Archive of Our Own

The buzz of student conversation surrounded Alex the minute he entered the classroom. He had to admit that it was pretty comforting, since it drowned out the thoughts in his head in its familiar drone. He spied Tom sitting at the far end of the class next to the wall, deeply concentrated on his phone. The boy had learned his lesson about sitting by the window and avoided them like the plague now. Alex’s heart clenched at the thought.

“Hey, bro! You look like shit.” That type of greeting had become a common occurrence these days. “I know what’ll cheer you up.”

Tom extended his arm and Alex looked at the screen. It was opened up to a Facebook event: Polaroid Party Vol. III (Brookland). Alex knew what this was about. In the past year, there had been parties like this held by two other schools in the area. He hadn’t been around for either, but Tom had been kind enough to fill him in on all the fun he was missing when he was on a mission.

”It’s this Saturday and we’re going together! I don’t care what Jones has got planned. You’re not missing it this time!” said the black-haired boy.

“You know I’m in,” replied Alex to appease his friend, despite not feeling up for a party, especially with the mood he’d woken up in that morning.

“And you and I are going to have a first-rate pregame partying of our own, mister! We’re going to get you adequately effed up to ask Minerva to dance this time around. Heard she’s just broken up with her boyfriend, too, so you might even get lucky, you never know!”

Alex laughed awkwardly. It was true that, in spite of all his absences, he hadn’t missed the new girl in class this year. Her perfect high ponytail of long, brown hair had struck him as an unusual sight when he sat behind her in Physics class. When she turned around to ask him for a pen, he’d been struck by the intensity of her eyes, which were an uncannily icy shade of blue. The glances he’d sent her way ever since had not gone unnoticed by his best friend, who missed no chance to tease him mercilessly.

“Maybe I will,” he said with a slight smile, just as Mr. Hawkins, their History teacher, entered the classroom. Might as well.

The music in the club was so loud that Alex thought his heart instinctively synchronized with it. He didn’t really have to stick around to complete the dead drop, but on the other hand it was the only way to take a break between transport from one mission to the next. A dead drop didn’t have much to do and he wondered why they’d picked him for it, but these days their word was the law and it was not to be questioned.

Reaching the bar, he motioned at the bartender and ordered his virgin lime and tonic. Something stronger was out of the question unfortunately, as much as he craved it.

Paying for his drink, he turned to survey the club, wondering who the person that would follow up on the dead drop was, if they were even there yet. It could be someone on the staff, for all he knew. The space was packed with people, men and women, mostly young, but a quick look at the VIP area revealed the kind of person Alex knew he would find there. He may have had little to no info, but it was obvious that the white-haired club owner, clutching his tumbler and a cigar and surrounded by muscled goons and women that looked as if they jumped out of a Penthouse cover, had something to do with the reason the young spy was there.

His gaze didn’t linger and he downed his drink in order to not look out of place to the security. He even mingled a bit on the dancefloor, not really dancing, just accepting the touches of the strangers around him while gracefully moving between them. It wasn’t long before he made his way to the exit. His work was done.

Waking up the next morning, he mused on how Tom would have reacted if he ever found out he’d been in this kind of underground club in Berlin and not got drunk.

He turned on the TV to keep him company while he scrubbed the hotel room clean of his presence. The daily newscast came up while he was brushing his teeth. 33 dead, 71 injured. The causes of the explosion in the popular nightclub yet unknown.

He worked over his panic attack with one thought jumping out in the convolution; he definitely wasn’t telling Tom about this.

Miss Bedfordshire was re-arranging the student files yet another time, since the new headmaster, who definitely did not get on her nerves more than she’d like to admit and absolutely did not seem to be the bane of her existence after nigh on twenty years on the job, not only insisted on getting acquainted with each and every one of them (Well, it’s his bloody weekend, she thought), but also appeared set on imposing his own filing system on her documents.

Like Murphy’s law, the pile she’d just labeled in her impeccable calligraphy, Year 9, 2018, started to slide like a game of dominoes from the desk and landing one by one half on the floor and half on her who was sitting on it. She could only watch helplessly as at least one precious hour of her work went up in a slew of white paper. Sighing, she made to pick the closest one up, when a discrete cough caught her attention. She did not expect to be bothered while classes were in session and she could have sworn the annoying, sharp beep marking a door opening had not sounded. Although maybe it had been lost over the sound of the Catastrophe in A4 for Ballpoint Pen and Tendonitis-suffering Fingers.

