The Academy

Chapter 1: Not a Bloody Brit

*©2014 This book and all it's characters, plot and ideas belong to @caped-commodore. Please do not reproduce, copy or display without expressed permission from the author, in writing.*

____________________________________________________________

Chapter 1: Not a Bloody Brit

The alley is dark. Really dark. So dark that I don't even notice the three men 'till one of them bumps into me. Looking around, I see that they have me surrounded. With my back to the wall, my eyes tell me that there's one to each side and another in front of me. Immediately, my Agency trained brain starts to construct several different plans, four of which ended with at least two of them either dead or seriously injured.

Whoa there, brain. Let's just stick to knocking them out.

"Hey, baby, you lost? Need us to show you the way? Or maybe you want us to show you a good time?" Man 1 says, with a leer that I'm not entirely comfortable with. Maybe we can knock them out and kick them in the balls?

"No thanks, I know where I'm going," I reply. Maybe that'll work?

"We don't think you do, sexy. Come with us," Man 2 says, nearly falling as he moves closer to me. Damn, it didn't.

At the same time, Man 3 says, "Hey, she hash an acshent, dunn't she? Wha' ish it?"

Great, at least two of them are drunk.

"Listen, boys, you don't want to do this. Seriously, I'm the wrong person to pick on in a dark alley, late at night," Or is it early morning? I look down and check my watch. Shit, is it 5am already?

"You in a rush girly? Somewhere to be? Perhaps an A-ca-de-my?" Man 1 asks, stretching out the syllables in 'academy'.

"Actually, yes. I'd love to stay and chat, but I have to go. Places to be, people to see. You get it, right?" I say, hopefully. How does he know about the Academy? He's opened his mouth to reply to my voiced question when I make a dash to the left, betting on Man 2's currently problematic reflexes to give me an advantage. I make it past him, but just as I think I'm home free, Man 1, who's faster than he looks, grabs my arm and shoves me against the wall.

"You're not going anywhere, you British bitch. We have plans for you. He has plans for you," he says.

"Oh. My. God. I am not British. The accent is South African, characterized by the fact that it's a goddamn mix between an American and English accent. I'm so sick and tired of this. The Americans think you're British, the English think you're American. I'm so damn sick of it!" I stomp my foot. Ok, so maybe I'm a little touchy about my accent. And maybe I ranted a bit. To be fair to them, mine is more British than American. But still, it makes me so angry!

"Who fucking cares?" Man 1 says, drawing me back to my current situation. "Just come with us." It seems he's the leader of this little party. He gestures to the other two and they start towards me, arms extended.

"Me. I fucking care!" I exclaim as I knock Man 2's arms away from me and lightly shove him against the wall. Crack! He falls to the floor. Maybe that wasn't as light as I thought. Man 3 tries to tackle me, but I dodge and shove him to the wall as well, with similar results.

"Are you Shuperman?" He asks, before he passes out. I'm dusting my hands off on my pants and when I'm suddenly rammed from behind.

"Oof!" The air escapes my lungs at a tremendous speed. I land on the cold, wet pavement. It's really hard, too. I roll over so I'm on my back, just in time to see Man 1 getting up after struggling off of me. Taking advantage of his temporarily vulnerable state, I lift my legs and use both of them to kick him in the stomach. I get up, and notice his mouth flapping open and closed like fish on land. Oh, he's winded, I realize. Thinking fast, I take my phone out of my pocket and snap a quick photo of his face. I put it back and swiftly run away.