Doctor Kyudai should have fled this way. Where...? No sign of the doctor, but there was an
emergency exit from the incinerator room.
Fossa slammed the door open, the alarm triggering--not that it could be heard over the general roar of structural collapses, shouts, and quirk discharge--and took the stairs four at a time, gasping for breath as pain flared through his ribs. Being shot did damage regardless of the armor. Hopefully it wouldn't slow him down too much. "Stop him!" somebody shouted in the distance but it wasn't clear if Fossa was the target of the shout or not.
There was an unmistakable roar of weapon fire behind him and he was certainly not the target of that.
He exploded into a loading dock, searching wildly in every direction--no motorcycles, of course there were no motorcycles in a loading dock like this, just dirty crates and sinister barrels and battered delivery vehicles. There were a half dozen candidates for theft, one tanker for liquid nitrogen or something, one bobtail, an armored car that looked slow as dirt. The glare of the floodlights highlighted every blemish; all of these vehicles had seen better days, as emphasized by oil stains on the concrete. He'd take that white pickup truck. Nothing else here was even remotely suited to a car chase. That thing at least had four wheel drive and might be capable of off-road travel. As a bonus, its driver was close at hand, meaning the keys were available.
Fossa jumped down the stairs to the main floor. "Magne told me to get a truck!" Fossa shouted as he pounced on a stunned private holding a clipboard, seizing the man's key and leaping into the driver's seat.
Driving at a hundred kilometers an hour down the streets was liable to attract attention, but at this point it didn't matter. He'd attracted all the attention he possibly could already. The sooner he got out of here, the better his admittedly slim chance of escape.
Fossa put the truck in gear and peeled out, tires squealing as he swerved to avoid a squad sprinting towards the Citadel.
There were heavy hitters in that squad, people who certainly could have stopped him if they'd put their minds to it, but as of yet they hadn't received any orders to attack fellow uniformed PLF soldiers.
The fastest way out of the city by road was a hard right through a traffic circle. Too many pedestrians... he wasted precious moments waiting for another squad to clear out of the street.
It was a straight-shot from here. Fossa put the pedal on the floor and hummed as the g-forces pushed him back against his seat. If only he'd had the chance to adjust the thing--the previous driver had been a good deal taller than Fossa and this was going to be an uncomfortable drive. The engine was deceptively powerful, though. That ought to make up for the discomfort.
The outskirts of the Citadel flew by like a dream, the growl of the tires harmonizing with the roar of the engine. Three troop transports passed him by, racing in the opposite direction.
No sign of pursuit--wait. There it was. He was barely two minutes out of the Citadel and he could spot three vehicles on his tail already, two sedans and a motorcycle. Damn. The motorcycle was going to be a problem.
The road banked gently to the right, circling a hill. Fossa remembered enough car chases to keep calm and corner smoothly even as the speedometer crept steadily towards 170 kph.
That was plenty fast, but the pursuers were definitely gaining. He didn't really know this road, but the silvery moonlight revealed a long, dark stripe advancing towards the horizon. There were at least a few more kilometers of this straight away, with trees steadily closing in on either side, their dark pillars marching past in the edges of the high-beams.
Another troop transport approached--Fossa flicked the high-beams off until he passed. There was no indication that the trucks headed into the Citadel had any idea that a high speed chase was in progress in the other lane. The straightaway drew to a close in what felt like a heartbeat.
Fossa drifted through a curve and immediately zigzagged across the lanes to avoid rear-ending a slow moving tanker ahead of him--headlights slashed at him from around another sharp corner and Fossa jerked the wheel--tires squealing in protest--to avoid a head-on collision with another pickup. A horn blared through the night, fading with the Doppler effect, and a glance in the mirrors revealed the other truck spinning into a ditch.
His breath heaved, adrenaline levels finally catching up with the situation and threatening to set Fossa's hands trembling on the wheel. That was the last thing he needed. He'd avoided the collision. What was the point in being afraid now when the danger had already passed? Stupid lizard brain...
Coming up on an intersection--which way? Straight? It looked like it might have the fewest turns, the fewest hills, at least as far as Fossa could see in the gloom, and cornering at this speed would be a trick.
A glance in the mirror showed the motorcycle outpacing all the four wheeled vehicles. There were
now three sedans after him, and one of them was some kind of sports car, fast, agile, nearly keeping pace with the bike.
Crap. He wasn't going to get away from them. Well, fighting a motorcycle and three cars worth of people was certainly better than fighting an entire army, and he had an advantage here. His vehicle was so bulky in comparison, he might be able to run the others off the road--although it would be hard because they would certainly shoot at him when they closed to that range, which would probably be in just a minute or two.
A truck up ahead braked, turning at a right angle and coming to rest like an imposing wall. A roadblock. The PLF pursuers had finally got on the radio and warned the incoming cars about Fossa. A dozen soldiers leapt out of the transport, leveling weapons at the spy approaching at breakneck speed. What did they expect him to do? Ram the thing and go out in a blaze of glory like Dark Shadow?
