Hey, people of the Alex Rider fandom!
I've never written on here before, so you're going to have to cut me a little bit of slack. Ok, more than a little. Hell, a lot. Thanks for reading this (if you are). I know it sounds like a Mary-Sue and all, but trust me, it's not.
Mary-Sues make me giggle.
It's actually because of my good friend Amitai that I'm writing here in the first place - HEY, HEY AMI, LOOK AT ME, OVER HERE!! Blame her if you don't like this fic.
Anyway, lovely people that you are, please review, because I need to get through school on Saturday morning. (yes, I did say 'school on Saturday morning'.)
Lots of love,
Xaritomene (Ha-ree-to-may-nay, not...er... xaritomene)
DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything to do with Alex Rider. Not the helicopter, not the action figures, and especially not Damien Lewis.
"Tamar, don't do this," Alex pleaded, cold sweat running down his back. "Please, just listen to me."
There was a crack of a gunshot. Alex Rider gasped for breath and staggered backward, eyes wide in his face…
It starts with a room. And a girl. And a television.
Sitting on a stool, the girl watches the television intently, and on it, the comings and goings of people down a high street. Suddenly, the man behind her taps the screen, silently. Her eyes fix on the image of a tall blond boy walking with a redheaded young woman.
"Is that him?"
The man smiles grimly.
"That's him."
"Alex! We're going to be late," Jack Starbright yelled up the stairs, then turned to scrutinise herself in the mirror. She really didn't like black, she decided. Black made her look washed-out. Her favourite colour was turquoise, but it could seem a little outlandish at a memorial service.
It had been a long couple of years since Ian Rider's death. First there had been that business with MI6 refusing to leave Alex alone. That had lasted a year. Then they had made a promise never to interfere with Alex again, and so far had kept to their word. The second year had been devoted to Alex recovering and then settling back down into a normal atmosphere. And Lord knows Jack was devoted to Alex. The boy had seen enough. It was the least she could do to make sure he lived a relatively normal life from now on.
Jack had always viewed herself as a combination of the mother and sister Alex had never had. Mothering was becoming difficult, now. Alex had outgrown mothering a long while ago, and now had the tendency to stay out all night and sleep until midday. Jack saw this as growing up and finding his feet. It was at these points that Jack could shrug her shoulders and say, non-committally, that she was not his mother.
There was a thud, a yelp, and Alex hopped down the stairs, a pained expression on his face. Clutching his foot, he glared at Jack, who was trying not to laugh.
"I stubbed my toe," he explained. "It hurts."
"Poor baby," soothed Jack, giggling. "What would MI6 say if they saw you now?"
Alex's face shuttered off, as it always did when MI6 came up.
"They'd say nothing," he snapped, and stood in front of the mirror, straightening his black tie. Jack sighed. How long would it be before Alex could talk about MI6 without remembering what they put him through?
"Come here," she ordered, and undid the tie, before tying it neatly. Standing back from the boy, she inspected him. He'd grown far too good-looking for his own good. His light skin and hair contrasted with devastating dark eyes, and, thanks to MI6, his body was lithe and well-muscled, even with souvenir scars. Not to mention the smile that could stop a female heart at twenty paces. She'd have to watch out for him.
"Let's go."
In the car, Jack coached Alex on his behaviour.
"And if the priest talks to you, smile. Don't stand there looking like a lemon!"
"It's a memorial service, isn't it?" demanded Alex. "I'm meant to look glum."
"Not if someone talks to you, you aren't. And I've invited Mrs Cokes."
Alex groaned. "Why?"
"She used to work for us. It's simple politeness, Alex."
Privately, Jack agreed. Mrs Cokes was a portly busy-body who had unhelpfully spread dangerous rumours about Ian Rider to everyone she knew. She also had an unfortunate-looking daughter, who was determined to ensnare Alex.
"Fuck politeness!"
"Alex!"
"Fine – fine. Just – keep her away from me."
"You won't even have to talk to her," Jack assured him.
Arriving at the church, Jack hastily parked the car. She was right: they were late. Leaping out of the car, she grabbed the rather battered wreath from the boot, and headed for the church, dragging Alex after her.
"… We celebrate today the life of Ian Thomas Rider, whose notable achievements throughout his life –"
The priest broke off in surprise as a dishevelled Jack, towing along a harassed Alex, flung open the door, and gave the minute congregation a bright smile.
"Sorry we're late," she said, breezily, and swept along the nave towards the assembled company.
"Er –" the priest stumbled, confused. "As I was saying, whose notable achievements brought the company of Rider, Hughes and Smithwick into the twenty-first century, and who revolutionised the methods of…"
Alex allowed his mind to wander. The priest obviously didn't know that the man he was discussing was one of the most experienced and cold-blooded agents that MI6 had ever had, besides his own father. The true Ian Rider had rarely been home, and when he had, it was to take Alex somewhere abroad or to quiz him about school. Alex didn't miss his uncle as such. It was simply a kind of emptiness that was too easy to ignore. Now he was older, Alex wished he had known his uncle well enough to miss him properly.
