Standing by the fire exit is one of those matte-black stormtrooper goons. He’s got his baton out, the blue electricity dancing along the rod like a caffeinated snake.
"ID. Now," he barks.
My voice drops into that tone that usually means someone is about to get a concussion. “I don’t show my papers to guys who dress like mall-cops."
The visor steps forward, his boots heavily stomping on the gravel, like that will shiver-me-timbers. “I said, ID.”
I flash him my middle finger. “I’ll see your ID and raise you a JK.”
“You’re refusing? Then down on the ground. Hands behind your head."
“What about a third acronym?” I ask, not moving. “How do you feel about a KO?”
He lunges—fast, but he’s fighting a guy who’s fueled by adrenaline and Christina Aguilera.
This is what a girl wants.
I duck under the first pass of the shock-baton, the ozone smell singeing my nose hairs, then come up swinging.
My fist connects with the side of his helmet.
CRACK.
Holy hound dogs, talk about a mistake.
My knuckles scream, but his head snaps back. I don't have a second to recalibrate.
I wrap my hand around the wrist of his weapon arm and twist until I hear that satisfying pop of the joint. He gives a muffled yell and tries to knee me in the gut.
Nope-a-dope.
The blow lands on my thigh, spinning me around. I slam face-first into the rock wall. The sound of his baton fizzing comes close to my ear.
Asshole.
I rear back full force. He lands flat on his back with me like a toppled turtle on top.
“Eat shell, asshole.” I lift up slightly then slam down again. And again.
Ooh, something just snapped. I bet it’s his ribs. A couple more upside down body slams, then I flip over, pull his visor and go to punch.
Wait, my fucking hand is busted to shit. I guess I’ll have to take him out like a Conclave pussy. Picking up the baton, I fry his ass.
"And stay down," I huff, shaking out my throbbing hand. "Dickmunch."
The music changes. Nice one. I do a hip wiggle.
Yep, I’ve got the moves like Jagger.
I drag the twat behind some handy, and very spiky, bushes, then dust myself off.
“Mr Larsen…”
The voice cuts through the darkness. I swivel on a heel, ready for some more KO action.
But, shit.
It’s the dean.