 “I’m here for Alex Rider,” announced the man who had entered. He was dressed in a smart striped suit that belied his brusque manner. Miss Bedfordshire didn’t need a file to remember which year that student was in. She considered it a personal victory that he was still being allowed to attend school here, something she and only a handful of other teachers had advocated for. She scrambled to her desk and checked the daily schedule, then picked up the phone to notify Mr. Hawkins.

“Do sit down,” she said to the man. “He will be here in a minute. May I ask in what capacity you are here? Do you represent his guardian?”

Miss Bedfordshire was by now well-versed in the absurdity that was Alex Rider’s family situation. His uncle had apparently put in place the most senseless instructions for his nephew’s care. Several different persons streaming to pick Alex up and herself being at a loss as to whom to invite to Parent-Teacher meetings was the result of Ian Rider’s leaving a child to a body corporate.

Deciding that the mess on the floor was no way for a school to be seen by an outsider, she picked up the papers and placed them out of order on the desk. She would sort through them again later, she decided.

Alex was generally unsurprised when he’d been called via intercom to the secretary’s office. It was no wonder that the minute he made any sort of plans that referred to the near future, he’d be forced to abandon them for the sake of some threat in some faraway country that could potentially disrupt the wellbeing of merry old England.

And just like that, his Saturday night plans went up in smoke, replaced by images of bloody throats and shaky hands, and dammit, now his nightmares were bleeding into the day as well.

Alex recalled seeing the man who was waiting for him at the office around Royal and General and he barely uttered goodbye to Miss Bedfordshire before following him outside and into the black sedan. The man took a sip from a paper espresso cup as the car rolled out of the parking lot and Alex alternated between looks at the agent, the driver, and the view of the traffic outside.

They were caught by a red light and then turned right on the corner, the car picking up speed in the long, empty street. The light was green as they approached an intersection and the driver never changed his speed. Alex’s attention was once again caught on the writing advertising the coffee shop where the agent had got his espresso from. Blinking to make out the brand, his eye caught on the moving Land Rover that seemed less than twenty yards away.

The deafening crash made his head bump on the window on his right, the agent fall violently collide with his left side and drops of hot coffee to cover them both. Alex’s instincts kicked in despite his brain being still in shock. He checked over the agent and the driver. The latter was budging while the former appeared to be unconscious. His pulse revealed he was still alive. Good. It seemed Alex was going to have to get them both out, however. He felt antsy staying in the wrecked car any longer. He didn’t know the state of the tank.

A fountain of blood sprayed over him the next second. A couple of bullets lodged itself on the roof of the car above Alex’s head. The agent’s head had been almost scalped by them, while shielding Alex. There was not a doubt in the teen’s mind that the man was now dead. At least he hoped so, since he was fairly sure he could see a hint of brain matter, though he didn’t spare the sight a second glance.

His heart was beating overtime. He had to get out but he didn’t know how. The threat of machine guns added to the danger of an exploding gas tank. The window on his side was facing the ground and the ones on the agent and the driver’s sides were exposed to the people who were trying to kill them. Alex fumbled around the agent’s pockets until he found a gun. Numbly checking it, he was grateful for the full round he discovered. The gun in his palm felt calming to him by now, after so many times of using it, so many times of it saving his life. It was MI6 standard-issue and, assuming the agent kept it in good condition, Alex knew exactly how it should behave.

He briefly considered shooting the door open, but he decided against wasting one valuable bullet. He kept the body of the agent on top of him as a human shield, while trying to work the door open with his feet. Thankfully it wasn’t too damaged, and in a bit he felt the pop. Taking a deep breath, he mentally prepared the sequence of movements that he needed to make quickly, if he was to have any chance of getting out of this unscathed. Meanwhile the bullets kept flying at intervals and Alex knew he didn’t have long before the attackers decided to approach the vehicle to check whether he was dead or finish him off.

It took him few seconds to push the agent off him and on the floor of the car, kick open the door, and draw himself upright with the gun at the ready. He immediately opened fire, keeping a mental count of his remaining bullets. He was almost all the way around the car, which he intended to use as a shield, when he felt a searing pain through his right arm.

Warm blood mixed with that which already covered him from head to toe, caused by the agent’s excessive bleeding. For a moment, his head span with pain mixed with sick, but he kept running. Tripping and falling on his left shoulder must surely have bruised that side as well.

Sitting down, he contemplated his choices, concluding that his best bet was trying to get lost in the alleys and sideways parallel to the main road. He had a sense of where he was and knew that there was a tube station nearby. However, getting on the tube in bloody clothes was going to prove difficult.

The sound of an engine rumbling alive caught his attention. Turning to his left, where he’d heard the sound from, he saw a black car with its lights on, seemingly leaving its parking spot. A motorbike came at that moment and stopped by the car. The driver and the motorcyclist seemed to exchange words through the open window.

