Alex the Kid
A/N: I was looking at the genres for the AR fan fiction and at the very bottom lurked "Western." Not too surprisingly, there isn't a single Western fanfic posted. (Probably because Alex Rider is British, and no one under the age of 50 likes Westerns anyway.) I'm from Kansas, so I thought, "Eh? Why not?" So,... here now, for your viewing pleasure, is the very first Alex Rider Western fan fiction! –cue the terrified screams-
Disclaimer: Come on guys. Would someone intelligent enough to create Alex Rider ever endeavor to write him in western form?
Warning: Rampant OOCness, a lack of plot, and blood. If this bothers you, then beware! Bwahaha!
It was with satisfaction that Alex scanned the crowded saloon. His target sat near the bar, a wide brimmed hat slung low over his brow and a swirling gold liquor in his filthy cup. The man was flanked with burly gunsmen, who formed an impenetrable wall of bodies for anyone attempting to shoot their boss on the ground level. This was beyond prefect for Alex, because he didn't intend to shoot from the ground level. Rather, his plan was to fire from the stair well. There were almost as many people lingering in the upper rooms as below, so suspicion would not be cast upon him. And thanks to his friend, Smither's, device, the actual shot would come from a concealed gun across the hall. Everything was set, and the conditions were perfect; at this point in the plan, his only job was to pull the trip wire and set off the gun.
Alex's stomach clenched at the thought of the act he was about to commit. Could he really take this man's life? A barking laugh cut through his thoughts and he gazed unobtrusively at his target once more. His thoughts turned to this man's crimes, and the impunity with which he struck against their territory. He had a small army of outlaws to dispatch anyone brave enough to face him and the money to buy off everyone else. His thoughts flashed to his parents, both killed traveling home by a stage coach. Then he thought of his uncle, his life snuffed out by one of this man's cohorts. He thought of the only things he had left to loose- his house and housekeeper, who was the closest thing he had to a sister. The thought of Jack's bright red hair and smiling face stiffened his resolve.
Nonchalantly, Alex reached down to scrub at the toe of his shoe, simultaneously ripping the wire and releasing the trigger of the concealed weapon. A shot rang through the air, and the nefarious bandit dropped down from his chair, grasping at his shirt and the blossoming red stain of blood.
His body guards stood perfectly still for twenty agonizingly long seconds. Then, one burly man snapped his head towards the source of the shot. It was like a silent signal to charge; all of the men stormed up the stairs, barreling towards the closed doors in the hall with draw pistols, shot guns, and knives. Alex was positive they didn't notice the pale, wide-eyed youth they pushed out of their way. Not wanting to push his luck, however, he took his leave of the bar, walking calmly down the stairs and slipping like a phantom into the night.
