project janus, 𝘳𝘰𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘴¹

seven

There were few things Eli Starr loved more than beating the shit out of the rookies.

She couldn't explain it, really, but there was something about making arrogant rookies bleed that brought Eli such an intense feeling of happiness. The rookies were always so convinced that they were the best of the best—and, anywhere else, they might have been.

But Eli was the best of the best.

And that was everywhere.

Nobody except her and Fury and Hill really knew that, though, of course. Nobody knew that Fury had offered Eliyah a Level Nine position years ago, but she'd refused because she'd insisted that pounding the pavement was much more fun than working a desk job as a supervisor of SHIELD—after all, as a supervisor, you only got to file paperwork and screw with the agents beneath you. Working the field, however? You got to hand bad guys their asses on a platter.

Eliyah considered this as she surveyed the young student before her, arms crossed over her chest. The boy in question had long, black hair tied back in a ponytail, and a tattoo of two solid bands around his left bicep. He grinned slickly at Eliyah.

"So, how does this work?" His smirk was dangerously close to a leer. "Am I supposed to hit you? Because, you know, Momma taught me not to hit girls. I'm a gentleman like that."

"Why, I'm sure you are." Eliyah smiles politely at the boy as she conjured up his name in her head, trying to remember what she'd yelled out during roll call earlier that day: Lorenz, Oliver. "But this is how it works, Oliver: I yell Go, and we fight until one of us yields or loses. For example, if I kick the crap out of you but don't get you on the ground for, say, seven minutes? Within those seven minutes, you can yield at any time. First person that gets a yield or that gets their opponent down for ten seconds wins." Eliyah cracked her knuckles and then her neck. "Does that sound like something you're up for, Oliver?"

Oliver grinned. "I think so, Eliyah."

The other students in the rookie class glanced around nervously; calling an instructor by their name was a big no-no, no matter who you were or where you went to school. This was especially so in a SHIELD class, and definitely when Eliyah Starr was your teacher. After all, she had a reputation among all incoming agents. Eliyah Star was kind of a legend: total infamy.

"Well then, don't let me hold you back."

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Steve Rogers had never seen Eliyah Starr in action.

It wasn't just that he'd never really gotten the chance; he didn't care about Eliyah Starr. He didn't care if she was a good fighter or not. He didn't care who she was, what she did, or where she was. He did not care about Eliyah Starr.

But there was something about watching her fight that shifted something inside him.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and the SHIELD-standard clothes she wore were only just slightly different from the ones the others around her wore. The straps of her tank top were marked with one star each, barely noticeable, as the dark thread blended in with the dark fabric. The SHIELD symbol was stamped into her leggings on the side of the thigh, her tennis shoes plain and black as well. But something was off about her, no matter how much her clothes matched--what was it? What was different?

A wicked smirk cut across Eliyah's face, as she whispered a single word:

"Go."

The next moment was a slash and whirl of limbs and fists and everything in-between, and suddenly, the trainee that had so bravely volunteered to fight against Eliyah was on the ground, clutching his nose, blood pouring from beneath his fingers.