-The Desert-

Car chases were nothing like the ones displayed in theatres. Crocodile remembered sitting on his stomach, his hand in a bag of spicy chips and eyes glued to the television, licking his bright red lips as he witnessed the testosterone fueled, action-packed blockbuster from the year before take place. Cars crashing. Heavy gunfire. The glass would shatter when a bullet penetrated it, causing shards to spray out and leave the back of heads exposed to violence. Some unlucky bastard would get a bullet in the back of his head. Ooh. A car would flip into the air, perform a somersault, and then hit the asphalt with a cataclysmic bang. Bones broken, blood spilled, fuel from the car leaked out into the freeway and ignited in heavy flame. An explosion. Hellfire.

Real life car chases did not last three minutes, five minutes tops. Anyone with half a brain recognized how insufferable movies dedicated around the idea of car chases were. One can only tolerate so much action for so long before they grew tired, bored, annoyed by the repetitive actions of turning heads, the wheel of the car, around the corner. The gun only carried so many bullets, and the tank so much oil. Only an idiot would direct an hour-long car chase. Only the most desperate would extend the duration of real car chase. Even a brain dead fool would gather his tank would get him so far, and that the longer he drove, the deeper into the hole he fell. God forbid he shot a cop. Bastard might as well have drive himself off the freeway if he killed someone; would save himself a lot of trouble.

The other thing was the brain. The first several minutes of an actual car chase are similar to a cocaine high. The second the flashing lights of the police cars were spotted in the rear view, the pain disappeared. The surrounding world vanished, replaced with an exhilarating sense of being. Crocodile experienced it before. He slammed the gas, hitting seventy-eighty-ninety in seconds, smile widening as he stared forward at the long road ahead, feeling muscles tingle, fueled by a racing heart. But a cocaine high didn't last long, nor did the thrill of a high speed car chase. The world had to come crashing down at some point, and when it did the thoughts of reason, bargaining and desperation arrived.

"How fast are we going?" Doflamingo asked.

Crocodile shut his eyes, letting cold sweat run down the lids before attempting to read the speedometer. That speedometer was just above the fuel marker. There was no avoiding the taunting red arrow.

"About forty," he answered. They were just under half a tank.

Doflamingo fiddled with the safety before sighing aloud. "Get in the center lane, push to fifty."

Traffic was bad. Police cars were speeding across red lights, going in every direction except for theirs, looking for the cause of the massive shoot out in the once quiet, mostly white suburbs. This massacre, which, by now, they had to have known, was both drug and crime related. And despite being hidden amongst other cars, Crocodile knew the car they were driving stood out. He and Doflamingo could wipe the increasing cold sweat from their brows, Crocodile remaining hunched over to hide his bullet wound, and Doflamingo looking downward to keep his facial wounds hidden, but it wouldn't take much for someone to notice there was something wrong. Crocodile huffed. "Do you think they know?"

"Only one way to find out," Doflamingo replied. Crocodile could see the deadly shadows formed underneath Doflamingo's eyes. "How much longer till we reach the café?"

Crocodile sighed. He was ready to roll his eyes in annoyance, but the act of his lungs exhaling was enough to cause a painful spasm from inside. "I already told you; about an hour," he answered through clenched teeth.

"It's been at least twenty," Doflamingo commented.

He bit down. If they survived this, Crocodile would need to visit a dentist. His stomach felt like it was melting, and the back of his mouth was acidic. It was as though the bullet tore a small hole into the pouch, resulting in slow, but increasingly insurmountable pain. For the first few minutes of the ride it was bearable. Crocodile could ignore it. Whenever they passed sirens, the pain dulled. It became less of a needle digging underneath his nail, a crack of a whip against the gums, lightening tunneling into his eye, and more of a nasty blow to the stomach. But then they would hit traffic, or Crocodile's subconscious made the mistake of assuming their eventual safety, and the pain would return. The blow turned into a nasty hole leaking stomach acid, and that acid poured and burned his innards. His intestines were on fire, kidneys red hot and swelling.

The signs above were blurry green and white boxes filled with black and white nonsense. They were abstract art Crocodile couldn't understand, not without blinking several times in order to get the shapes to change into organized words. He saw the names form, the routes and the highway numbers, and realized he passed the desired exit.

"We're taking the next exit," Crocodile announced. "After that it should only take about half an hour, if I maintain a good speed."

It would be at least forty to fifty minutes, at best.

"Goody," Doflamingo said with a lick of sarcasm. Crocodile wanted to kick him out of the car. What good was Doflamingo? They were nearly home free. Did Crocodile really need that added protection?

He turned the wheel sharply to the right, wincing as the car rolled over a breaker. The pain was unreal. It gathered in the back of his throat and made him want to vomit it all out. Crocodile was starting to consider it. It would mean less acid pouring out of that pesky hole.

