Chapter Text
Yassen manually set the timer on the last explosive in the back corner of the Bangalore Infectious Disease Laboratory. Strolling purposely down the corridor, the sole of his shoes echoing in the empty space as he approached the designated three-point security lock, he scanned his counterfeit identification badge, applied his handprint to the receptacle, and began at the retinal scanner with a casual ease. It had taken some time for his team to hack the security systems—nearly failing in their efforts after several weeks of attempts—but despite incurring significant time loss and the irritation of Scorpia leadership with their flaws and inefficiency, they proved to be successful as the light turned green and the door unlocked.
Scorpia did not wish to chance further errors, and hired Yassen specifically to finish the task, tying loose ends as he saw fit. The vial of genetically modified malaria agent with its respective antidote sat securely in the chest pocket of his jacket, an article expressly outfitted with thermal insulation to ensure it remained at the appropriate temperature throughout transport and further collection.
As he neared the final security exit before the main corridor to the facility, the reverberation of something thudding heavily on the inside of a passing supply closet door sounded faintly in the vaulted hall.
Walter Schwartz, the board member of the laboratory facility who hired Scorpia to retrieve the pathogen vials and assist in its sale, had insisted this operation be at an off-hour where there were the fewest number of employees, meticulously providing details of daily operations and security protocols to allow for a more efficient recovery. At this hour, he hallways surrounding the laboratory were to be empty and essential staff in other areas of the facility would be a mere liability for the trinitrotoluene to permanently remove from interfering in their matters, a fact even Walter Schwartz conceded as unfortunate but necessary for operational success.
Regarding the unexpected disturbance, Yassen could very well ignore the individual trapped in the closet; the incineration device could hide their existence—he had nothing to lose. Some inkling about precisely who might have landed themselves imprisoned in a supply closet at a world renowned pathogen-developing and testing facility on the day of its heist had him disregarding his original consideration, unlocking the door with his card, and pushed it open.
A small, lean figure was seated inside on the floor, tied up and gagged. His feet were tucked behind the door—likely after all the pounding he’d done earlier to get someone’s attention—as his upper body leaned heavily against the perpendicular wall. The boy’s blonde hair was dirtied and his face bruised; his suspicion had been correct, and Yassen narrowed his eyes in recognition:
Rider’s kid.
“You need to leave,” Yassen said flatly, leaning down to cut the ties at the boy’s ankles and pull him up to his feet by his elbow.
The boy protested angrily, struggling against his bindings and mumbling with garbled speech into the gag. Yassen noticed whoever tied the kid had not only tied his hands together but had been proficient enough to secure his tied hands to his midsection creating something akin to a strait jacket out of rope. How odd. The boy must've been quite the nuisance.
Yassen pulled out the gag before hauling him up by his elbow in an effort to drag him towards the exit but was unsuccessful. The kid was writhing impetuously and protesting wildly, “Let go of me! I can’t leave yet. I don’t have the antidote. I need it. I’m not leaving here without it!”
He pulled fruitlessly against Yassen’s ironclad grip until Yassen’s patience evaporated. Jerking the boy up by his shirt to gain his undivided attention. “You will either leave this building or die in explosion. The choice is yours.” Letting him go abruptly, he felt no remorse as the kid dropped, falling on his tailbone with a thud onto the tiled floor.
He would have walked away too to finish his operation without further interference if the kid had not made the most pitiful moan from his uncomfortably strained upright position along the floor.
Looking back, he noted the dried blood on the side of his head, the uncharacteristically pallor skin tone, and—now in the brighter lighting—the kid’s pupils being unnaturally large and non-reactive to the florescence of the overhead lighting.
“Восьмой” he whispered under his breath. Checking his watch, he knew he already wasted much of his time to leave along his scheduled route.
Coming to a decision, he pulled the kid up by the arm again and half carried half dragged him out a side exit he had mentally recalled from the blueprints. While it was not his intended exit point, it was the closest one that would offer them plenty of time to get out of the blast radius. Alex’s eyes were still wide open in shock, but had conveniently ceased struggling further, remaining quiet to an acceptable degree.
Not knowing the extent of his head injury, he resisted the impulse to manage a timelier exit by carrying the boy, but as Yassen pulled him down the hill,across the field from where the laboratory facility sat, and cleared the blast radius, he was satisfied by the favorable result of his alternative method. He notified his extraction team through his comms unit about the change of plans for his pick-up location—purposefully leaving out any detail regarding his additional passenger. If there were any concerns about available seats, he had no qualms of remedying that by removing one of his team’s existing members. They had hardly been competent and Scorpia would not question his actions or be concerned with the loss. To Scorpia, they were expendable; he was not...and by extension, neither was Alex.
The boy in question was now lying awkwardly in the grass, curled up, and muttering incoherently—a concerning development.
“Alex.” Kneeling down, he shook the kid’s shoulder as urgently as he could without worsening his head injury, bracing his head in his hand as it lolled in the grass.
“Ian?” Alex asked reverently, eyes squinting and weakly meeting his gaze. Hallucinations were never a good sign and mistaking his uncle’s killer for his uncle? Even less. He would need to arrange medical assistance for the boy soon if he wanted to get him out without long term impairments. To start, he would need him away from here.
“You will be gagged and remain silent. Do not try anything or you will be left behind. Understood?” It was not ideal, but it was practical. Now, even if Alex regained coherency he would be gagged. Further, as a bound passenger, he would be seen as a captive—perhaps an additional target—and his extraction team would ask few questions.
If his extraction team were truly competent individuals, they would ask no questions and offer discretion in the additional business he was handling personally but he had resolved to moderate his expectations accordingly.
Alex’s eyes focused on his for a fraction of a second, expression hardening, as he offered a steady acquiescence, “Understood.”