Realizing they’d probably been there to chase after him in case he managed to exit the car, Alex’s desperation grew. Feeling like his window of opportunity was closing by the second, he got up to his feet, firmly holding the gun at his side, and ran as fast as he could, the adrenaline keeping him from feeling the pain for the moment. He turned into the first alley he saw and prayed that it didn’t lead to a dead end.

The normally quiet regulars in Margie’s coffeeshop were unusually upset that day. She could hear the hum of conversation from where she was busy pulling buns out of the oven, switching on the coffee machine and giving change at the same time. Her customers were mostly pensioners, seeking some peace and quiet away from their wives at home or, conversely, some kind of activity to escape the loneliness of an empty house. Today, the latter had been granted their wish.

She decided not to dwell too much on the news that played on the overhead TV and got the tea and biscuits ready for the table in the corner. She’d been pondering whether the black-haired young man with the dark glasses was blind for the past few minutes, wondering if she had to take special care in how she arranged the stuff on the table, but he didn’t have the telltale white stick, nor had he asked for any help. He quietly thanked her as she placed the cup before him and didn’t fumble with the money, so she concluded that the glasses were just a fashion statement. Young people these days... Outside it seemed ready to pour.

Alex left the steaming cup to wait on the table. He wasn’t really in the mood for anything and had simply taken refuge in the coffeeshop to avoid the storm that seemed to be brewing while waiting for the train. The breaking news were playing everywhere so there was no avoiding them. The coffeeshop was just as good.

Trying to plan ahead proved too nerve-wracking but pondering on the past few hours was no better alternative. First, there was the ‘accident’, or at least what MI6 had tried to pass as one. Since numerous people in the nearby residences had witnessed the gunfight, however, this ruse didn’t last long. Soon enough, people were talking about gangsters and hitmen. His name had still not been involved at that point.

As for Alex himself, stealing through the streets, he had finally managed to get to his neighbourhood, winded and scared shitless. Having no idea who had targeted him, if it was SCORPIA or someone else he’d managed to piss off, he was wary about actually going in the house, quite certain it would be monitored. Using the fire escape, he had managed to make it to the roof of the building opposite, keeping a careful eye on his house and its surroundings. The gun with the few bullets tucked in his waistband kept him uneasy company. It was no sniper rifle, but it would do the job if need be. The pain in his shoulder was getting worse, but he was trying his best to ignore it. Thankfully, the bleeding seemed to be minimal. He suspected a scratch and maybe excessive bruising on both his sides.

Around twenty minutes later, Jack came out. Judging from the bag she was holding, Alex guessed she was going to the grocery store. The fact that she got in the car meant she had more plans, however, and opened a window of opportunity for Alex. He had to get in the house. Even if it was targeted, at least Jack would be away and hopefully not in the line of fire.

Lying on his belly, Alex looked through the lens of the rifle. Forty minutes in the same position without moving as much as a finger had him a bit cramped, but he knew to ignore it. It was worth the successful shot.

The time was fast approaching and Alex brought to mind the picture of the target he had memorized from the file. Medium-height, brown hair, blue eyes. Place of residence: Istanbul, the Fener quarter. Limited positions with good vantage point but easier extraction of operative.

Then came the part Alex hadn’t yet perfected. His mind kept supplying information that it wasn’t supposed to, not at that moment.

Target name: Jonathan Carrols (37), Wife: Elif (35), Children: Zeynep (7) and Omar (4). Occupation: sleeper agent (family possibly unaware)

No, he couldn’t. He couldn’t think about that while he was ready to put a bullet in the man. He wasn’t a man. He wasn’t Jonathan Carrols. He wasn’t the husband of Elif, the father of Zeynep and Omar.

He was just the target. And Alex hadn’t lost the game yet.

Finally, two minutes past one in the afternoon, the target stepped onto the pavement in front of his house and shielded his eyes against the blinding sun. That wasn’t a problem for Alex. The bullet passed through his palm and found his forehead, right between the eyes.

The way the man fell back baffled Alex momentarily. Then he saw the small figure that had previously been entirely hidden behind his father. Omar, face a mess of blood from the splatter.

Alex couldn’t afford to stop. He heard the little boy’s belated scream as his feet touched the ground.

MI6 could protect Jack, or even the CIA. Alex did not kid himself; he knew several people had their eye on him and he counted on it. If not Blunt, then Joe, or someone else who gave a damn, could take care of Jack and Tom. The only one who couldn’t do it was him.

