motorcycle took off again the BLU Pyro gave the pair a small thumbs up of her own, and then lay back down on the pavement to deal with her splitting headache.

…

"How we doin', Porter?"

"We're still alive, sir," Blake reported as he scooted back into the van. "So I think that counts for something."

Sniper grinned. "Aye, that it does. But I was talking about the engine." He chanced a glance at the temperate gauge, surprised but pleased to find the needle rising out of the red zone.

"She'll manage. I don't know for how much longer, though." Blake looked down at his oil-blackened fingers and made a face.

"How'd ya do that?" Sniper asked suddenly.

"I'm an Engineer, Mister Lawrence," Blake shrugged modestly. "Fixing things is what I do."

"Even if it's fixin' an engine in the middle of a high-speed chase?"

"No harder than trying to build a sentry while Scout keeps screaming in your ear for a dispenser."

Sniper laughed at that and reached over to ruffle Blake's hair. "Fair enough. Now, take this—" he shoved Spy's revolver into Blake's hands "—and keep shooting! We ain't out of the woods yet!" He twisted the steering wheel sharply as they rounded a bend, nearly tipping the van onto its side.

…

The wind roared in Scout's ear and despite himself he whooped with glee. He had both arms wrapped around Pyro as she blasted forward, gaining on the motorcycles, the truck, and the van. Scout squinted against the wind, watching Spy fight the Viper on the hood of van. "Hang on, Spy! We're coming!"

…

It had been ages since Spy had been in a true fistfight, and he was beginning to think all those times he'd scraped with Sniper were amounting to nothing after all. Every punch he threw, every kick—the Viper blocked them all, knocking aside his blows easily with increasing, infuriating laughter. With a growl of fury he grabbed the Viper by the wrist as the Spaniard punched him, twisting his arm around and kicking the Viper in the arm socket as he doubled over.

The Viper grunted as Spy released him and staggered precariously close to the edge of the roof, clutching at his disclosed shoulder. Spy blew a breath as he started forward. Sweat drenched his mask and pooled at the base of his neck. His lungs felt as though they were on fire. Almost over, he thought, just a little more—

Then the Viper started laughing again. "You know, Philippe," he popped his dislocated arm back into place and rolled his shoulders back, "I think I might be getting a little too old for this."

Spy stopped short, fury flaring in his chest. "You don't get to call me that!"

"Oh? And why is that? Do I need a license to call you by your true name?" The Viper struck forward and Spy jumped back, blocking his blow with his elbow. "Or…" the Viper tilted his head in sudden thought, "is it because your name belongs to someone else? Is there still a Philippe Vidal under that mask?"

"Don't—"

Too late. The Viper had grabbed him close and yanked another knife from his belt, pressing the point into Spy's stomach. "Ai-yai-yai, Philippe, don't tell me you've gotten—" At the last second the Viper reversed his stroke, the point of his blade nicking Spy's arm. Spy grunted in surprise and the Viper leaned in to hiss:

"Sloppy."

Spy staggered back, free hand flying to his left arm. There was a small, biting pain there, like the pain of a bee sting. Spy didn't have to look down to know that the Viper's blade had cut him, and deep. The world wobbled, gunshots deafened by the sudden sound of children screaming. No, no, no no no… He had to stay focused. He had to stay here. He wasn't Philippe. Not here. Not now. Not here—

The world was suddenly cold.

The Viper rolled his head around his shoulders before approaching Spy. He watched Spy's eyes slide in and out of focus, the way his jaw clenched as he fought back his own mind. The Viper grinned. "So tell me, Philippe Vidal, or whoever you're pretending to be…just what are you in the dark?"

Spy's eyes snapped to him and he growled. He lunged forward and the Viper pivoted on the sole of his foot, catching his boot in Spy's shoulder blade. Spy staggered to the side and the Viper completed the spin gracefully. He wasted no time in striking out, catching Spy's chin against his fist. Spy instinctively made to kick the Viper away.

