Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise with one thing on her mind: sentence count (Hint: rhymes with Six)

If you’re a new Reader (or a regular Reader who might want to refresh their memory) here’s an opportunity to read the story Tom and I are writing from the beginning. The link to ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘.

Prompt word:

REMOTE

I came to on my back, covered in girl and had a flashback to a dormitory-morning from my road-less-travelled college phase when a girl from my Intro-Anthro class walked in with two coffees, one donut and a small pipe of hashish; at the present moment, unlike the morning in a distant dorm, all I had to go on were a bunch of 8×10 still-shots of memory:  riding in the back of a speeding van, excessively bright lights, and, finally, the vehicle tipping over and sliding to a stop.

My eyes opened, (only the one time, as opposed to the continuous, seamlessly-repeating-sequence that some drugs think you’ll love), and I took stock of the interior of the old van that most recently served as our getaway car: above me, a girl-shaped pile of arms and legs and breasts and such, to my left, Rue hanging upside-down from the empty space where her door used to be and the ‘…and Friends’ limey who was kinda playing the concierge to our misadventures this third night in London.

Before I could say,  ‘What the bloody hell’, (I took a certain professional pride in my ability to blend in with the locals, even when they had glowing arms and a total crush on the woman I was assigned to protect), I heard my boss, Lou Caesare, putting a footnote to my instructions to make certain no harm comes to Rue DeNite, ‘Assess and attack, the best defense is a dead opponent’.

As time returned to one-second-equals-one-sixtieth-of-a-minute, I heard: Rue laughing as she jumped to the street, that Moonshadow guy asking her about something I couldn’t see, a really strange sound approaching the van and, from my prisoner-ette a surprisingly lucid, “My name is Isla Sora, implant remote number 314159…”

At that moment, the back door of the van disappeared, so I unlocked my prisoner’s ankle ‘cuffs and pulling her along, got out and stood on reasonably-solid pavement where the English guy was pointing towards the back-passenger door of a fairly nice SUV; the source of the strange noise turned out to be a fricken rocket launcher and overhead we were treated to a midnight sun that made a noise like a big-assed ceiling fan.

I felt two things as I moved towards our newest getaway car, my Glock pressing against my back instead of it’s holster and disappointment that I let my prisoner get the drop on me while still in handcuffs… total déjà vu from that college morning so long ago.