Down in Flames

By: Jillian

Part One – In Which There is An 'Accident'.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own anything. Although, Nigel does visit me quite often... (Heh Heh.) Jay Firestone and some other guy, I forget whom...

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Author's Note: Okay, this is the story I was telling you all about. This one's my baby, so be nice! I told you all in my bio that I wrote this before I even knew what fan fiction was. This is my Relic Hunter Fic. It doesn't have a good title... Oh, well. Here goes!

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"Boy, I'm glad that class is over," said Nigel Bailey. "How many tests do you think we finished grading?"

"Probably over a hundred and fifty," Sydney Fox replied, looking at the young man next to her. "I lost count after that."

"You've got to stop making your class so popular," said the handsome dirty blonde-haired, blue-eyed Brit said, oblivious to the real reason why the class was so full... with girls.

Sydney gave him a sympathetic smile.

The poor guy really didn't know it, but more than half the girls in the class were there strictly to goggle at him like dogs at a T-bone steak. Sure, the young women did the class work, but did they really retain any of the information that was taught?

Sydney didn't think so. She was pretty sure the ladies were there in hopes of having Nigel's offspring. The girls were obviously flirting, and outrageously at that, but the Brit was completely unaware. (But, that childish arrogance/innocence was one of the things that made Nigel so irresistibly adorable.)

"Oh, damn –er—darn," the dark-haired, dark-eyed Hawaiian accidentally swore.

"What's wrong?" Nigel asked.

"I left my keys in the office," she sighed out of annoyance. "I knew that as soon as we got to the doors to the parking lot, I'd remember."

Nigel reached into his pocket and took out his key ring. He took his office key off and tossed it to Sydney.

"I'll just get it in the morning, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks, Nig. You're a lifesaver!" and with that, she ran off to get her forgotten keys.

Nigel just smiled and shook his head at her retreating back as he swung the door open. Blinking at the bright evening sun, he went to unlock his bike.

"Bloody lock," he muttered, yanking at the chain. When it didn't come loose, Nigel said a few oaths only a fellow Brit would understand.

He spun the dial on the lock and put in the combination. This time, he got it. Nigel jerked the lock and chain off, dropping them both skillfully into his open bag as he pulled his bike out of the rack at the same time. Nigel clambered onto the bike and was off.

For about fifteen minutes, there was no real event in his ride (unless you count a squirrel inadvertently attacking his front tire...)

There was suddenly a loud roar from behind him. Nigel turned his head to see a little blue 2000 Neon.

"Go around," he mouthed at the driver, waving the car forward.

But the small azure car kept a steady pace behind the Englishman. Nigel steered himself to the side of the road and motioned to the driver again. Still, the car didn't pass. When they came to the downhill slope and that's when he began to worry.

In his slight state of confusion, Nigel turned his attention back to the road... in time to see a parked, red truck coming straight at him!

The young blonde jerked the handlebars to the left, struggling to veer out of the way, but it was too late. He bashed into the corner of the truck bed, not too hard, but it was enough to throw his balance off.

Nigel flipped over the handlebars and crashed to the ground. His momentum carried him down the incline. He tried in vain to stop himself by clawing desperately at the pavement.

The Neon's engine roared again and out of the corner of his eye, he saw it blow by. What he didn't see, was when the little car fishtailed to a squealing halt at the bottom of the hill.

He continued to roll, finding out that it was better to just tuck-and-roll, rather than strain them by flailing around in an attempt to stop himself.

Nigel somersaulted backwards at the end of the hill and slammed his head into the door panel of the Neon.

Moaning softly at the pain in his scraped-up, raw fingers (along with other various patches of scuffed up skin) and the newly acquired throbbing in his head, Nigel heaved himself to his feet, his balance thrown off by his bag.

He spotted his bike lying in a heap about four yards away when he heard the door open and the sound of feet stepping out.

Swearing a classic British oath, he leapt away from the driver... who was carrying a baseball bat.

"Look," Nigel started, skillfully pulling a sleeve over his watch, "You're wasting your time. I have nothing worth stealing."

He backed away, towards his fallen bike. The driver matched his pace, bat poised for attack.

"I don't want any trouble," said Nigel, picking up the bike.

"Yes, but I do," the man tossed his head, throwing a brown curl out of his pale face.

The man took another step forward, his chocolate brown eyes seemed to be daring Nigel to make a move.

Which he did. Nigel dropped his bike and faked like he was running to the right. But the stranger seemed to be expecting this and he swung the bat.

Nigel lost his footing as he ducked. He landed on one knee, turned around and tried to scramble away, narrowly missing the blow by mere centimeters.

He swung again, and this time, the man's aim was true. The thick end of the bat caught Nigel squarely in the back of the head and stars flashed before his eyes, accompanied by stomach wrenching pain.

As the Brit fell to his knees, the last thing he remembered was staring up at his attacker, muttering, his voice full of hate and confusion, "Bloody Americans..."

Then, everything went black...

TO BE CONTINUED...