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They’d rented a little house with a porch that overhung the sand, the kind of rental that promised salt spray abrasions on the painted wood, stiff sheets, and a kettle that sang when the air got thick. The sand outside their door was hot enough to scald in the midday and was as cool as talc by dawn.
It was the plan the three of them had agreed on because it required little to no planning: just sunburns, bicycles and late night takeout by the fire. They were all students that needed a break from the intense schedules they’d packed themselves into. From gaining the necessary credits to pass in university, to moonlighting multiple part-time jobs, they figured a nice time away from the hustle and bustle would be good for them, and for the first time ever, Kyra had agreed to a trip to the beach - there was no way Alex was going to pass that up. Though Cornwall was no Hawaii, the young adults were sure they’d make the most of the trip despite staying in the UK.
With salt in his hair, sand packed into the grooves of his feet, and a dull ache from braving the unruly waves, Alex carried his board under one arm towards the Airbnb. An unimpressed look attached itself to his face as he put the board down gingerly and stared at his lazy cats for friends. Kyra had a hat on her face, a black tank top and striped shorts, dozing off on a sun lounger, under a giant umbrella that blocked out whatever helpful rays the sun was giving off.
Tom was seated on the porch with his phone, a loosely fitted Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts - god knows what he was doing with his phone, but at least he wasn’t addicted to some game like he had been with ‘Feathered Serpent’ a few years ago. That game had been a front for what could very well be the start of a world war with the amount of people it was expected to kill.
Alex pulled down the wetsuit to his hips, shrugged into a sweatshirt and watched them for a long second, noticing the lack of motion from either of them until he heard a whine from Tom, “I’m so upset Steph couldn’t come,” - ah, so he’d been texting.
Alex offered his best friend a small pout as a form of an apology. It was understandable that you’d want your girlfriend to go on a vacation with you, but unfortunately their schedules didn’t align for this particular trip. Between directing duties on an upcoming drama, overwhelming coursework, and a short Easter visit to her grandparents, she was utterly booked.
“Be glad she couldn’t come, I don’t think she’d enjoy the shit beaches here.” Kyra delivered in her usual deadpan voice before adding “and the shit weather,” which made Alex scoff a bit - it wasn’t all that bad, surely. “Yeah actually, I’ll save up and take her somewhere nicer!” Tom lit up, suddenly sitting up straighter with a grin so wide it made Alex feel a flicker of amusement at the thought that Tom might be a puppy reincarnated as a human.
“Oh yeah, any places you’ve got in mind?” Alex asked, settling beside his friend on the spacious porch, wanting to gather some ideas for their possible next trip. As long as it wasn’t space, Cairo or Russia in general, he’d be fine with it. “Yeah, uh” Tom turned his phone towards the two to show them the island he wanted to visit in the near future. “Tahiti” he supplied.
“It’s a magical place” Alex droned in response, his voice dropping into a practiced, hypnotic lilt. It seemed to be less of a comment and more of a hard-wired reaction, triggered the second the island’s name left Tom’s mouth. His eyes flickered over to Kyra, who had removed the hat from her face with how suddenly Alex’s response came. “Read too many brochures have you?” She enquired, which only elicited a small, nervous laugh from the blonde boy. He couldn't explain why those words escaped him so quickly.
Towels striped in navy blue,
Azure waves with a turquoise hue,
Hot white sands beneath his feet,
Island locals happy to greet,
Tension fading with each stroke,
Ivory shells strewn across the yoke.
He didn’t even realise he had been off in his own world until fingers were snapped in front of his face. “Have you been there?” Tom repeated, a curious look on his face while Kyra seemed to sport a concerned one, but there was something on her face that hinted that she knew much more than she was letting on, typical of her.
After a long, deep breath just like his therapist had taught him several months ago, the boy shook his head in response. “No, not that I remember actually, just read a lot of flyers I think” he said, eyes flickering over to Kyra, his nervous laughter following up the uneasy report. He let his right hand fly up to the right side of his temple, massaging gently, as if that’d dispel the sudden, unpleasant hollowness.
He recognized the sensation and despised it. It meant there was more to the conspiracy — a knot history had shown him time and time again that only he could untie, if he applied enough pressure. He turned to Kyra and Tom, wearing the vacant grin he'd perfected at Malagosto, the sort that put others at ease.
The conversation moved on to movies and music - the easy stuff, but the words hung in him like a note sustained too long. Later, when they walked the boardwalk with beers in hand and sea air scraping at their faces, he had a momentary bout of dizziness - not the heady kind, because apparently, alcohol didn’t affect him (curse his genes) - but a pressure behind his eyes like the stiff resistance of a double-action pull right before the hammer breaks. For a second he saw a place that wasn't Cornwall: a fringe of pale sand and a bright light too artificial to be the suns’, gardenias and hibiscus flowers that when up close smelled a lot like antiseptic solution, and an islander melody with a lasting hum that seemed to blend into the noise of a failing heart.
He told no one. He had lived with half-memories before. He had to pretend to be his own clone once or twice to be able to get in and out of sticky situations. He had field injuries that rearranged themselves into neat white scars scattered all across his body. He had other names too: student, friend, fix-it boy for situations that needed a small, skilled push.