As Spy's leg snapped up towards him, the Viper's eyes flashed. He swung forward again, crouched, and then neatly flipped backwards onto his back to avoid Spy's blow. He used the carrying momentum to roll up onto his shoulders, flip onto his feet, and swing up into a standing position. His fist followed, smashing into Spy's face. Spy staggered back with a grunt, unable to defend himself. He was helpless as the Viper grabbed the stunned Spy by his collar and flung him down. He straddled Spy's back and grabbed his arm. The heel of his palm came down with excessive force on Spy's wrist.

The sharp snap of broken bone and Spy's scream were lost amid the wind and the gunfire, but nevertheless the Viper grinned. He relinquished his grip on Spy and stepped back, watching as Spy struggled to get to his knees. Spy's eyes slid in and out of focus—here one minute, gone the next, and the Viper could only guess at what made his breathing so shallow. He wiped a trickle of blood from his mouth and arched his eyebrows at the streak of blood on his hand. "Face it, Philippe. Maybe you can outrun me—" He crossed to Spy and helped him stand.

"—But you'll never be able to outrun your mind."

And then the Viper did something Spy had never considered, simply because no one had ever done it before. No one had had the audacity.

In one quick, clean swipe, the Viper grabbed Spy's mask and tore it off.

Spy froze like a deer in the headlights. The howling wind slapped against his exposed face, cutting it like a thousand little knives, so painful he barely felt the biting blade sliding neatly between his ribs. Breath left Spy in a rush, leaving him stunned, struggling, the agony two heartbeats behind his racing mind. The Viper pulled him close so that they were nose-to-nose. The older Spy gave his heaving protégé an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "Give Antoine and Henri my fondest regards."

And with that, he kicked his leg up and into Spy's chest, off the edge of the van.

"SPY!"

Scout's cry twisted into a wordless scream of horror as he watched Spy hit the ground. Instantly Pyro twisted the brakes on the motorcycle. It screeched to a wild halt, sending both she and Scout rolling to the pavement. Another motorcycle zipped by in pursuit of the van, but Scout paid it no notice. Neither did he seem to feel his raw and bloodied knees, or the scratches covering his arms. As he hoisted himself up he could only see Spy, still and unmoving, crumpled and broken in the road.

…

The Viper watched Spy's crumpled form shrink further and further into the distance with a sense of a job well done. He caught sight of the Cajun, zipping along on the driver's side of the van, and gave him a friendly wave and a thumbs-up. Drinks would be on him tonight.

Inside the van, the atmosphere was decidedly less cheery. Blake had stopped firing the revolver. Instead he was staring out the back window with a pale face. "Mister Lawrence…Mister Phil…he…"

Sniper didn't make a reply, but his breathing was oddly ragged. He continued to stare forward, but it seemed to Blake he didn't even see the open road ahead of them; behind the aviators his eyes were curiously blank. He didn't even react as Blake rested a hand on his shoulder. "Mister Lawrence—"

Footsteps thundered overhead and Blake's gaze shot upwards. He spun back around to see the Viper swing into the back of the van. At the same time, the truck slammed into them again, jarring everyone to the left. The Viper recovered before Blake could, and pulled his gun from its holster. "Blakey," he purred, "how many times do I have to kill you?"

Sniper twitched, as if electrocuted, and with one hand he grabbed Blake by the collar and flung him back down into the seat. A split-second later a bullet pinged against the Mundymobile's front pane. Sniper paid it no mind; he didn't even seem to see the Viper causally reloading in his rearview mirror. He was looking down at Blake, who was looking up at him. His green eyes were wide, hopeful, pleading with Sniper to say that he had a solution, an escape, some way to get out of this. The van jostled again as the truck rammed into it, and this time Sniper let the van slide. His grip on the wheel tightened. Licking his lips, breathing hard to steady himself, he had only two words to say to Blake:

"Hold on."

