Tòumíng yelled at the top of his lungs, his voice echoing through the factory corridors. "HAO! HAO HANG! WHERE ARE YOU?!"
Nothing. Just the distant sounds of alarms still blaring, footsteps of security personnel searching for escaped prisoners, the general chaos of a facility that had just experienced a major breach.
He looked around frantically, trying to spot any sign of Háo Héng. The man had run when Tòumíng told him to, but where had he gone?
Then Tòumíng heard it. A faint sound. Shaking. The unmistakable ooze of absolute spinelessness emanating from... a broom closet.
Tòumíng limped over, dragging his broken leg, and knocked on the door with his good hand.
"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!" Háo Héng's voice was muffled but hysterical. "I'M ARMED! I HAVE A WEAPON! I'LL USE IT!"
Tòumíng thought he might have grabbed a gun from somewhere and immediately gestured for Xuān Láng to move back, putting some distance between them and the potentially armed landlord.
"Háo, it's me! It's Tòumíng!"
"HOW DO I KNOW TÒUMÍNG HASN'T BEEN REPLACED BY A GUY WHO CAN MIMIC VOICES?! BLACK HAWK PROBABLY HAS TECHNOLOGY LIKE THAT! OR MAGIC! OR FACE-STEALING DEMONS!"
Tòumíng pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed deeply. His Naked Gun buff had worn off. His body was a wreck of broken bones and pain. And he was dealing with this.
"I'm opening the door," he announced.
"NO! WAIT! I'LL SHOOT!"
Tòumíng pulled the door open anyway.
Háo Héng stood in the cramped broom closet, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, clutching a push broom like it was a sword. The moment he heard the door open, he swung wildly—the broom sweeping through empty air in a completely unthreatening arc.
The momentum of the swing threw him off balance. He fell backward, landing on his ass among the cleaning supplies with a yelp.
"We need to find a way to leave," Tòumíng said, helping Háo to his feet. "Now."
Háo Héng brushed himself off, trying to recover some dignity. "The vents! We could use the vents again!"
Tòumíng looked at Xuān Láng—all 366 pounds of him—and grimaced. "Hissssssh... I don't know if ONE of us could fit."
Xuān Láng's face went red with indignation. "Are you calling me FAT?!"
"Yes. But that's semantics. We need to GET OUT. Come on!"
They started moving—less "running" and more "desperate limp-jogging"—Tòumíng dragging his broken leg, Xuān Láng wheezing with every step, Háo Héng bringing up the rear.
They rounded a corner and ran directly into a squad of guards emerging from a side hallway.
A scared support staff member, one of the technicians from the observation room—pointed directly at Tòumíng with a trembling finger. "IT'S HIM! AND HE'S ARMED!"
The guards raised their weapons immediately.
"GOGOOGOGOGO!" Tòumíng yelled.
Before the guards could fire, Xuān Láng did something unexpected. He scooped Tòumíng up in a bridal carry—one arm under his knees, one arm under his back—and started running at a speed that should have been impossible for someone his size.
"WHAT—" Tòumíng was shocked. A 366-pound man could move like this?
"I was... starting... defensive line... in football!" Xuān Láng gasped between heavy breaths, his face already turning purple from exertion. "College! Twenty years ago! Muscle... memory!"
Behind them, gunfire erupted. Bullets ricocheted off walls and pipes as they ran.
Háo Héng was falling behind, his lesser physical condition showing. "WAIT FOR ME! DON'T LEAVE ME! I'M TOO PRETTY TO DIE ALONE!"
They burst through a door that led to the factory's exterior parking area. Fresh air hit them. Darkness—it was still night outside.
They didn't see anything at first. Just empty parking spaces, abandoned vehicles, the industrial wasteland surrounding the factory.
Then—headlights. A car pulling around the corner. Security patrol.
Xuān Láng tried the nearest vehicle's door. Locked. The car alarm immediately started blaring.
WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP.
"Fuck it," Tòumíng said. He punched the driver's side window with his good hand.
