He Is

An Alex Rider Fanfiction

A oneshot describing Alex after several of his missions. A bit angsty. None of this belongs to me, or else I'd have Alex graffiti Scorpia headquarters =D.

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He's just a boy.

Right?

No. He's so many things. He's a teenager - 14 years. On the brink of manhood really, and more mature for one thing. He's a small child in his insecurities, and an old man in what he has seen.

[Go back to school

You don't belong here

Get out while you can

What do you think you can do -

oh so much he thinks but does not answer the man

who sneers and dismisses him as a pathetic schoolboy

But is he really still one?

They ask what is the measure of the hypotenuse?

He doesn't know - in his mind, it is less important than

What is the measure of the jump I have to make

to survive]

In action, he is a hardened veteran, who has known the weight of lives, the adrenaline of a life and death fight. Of death.

[Eyes twisted in pain, gaping mouths

Burned, bloody

Why did you kill us?

Their voices surround him, echoing off the dark and light

Their blank stares are still accusing

Brown gray hazel blue green

The blood of

innocents

and the guilty

He doesn't know which category he falls into anymore]

x-x-x-x

He's tall, graceful in a way that is a mix of both a predator and a dancer. He is also rather muscular, at first it was from playing sports. Now, it's from

[running

fighting

another gasp, a breath of air

his hearts beat

he remembers what the general told him

as long as that beat continues he lives

ba-bum ba-bum ba-bum

there's no terrifying silence from his heart

His opponent isn't so lucky

The boy survives another day]

The girls whisper and giggle as he passes in the hall, eyes down but shoulders squared, squared against the whispers, stares, derision.

[Some think he's a sickly weakling

Or maybe in a gang

Hah, he works with much more

terrifying

monsters than the local gang members

Their murmurs their fear

What do they know

But he doesn't sneer, because he wishes

that he didn't know either

He shouldn't know really

he's just an anomaly, someone different in the crowd

So he walks silently, strong as a boulder

For it's him against the world]

They think he's so handsome, such a good body.

They've never seen his scars.

[A jagged line

A madman with knife in outer-space

A crazy game of cat and mouse

And there's one that involves a shark too

A small neat scar on his stomach

that always makes him think of almost being dissected alive

Or having his organs taken

And he feels it's so fitting

A small puckered round scar

Still with twinges of pain

And it's right by his heart

that teller of life - so he

survives

but he doesn't feel like he is living]

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He has dark, brown, round eyes, framed by long gentle lashes. They are clouded with thought, yet are permanently alert. A very straightforward gaze, except from when he quickly scans his surroundings (and now he knows to look for snipers too).

[such dark brown eyes

contrasting between the whites of his eyes, and his fair complexion

they are just so dark

serious, flat

much too blank

he's seen so much with those eyes - joy love fear hate betrayal madness

those same eyes that were almost sold for money

(funny isn't it, how much money seems to matter

when it's fragile pieces of paper

easily blown away in the wind)

They say you can see someone's soul in their eyes

But when he looks in the mirror, he can't see his soul in his eyes

And wonders

if he still has one]

He has blonde locks, that go every which way yet still neat (many girls envy his hair), as it falls over his eyes and hides him, but then suddenly pulling back - his neat hair tangling in the wind as it suddenly blows back, and it is almost like the wind is saying - "Look, I've uncovered him, but is he any less hidden?"

[There are many other times the wind has blown through his hair

It has always been with him, one of the few things that haven't left

Wind, sky, earth, dark, light

From up on a high mountain

to a maze of waterways

And it surrounds him, as he looks down on life

A silent protector

There are other things that have tangled in his hair too-

slicked with sweat

Matted with sweet, cloying

blood]

His skin is pale, smooth. It would be flawless except for the scars that twist and the dark bruises.

[The man holds on pulling on him, punches him

Running, running

fear

Lives are hanging on him

Struggling against the cuffs

He's losing time, and the people are still on the balance point

He is their life or death

So he doesn't give up

And ignores the sweat, pain, aches, fear

and his own blood mixed on him with that of others]

Actually, considering what he gets up to, his skin is also surprisingly clean - in fact, it seems almost pink from being scrubbed hard

[Blood

He'd never been all that squeamish

But blood

It surrounds him

Coats him, suffocating

There is no escape

Doesn't mean he can't try but -

oh god, why won't it come off

Thick red substance, rivers of it

That of friends and enemies

He knows that he is now just

monsterkillerweapon]

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He also had something new that he was carefully concealing - a gun. MI6 had finally decided to let him have one for safety, which he had been denied so often before.

[He knows exactly why they've changed his mind

As he

feels the cold metal

smooth shape that serves as

The death of some salvation of others

They have given him this because

now they know

that he can pull the trigger

Boomblood

Men rushing over smiles -

good aim, you've saved us

But Alex is silent

For he knows

That they were saved - but he has been condemmed

monsterkillerweapon]

Fin.