Through the fire escape, he reached one of the lower floor and managed to grab some things from the laundry basket of an apartment. A heavy, dark coat seemed like a gift from God at that moment. Pulling the hood over his head and low enough to almost cover his eyes, he got to the ground and headed for the house next to his. His time on the roof had helped him determine that there were no snipers around, so hopefully, no one would see him jump.

Scaling the red bricks wasn’t easy, especially with sides that hurt like a bitch, but the distance to his bedroom window thankfully wasn’t far. Once inside, he made do with the fading light and his instinctive memory of the room, not risking turning on any lights.

He found what he was looking for beneath the loose board under his be and paid a visit to the bathroom to see if anything needed dressing. Once he took of his t-shirt, he was greeted with the sight of an ugly gash on his shoulder, where a bullet had most likely scratched him. He couldn’t afford the time to stitch up himself in his own house so disinfectant and band-aids would have to do for the moment. As expected, darkening bruises ran the length of his body on both sides, but nothing broken.

Alex was out of the house again in a bit. His last visit to his childhood home had barely pushed 15 minutes.

Alex tried to stop his hands from shaking when it was time for him to hand his ID to the station authorities. Rationally, there should be no reason that MI6 should now about it, since he’d got it without their authorization, but he could never be sure about the parts of his life they were privy to and the ones they weren’t. The bearded official who looked close to retirement, however, simply flashed him a kindly smile and waved him on, and within seconds Alex was on the train. He was deliberately early in order to find an empty car, hoping his best teenage glowering would discourage anyone from spending the next couple of hours with him. Luck couldn’t smile at him at every turn, however, and someone decided to keep him company anyway.

The moment his eyes had caught a flash of curly chestnut hair outside the door, Alex had turned his gaze to the window and avoided any kind of contact with the stranger in the hopes they would forget about him. All he wanted was to spend the duration of the journey to France in the haze of the painkillers. His strategy seemed to work since the other person seemed to ignore him for some time, but Alex’s wish for two hours and fifty minutes in silence were not meant to be. About an hour in the journey, the other guy sighed heavily and spoke.

“I’m bored. Wanna play cards?”

Alex looked at him with every intent to decline, but he stopped short.

Deliberately ignoring the guy had caused him to miss how handsome he was. Alex never used to notice such things before, but he found it was getting more and more common these days. Indeed, the man seemed a few years older than him, and the shock of dark brown hair was only one of his most striking features. It curled sweetly and the fringe framed large green eyes, that seemed to reflect the fog outside the window. The guy was cleanshaven and his long, pale neck and pronounced collarbone were clearly visible. His warm sweater was revealing as much covering what seemed to be a toned torso and arms, in the way that it hugged the man’s upper body tightly.

Realizing he was staring, Alex did his best to recover, but he’d almost forgotten what the guy had asked him about.

“I, uh...” Painkillers and this strange sort of shock did not mix.

The guy fumbled for something in his backpack.

“Cards,” he repeated, pulling out a pack. He handed it to Alex, presumably to shuffle, and Alex couldn’t help but accept it. He numbly started to shuffle the cards, his hand on autopilot since his brain was still unable to issue legible orders. “I’m Rudolph.”

God. Even the name was music to Alex’s ears, making him think of logs in a fireplace, a pair of strong, warm arms, and Christmas. Christmas was just around the corner, he realized. Wait, what? Alex, focus! Maybe he had taken the stronger stuff by accident?

A brief look outside the window again brought him back to reality.

“Colin,” he replied. It was the name on his ID and he’d long since trained himself to make it slide effortlessly off the tongue. “Nice to meet you.” Nice touch... ugh.

Rudolph pulled his backpack on his lap and looked questioningly at Alex. Alex hummed in agreement and the other guy rested one end of the backpack on his knees and the other on Alex’s, to act as a table.

“So? What do you want to play?”

Time passed effortlessly with Rudolph, once Alex let go of this novel kind of social anxiety that had gripped him. They talked about the journey, the weather, and made quips at each other during play. Alex gathered that Rudolph was a student with familial ties to France and he implied something along those lines for himself, avoiding asking and answering any personal questions. Maybe he was messing with – fixing! – his hair a bit too often and irrationally wondering whether the fake glasses he donned suited him, but he didn’t make much of it.

Too soon, the train rolled into Gare du Nord and reality hit. Rudolph finally put the pack away, even though they’d stopped playing a while ago, and shrugged on his backpack, Alex following suit and suppressing a gasp at the pain that shot through him.

As they exited the car, other passengers got between them in the line. As Alex finally found himself off the train, he spotted Rudolph a few steps away, alone and looking at him patiently. It would be weird to pretend not to have seen him, so Alex headed his way.