And with that, he yanked the steering wheel as hard as he could to the left.

The Cajun's motorcycle came to a sudden, screeching stop. He shoved his goggles up onto his head, paralyzed with horror as the bulky, bullet-riddled van went careening off the side of the road, so hard that it flipped, and crashed down a long, grassy hill. There was the awful, almighty screech of crunching metal and shrieking gears as the van landed upside down.

"CASTILLO!"

The rest of the motorcycles came to a grumbling halt around him, and the truck, too, slowed to a stop. The Cajun didn't notice; he was too busy staring at the smoldering wreck, waiting for Castillo to emerge victorious. When his partner did not reappear, the Cajun gnashed his teeth and sat back down on his seat, preparing to follow.

A heavy hand stopped him short. The Cajun glared up at the Heavy. "Ya ain't gonna stop me, Cap."

The Cajun's glare had a decidedly less impressive effect than the Viper's. The Heavy frowned at the Cajun and shook his head. "Spy can take care of himself. We need to finish off the others." He jerked his head in the direction they had come from. Then he paused. "We lost Soldier."

The Cajun looked to him again, this time with eyes widened. Then he bowed his head. "He was always a reckless bastard. How?"

"Their Sniper." The old Heavy bared his teeth down at the smoldering wreckage in contempt. "You had best pray your snake finishes him off, Edwin. Or I will." With that, he turned to the truck and nodded to the old Engineer, who started the engine.

The old Demoman leaned over and clasped the Cajun's shoulder. "He's all right down there. Let's finish this. For Sol."

The rest followed the Heavy's lead and turned their vehicles around. The Cajun sat still, staring down at the wreckage with bushy eyebrows drawn together.

…

"Spy, Spy, Spy! Oh, God, Spy, don't be dead, please, don't be dead—"

Scout limped to a halt beside Spy, collapsing down on bleeding knees. Spy did not respond to Scout's impassioned pleas: he was sprawled on the pavement, limbs akimbo and twisted at awkward angles. His eyes were half-shut. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, repeated "hnngs" of pain. Blood pooled from the knife wound in his chest, and for a moment Scout found it difficult to breathe himself. Unbidden he looked to Spy's exposed face. The scars, the red, flaky skin, so gaunt he was almost a corpse…he had seen it all in detail once before. He'd been the one dying then, but somehow it had hurt less than now. "Spy…" It was a drawn-out word, singular and pleading.

He felt, rather than saw, the battered and bruised Pyro crouched down across from him. He reached out a hand, pressing it to Spy's shoulder. "We gotta do something, Py," he said in a low and broken tone.

"And we are," Pyro answered, in such a resolute tone that Scout finally looked up. She grinned at him toothily and opened her hand, revealing a cracked vial of Medic's Medigun formula. She watched as Scout's breath hitched. "Thank Christ for the doc, huh? Hold his mouth open for me."

Spy flinched when Scout grabbed his chin. A small mewl of pain and fear escaped him as Scout forced his mouth open and Scout felt his stomach twist into painful knots. Seeing Spy like this, weak and wounded and afraid—it wasn't supposed to happen, it wasn't supposed to be like this, and Scout was filled with an odd mixture of sorrow, shame, and revulsion. "P-Phil," he stammered, breaking the one cardinal rule of the REDs in doing so, "it's gonna be okay, okay? J-just hang on, man, just a little bit longer…"

Pyro tipped a few drops of the Medigun formula into Spy's mouth and clamped her hand over his mouth as he gagged. "Hold him steady," she barked as Spy bucked and writhed. "Spy—Spy, dammit, stay still!"

Scout held him by the shoulders, wincing as Spy's eyes bugled. "Py—Py, what's wrong with him?"