The transport was too low and the truck's cabin too high to try his hand at the instant convertible maneuver--wait one more second, time it just right for the maximum shock value--he slowed, slammed the wheel all the way to the right and yanked the emergency break just like Arch used to- -the g-forces rattling him and yanking his seat belt into his shoulders as the back wheels spun out with an agonized squeal--wheel back straight and brake off just before the turn finished--and pedal back on the floor. A perfect bootlegger's turn and now he was speeding towards the approaching motorcycle and pursuing sedans.
He'd timed it right. The maneuver startled his enemies, gaining precious seconds. The motorcyclist might have shot at him even as they dodged the accelerating truck. The engine was too loud and he couldn't see a thing through the tangled glare of headlights, so he could only be sure that none of the alleged bullets hit home.
The third pursuing sedan had more time to react and the driver tried to block him in, nosing into the oncoming lane, trying to force Fossa off the road.
That was not smart given how heavy this pickup was. Swerve left, then right--Fossa nicked the car ever so slightly on the edge of the front bumper and sent it careening off the edge of the road and into a tree.
One down. He could do this. The cars had lost a lot of time as they turned to pursue him. He had some breathing room again.
They were nearly back at the intersection. Fossa chose the a fork at random. There was no time to think about it. This direction just felt right, even though the pavement quality took a nose dive and Fossa bounced up and down in his seat, ribs protesting each jolt.
What road was he even on? This was north, right? There were real mountains to the north. He was headed that way in a hurry, the road turning rough and narrow without warning, the dark trees closing in like reaching hands, their long fingers grazing him as he flew by, moonlight casting their sinister shadows across the cracked pavement. It was as if a thousand thin ghosts were pointing accusing fingers at him.
The road zigzagged down a narrow bridge across a creek, around a boulder, up an incline steep enough to be hazardous in any inclement weather. Fossa struggled every second to keep up with the turns and avoid flying into a trunk or the occasional, cryptic road sign. He should have gone the other way. He couldn't see the motorcycle anymore, not with all the wild bends, but it had to be gaining quickly. A light transport truck blared past in the opposite direction. Only seconds later its horn droned angrily through the night. That couldn't be good.
Fossa couldn't possibly ditch the car and jump. The motorcycle would catch him before he managed to decelerate to a speed where throwing himself out a door wasn't likely to kill him.
So he'd run until he couldn't run anymore and then he'd fight. Flight then fight. If they wanted to kill him, they'd have to fight with everything they had. He'd pull every dirty trick the MLA ever used. If they wanted to capture him... well, tough luck. He'd rather die than learn what might be in store for him back at the Citadel. They'd never get him back in their clutch, no matter what. He'd have to keep Arashiro in mind, though. Whatever he did, she shouldn't remain imprisoned forever as a result.
If he died in a fireball crash, what would happen to her?
Irrelevant because he wasn't going to let himself die in a fireball crash.
A chance to turn left--no dice. He'd roll if he tried to turn that sharply. Too bad. The other road was wider, probably better maintained. Although, somehow it hadn't seemed all that appealing...
Twigs slapped against the windshield sharply. The headlight of the pursuing cycle cast twisting silhouettes across the rutted asphalt. There was only one car behind him now. Had the other lost them? Crashed? Hopefully that sedan wasn't somehow circling around on another road to box him in.
There was no time to worry about that.
The motorcycle gained rapidly as the road narrowed further and contorted wildly around old rocks and trees before skirting a choppy lake. With a roar the bike pulled alongside and in the moment before Fossa jerked the wheel right and nearly smashed his pursuer off the road, the face of the Krypteia agent lit up clear as day--Stain.
Of course it was Stain. Could Fossa win a fight against him? Stain had been badly hurt that night already. The healing he had received must have been extreme and rapid. It had certainly taxed the Hero Killer's stamina. Fossa's own injuries--bruised ribs at the least--were probably less serious than Stain's impairment. Fossa might win a fight against Stain, maybe... He'd won a fight against Nagant, after all. But this wouldn't be one on one. If he could lose the last car, or force them off the road, or--
A crash of breaking glass--Fossa ducked as bullets whizzed over his head. The sedan had caught up, a gunman leaning out the window. Fossa ducked as low as he could--not very low, not with the road so rough. God, this was barely paved and it threatened to give way to gravel any time.
He was forced to turn so sharply that he smashed his head against the door, his sea tbelt pulling on him roughly. His ribs ached, and his arm, too, although there was no reason for his arm to bother him. Whatever.
Stain drew along side him, fumbling for a weapon.
"Well if he wants to play that way..." Fossa hissed over the groan of the engine.
Fossa turned sharply right, nearly forcing Stain into the trees before the cycle drew back, then pumped the brakes every so briefly.
The motorcycle swerved, just barely avoiding pancaking against the pickup.
Damn. Why did Stain have such nice reflexes? The Hero Killer still took time to return to speed. The sedan had been forced back a bit, too.