“So where are you off to now?” asked Rudolph with an easy smile. Alex hesitated.

“Oh, umm... going to find someplace to stay, probably.” Please, let this be satisfactory, Alex prayed without much hope.

“I’m headed to a hostel I know. It’s clean enough and they offer breakfast, so... if you have no other plans...” Was that a hint of awkwardness had creeped into the chestnut-haired man’s smile.

Alex vaguely gathered that the voice in the back of his head was trying to warn him, but he found that acceptance rolled easily off his tongue.

“Sure! I mean, I... yeah.”

He didn’t have a place to stay anyway, and besides, whoever could be looking for him wouldn’t expect him to have company. He and Rudolph together probably attracted fewer glances... of the suspicious type, at least. It also helped that nobody could suspect a bright-faced young man like Rudolph to be up to anything shady, whereas Alex, in his huge, “borrowed” parka, hood up, dark glasses, and with hands in pockets, definitely looked more sneaky.

Two bus rides later, they were at the hostel, which, surprisingly, had bed for both of them in a six-bed room. Upon entering, they were greeted by the sight of two other people, a man and a woman in their twenties with blond hair that looked of Scandinavian descend. The nodded at them and mostly ignored them as they put their backpacks down and took up two bunk beds, top and bottom.

Once they were settled, Rudolph turned to Alex.

“Hungry?” he asked. “I think I saw a 24/7 a couple of blocks down. I’m dying for a... well, anything really!”

Alex shrugged. He was hungry as well and hadn’t the stomach to even try the biscuits that came with his tea back at the coffeeshop.

Fifteen minutes later they found themselves clutching two of the hugest sandwiches Alex had ever seen in his life, and he’d been to a lot of places. They walked around a bit, munching on them, until they came across a patisserie that Rudolph almost forcibly dragged Alex in, moaning about wanting – no, needing – macarons.

Alex’s sense of unease, somewhat quietened by the company, returned in full force when they passed in front of a store selling appliances and he saw himself on not one, but four high-definition television sets on display. It wasn’t the library card photo, either. Instead, it was a video sequence from the accident, where Alex was shown firing the gun while getting out of the toppled car. The teen was dumbstruck but forced himself to keep on walking so that Rudolph didn’t notice the video. Why the hell did MI6 let this leak to the press?

Back at the hotel, Alex tried to sneak away into the empty shared bathroom in order to change for the night, but as he was about to exit their room, a hand grabbed his arm in a relentless grip, causing him to gasp. Turning, he saw Rudolph, who apparently had not been entirely deceived.

“I knew it,” said the brunet. “Take your top off.”

Alex took a step back, his hesitation caused by a mix of reasons.

“I don’t...”

“You’re hurt, Colin. Let me see. I know a little bit about first aid. And you don’t want to spill blood all over the floor,” he added, with a nod to the fresh droplets at Alex’s feet.

The teen sighed, and pullet at the neck of his top, stretching it to get it over his shoulder. Rudolph sent him another look, but there was no way Alex was going to expose his entire upper body to the other guy.

“I’m going downstairs to ask for a kit,” Rudolph declared after briefly examining the wound. “It’s just a scratch, should be fine.”

Once Alex was alone, trying to conceive the absurdity of the situation, one of the blond sleeping figures turned over in their sleep. It was their girl roommate.

“What are you guys doing?” she asked sleepily. Before Alex had a chance to reply, she continued, “If you’re gonna fuck, just be quiet, okay?” and with that she was off to sleep again.

Rudolph came back holding a battered first-aid kit.

“Don’t be a baby,” he said to Alex, who did his best to keep quiet as the sterilized needle entered him.

It was over in minutes and his skin was left burning, both on his shoulder and on his cheeks.

Even though he felt dead tired the moment he hit the pillow, his sleep was uneasy. At six o’clock in the morning, he dressed quietly and sneaked outside, looking for the closest newspaper stand.

PAS UN ACCIDENT! WIKILEAKS ONT LA REPONSE, read the front page of Le Monde, accompanied by a still from the video. With trembling hands, Alex opened the paper on the fourth page and saw his name with bold black letters printed at the top. Alex Rider: l’espion adolescent.

Alex skimmed through the article, growing increasingly desperate. The information that the press had acquired was... insane. Alex recognized Bulman’s report among other things, the photos he’d taken that time in the cemetery years ago, but also other pictures of Alex with people whose faces were blurred out. Alex couldn’t believe how MI6 had let all this leak. The article took up two pages and promised more, but even so it was too well-researched and organized for a breaking news story. It looked planned.