Pyro looked up at him. Scout looked impossible young in that moment, pale and afraid, and for an instant she was attempted to lie, or to escape. Her mask was just out of reach. She could slip it on, back away from this ugly scene, and stop her racing heart. Her fingers twitched towards her mask. Then Spy gave a small moan beneath her. She looked down at him, down at his raw and ruined face, and her heart leapt into her throat. She forced herself to look back at Scout. "I don't know, Scout. I don't know what we can do."

Spy's wounds had begun to heal over as Medic's precious formula took effect, but his eyes remained distant and faraway, his breathing uneven. Scout tightened his grip on Spy's shoulder. "P-Phil? C'mon, Phil, please—please—ya gotta wake up, man, please. We need you here—" Something metallic and shiny caught Scout's eye and he grabbed at the dog tags Spy had tucked beneath his undershirt. He stared at them for an instant, aching, before pressing them into Spy's gloved hand. "C'mon, man, ya can't let those bastards win—c'mon—"

Spy balled his hand into a fist, fingers closing over the dog tags. His breathing began to slow. Scout sat back, holding his breath, as Spy groaned again: "Scout?"

"Yeah, Frenchie?" Scout allowed his voice to waver a little.

Spy rested his head back against the pavement and licked his chapped lips. "Mon masque?"

"Sorry—I don't—I can't…." Scout made a face, uncertain of what Spy was asking. "Your mask?"

Spy closed his eyes. A faint spasm shook him and he fingered his bare face with his free hand. After a moment he reopened his eyes. "On pouvait pas faire autrement, hein."

Although Scout couldn't understand him, Spy's voice was low and lacked its usual edge, and somehow that just frightened Scout more. He scooted forward again, wrapping one arm around Spy's thin frame. "C'mon, man, let's get you outta the middle of the road." He tried to haul Spy up, but Spy was limp and heavy and useless in his arms. "C'mon, dammit, we gotta move!"

"Lawrence?" Spy's speech slurred suddenly and Scout's heart stopped. He watched Spy lift his head and blink at the surroundings in confusion. "Où est-il encore allé se fourrer, ce con-là?!"

"Frenchie—don't ya dare have a hot attack on me—!"

"SCOUT!"

Scout looked up and around at Pyro's call. She was on her feet a few feet ahead, staring down the bend the van had disappeared around. Her mask dangled from her fingertips. Her breath came in swift spurts as icy fear formed in the pit of her stomach. In the distance, growing louder which each passing second, were engines. "They're coming back."

"Back?" Scout repeated. He stood and limped over to her. "Why would they be coming back? Wh—where's the van?"

Pyro's silence served an answer. Scout swallowed hard. "But Snipes—and Blake—"

"Scout," Pyro said a low tone, "run. You can still get away. Take Spy and go."

"Go?" A derisive laugh escaped Scout. He gestured to the flat, empty Texas landscape. "Go where? No…I'm staying here. With you."

"Scout—"

"I promised Snipes," Scout said suddenly. He curled his hand into a fist, blinking back sudden tears. "I promised him that if something—if something happened—then I would take care of you guys. I can't go back on that promise. Not now." He glanced over his shoulder at the unmoving Spy.

Pyro's expression softened. She reached over and gave Scout's hand a firm squeeze of support. Together they stood, shoulder-to-shoulder, watching the distant headlights grower larger and larger. The staccato beat of their hearts drowned out the growl of the approaching motorcycles. The tension in the air stretched thin, so thin that the slightest of movements would have shattered it.

And shattered it was, although not quite in the way anyone present would have anticipated. There was the distant roar of revved engine, and out of the darkness came another careening truck, this one headed straight for the motorcycles. The passenger side swung open, and out of this new truck a mountain of a man leapt with a shout of:

"SAXTON HAAAAAALE!"

…

The smell of oil burned at his nostrils. Sniper took a shallow breath, breathing in the scent of smoke and oil and twisted metal, and coughed as the acidic smoke filled his lungs. Slowly he opened his eyes, staring forward at the visor in front of him without really seeing it. His head hurt. His shoulders hurt. Below his torso burned. He closed his eyes again, trying and failing to gather the strength he needed to move. A minute passed. An hour. The burning sensation trickled down his legs. Something was keeping him flat to the seat. Had he died? Was this his hell?

