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Alex looked up at the Royal & General Bank with a slight smirk. It was time for his latest post-mission debrief, and if he'd recently started a pattern of fulfilling the mission objective while also increasing Blunt’s workload… well, the man did lean into the whole grey theme. A few more grey hairs from stress wouldn’t be all that noticeable. Certainly less so than Alex had been during many of his past missions.
With that in mind, he entered the building and headed straight for Blunt’s office, where the debriefing committee was already waiting. Time to see if he could make the vein on Blunt’s forehead throb even more than usual .
Inside sat Blunt, Mrs. Jones, Smithers, and Ben Daniels.
This was going to be fun.
The mission itself hadn’t even been that bad. Sure, he could’ve done without being pulled from school for a week to save some rich guy’s son from his own stupidity, but it was a fairly low-risk assignment—and he’d gotten away without a scratch.
Blunt had never thought anything could make him regret blackmailing a teenager into working for him. His conscience had shut up long before he started climbing the ranks. And as soon as he took the Director’s chair, he adopted the long-established “ends justify the means” work motto and never looked back.
So when the opportunity arose to snatch up a young operative who could go undercover in situations where no one would suspect him, he took it. Especially since it had been their best—and easiest—option during the whole Stormbreaker affair.
When Alex later conveniently fell back into their grasp, again and again, it had seemed like a brilliant idea.
Sure, there were a few close calls where the risk of exposure to another agency became a concern. But nothing truly insurmountable.
Or at least, that’s what he used to believe.
That was before Alex became a regular fixture.
It wasn’t even about convenience anymore. When high-level government contacts needed favors for their irresponsible offspring, Alex was always the logical answer.
At least, he
had
been… until the complaints started piling up.
Pages and pages of them.
If it wasn’t accounting complaining about property damage, it was accounting again—this time about the ballooning R&D budget, since Alex treated every gadget like it was a one-time-use toy and hadn’t returned with anything for over a year.
And when it wasn’t accounting, it was HR. Or the psychologist.
Turnover was up. Medical leave was through the roof. Even agents sent just to
pick him up
from extraction sites reported enough trauma to require a month off.
And if, by some miracle, they managed to calm the in-house vultures down, the Prime Minister would come knocking about strained international relations—all caused by Alex’s latest disregard for other people’s property.
Or, if the mission had been a favor for one of Blunt’s old school friends, the complaint would be more personal: something about their own property being destroyed by whatever harebrained scheme Alex had cooked up.
At this point, Blunt was seriously beginning to wonder if his own mental health might outweigh the greater good of King and Country.
Especially in light of the latest mission report—one he was about to hear, in person, from Alex and Agent Daniels, who had somehow survived the partnership without needing a series of therapy sessions.
He looked around his office once more: his Deputy, Mrs. Jones; Smithers; Ben Daniels.
He noted Daniels’ face and revised his earlier assessment.
Perhaps he'd praised the man’s resilience too soon. Daniels looked
done
.
Blunt sighed.
And to think—it had been a
simple
mission.
He really should’ve stopped doing favors for his old school buddies. Their support wasn’t worth a fraction of what these “missions” cost the agency.
This time, it had been a friend calling about his dim-witted son, James. There was an underground broker operating in London, known only by his alias: The Broker .
He ran illegal “auctions” where people didn’t pay for goods (weapons, state secrets, information) with money—but with victories in high-stakes games. Poker, mostly. But sometimes other chance-based games.
There was always a buy-in. Sometimes a prize. And for the ultra-rich, the events had become just another secretive, glamorous gambling den.
That’s how James got involved.
He lived for the adrenaline rush. Regular casinos no longer did it for him. So he bought a year-long pass for two million pounds and started attending four nights a week.
James wasn’t a remarkable gambler. He rarely won—and never when the real prizes were on the table. So he remained blissfully unaware of the operation's true purpose.
Then word got out that the Broker had acquired sensitive information—intel the Americans were already preparing to recover. A disk. The prize was set for two weeks from now, and the raid would coincide with that night.
A raid would mean arrests. And James, being present, would be exposed.
So Blunt offered an alternative: Alex.
His job? Infiltrate as a gambler. Join the earliest poker night. Locate the disk. Then either steal it himself, with Ben Daniels as backup, or signal the team to retrieve it while he distracted the Broker.
The mission started well.
Until Alex discovered the Broker kept the disk on him at all times. That’s when the plan unraveled. Improvisation kicked in.
Which brings us to today—and Blunt’s steadily worsening headache.
"Alex, how nice of you to join us," Blunt said coolly as the teen entered. "Please, sit."
Alex smiled. "You wanted to see me?"
Blunt could feel his blood pressure rising.
"Care to explain," he said slowly, "why I received a call yesterday from James' father, complaining that your actions left him deeply traumatised? He was pleased about James’ newfound anti-gambling stance, though. Apparently, whatever you did helped in that regard."
"Well," said Alex, "it’s not my fault he has a weak stomach! How was I supposed to know a little fake blood and brain matter would set him off?"
Blunt blinked.
The mission had been labeled
violence-free
.
Also—none of the gadgets Alex had been issued were capable of producing that kind of effect.
"Would you mind explaining how we got to the fake blood incident?"
"Well," Alex began cheerfully, "here’s the thing. Once I realised he kept the disk on him at all times, I also realised something else—he lived for gambling. He liked inventing games. Loved watching people bet more than they could afford."
He grinned. "So I came up with a new game to draw him in without arousing suspicion. That’s when I remembered the fingerprint-activated handgun that Smithers gave me."
He turned to Smithers. "Spectacular piece, by the way. Especially those sedative-loaded darts disguised as bullets."
Smithers brightened. This was why he always attended Alex’s debriefs. Alex not only appreciated the craftsmanship—he found brilliant new uses for his inventions. Sure, Accounting hated him, but Smithers’ inner engineer was thrilled.
“Wait,” Smithers said. “Didn’t I give you that gun three months ago for that masquerade infiltration? I thought you lost it!”
"I recovered it afterward," said Alex. "Besides, I don’t believe in 'mission-specific' gear. That zit cream from my first mission came in handy months later too."
"Well, I’m not opposed to you keeping it, my boy," Smithers said, ignoring the glares from Blunt and Mrs. Jones, "but I could have upgraded it. Now—where do the fake blood and brains come in?"
"Oh, that! I just needed a little container of fake blood, mixed with grey slime. It looked just like a gunshot wound to the head."
Silence.
"And then I suggested a new game to the Broker. High stakes. Exclusive. Russian Roulette ."
Blunt’s eye twitched.
"The Broker was thrilled . I did some sleight of hand, swapped his gun with mine, and the stage was set."
"What he’s not telling you," Agent Daniels cut in, "is that he never told me about this plan in advance."
Alex looked sheepish. "I’m not used to having reliable backup. Forgot you weren’t like the others."
He continued. "So we play. Broker wanted to be third. James volunteered. I was the one holding the gun, to avoid any accusations of cheating."
He beamed. "Broker takes the shot. Bang. Blood everywhere. James vomits. I lift the disk off the Broker while his guards freak out. Ben was waiting outside with the car. We were gone in sixty seconds."
Silence.
Even Ben looked stunned. And, perhaps, a little relieved that it hadn’t involved an actual bullet.
Blunt looked to Mrs. Jones, who pointedly avoided his gaze.
Smithers finally broke the silence. "Ingenious! You’ll have to show me how you hid the blood pack. Was it next to the bullet? In the mouth? What size? Any recoil?"
"Thank you, Alex," Blunt said lifelessly, cutting him off. "You’re dismissed."