"Tick-tock," Doflamingo sang through a pained smile. Crocodile edged them on to the shoulder that would get them away from the city, and hopefully out of Whitebeard's grasp.

How much longer until Whitebeard or his men informed the police of the issue? The police could be bought. That was another thing that was never brought up in the movies: the police abusing their power and chasing the wrong criminals. Crocodile wasn't going to pretend he was innocent of any crimes, but as far as he was concerned the acts he committed were nothing compared to what Whitebeard did. Crocodile sold stolen drugs, but it was Whitebeard and his men that were controlling a drug war that stretched across two countries.

"Please tell me your café has a first aid kit?" Doflamingo asked. He wiped his good eye. Crocodile caught sight of Doflamingo's hand, wet with precious fluid and shaking from lack of it. "Or at least a bottle of something strong?"

"A few," Crocodile answered. He told himself Doflamingo was worse off. The hole oozing blood and bodily fluids? Did it really compare to the hell he put Doflamingo through? If Doflamingo could do it, then so could he. "Don't expect me to patch up your wounds once we get there."

Doflamingo chuckled. "Oh, don't worry about me. You worry about yourself."

Crocodile kept his eyes on the road, holding his lips together as he heard Doflamingo adjust his seat all the way back. He was back to fantasizing about kicking Doflamingo out of the door. The sirens were long gone. Was Whitebeard gone as well? Crocodile rubbed is chapped lips, feeling the ends of his eyes collect water as the clouds that covered the city were replaced with the heat of the sun, the dust of the earth.

"Doflamingo."

"Don't worry," Doflamingo said, raising a hand up and waving the gun against the air. "I'm listening. You give the word, and I'll be up and unleashing the blood orgy of your dreams." His hand swayed from side to side, and Crocodile, knowing just how fast they were going, how much damage Doflamingo retained from their fight, was impressed that it kept so high, that the gun was pointed straight up; cocked and loaded. It was just like Doflamingo to do that. They were barely out of the city, and the bastard was showing off the gun like it was some newly bought present.

It really was hard to deny that there wasn't something impressive about that level of confidence.


Sometime after minute twenty, a signal went off in Crocodile mind. It was stacked in-between the layers of thoughts and nerves that scratched against his brain like nails on a chalkboard. It started low, a mere suggestion, not even that…but a fear. A thought built on fear and worry because things were going so perfectly, so perfectly well that Crocodile needed something to worry about.

You're dying.

Crocodile put it aside and pushed his foot against the gas pedal. They were low on gas, but they were so close. Just another twenty minutes away. It was the heat getting to him, the lack of clouds and the sun beating down on the back of his head. His hair was glued to his neck and face, trapping all that hot air from escaping. The more Crocodile thought about it, the more convinced he was it was fear trying to control him. Doflamingo was passed out, barely alive, but still alive, and although Crocodile was in pain he managed to persuade himself that it wasn't as bad as before. Really, it wasn't.

But the signal persisted, crawling above Crocodile's numbed leg, his stiff shoulder and filled bladder, suggesting to him that the decrease of pain might be a sign, that his racing heart, tired muscles and speckled might all be correlated.

Am I dying? Crocodile began to wonder.

Their speed began to slow. The threat wasn't as high as it was when they were still in the city, but Crocodile's bullet wound turned into an uncomfortable simmer. It was tolerable. The heat from the sun was more upsetting and it caused his vision to shake and blur. As far as pain went, things could certainly be worse, and that worried Crocodile.

He licked his bottom lips. His dry tongue was soft and leathery against the tender, flaky chapped skin. The sore flicker made his eyes twitch. The back of his dry throat alerted him he was in desperate need of water. The thought of water made him eager to relieve himself. The signal continued to persist.

He needed a break. Just a few minutes. A moment to stretch his legs. He needed something to hide behind. Crocodile checked the rear view and saw a minivan trailing behind them. Judging by the make, it was safe to assume that it wasn't Whitebeard, certainly not the police. He turned on the car's lights and drove off to the side, coming to a slow when his vision was capable of making out a large figure in the distance. A boulder or rock? Crocodile didn't care.

He hit the brakes harder than he intended. The seatbelt pushed against his ribcage, sending a shockwave of spasms across his body. A rush of adrenaline swam down his spine. It dulled the pain in his stomach, became numbing as it spread into his limbs. The tingle at the ends of his fingers was ominous, like it was the last soothing sensation he'd ever feel.

Next to him, Doflamingo turned on his side, groaning from the rough brake. "What's going on? Why'd we stop?"

The signal persisted. "I need to piss," Crocodile answered him, slowly pulling out from the seat. He struggled unlocking the door. His arms were sticky with sweat. His clothes glued to his body with cold wet adhesive. The heat between his legs was a disgusting swamp. Crocodile wanted to kick the door open, but lacked the necessary strength.