"Mister Lawrence!"

No, not hell.

Too much Blake Porter for hell.

"Mister Lawrence—wake up! Oh, God, oh no, oh God, wake up! Mister Lawrence—!"

Sniper forced his eyes open, staring up at Blake's upside down face in bafflement. "Porter?" He slurred the name, his tongue thick and heavy in his mouth. What was happening to him? "Porter—get out."

"Right…" Blake breathed and glanced around. "Right, right, right. Gonna get you out. Gonna get you out right now, don't you worry, Mister Lawrence! You stay right here! Ah…" He glanced down at Sniper briefly, grimaced, and vanished again.

'No you damn idiot! I meant get yourself out!' was what Sniper meant to shout after Blake. He managed a few faint, gurgled noises. He closed his eyes again, breathing in that sharp, acidic scent and fighting to move. After a few seconds—or an eternity—Blake reappeared with Sniper's Bowie knife in hand. He leaned around Sniper, muttering wildly, and sliced through the seatbelt keeping Sniper in place.

Sniper gasped as the seatbelt snapped in two, taking the weight off his chest. He tried to lean forward and only succeeded in sinking down. Blake caught him by the shoulders and eased him out of the mangled heap that had been the Mundymobile. "Easy, Mister Lawrence, you, ah…you…hmmph." He looked down again and paled.

This time Sniper had strength enough to follow Blake's eyes. It took him longer than it should have to recognize what the shiny bit of bone sticking out of his leg meant. "Broken," he managed. Why was his head pounding? Why was the sky so dark?

"Very broken," Blake agreed.

Something about the tone of the young Engineer's voice had Sniper's hunter instincts stirring. He looked down at Blake, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. The pounding in his head doubled. "Porter…?"

Blake, smiling slightly, relinquished his firm grip on Sniper. He continued to smile as Sniper crashed to the ground, unable to support himself on his broken leg.

Sniper wheezed as his breath rushed out of him. The ground beneath him didn't even feel real. The sky above was pitch black, and somehow the laughing Blake stood stark against it. He pressed a heavy boot (too heavy, the back of Sniper's mind thought, too heavy for Blake's skinny frame) to Sniper's chest. Sniper grunted, panicked and confused as Blake's round face melted into the Viper's narrow one.

"Hola, amigo!" The Viper bent over. "Did you miss me? Ah…sorry about your car…" he glanced up "…and your leg…and your little friend…" He produced a familiar pair of goggles from his pocket and strapped them on with a wink. "But I was just dying to know, Lawrence Mundy Junior….who are you in the dark?"

A small cut in Sniper's arm stung. He arched his back, cried out, and then the nightmare took him.

The Viper stood back, watching with satisfaction as Sniper's bright blue eyes glazed over. Humming in satisfaction, he sheathed his knife, spun on his heel, and made his way back to the burning van. He hopped inside again without hesitation, dodging the flames licking his feet easily. After a moment he exited again. In one hand he clutched two briefcases. Over the opposite shoulder was the unconscious Blake.

He tossed the briefcases to the side, listening with satisfaction to the heavy CLUNK as they landed, before setting Blake down on the ground. His blond curls were wet with blood.

"Porter," the Viper snarled, in a spot-on impression of Sniper, "Porter, wake up! PORTER!"

Blake's bright green eyes flew open. His entire body shook as he gasped. "M-Mister Lawrence?"

"Good guess," the Viper assured him. He straddled Blake and rolled his shoulders back. "So tell me, Blake Porter…" he pulled his revolver from his holster and pressed it to Blake's forehead. "How many times do I have to kill you before you stay dead?"

