An: Another one shot. Came out of my head randomly. I have no idea how good it is, it's probably a bit OOC. You might get a bit confused. I'm not sure if I did. So, uh, yeah.

Please R&R.


Look.

The moon is low in the sky, on it's way down, the sun already rising, allowing its tender rays to reach across the sky, like fingers clawing their way up. A soft breeze touches the earth, rippling through the grass, making the trees sway. It plays with his hair, lifting it up across his face, then letting it fall back.

Listen.

Silence. The birds are quiet, even as they should be rejoicing the start of a new day. The sound of the rustling leaves seems to be muted, when it should be amplified. His breathing is almost the only sound, but he knows that does not mean he is alone. They are there; they are always there.

Feel.

Sweat trickles down his face, dripping off his nose. The breeze chills him till he is shivering. He clutches tightly to the weapon he holds in his right hand, raised slightly in a defensive position. He is crouched on the floor, his bare feet worming their way into the earth. Wet dew on the grass wets his trousers.

Smell.

Someone in the town behind him is already up, cooking today's breakfast. The smell of sausages and bacon drifts towards him, taunting him. He can smell himself, sweat, dirt and grime, blood, sewers and things best forgotten, clinging to him and his clothes. He hasn't washed in a long time.

But there! If he sniffs hard enough, he can almost smell the death. The death that clings to him, and those waiting. The death that is about to be.

Taste.

It is hard to taste anything. His mouth is dry, his tongue sandpaper. A faint, lingering taste of blood and sweat, two substances he has become especially familiar with these last few days. But if he concentrates hard enough, he can taste it. Fear. He shivers. His heart is beating wildly in his chest, trying to break free. Maybe, he thinks, it thinks it has a better chance of surviving away from my body. A wry smile passes across his lips. Perhaps it has.

His grip loosens on the knife in his hand, then tightens. It is almost time. Almost, so almost. He has waited for this moment for so long. Nerves and excitement rise in his stomach. Anticipation hangs heavily in the air.

Without his noticing, the breeze has stopped. Silence reigns. It seems as if the world is waiting. Waiting on him. Perhaps it was.

Briefly, his eyes touch the heavens. A strange look crosses his face, impossible to decipher. He looks back down to the earth and raises the knife to his lips. He kisses the blade.

"This is for you," he murmurs. "All for you."

He stands.

They are there. More than he ever imagined. More than he could ever hope to defeat; but that does not matter. Nothing does anymore. Not after they killed her. Jack. Then Tom. Then Sabina, and her family. His family. The world conspires against him, so he will conspire against it. In some small, sick, part of his mind, he is satisfied they sent so many people to get him.

They have guns. He has a knife.

Some, sane, part of his mind is terrified. Telling him to run, to get away while he still can.

He doesn't move. Because he is going to join them.

A ripple of shock spreads through the men surrounding him; they could hardly have expected this. Then they recover themselves. This is what they are here for. This is what they have trained for. After all, Scorpia never forgives. Scorpia never forgets.

But neither does Alex Rider.

They charge.