"Now, a representative from the Royal and General Bank, with whom Ian had a longstanding account, would like to say a few words."
Alex watched, with icy fury, as Alan Blunt stood up to speak.
"Ian Rider was always a loyal client and a generous benefactor…"
Generous, indeed, reflected Alex, bitterly. He gave you his life.
Alan Blunt sat down after a speech of lies, as Alex thought it, to be replaced once again by the priest.
"…Father, Son and Holy Spirit, Amen," finished the priest, with obvious relief. Such a dull man he'd never had to talk about.
The company retired to the freezing church hall to shiver by the cold radiators, and eat cold nibbles. Dodging Mrs Cokes, who was casting covetous eyes at the large cake on the table, and her daughter, who was casting covetous eyes at him, Alex slid over into a corner to hide.
"Good afternoon, Alex."
It was Alan Blunt. Neat as ever, clad in grey, with grey skin, grey hair, and grey eyes, he was the blandest person Alex had ever had the bad luck to meet.
"You have no right to be here," Alex hissed, through cold lips.
"No?" Alan Blunt looked vaguely interested. "And why not? Your uncle was one of our best. Why should we forget him after death?"
"Because it was you who killed him. You have no right to be here," repeated Alex. "Nor at anyone's funeral. You should just arrange them in advance."
"We go to the funerals and memorials of everyone I knew in our service, Alex," Blunt replied. "We have been to your father's, we have been to your uncle's, and, rest assured, Alex, we will be at yours."
With that, he bowed, and left. Alex stayed in his corner, simmering with anger. Jack, seeing what had happened, came over, worried.
"What did that creep have to say to you, Alex?" She muttered, taking his arm. Alex looked past her at the rest of the congregation looking interested at the abrupt exit of the banker, and said, softly:
"He said he'd come to my funeral."
"Well, that's that over for another year," said Jack, breezily.
Alex snorted.
"What?" demanded his guardian. "I hate things like that. And we both know that Ian did very little for the local schools, or whatever crap that priest was spouting. He should take lessons from that priest in – oh hell, what was that film called? That one where there are millions of weddings?"
"Four Weddings and a Funeral," replied Alex, absently, staring out of the car window.
Jack glanced across at him. He had that completely unreadable expression on his face that usually meant he was plotting something.
"Are you still thinking about the creep?"
"No… yes. It's just weird, you know? I've been quietly blocking everything out for the past couple of years and then – wham! Everything brought back in Technicolor, just by talking to someone."
"Well, we'll just have to block it out again, won't we? Think of a suitable distraction. Cinema, holiday…?"
"Jack, it's school in a week!"
"So? We can go somewhere near home. Country cottage or something."
"Could we?"
Jack saw the hope in his face.
"Sure. I'll organise something. Where d'you want to go?"
"Anywhere," muttered Alex. "Anywhere but here."
"Suits me. Anyway, I've been dying to see that hot estate agent again."
"Jack…"
"Fine, fine. It's not as if I'm looking for a relationship. At the moment, anyhow."
Alex noted the bitterness in her voice, but said nothing. The loss of Serious Boyfriend Number Five had hit Jack hard. Staring out of the window, something caught his eye, but it was gone in a blur as Jack turned a corner.
"So...? Cornwall? France? Spain? The Canary Islands?" demanded Jack. "Ooh! How about the Bahamas?"
Alex grinned.
"Anywhere you can sunbathe and chat up waiters and I can do some halfway decent surfing. Somewhere realistic, remember. We're not that rich."
Jack waved a dismissive hand as they pulled into the drive of their Chelsea house.
"We're not that poor, either. Ian left an annual deposit for you, MI6 give you a reasonable pension – pension – you! At sixteen! – I get child benefit for you and I earn a fair amount myself. We're hardly on the breadline, here."
"I know, but I've got GCSEs coming up this year. I missed a hell of a lot, Jack," Alex reminded her. "Catching up and revision tutors cost a considerable load of money. So – Cornwall? Let's just save the Bahamas for my extended summer holiday, yeah?"
"Suit yourself – and make yourself useful! I've got ten bags of shopping to carry indoors, and I refuse to do it all by myself when a great, strong lad like you sits like a lump in the sitting room. Don't just take the light ones either – there's a bag with some soup tins in the boot. Hut, hut!"
Smiling, Alex obeyed, hoisting two plastic bags out of the car. He dropped them as he spun, sharply, something strange catching his eye for the second time that day. It was gone before he could register it. He shook his head as he picked up the bags. This was ridiculous. He was being jumpy.
Trudging towards the open door, he looked back, and squinted hard into the dark undergrowth of the park opposite his house.
There was nothing there.