Blake licked his lips and stared up at the Viper. His green eyes were wide, his lips parted slightly in shock. For an instant he seemed as though he had finally run out of things to say. One hand twitched towards his waistline. "Twice, at least. Maybe three times. Honestly, I'm like a bad penny. I just keep coming back—"

The Viper's eyes narrowed. "Blakey-boy."

"Hmm?"

"Stop talking. I want to kill you in peace."

"Right." Blake rested his head back into the dirt. "Right, right. Sorry. I just—sorry, I was just thinking." He lifted his head up again and brushed the gun aside nonchalantly.

His struggle amused the Viper. "Thinking? I didn't know you were capable of it."

"Thinking—" Blake gritted his teeth, reared his head back, and head-butted the Viper "—THAT YOU SHOULD LEAVE MISTER LAWRENCE ALONE!"

The Viper bellowed and reared back, clutching at his head. Blake knocked his arm aside and twisted his hips, throwing the distracted Viper off of him. The revolver slipped out of his grip, landing in the grass, and Blake lunged forward towards it.

The Viper dabbed at his bloodied lip and hissed. "This is getting very old very quickly."

…

Sniper's rifle felt heavy in his hands. He glanced around, breathing slow through his nose, trying to remember why he was here, how he had gotten here. He knew this place. He had been here, once, when things seemed simpler.

Rain pattered down around him, but he never seemed to get wet. Lightning flashed overhead, followed by a rumble of thunder, and Sniper's flinch somehow jogged his memory. He staggered forward, through the thick wilderness, stumbling to a stop when he found what he was looking for.

He saw himself, two years younger, thrashing in the murky water of a billabong, howling curses at the seething Spy standing on the bank: "YOU FUCKING FUCKER! YOU SON OF A BITCH!" The whole scene felt surreal, like he was watching a movie of a movie, and Sniper felt his breath catch in his throat.

"Curious," said the Viper from behind him, "this is what you fear?"

Sniper looked over his shoulder at the Spaniard. "Yer not real," he said firmly.

"No. But I'm here. So on some level…you must fear me, no?"

Sniper gritted his teeth and looked back to his argument with Spy. The Viper came to stand next to him. "You fear…an argument?"

"Not the argument," Sniper admitted. "What came next."

He watched as the Sniper in the water froze in place, and then was violently yanked underwater. The world around him rippled and Sniper clutched at his chest in remembered pain. It was suddenly hard to breathe, like his lungs were full of water. He coughed, and murky water bubbled up past his lips.

"Ah," said the Viper, who looked at the wheezing Sniper with polite interest. "Yes, I can see how that would be terrifying. The dark, the cold, the pain…the helplessness—"

He snapped his fingers and the scene changed. Sniper straightened up with a gasp, looking around wildly to get his bearings.

He saw himself sitting on the cot in the Mundymobile, gripping the iron edges of the bed in a vice grip as he trembled. His wife beater was stained red, the result of ruined stitches. The Sniper on the bed breathed fast and shallow, and the standing Sniper found himself matching the pace.

"What happened here?" Asked the Viper in a mockingly bright voice.

"Pain killers." Sniper forced himself to answer. It was after Spy had stormed out, leaving him alone and frustrated and in pain. The pain killers had helped, in their own way. They were no fake Australium, but they'd taken the edge off the pain, made him feel stronger again.

The Viper clucked his tongue. "You wanted to be stronger. You wanted to be better. You wanted to be Australian."

"I am Australian." Sniper growled.

"Are you?"

The world shimmered again. Sniper found himself face-to-face with a familiar young man. He was thin to the point of emaciation, shivering violently despite the summer heat. There were deep purple bags under his bright blue eyes and his skin had an ugly, parchment-like quality to it. He stared up at Sniper, breathing sharply, helpless and quietly pleading.

"Anything to be strong," the Viper purred, circling Sniper and the youth, "anything to be recognized. Australium makes people strong, doesn't it? But Australium is so hard to find, so very expensive. So you find the synthetics, the street varieties…so you don't have to be afraid anymore. So you don't have to be weak anymore. So you can be a proper Australian and make your father proud."