The lead didn't last. The bike ate up these roads like a cat slurping cream whereas Fossa suffered more and more trouble with the potholes and razor turns.
Another intersection fast approached. Which way? Some instinct said left. Left it was.
And left was a dirt road. His instincts owed him a refund.
The car bounced and twisted as Fossa split his attention even further, now looking out for giant rocks or trees growing in his way as well as potholes and bullets--he ducked again as what little remained of his back window shattered, tiny squares of safety glass scattering all through the cabin like sequins. He was fine though, not even a graze.
Fossa fumbled for his own weapon, somehow got the safety off without looking or paying more than a token of attention, and sprayed bullets behind him.
A squeal of tires, a crunch--had that actually worked? Had the last car crashed?
Then suddenly he had no control at all, the wheel jerking wildly as the back skidded--tires shot out? The trees filled his vision and force like a giant's hand wrenched him against his seat belt. An acrid scent and a punch to the gut announced the deployment of the airbags.
He braced his feet as the truck rolled on, the dying vehicle crunching and shrieking as glass shattered and metal twisted. His head slammed back against the seat, the belt cutting into his ribs and stomach again and glass raining down in heaps as he squeezed his eyes shut.
Abruptly the screech of destruction ended and all he could hear was his desperate panting as he sucked air into his lungs. His whole body must be bruised, and his arm was still killing him.
No time for this, no time to be dizzy or disoriented. He fumbled his seat belt off, slithering past the hot air hissing from the airbags, crawling towards the passenger door, or its former location. How exactly had it been wrenched off? Some big tree branch with leverage?
Fossa tumbled face-first into a bush and stumbled to his feet, staggering drunkenly into the trees.
Damn. He certainly couldn't fight Stain like this and he'd lost his gun in the crash. Damn it damn it. Stain could just shoot him and he'd have no recourse to that--no. No, Stain wouldn't just shoot him, would he? He'd want a fight, want to slash Fossa to death rather than end his life neatly.
Tree roots were nothing more than extra dark patches in the already oppressive darkness. Fossa haphazardly staggered forward, one hand on the hilt of his knife and the other out ahead like a zombie's to keep him from smashing his aching head into any tree branches. He made as much noise as an elephant traipsing through the brush.
"Give it up Switchblade," Stain snarled from close behind. "I will see you dead tonight if it's the very last thing I do! You will pay for this, for everything! You won't get away with it this time, not you, not any of them!"
Come on, come on. A creek, a cave, somewhere to hide or stage an ambush. He'd take anything, any advantage. He'd survived the training camp attack; he could survive this.
Fossa tripped, tumbled down an embankment into a clearing--no. He was back on the road. Crap. Had he turned around, gone back the way he came, or had he just cut off a switchback?
"There you are," Stain glared down at him as Fossa dragged himself off his knees. "Time's up, kid."
Stain advanced towards him slowly, moving with the grace of a puma stalking its prey. Fossa breathed deeply, fighting the dizziness back. He would still give the Hero Killer the fight of his life. He'd give Stain scars to bear until the end of his days. Fossa wouldn't win, not like this, but he would do damage. Maybe he could get a bit of payback for Midnight by taking an ear or a finger from this bastard.
What a stupid way to die. Fossa should have started to slow as soon as the last sedan disappeared. If only he hadn't crashed and rolled...
Maybe he should have just gone home with Destro, timeline be damned. This was so... disappointing, such a sad end to his story. Just when he'd finally found hope, found something worth living for again, it was all over. So close... His doom was all the more frustrating because escape had been within his grasp. He'd almost tasted it, but almost counted for nothing. There were no trophies for second place, not in a real war.
"I'm going to take you to pieces," Stain hissed, running his tongue over the gleaming edge of his sword, "show you exactly how I feel about traitors and spies, crush you like I crushed all the fake heroes before you. Shigaraki will have his revenge, if not the achievement of his dream."
Behind Stain something snarled. The Hero Killer jerked, stepped back, and turned to the side so he could keep an eye on Fossa and the new player. Outlined in the silver moonlight, ears pricked and claws menacingly curled forward as her tail swished, the werewolf narrowed her gleaming eyes and roared, spittle flying between her scimitar teeth. "Nice try, False Flag," Stain turned his sword on her. "Fool me twice, shame on me, but that trick's not going to work a third time."
The werewolf's eyes widened with realization and she threw back her head and howled her laughter. "Oh, this is just too good!" War Dog guffawed as the bite mark on Fossa's arm burned with the memory of old agony.
Izuku fled.
A clatter of claws, the hiss of a blade, a horrified shout of realization, a nauseating tear--the spy chanced a glance back, a single frame of the brief fight forever imprinting itself on his retina--War Dog, muzzle spattered with dark blood, claws ripping through body armor and fangs sinking into Stain's throat as the Hero Killer bent over backwards in a futile attempt to escape the fatal strike.
Third time's the charm.