Zulu: Ally

I came to in a dark room, my hands cuffed behind my back. My eye felt swollen from where the gun hit me. Above me stood the man in the ski mask, clutching a machete. Off to the side stood the man in the baseball.

 

"Had a nice nap now have we, princess?"

 

"Wh-where am I?" I stutter.

 

"Pffffttt... I'd say the middle of nowhere, South Africa, twenty metres or so under ground level? No one can hear ya scream for shit if that's what you're gonna do..."

 

"Who.... who are you?"

 

"I'll be the one asking the questions here, kitten... but I guess you should know, seein' as you'll be here till you're no longer deemed a threat-"

 

"A threat? A threat to who?"

 

"Us. Not gonna lie to you, sweets, this here? Golden for us. None of your costumed little shits can come find you here. You're ours. Forever."

 

The man in the cap stifles a chuckle. Sick bastard....

 

"Care to elaborate? You couldn't be less vague if you tried." I spit at him.

 

*Sigh* "Us? We work for a guy... calls himself Mordred. Doubt you know of us. We barely know ourselves... heh! All we know? Mordred's a righteous outlaw Robin-Hood type. Hell, he fits out morals like a glove!"

 

"Those morals being?"

 

"The corrupt shouldn't rule! The rulers of our great homeland, the good ol' US of A... corrupt pile of shit if you ask me. You? You help the pigs hunt the free! The ones who dare overthrow the corrupt system!"

 

"Soooo... you're just locking me here for the rest of my life so this 'Mordred' fucker can attempt to singlehandedly, and likely fail to, capsize America?"

 

"You're right, all except for one small thing... Mordred ain't gonna fail! Heheheheheheheh!!"

 

I roll my eyes as the lunacy of this group's ideals. Radicalism at its rock-bottom worst. The man in the cap removes his cap and flops it onto a crate. He exhales deeply, crack his knuckles and flips his hair. He reaches into his hip holster and pulls out a gun. He clicks the hammer and performs a little wild-west-like spin. I nearly shit myself. This isn't how I'm gonna die, twenty feet under, miles from civilization.

 

But no, that's not how. At least not yet. He points the barrel at the machete-toting barbarian in front of me and without blinking or letting the other man at least let out a gasp, a loud pop echoes throughout the room and the man's brain matter paints the walls. He falls down dead, clutching his knife still. The other man walks out briefly and returns with a flak vest, cargo pants and other military gear in hand.

 

"Put this on. They'll recognize you too quickly in what you're wearing right now. I'll leave the room if you like."

 

I nod, and he leaves. I change into the heavy fitting clothes, much bulkier than my Zulu armour for damn sure. It's uncomfortable, but it might save my life. I let him back in.

 

"As you can tell by now, I'm not with these hooligans. In any way, shape or form."

 

"...So you're a turncoat?"

 

"Can't say I am. I'm here on official business, but you, Zulu? What are you doing here? Gotham could use you right about now anyway..."

 

"How do you-"

 

"Ah! Yes, allow me to introduce myself!"

 

I'm a little freaked out by this guy, I'm gonna admit.

 

"Yes, please do..."

 

"Colonel Hal Jordan, United States Air Force, covert CIA agent and all around badass. Pleased to make your acquaintance, and I'm absolutely, one hundred percent sure the feeling's mutual!"

__________________________________________________________________________

 

Done