Another car was spotted in the distance. Like the one before, nothing about it felt threatening. Crocodile looked down at the asphalt, could weigh out the burden of his full bladder, combined with the heat of the sun and lack of shade, and debated if he had the strength to hold it in until the car passed.

Are you serious, he thought to himself, but Crocodile already knew the answer to that.

He turned and saw Doflamingo peering up at him, the shade of his hand covering his battered face. Crocodile distracted himself by removing his coat, sliding the damp cloth off of his shoulders before tossing it into the car, next to Doflamingo.

"Give me a gun," he said, waving with his stump. A small handgun flew right out of the car, flipping high into the air before landing several feet away from Crocodile. He was too tired to complain. Crocodile walked over and picked the gun up and was relieved to see that the safety was on. Very little is required to pull a trigger.

Doflamingo held tightly to the fur. "You think there's anything in the trunk?" He asked Crocodile. "I could really use some water…lord o' lordy, do I feel like shit. Man, Croc, you really had to lay it on thick with me, didn't you?"

Crocodile wandered over to a small boulder. A rock big enough to hide behind, but small enough for him to see have some vision when he'd squat.

He was hesitant to do it. Crocodile glanced and saw Doflamingo still holding on to the coat. It was getting late, but the heat persisted. The dry, unbearable heat. Was Doflamingo really cold? Crocodile played with the button.

"We're back."

"What?" Crocodile asked into the wind. His shaking hand hovered over the zipper. Crocodile fought the anxiety and looked over his shoulder, spotting Doflamingo in the driver's seat, covered in the coat. So he was cold.

"We always keep coming back here." Crocodile could barely make out the words. The wind was picking up. It would get cold soon. If Doflamingo was cold now…

"What the hell are you talking about?" Crocodile yelled back. A cold shiver ran down his wet spine. He could feel the patches of his clothes that were soaked in his sweat, making him shiver. He needed to piss. The wind dries some of his messy hair and lifted it off. His vision blurred again, turning the dark strands into something alive. They curled and twisted under the wind's influence, reached out to Doflamingo who was curling and becoming part of the coat and the car.

"Hmm, the desert. We always keep coming back to the desert. For once, it'd be nice if we went somewhere nicer, greener," Doflamingo said. Was it even Doflamingo? Crocodile squint his eyes, trying to fix them on the dark mass spread inside the car, the single droplet of gold at the center. "You ever see the ocean, Croc? I did. Where I lived. I was a short walk away from one."

It's not that big of a deal. He thought he saw blood. The coat was expensive. Everything Crocodile bought was expensive. The hook, the rings, the shoes. What type of fur did he and Doflamingo soil? Mink? Was it mink? Crocodile couldn't remember. All there was was the car, the hodgepodge of red and yellow and black and green. Those colors were rotting. Crocodile stumbled back. He reached out. Nothing. His bladder relaxed and the tip of his middle finger touched against the smooth, warm mineral of the boulder. A terrible thought arose:

We're dying. We're not going to make it.

"Crocodile?"

His vision came to. "What?"

Doflamingo rested a shoulder on the door of the car, looking at him. Crocodile couldn't tell what look he was making. He was too far away. "What now?" Doflamingo pointed a finger and waved it between the two of them.

Crocodile heaved. His ribs stretched outwards, and he was welcomed with a whimper, a memory of pain. "What about it?" he asked.

"Well, you have a gun. I have a gun. We're in the middle of the desert," Doflamingo began. Crocodile rolled whatever saliva remained in his mouth and swallowed. Doflamingo didn't sound nearly as close to death as he did. "I imagine Spider Café is going to stick out like a sore thumb out here…?"

An offensive examination, and now there was nothing left to swallow. "You want to off me now?" Crocodile asked, feeling the cool of the metal as he slid a finger down the side of his gun.

If Doflamingo decided to turn on him now, it was over. Doflamingo had the car, had the advantage of being in a vehicle that offered some protection. All Crocodile had was a large rock. He could barely stand up, his eyes functioning without his vision mixing the colors, the shapes disintegrating.

"No, I want to know what we'll do from here," Doflamingo answered. He opened the car door and crawled out, leaned his back clumsily against the car before attempting to force a grin on his pained face. "We're more than capable of working together, you see. Look what we can achieve together."

Was it intended to be taken as a joke? Crocodile wanted it so, but knew it was far from the truth. Doflamingo, barely able to stay on his two feet, bloodied and covered in bruises, bones broken and his eye permanently damaged, was acting as though everything had fallen perfectly into place. We can work together? Well, who the fuck cares? Crocodile certainly didn't. And Doflamingo sleeping in a car while he drove their asses out in the middle of a desert could hardly be called teamwork. As usual, he was stuck dragging useless little Doflamingo around.

