A/N: Yeah, this idea kinda died pretty quickly. So I decided to put up what I already had, and then call it a day. The last one is from Potter Puppet Pals, which is an awesome youtube series
Luxury
Whenever he went undercover, the criminal mastermind behind the week's dastardly plot always seemed to live in the lap of luxury: Expensive sport cars, high-tech weaponry, top-quality clothes, classy homes. He would look at Alan Blunt with his cheap suit and warehouse desk, and couldn't help comparing it to the mahogany tables and tailored suits he had seen. If Blunt was on the right side, how come he had so much less?
Lightning
Alex struggled against the ropes, but there was no escape. He glanced up at the lightning rod above him and shook his head. This has got to be one of the worst ideas someone had come up with to kill him. What normal person would tie someone up to a lightning rod – on a clear day, no less! – in an attempt to murder them? Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Alex finally noticed the grey storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Suddenly, the threat seemed a bit more dire.
Cell Phone
Alex clung to the underside of the bridge, sending out a mental prayer to whoever was listening these days. The steady thump of combat boots rattled the floor, sending jolts of energy down Alex's arms. His hands were slick with sweat, and he winced as one of his legs started to cramp. The steady marching soon died out as the soldiers trudged over the bridge. Just as the last footstep landed on the solid ground on the other side, Alex's phone began ringing. Immediately, the squadron stopped and Alex didn't bother to muffle his cursing.
Plaid
Alex looked down at the suit he wore. "Plaid?" He glared at Blunt. "You told me I was going to be camouflaged." Blunt nodded and pushed a picture across the table. In a move Alex had done hundreds of times before, he snatched the paper from the desk and examined it. It showed a hallway with plaid walls, plaid carpets, and plaid ceilings. Alex shrugged and threw the picture back on the desk. "Alright, then." It wasn't his place to comment on the décor of criminals.
Iron Gate
Alex slammed the flat of his hand against the door. It gave a metallic clang, and all that Alex got in return was a stinging palm. He snarled at the door blocking him from his freedom. It wasn't even a door, really. Much too ornate and large to be considered a door. With nothing better to do, Alex shifted through his mental dictionary looking for a word to describe the iron monstrosity. Gate, he decided. An iron gate.
Broken
Alex hissed in pain as his wrist was jolted again. The driver glanced back, which was probably not the best idea when one is driving at almost twice the speed limit at night. Alex bit his lip as the car bumped over another pothole. "Doesn't the SAS teach you people how to drive!" The soldier looked back again, this time to glare. It turned out to be a bad idea, as he consequentially missed the hair-point turn and went barreling into a field. Alex sat in the back seat, cursing as each bump jolted his already aching wrist.
Mysterious Ticking Noise
Alex woke with a groan. His head ached with a rhythmic throbbing, but somehow he didn't think the mysterious tick, tick, tick, was one of the side-effects of a concussion.