Of course he’d kept his ‘spy boy’ occupation apart from his ‘international relations major & linguistics minor’ studies. He was too good for his own sake - too good at unravelling well-kept secrets. Too good at finding his way into rooms he wasn't invited to, and even better at leaving them without a trace. While his classmates were busy debating the nuances of soft power, he was out in the field, witnessing it being wielded with a heavy hand - the organisations in power pulling the strings over the common folk like puppets on a string. From SCORPIA to ‘The Department’ to S.H.I.E.L.D to Hydra - no matter what side of the pendulum you were on, you were being manipulated in some way or form, whether you fought for the good of humanity or sought to wear it down to its bones.
That night, he woke up with a start, unable to settle properly until he could name what had put that image in him. Come to think of it, over the two times he remembered being shot, he didn't really remember much after getting shot back in New York. He had been in deep cover as an admin intern in the Stark tower that blended well for his uni requirement, to work at a place that often had to deal with international relations, courtesy of Alan Blunt and Joe Byrne (who had the decency to at least look guilty before deploying him). But the ghosts of his past had followed him, and that led to his untimely attack. Someone from Hydra, tipped off by a very vengeful Nile, targeted him and sniped him just as he stepped out from a debriefing after Captain America’s defection.
He didn’t remember getting taken to a hospital. He didn’t remember waking up to white walls or bright lights. He could only see a pretty beach and a tan woman massaging his back with soft hands and immense pressure. That wasn’t right. How could you be at a beach immediately after getting shot like that unless you were seeing heaven momentarily? Was that heaven? Was heaven Tahiti?
He shook his head and padded to the kitchen, shuffling away the ridiculous thoughts as he boiled water for tea, and let the steam smear the window. “You’re overthinking again,” he heard Kyra speak, her hands found themselves around his waist and head against his back. The physical, domestic touch was appreciated, and he found himself letting out a loud sigh of contentment as he leaned into her touch before turning his head ever so slightly to take a glimpse at her concerned expression.
“You’re doing that thing where you can’t catch a real rest until you’ve solved the mystery” she said softly. Her voice was steady; there was something under the steadiness though - an edge he rarely saw - before her expression morphed into that one of guilt - a haunting, hollow and knowing look all rolled into one. “Do me a favour and don’t dig into this one Alex.” She begged. Kyra never begged. His eyebrow raised and his jaw opened to refute her claims, only to shut again, not knowing how to respond to that - because he couldn’t NOT dig, not when the temptation was this strong - again, curse the Rider genes.
“I don’t want to find out I’m some sleeper agent after I’ve killed everyone I love, and I’m holding a knife over your heart” he found himself responding. He tasted the joke and found none, the look in his eyes steely and tone clipped, no room for argument. “The way I said Tahiti-” The words fell out before he could choose them “It’s a magical place” he repeated, but the concerned expression on his face conflicted with his peppy words. “Is a cause for concern, don’t you think?” he finished after several seconds of wincing, as if waiting for his body to react in any other way apart from the harmless phrase.
“It’s not!” Kyra pulled away, exasperated. “This place was supposed to be ours for a few days.” She began to rant with her arms flailing up and down “Tom’s counting on a holiday,” she pointed to the closed bedroom door, “I’m counting on a holiday. You going and digging at S.H.I.E.L.D. files or asking strangers questions will pull us all into something we didn’t come here for.” She finished, an indignant expression and defensive posture.
But Alex only heard S.H.I.E.L.D and all the other words faded into the background. “So it’s them, then” he confirmed with a smug expression, which only caused Kyra to ball up her fists and start pacing about the kitchenette. “Alex, please” she shook her head like that would dissuade him from prying further, scolding an insolent child who had his hands far down the cookie jar and got caught doing it. She unclenched her fists with a desperate expression, “For your own sake - don’t,” she said, and it sounded like a plea rather than an order.
Alex’s jaw dropped just a tad, because he genuinely was flabbergasted by her resolute opposition - she was supposed to be his partner - the one he’d go to when he had something he couldn’t figure out. The one who always had his back and believed him even when the world didn’t, so why was she doing this? Why was she so adamant to have him essentially drop it like Blunt did when he had a hunch about Cray?
He nodded because the compulsion to pry might be stronger than his caution, but also because he could read the lines in her face now - absolute guilt and fatigue. He placed his hands on either side of her arms, as if to reassure her that he’d ‘drop it.’ The old compulsion to peel back the scab had begun again, and he wouldn't stop until it bled.
First thing in the morning and the boy was off for his run, undisturbed. He pulled out his phone and dialed the first number he thought of when it came to questions of this nature - Phil Coulson - he’d gotten his number from Byrne, and he’d use all the information at his disposal to find out exactly what happened to him.
He had an inkling that Coulson was aware of this project because he’d taken a look at Kyra’s laptop in the morning and searched up his name, and the island’s name as well. God bless Kyra’s skills to be able to get into any possible database, and with her level of distrust, naturally she’d have classified documents on her laptop. Let’s just hope that Kyra won’t find out that he used her laptop for this.
Slowing down from his run, he spoke “Hi Phil, It’s Alex Rider, I’m sure you’ve heard of me” into the phone as soon as it was picked up. He didn’t mean to sound smug, but he couldn’t help it. So many years in the field, and as a youngling with so many brushes against death, the ego had to flare up from time to time. “It’s nice to be able to speak to you. Now, I’d like to know if I’ve ever flatlined and been sent to Tahiti?”