All this made Alex want to run as fast as he could, but he was out of resources for the moment, before he found a way to contact someone. His backpack was at the hostel and at that point it was something he couldn’t afford to leave behind.

Walking through the entrance, he heard someone call for him from the adjacent room. He saw Rudolph, who was sitting at a small table and sipping from a cup. He fell on the chair beside him with more force than he intended.

“What were you doing up so early?” asked the other guy.

“I went out.”

“I gathered that. Why?”

“Just wanted some fresh air. The room’s stuffy.”

Rudolph shrugged.

“Not the only thing that’s stuffy. This hostel used to have a better breakfast. Now the croissants are moist. Sorry ‘bout that.” Rudolph pointed to the small stack of croissants on the table. Alex grabbed one and munched on it with a vengeance. “So what do you want to do today?” asked Rudolph and Alex internally sighed. He liked the guy but he knew he had to get rid of him. Even if he hadn’t watched TV or read the papers, it was bound to be on his newsfeed the minute he turned on his phone. There was a great chance he would recognize Alex, even with the dye job and glasses.

“I’ve had word from my aunt... in Brussels. I’m going to head there as soon as possible.”

Rudolph stared at him for a long moment.

“Okay. I thought you were staying longer,” he commented, grabbing a croissant that Alex had been meaning to eat. “Though I don’t know why I thought that. You haven’t really said why you came.”

Alex stumbled for something to say.

“I just needed... to leave London for a bit,” he admitted, hoping that the look on his face would discourage Rudolph from asking more questions. The guy’s expression changed. It looked like something akin to... derision?

“You need to come with me now,” he said finally.

What? was all that Alex managed to think before Rudolph had grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.

“What are you doing?” he asked, pulling his arm back. Rudolph was stronger than he looked, but so was Alex.

“You’re coming with me, Alex,” he repeated. “He’s waiting for us outside.”

“Who’s waiting for us? Who are you? Did you arrange for the attack?” asked Alex, feeling a strange kind of disappointment blooming in his chest.

“We didn’t. We’re the only chance you got right now, Alex. You need to come with me.”

The breakfast room was empty apart from the two of them, so the tall silhouette that appeared on the doorway immediately caught Alex’s attention and the blue eyes that latched onto his almost made him start.

“You,” he croaked.

“Me, little Alex. You need to come with us now. Trust me.”

Alex almost laughed. “Trust you? You... how are you here? What do you want?”

Instead of an answer, Yassen held up a phone. “The police are going to be here in two minutes. I called them. You have no other choice.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“Do you want to stay and find out?”

Alex gulped. Then a sharp nod from Yassen resulted in a sharp blow to Alex’s head and his surroundings gradually being swallowed by darkness. “Fuck you,” he tried to say to Rudolph, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was actually heard before he passed out.

“I’m sure you have many questions, Alex. My advice is that you prioritize.”

Having been drugged one too many times in the past, Alex recognized the telltale heaviness. He wasn’t sure if he was even in France anymore. Yassen and... Rudolph could have perfectly well moved him halfway across the world. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious.

Recognizing the meaning of “prioritizing” as not asking about how Yassen had come to be there, or even alive for that matter, Alex moved on to the more pressing questions. It wouldn’t be the first resurrection he witnessed.

“Why am I here?”

If Yassen had been the type of person to roll his eyes, Alex was fairly sure he would have done so.

“Where am I?” Alex corrected his question. He hands weren’t tied and he was sitting on a comfy Chesterfield sofa, Yassen in an armchair opposite him and Rudolph standing up, outside his line of sight.

“We are in Switzerland. You’re in my home. We came by helicopter which I piloted. You are safe.”

Alex let out a breath.

“And why did you do that?”

“You were in danger. You needed help.” Yassen was terribly neutral while saying these things, but Alex was getting more confused by the minute.

“How did you know where I was? Why are you helping me?”

“Now you’re asking the proper questions,” said Yassen. “To answer your first one, I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while. Rudolph followed you around back in London and on the train, when you boarded.”

“I never saw him.”

“You wouldn’t. He is extremely good at disguises. As to your second question, I have intended to find you for some time. You could say I have a... business proposition for you. But this can wait.” Yassen looked at Rudolph, who, Alex saw, was leaning against a counter at the kitchen that was connected to the living room in the open-plan space. “Rudolph. Why don’t you give our guest something to eat? He must be starving. Then show him to his room.” Turning his eyes back to Alex, he added: “You get settled and cleaned up for dinner. We’ll talk then.” With that, he upped and left.

