I was sitting in class with everyone else, listening to the interesting topic that my professor was droning on and on about. That topic, you may ask? That would be the great and oh so wonderful Sigmund Freud. Can you hear the sarcasm?
Well, as I was saying, I was sitting and listening, making some comments and questions for my participation points as well as doodling on my notes. When suddenly, the door was busted down and in walked five men in black suits with dark glasses on. The full epitome of the stereotype of the Secret Service. I snapped to attention and they zeroed in on me.
I spoke in rapid-fire Russian, my native language, “What are you doing here? I have given you explicit orders to never come here!”
They ignored my language and chose to speak in English, the language of everyone here in the class, heck, the whole friggin’ country spoke it! “You are needed.” the leader spoke in a monotone voice.
“I am in class.” I hissed out between my teeth in anger, continuing in Russian.
“This takes precedence over your little class.” The leader spoke again, harshly this time.
“You’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming.” I challenged, speaking in English for the first time. They blanched and backed away slightly.
My professor finally started to speak, “May I ask what business do you have here?” she said meekly, intimidated by the group of men.
I smirked at her, and said, “They’re going to try and drag me away kicking and screaming. But, they all know just what I’m capable of.”
“What?” a boy two rows over from me asked incredulously, “You’re just a girl! You can’t do anything to them!”
I turned silently to him, fixing my gaze upon him, the men all dropped their mouths and stared at him like he was an idiot, and indeed, an idiot he was. “Say that again.” I ordered.
He did, this time a little uncertain of the words he was speaking. I looked at the boys and said, “You want to show him?” They avidly shook their heads ‘no’ at me, I just smirked at them. “You’re going to have to in order to get me to leave with you right now.”
They were resigned to their fate and sighed, coming to my seat, in the front of the class, so it wasn’t so hard to get to me. Pulling me up by my left shoulder, their leader—the only one who was ballsy enough—easily slipped me out of my seat.
“Now, see here! You don’t have the authority to come into my classroom and man-handle my students!” my Psychology Professor said, wagging her petite body’s finger in his at the boys.
A dark-haired boy said, “Ma’am, we’re from the Strategic Homeland Intelligence and Logistics Division. That’s all the authority we need.”
Professor Sterling looked stricken and quietly made her way to her desk and sat down.
“Brian,” I said addressing their leader, “do you really want to do this?”
“You’ve left us no other choice, Agent.”
And, like so, the fight began.
Brian put me in an arm-bar. I relaxed and easily flipped him over my body, slamming him into a blonde boy, they both went sprawling into the wall behind them.
A hand landed on my right shoulder and I quickly grabbed it, whirled around and had the dirty-blonde-haired boy on the found with a broken nose.
Three down. Two to go.
It’d only been thirty seconds.
The other two boys, the dark-haired one, Levi, and then the strawberry-blonde one. They looked at each other nervously.
I made the first move, running at them, bouncing off of my desk and shooting Levi with three of my missiles from my invisible gauntlet bracelets. I landed in front of Strawberry with a death roll and cocked my head to the side.
“Huh? I’ve never seen you before, Pretty Boy. Too bad, so sad.” I said sarcastically as I grabbed his neck and put him in a sleeper-hold.
Fifty-nine seconds. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two.
He was still fighting to stay awake.
Sixty-five. Sixty-six. Sixty-seven.
He passed out. I smiled, patted my hands off and went to sit down.
“Natayla.” A voice entered my earshot. I stiffend, Russian was used.
“You’ll wish you didn’t say that name!” I spoke lowly in Russian, twirling around, my arms raised and poised for a fight, only to be dropped as soon as I saw who owned that voice. “Phil?” I spoke in awe.
He shouldn’t be alive!
“Sevda.” He said to me in Russian. ‘Love.’
“Otets.” I said, running to him and flinging my arms around his neck. ‘Father.’
My adoptive father was alive. Its been five years since I'd last seen him.