The youth doubled over suddenly with a wracking cough. Sniper dove forward to catch him, holding him in his arms as he sobbed. The Viper stopped short. "But there are…certain side effects, aren't there? There's what you're truly afraid of. Him. How weak you were. How pathetic. What would Philippe say if he found out about this? Or Blake?" He gasped in mock horror.

There was a dagger in his hand suddenly. Sniper's grip tightened around the handle and he relinquished his grip on the sickly youth, who fell to his knees, unable to support himself. Sniper stared down at him, holding the dagger in his trembling hand. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.

"Go on, Lawrence," the Viper murmured, "kill the boy."

Sniper's grip on the dagger tightened.

…

Blake had youth, but the Viper had experience and a viciousness that only long years could teach. He kicked Blake's feet out from under him and the Engineer went down on his back, hard. He gasped, struggling to breath, but before he could do much more than groan the Viper had hauled him back to his feet. The Viper slammed his fist into Blake's stomach once, twice, three times, listening to Blake's grunts of pain with a gleam in his eye. He smashed his elbow into Blake's chin and followed it up with a kick to his chest. Blake crumpled again, bloody and wheezing, curling into a ball in a futile attempt to protect himself. "W-wait—"

"You know, from one BLU to another, I really did have reservations about killing you," The Viper reared back. "But after all this, I think I'm going to enjoy it."

"W-wait—"

"Sorry, Blakey," the Viper bent to retrieve his revolver, "but I told you before—I hate waiting."

"OI!"

At the single exclamation The Viper froze in place. Any number of expressions flitted through his dark green eyes: shock, amusement, confusion, and a little delight. He spun away from the shivering Blake to stare at Sniper.

Sniper stood on trembling legs with fists clenched. He lifted his chin as the Viper turned in a gesture of resolute defiance. He was pale and shaking and bloodied, but he was standing. In one hand he clutched his sniper rifle in a death grip. And as he stared at the Viper he found the strength he needed to speak:

"Why don't ya pick on someone yer own size?"

The Viper took a step towards him, incredulous. "How?" he demanded. "How are you still standing? I've done more than enough to ensure that you should not be standing!" He sounded offended, and on some level he truly was. Sniper standing on a broken leg with blood and sweat streaming down his face went beyond audacious, to a level of disrespect the Viper wasn't even sure there was a proper term to describe. And as he looked into the Aussie's bright blue eyes, the first, faint kernel of fear nested in his stomach.

Sniper, for his part, had reached some sort of strange dichotomy. He knew he was dying—he could feel it with every tremor in his snapped leg—and it was sheer willpower keeping him alive. Somehow, the fact only lent to his unspeakable rage. The Viper had killed Philippe. And so he couldn't die until the Viper died, until he had killed the Viper and wiped the smug grin off his face. His eyes flickered momentarily to Blake before looking back to the stunned Viper.

"I'm gonna kill ya," his voice was low, but it seemed to ring against the din of the burning van. "I'm gonna kill ya dead, and make boots from yer hide, ya snake!"

"I would not recommend it," the Viper answered in a dazed voice, "human leather is rubbish for boots."

"Whoever said you were human?" Sniper hissed. He raised his rifle and looked through the sights at the Viper, finger drifting towards the trigger.

The Viper chuckled. "Fair enough." He raised his revolver.

There was a growl of a motorcycle engine, and both turned to see the Cajun's motorcycle careening down the hill towards them. The Viper did a double-take, and Sniper had only just enough time to process what he was seeing before Blake tackled him to the ground, out of harm's way. Voices were shouting suddenly, loud and hardly decipherable, and someone kept shouting one word over and over.

Sniper's last conscious thought was that hail was impossible. It was simply too dry.

So many questions! So many mysteries! What the hap is fuckening in this fic?!

Well, I will tell you.

Next time.

~Chaos