Alex turned to Rudolph, whose friendly expression from earlier was gone, and trailed behind him as he too exited the room.

Rudolph had led him on the second floor and shown him to a room with a large double bed that looked incredibly luxurious compared to the hostel’s bunkbeds, and a moderate ensuite. The teenager hopped in the shower immediately after the other man left, and relished in the hot water. There were clean towels in the bathroom drawers and fresh clothes on the bed when he came out.

The combined softness and warmth of the new clothes and the comfy bed made it impossible for him to keep his eyes open and when he woke up, it was completely dark. Gathering his wits about him, he realized that what had woken him was a subtle knock on the door.

“Dinner’s ready. We are waiting for you.”

Two minutes later, Alex was downstairs, having splashed some water on his face. Dinner was served at a dining room with a long table that looked as if it could fit twenty people but was currently occupied by just the three of them. The moment he sat down, the other two picked up their utensils and started gathering food on their plates. Alex wasn’t sure what dinner consisted of, but the sight and smell of it suggested it was delicious.

“Tefteli. Meatballs in tomato sauce... and other stuff,” explained Yassen. Alex raised an eyebrow. Was that an implication? “We’re not going to poison you, Alex. Why would we do that when we just brought you here?” Under not the greatest of circumstances, Alex was tempted to add. Instead, he opted for silence and putting a modest portion in his plate.

“And that’s beet salad,” added Rudolph, even though it would be perfectly clear to a five-year-old what that plate contained.

“You cooked?” Alex asked instead, looking at Yassen.

The older man nodded. “My grandmother’s recipe. Try it.”

Alex took a bite. It was warm, but not scalding. The meat was tender and he liked the taste and consistency of the sauce. It reminded him of foods he had tried in Eastern and Southern Europe, usually while on mission. Even the hint of bitterness that came with fear for one’s life was the same.

“It’s good,” Alex commented, not wanting to be impolite. Yassen seemed pleased by that and the three ate in silence for a while.

“You said you had a proposition?” asked Alex, giving Yassen the bread basked he had asked for.

Yassen, who had just submerged a bit of bread in the remaining tomato sauce in his plate, stopped and looked at the boy.

“Indeed. Are you feeling up to having this discussion?” he asked with polite interest.

“Can’t think of a better time,” replied Alex with a hint of sarcasm. The other two put down their utensils and the teen did the same.

“Well, Alex, as you can see, you know what I do. Rudolph here is my partner. He is also SCORPIA-trained. We have been working freelance for some time, but two operatives cannot take on bigger jobs, considering there has to be one left behind for backup every time. Our resources are considerable, but we need manpower. I believe you are up to the job.”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “So, assassinations? Bonnie and Clyde against the world?”

Yassen frowned imperceptibly. “You may have disbanded SCORPIA, but you merely did away with the board. The assets are still at large. They migrated to other organizations or, the more experienced, went freelance, like we did. Our activities are pretty much the same as they were in SCORPIA’s days, just on a smaller scale.”

“Nothing you are not acquainted with,” snorted Rudolph.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” countered Alex. Surprisingly, Rudolph didn’t seem to be very keen on having Alex on board, not that Alex was entirely certain he wanted to.

“What Rudolph means... there’s something you should probably see, Alex.” Yassen got up and left the room, Rudolph staring at Alex as he followed.

They moved to the living room, where the Russian turned on the TV. He zapped between a few channels for a bit, all of which played the news in different languages. Most seemed to report on the same thing, however. Finally, he settled for the BBC.

“The info and corresponding footage made public by the activist organization founded by Julian Assange in 2006 has created general havoc. The central role of the British teenager in authorized intelligence and military operations around the world implicates the British Intelligence Service in charges of child exploitation, among other things and has caused public outcry. Activists and the media are still trying to assess whether the information is factual, with some having managed to confirm bits of it, such as the identity of the teenager in question, Alex Rider, a seventeen-year-old resident of Chelsea, London...”

Alex’s eyes widened in response to the revelation of his identity on public television and something like panic began to grab at him. Everyone was going to know. His teachers, classmates, everyone...

The cue for a piece of breaking news came up, and another setting appeared on screen.

“We are being informed that the Home Secretary is about to make an announcement to the press, hopefully clearing some of the fog around what threatens to become a major political scandal.”

The man that Alex had never personally spoken to, but who he knew was aware of his existence and had a hand in many of the operations he’d been involved in, took his place at the podium and began to speak to the microphone.

“It has come to the government’s attention that an apparent breach in security has caused panic to the general public. It is entirely understandable that disturbing images would have this effect, but I am here to assure every citizen that what was broadcasted by the activist organization happens to be fake news.”