The glass shattered. His knuckles split open, blood streaming from multiple cuts, but the door was now accessible.
He unlocked it from the inside and gestured frantically. "Xuān Láng! Start the car! Hot-wire it or whatever!"
"I don't know how to hot-wire cars! That's a movie thing!"
"TRY ANYWAY!"
Xuān Láng squeezed himself into the driver's seat—it was a tight fit, the steering wheel pressing into his substantial belly—and started fumbling under the dashboard.
Tòumíng and Háo Héng tried to get Xuān Láng's considerable mass fully into the back seat. They pushed. They pulled. They repositioned.
"I'M STUCK! MY HIPS WON'T FIT!"
"SUCK IT IN!"
"I'M TRYING!"
Tòumíng gave up halfway through the attempt. "Fuck this. I'm getting in the passenger seat. Háo, you drive!"
"WHAT?! I CAN'T DRIVE! I'M TOO STRESSED!"
"HAUL ASS ANYWAY!"
Somehow—through methods that defied physics and logic—Xuān Láng got the car started. The engine roared to life.
Háo Héng climbed into the driver's seat, his hands shaking on the steering wheel.
"What's the speed limit on this road?" he asked, his voice trembling.
"FORGET THE SPEED LIMIT! DRIVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
Háo Héng floored it. The car lurched forward, tires squealing, fishtailing slightly before he regained control.
Behind them, multiple Black Hawk vehicles pulled out of the factory grounds, their headlights illuminating the fleeing sedan.
They hit the main road. Háo Héng was swerving erratically, his panic making his driving even more dangerous than the pursuit.
Tòumíng looked back at the pursuing cars—at least four of them, gaining ground.
"I'll stop them," he said, opening the passenger door while the car was still moving at high speed.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" Xuān Láng screamed from where he was wedged awkwardly in the back.
Tòumíng leaned out, his hand reaching for the pavement rushing past below. If he could touch the road, activate Stone Crusher, create a pit or obstacle—
The car hit a bump. Tòumíng's precarious position shifted. His grip on the door frame slipped.
He fell.
Rolled across the pavement at 60 mph, his body tumbling like a ragdoll, his already-broken bones screaming in protest, road rash tearing new injuries across his skin.
He came to a stop in a ditch beside the road, groaning.
"KEEP FUCKING DRIVING!" he yelled at the retreating sedan, hoping Háo Héng could hear him.
The pursuing cars split. Two continued after the sedan. Two peeled off to chase Tòumíng.
He pushed himself up, limping and hopping on his one good leg, heading toward where he'd hidden the motorcycle in the marshland.
The bike was still there—covered in mud but functional. He threw himself onto it, started the engine, and took off through the trees.
Branches whipped past. He ducked one that would have decapitated him, the bark scraping across his helmet—wait, he wasn't wearing a helmet. The branch just missed his skull by inches.
He weaved through the forest, the motorcycle's superior maneuverability giving him an advantage over the cars trying to follow. Eventually, he broke through to the highway.
And there—ahead on the road, was the blue sedan.
Xuān Láng was practically hanging out the back window, his considerable mass trying to escape the too-small vehicle, his face a mask of absolute terror.
"LINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG! JIEEEEEEEEEEEEE! SHANNNNNNNNN!" he was screaming—the names of his daughters. "I'M SORRY! YOUR FATHER WON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID LIKE THIS AGAIN! I PROMISE! I'LL BE GOOD! I'LL STOP CHEATING PEOPLE! I'LL GO TO CHURCH! ANYTHING!"
Háo Héng was having a full-on panic attack in the driver's seat. The speedometer showed 100 km/h and climbing. He was swerving wildly, overcorrecting every time the car drifted, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
Xuān Láng was barely holding on, gravity and momentum trying to pull his bulk out of the vehicle entirely.
Tòumíng pulled alongside on the motorcycle and yelled over the wind and engine noise:
"I LEAVE FOR ONE MINUTE AND Y'ALL ARE ALREADY LIKE THIS?!"