"We're on the run from a drug lord," was all Crocodile chose to say.

Doflamingo raised a finger at him. "We're still alive," he said.

"Barely," Crocodile replied with a stiff shrug.

"I still have people up north," Doflamingo persisted. Did he forget he lost at least three men to Kaido and the police? Was Doflamingo incapable of caring? Was he that obsessed, love struck over some unimaginable power fantasy? "Once things cool down, and after Kaido gives up on the chase… Crocodile, we can still take–"

It was too much. "After the bullshit we've put ourselves through, and everything you had the fucking nerve to say to me in the basement; you still want to drag me further back into your hell?" Crocodile seethed. The front teeth were clenched so tight pain shot up his gums. He clenched the gun, his arm shaking-threatening to point it right at Doflamingo's messed up head.

Doflamingo saw, and he turned his head slightly before falling into a small pout. "Don't be like that, Croc."

It was like talking to a damn wall! So frustrating, pointless, and it made Crocodile want to throw his bloody gun and just give up. Doflamingo. What the hell was he? How could he keep going, after all of this? Was this love, psychotic obsession, boredom, a demented mixture of both?

Crocodile sighed. Blood poured from his wound as he exhaled, and the ends of his eyes clouded with small tears. "Doflamingo, listen," he said with pained, dying words. He stared deep, as best as he could, into the younger man's dull blue eye. His throat tightened as he faced the sad fact that whatever he would say would amount to nothing. He already knew it was pointless trying to reason, but still he spoke; "I don't want anything to do with you, Dofla–"

The roar of engines echoed in the winds. Both men turned to the origins of the frightening sound, back in the direction they had started from, and saw something rolling forward. A series of cars were driving at uniform speed, with one or two slowing down just so that the driver could rev up the engine and let out another warning cry. It wasn't to alert anyone in front of them, but rather to call themselves to attention. Doflamingo turned himself around, still holding on to the door as his knees buckled. It took a few seconds for Crocodile's vision to adjust and for his eyes to lock on to the flags attached to several of the cars. His body shook.

It wasn't over. In a last act of gaining control, to prove a point and assert his authority, Whitebeard sent his men out to chase after them. No, to chase after Crocodile. They probably didn't know Doflamingo existed. Doflamingo's men were thoughtless casualties, meat blocks that got in the way of capturing their intended target. This was the old man's last chance, Crocodile could tell by the number of cars and the massive dust cloud they left behind that the bastard wanted him bad. Oh, and there was a good chance the old man was in one of those cars right now, red faced and scowling and rubbing his forehead, thinking up the right way to end Crocodile's life.

"Fuck," Crocodile mouthed. He had to think. His options were limited. Whatever decision he made, chances were it would be the most important decision of his life.

I could race to the car. The car Doflamingo was leaning all over. Oh, but Doflamingo had his hand on the door, and he had that sinister, frightening animal of a look about him that told Crocodile he wasn't in the mood to try and take down an armada. Crocodile swore under his breath. No, Doflamingo would surely betray him now. They were both in terrible physical condition. He was dying, and if Doflamingo was smart enough he's drive off and leave him in the dust. Better yet, alert them of Crocodile's position. Get on Whitebeard's good side while he still had the chance. That's what Crocodile would do in this situation. It was the best decision he never bothered thinking about until right now. If he wanted to get out of here, he'd have to shoot Doflamingo, betray him before Doflamingo had the chance to do the same to him! It was his best chance at freedom!

Crocodile squeezed the harness. His arm trembled. Was it…he was so numb right now. Was there another option?

Yes. He could stay right where he was. Even if he did drive off, chances were some of those cars would follow. If Crocodile chose to stay behind, face his maker, at least he could go out the way great men before him did. Crocodile could take out as many of those bastards as he could while wearing gold rings, silk ascots, and recently polished leather shoes. He could go out knowing he rustled the big man so well that Whitebeard had no choice but to call for his men to chase after him again. Best of all, he could die knowing he left a mark. Crocodile jacked his head up, saw Doflamingo ahead of him, and felt a desperate urge to cry out. He didn't want to die… He could demand Doflamingo be a man and help him. They'd both die, but then, that was what Doflamingo planned all along. To either be in absolute control, or for them to go out together. Was Doflamingo was demented enough to comply with such an outrageous demand?

Crocodile blinked, and when he opened his eyes saw that the cars were no longer a mirage in the distance, but less than several seconds away. The entire desert was filled with their scream of the cars. The wind echoed the flags fluttering in the wind; showing off that large, white grin that resembled the powerful drug lord.

Crocodile had to decide quickly. He had to be prepared for the worst. Make a decision. Hurry. Now. This isn't a game!

One choice. Make it now.

Run…or stay?