She had been training for weeks—months even—and was starting to think she wasn't half bad at this whole fighting business. Sure, she wasn't Bruce Lee or anything, but she could now stand in front of Darius for more than a minute without getting dropkicked into the next dimension. Progress, right? Wrong. Apparently, Patchy (yep, that's what she was calling him again, because it was either that or Captain Buzzkill) didn't agree.
She overheard Patchy chatting with Darius about "taking things up a notch," which never, ever meant anything good. Like, when someone says, "Let's take it up a notch," what they really mean is, "We're going to make your life a living hell." But hey, maybe it was just more cardio. She could handle that, right?
So, as usual, she dragged herself out of bed, hit the communal breakfast like it was her last meal—because who knew?—and shoveled down oatmeal that tasted like regret and broken dreams. The usual suspects in the cafeteria stared at her, as they always did, like she was some kind of alien life form that had crash-landed in their high-protein utopia. She ignored them, as per routine, and went to the training area. Only today, Darius was MIA. Cue ominous music.
And then, just as she was wondering if she'd get a day off, they showed up. The Staring Squad from the cafeteria, but now they weren't just creepily watching—they were armed. And not with guns or swords—oh no, these guys had come straight from the weird weapons aisle. One dude was swinging nunchaku around like he was auditioning for a Bruce Lee biopic, another had a chain whip, there was a guy with a bo staff (classic), and the last one? He rocked tonfas, because apparently, someone was feeling nostalgic for '80s cop shows.
Before she could process how absurd this was, they rushed her. And oh boy, did they go to town. They were kicking, punching, slicing, and basically treating her like the world's most tragic piñata. Her leg was on fire from a deep cut, and the blood trickling down her calf was less "action movie" and more "horror flick." "Well," she thought bitterly, "guess this is it. No more waking up in the doc's cozy care. Nope, today's the day I die—murdered by a bunch of extras from a low-budget martial arts movie."
Just when she was preparing her last words (something appropriately sarcastic, of course), it hit her—that same strange surge she felt during the test a while back. It was like someone flipped a switch in her brain labeled "Stop Being Useless". One second, she was getting her butt handed to her, and the next, bam—she was moving. Fast. Faster than she ever had before.
Nunchaku Guy swung for her head, but she ducked like she was in The Matrix. Bo Staff Guy went for her gut, but she dodged, light on her feet like some kind of ninja ballerina. They were attacking her like they were in a poorly choreographed fight scene, and she was avoiding every hit like she'd seen the script ahead of time. Was this real life? Had she suddenly become the protagonist in her own kung-fu movie?
Her leg was still throbbing—because, of course, it was—but whatever. She was dodging, weaving, and outmanoeuvring these losers like she'd been training for this her whole life. For once, instead of getting pummeled, she was the one in control. And, in between the punches and kicks, she couldn't help but think, "I'd love to see the look on Patchy's face right now."
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She didn't win, of course she didn't. She got absolutely wrecked by the cafeteria crew. But something was different this time. When she finally dragged herself off the mat, bruised and bleeding (again), she noticed Patchy—or Mr. B, if you're feeling formal—had this glint in his eye. Not the usual "you're a disappointment to the organization" look, but something bordering on…approval? Could it be?
"So," Patchy said, strolling over casually like he hadn't just watched her get pummeled by a squad of weapon-wielding psychos. "You remember that sensation? You're going to need to hone it because you've got your first rodeo in a month."
"Rodeo?" she repeated, a little too sarcastically for her own good. "You mean like, line dancing and bull riding?"
Patchy's face remained annoyingly neutral. "No. More like taking out a terrorist location or a rescue operation. You know, something simple."
Simple? W.T.F. The man said "terrorist location" and "simple" in the same breath like he was talking about a weekend brunch. Was he serious? Oh wait, of course he was. This was Patchy. The man probably considered parachuting into a war zone a light afternoon stroll.
But it's not like she could argue. She had signed up for this when she'd agreed to his deal. So, she nodded—probably looking way more confident than she felt inside—and accepted her fate. "Sure. Fine. Whatever."
And just like that, her new training began. Only this time, she wasn't just surviving Darius's beatdowns—she was fighting back. Day after day, she got faster, stronger, and…more confident, dare she say it? She was no longer the weak little punching bag from day one. No, now she could stand her ground, block, dodge, and counter. And then it happened.
One fateful afternoon, as they were sparring, she saw an opening. Darius moved in for a punch, but she was faster. She whipped around and delivered a kick—right to his midsection. The impact sent him stumbling back, his usually unshakeable self faltering for the first time. And in that moment, she felt pure joy. This was what happiness felt like—knocking a man mountain like Darius off his feet.
Panting, Darius straightened up, a hint of a smirk on his face. "Nice kick," he said, still catching his breath. "Now, what's your weapon of choice for this mission? Gotta be prepared."
Her brain immediately screamed, Guns. Duh. That was the obvious answer, right? She wasn't some medieval knight wielding a sword. Guns were straightforward, efficient, and…you know, explosive.
She shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Guns, obviously."
Patchy, who had reappeared like some spectre, raised an eyebrow. "Obvious, huh?"
She nodded. "Yeah, guns. Is that…not obvious?"
Patchy's face remained unreadable as always. "Alright, guns it is. For now."
For now? That last bit sounded ominous. But whatever, she'd deal with that later. For now, she had one month to become some kind of secret agent. No pressure.