Fadel was right, they shouldn't have split up. Bison veered left, shrugging off his overshirt and abandoning it, hoping it'd throw his pursuers off. Behind him he could hear the clamour of the men chasing him. He didn't know if they were cops, gang members, both, it didn't matter. All he knew was they'd spotted him after their last job, and someone had pulled a gun. Bison skidded around a group of people and ran flat out for the road. His breath was coming quick, heart racing, and he hadn't run this fast since his last physical assessment. There, in front of him. A classic car, idling at the curb but not parked. Those cars didn't have automatic locks, and if someone was inside, the side door would probably open. Bison flung himself at it at full speed and pulled the handle, launching himself into the passenger seat. "Drive!" he snapped at the owner, and before he had the chance to get his gun out and make it a real threat, the guy in the drivers seat had spun the wheel and pressed accelerate. There was a baffling, gut churning moment when it felt like gravity had changed, when Bison went from mostly upright to sprawled over the seat and centre console, half on this stranger's shoulder. Outside the windows, streetlamps and neon signs becoming meaningless blurs as the car gained speed.
DRIVE!