“What?” exclaimed Alex.

“What did you expect? They’re going to renounce you, Alex,” replied Yassen, not unkindly. “They cannot afford to be exposed like that.”

The minister went on. “The person in the middle of it all is indeed an English national, someone who, unfortunately, drifted away from lawfulness at a young age. Alex Rider has been well-known to the authorities for some time and has even shown up on the Interpol listed as wanted in connection to criminal and terrorist activities. The reason for this was his suspected affiliation with terrorist cells operating mostly in Europe and Asia, as well as criminal organizations. It is our belief that this ‘leak’ is in fact an attempted defamation of the British government and indeed the country as a whole, orchestrated by Rider probably in collaboration with other criminal elements. Official psychological analyses of Rider through the last few years have indicated sociopathic tendencies, leading first to misguided actions under the guise of activism and vigilantism, and later to serious crimes, such as dealing classified information, treason, acts of terrorism, and several counts of manslaughter, to mention but a few. He is a dangerous individual and I have been informed by the responsible national agency that what was reported first as an accident and then as a gunfight was in fact an authorized attempt at his prosecution. Unfortunately, Rider managed to get away, but the authorities are on his trail. He is a very dangerous individual and we plead with all citizens to not engage him in any way and to inform the police immediately if they happen to come across him. That is all for now. If the need arises, a new press release will be issued.”

“The minister will not take any questions at this point,” said a woman to the gathered reporters who had raised their voices in the aftermath of the Home Secretary’s announcement. The news host was back on the screen with a predictably, moderately shocked expression, but Alex didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

“Turn it off,” he said to Yassen, who complied.

“You see?” asked the Russian. “They washed their hands of you the moment you actively threatened their reputation.”

Alex sighed and tried to quieten the beast that reared its ugly head in his chest. So this was it. The end of his magnificent career in espionage, disclaimed and hunted. He didn’t hold Blunt above this, but he’d hoped Mrs. Jones would have stayed his hand. Maybe she’d never really forgiven him for the attempt on her life, maybe it was something else entirely, but what Alex was certain was that nothing would ever be the same. After such a pronouncement, any chance he’d ever had at a normal life vanished. His only skills were those he had used for MI6’s benefit for nigh on four years and now... he needed to use them for himself.

Looking at Yassen, he asked “May I have the night to think about it?”

The assassin’s face was expressionless as always, but at least it wasn’t aggressive. The older man nodded, and Alex left them both in the living room, heading upstairs to hole up in his room and try to process.

To call that a night of sleep would be a terrible misappropriation, but at least Alex had managed to partially avoid a panic attack and get his thoughts in order. In the morning, he greeted Yassen in the kitchen, Rudolph nowhere to be found.

“He had some business to take care of. He’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Alex hummed, poured himself some of the tea that was already made, and settled at the table.

“So how does this work?” he asked Yassen. “Are you in charge or...”

“Rudolph and I are equal partners. So will you, should you choose to join us.”

“And if I choose not to?” asked Alex, mostly to confirm what he already knew.

Yassen remained neutral while uttering, “You will go.”

Alex snorted. This could be interpreted in different ways and he was sure that had been Yassen’s intention.

“And if I stay? You will let me in on everything? You will trust me with your business?”

“There will be a trial period, of course, but other than that, yes, Alex, that is what ‘equal partner’ means,” Yassen stated matter-of-factly. Sitting up, he added, “You are no longer a green fourteen-year-old, Alex. Your training might not have been the most consistent, but your experience is considerable and makes you an asset. We can train you further. I can show you things. I have weighed the pros and cons, and you will find I am a meticulous man. You still have untapped potential and I want to take advantage of that. Yes,” he said in answer to Alex’s raised eyebrow, “I do. At least I say it upfront. And you will stand to gain from this as well. But I need your answer, little Alex.”

“Doesn’t calling me ‘little’ undermine your point here?” asked Alex, unable to help himself.

“The first thing I’m going to teach you is to hold that tongue.”

Alex wasn’t entirely sure Yassen wasn’t joking.

“Okay,” he said simply. The Russian sat back and stared contemplatively at him with his eyes of melted ice.

That was it. The assassin’s glance showed Alex that a threshold had been crossed and that you will go had taken on a single meaning. There was no going back.

“What about Rudolph?” inquired Alex. “He doesn’t seem too happy about the whole thing.”

“He is in agreement,” Yassen assured him. “He’s just temperate.”

Alex wondered what that was supposed to mean, but his musings were cut off.

“Come on. It is time we got started.”