Yassen affixed the gag back over his mouth but if he had any concerns of Alex continued obedience, they were abated in the next minute with Alex’s form going limp in the grass, passing out cold. Taking his pulse and checking his breathing, Yassen concluded with a little more certainty that he seemed stable enough to move.
An SUV pulled up along the path and—considering Alex was unconscious anyway—Yassen opened the trunk and settled Alex in there. He deftly arranged multiple thermal fleece blankets from the first-aid supply kits to cushion the boy’s head and cover his form, before climbing into the vehicle himself.
The renowned assassin promptly answered any questioning glances from the team with a hard look and terse part-explanation, part-threat, “He is my responsibility and will be dealt with accordingly.” No further issues were voiced and they drove to their next checkpoint in silence.
Singularly dropped off out at the designated location, he swiftly reached a certain locker at the train station, not wanting to linger too long. Tearing out the jacket pocket attachment fully comprising vial and antidote, he left that behind in the locker for Scorpia to collect instead of the full jacket, as originally intended. A spare jacket will be necessary for his surplus passenger, considering where they were headed.
Collecting the small black duffle bag left for him, he took a quick inventory and saw inside the spare jacket and colored contacts that he slipped on before having his transport drive them to the airport.
A fifteen minute trip later found them at the airport pulling up to the reserved small aircraft hangar. The team did not question the spare jacket or him bundling Alex in it, rather, it conveniently better disguised that picking up a boy from the facility was not intended in their original plans. It was not unusual for Scorpia to hide the full objective of the mission from any teams hired for assistance—relevant information was offered on a need-to-know basis and with their previous incompetence, all concerns pertaining to his movements inside the facility were not under their purview. Considering how much or how little they wish to include the teenager in their post-op report, he might not even need to address the matter with Scorpia at all; that would be preferable.
Bundled and carried to the helicopter reserved for his personal use, Alex had become near-dead weight on what should have been his post-op downtime.
Still, as Alex would not be conscious for their flight, Yassen double checked the boy’s seatbelt and was mindful of his head wounds when setting on proper ear protection in the passenger seat of the Bell 206 helicopter.
With the boy mostly covered in the oversized jacket, Yassen was asked no questions from airport personnel and was directed to depart by the attendant.
The flight proved to be quiet and Yassen took the time to consider his dubiously consenting passenger. Hunter should not have died—a testament to MI6 incompetence—and Ian became a pitiful excuse for a guardian if he left Hunter’s son to MI6. It was inexcusable; the boy should have been left to family. He recalled hearing Ash being named as his godfather and his features darkened; Hunter continued to put his faith in the wrong people. Now that MI6 repeatedly sent a 14 year old with minimal training headfirst into missions that were dangerous for people twice his age, leaving the boy regularly injured, he was not pleased to be left addressing the result of a series of poor decision-making.
Landing at his destination, he strapped back on his bag before cutting away Alex’s bindings and lifting him into his arms to carry to his parked SUV. This brought another matter to his attention: Alex was far too light for his age—a concern he hoped to address when he got the boy medical assistance.
Calling ahead as he drove, he made arrangements with a former acquaintance from the military to have the boy’s medical concerns addressed.
Pulling into the lot alongside the medical building, he recognized the futility of this. Admittedly, he should just leave Alex here; leave him at the hospital and tip off an MI6 contact to allow them to handle his pick-up. After all, Alex was not his responsibility. However, remembering a particularly distinct memory from his work alongside Hunter, he felt an obligation to at least marginally assist in the boy’s recovery. He would care little about what happens to the boy after; he had a caretaker and though they were mostly incompetent, he still was under the care of MI6.
Carrying Alex into the side entrance of the local hospital Emergency Services, he was immediately given a room and treated directly by Sergei, a former doctor in the Russian military and now head of the ER at this unit.
After the doctor greeted him enthusiastically, Sergei raised an eyebrow. “Yours?” he inquired in Russian with some confusion.
“No,” he said bluntly, offering no further explanation. Sergei continued with his assessment and notably, asked nothing else on the matter either.
“He is not bad,” Sergei concluded, explaining, “A bit malnourished, mildly dehydrated, and few superficial wounds...the worst being that nasty blow to the head but he will be heal soon enough. No more hits to the head though.” He waved his finger in embellishment.
“Weight?”
“He a bit underweight but not unusually so. I can prescribe vitamins with the anti-inflammatories to get him started.”
Yassen nodded.
“Food, water, sleep and he be good to go.”
Alex had his hair shaved in spots where stitches were applied, looked altogether too pale, and had his form dwarfed by the hospital bed and the jacket but Yassen wrapped him back up it in and carried Alex back to the SUV.
Mind made up, Yassen would settle the injured child at his safe house with the assortment of medicines from the doctor to aid in his recovery. After that, he would sort out his relocation. He owed Hunter at least that much.
Unused to sharing his safe house with another, it was tricky business traversing the area with an unconscious passenger in tow but considering its location, it would be ideal for handling a likely-disgruntled teenager.
Following instructions, he diligently woke Alex at the prescribed times throughout the night for water and medicine. Oddly enough, the boy remained unusually compliant, though considering his earlier hallucinations of him being Ian, it was doubtful he would remember much of it anyway.
Against his better judgement—Alex was too young—but cognizant of the fact that Alex was certainly a Rider, he tied off some cloth around Alex’s wrist to ease the chafing before cuffing his wrist to the headboard. While he hoped the boy would have more common sense, handcuffs could at least serve as a deterrent for him not immediately running off and getting himself killed; that occurrence would be counterproductive to his efforts thus far.
Shortly after attending to lunch for himself, he heard the distinctly purposeful jingle of metal clanking against wood and prepared a glass of water and acquired the bottle of medicine before strolling in.