I do not own Alex Rider.

"Alex, for your next mission, we have decided to give you a partner," Blunt informed the fair-haired boy. "We thought that perhaps you might be a little stressed –"

"That's certainly a first," Alex muttered. Blunt paused and gave him a look of vague disapproval before continuing. Another surprise. Alex hadn't known that the cardboard creases on Blunt's gray face could actually display emotion.

"Thankfully, found another person of your age," he said. "She even shares a few of your abilities: proficient in martial arts, fluent in plenty of languages." He coughed. "Calm demeanor…"

Alex was amused an irritated at the same time. Did Blunt really think he was that stupid? "So you're saying that you're sending me on a mission with an untrained agent to test her abilities." He hadn't missed it when Blunt had said 'she'.

Alex sighed, mentally rolling his eyes. In reality, the dark – almost chocolatey – brown orbs didn't even twitch. They could have at least told him the truth.

The woman standing next to Blunt's desk frowned. She had a round, rather potato-shaped head and a pudding-bowl haircut. She reached up and tucked a few loose dark strands behind her ears. Alex was beginning to think that this habit was one of her ways to hide anxiety. But why would she be anxious? It wasn't as if Alex was going to refuse the mission; he couldn't, or else MI6 would deport his guardian, Jack Starbright, back to the United States.

Of course, Alex had much more things to worry about than Jack's Visa. There was SCORPIA, MI6 double-agents (that is, traitors, but this was the milder term), random civilians who didn't have a clue what was going on… But that small flicker in the woman's dark eyes had him worried. Alex wasn't always fully briefed about his missions by the heads of the MI6 Spec Ops department, and that had often led to many hurdles. Many a time, Alex had felt like quitting out of spite and frustration, to never return again, but his conscience was so damnably present, he had to finish his assignment.

Mrs. Jones, the woman, unwrapped a peppermint. "Well, yes, Alex. You're right. We would like to examine her, to see if she has enough potential to become a member of the MI6 like you. Unfortunately, we don't exactly have an emergency at the moment…"

"Then how are you going to test her?" Alex asked, bewildered. "And what do you mean, like me? I'm not really an agent. I don't get paid or rest periods…"

Blunt leaned forward. Negotiating was one of his specialties. "You could have those advantages. If you did us a small favor.

"You see, as Mrs. Jones explained, there is not exactly a national crisis on our hands at this time. Well," he amended, "not one which can be resolved by children. Even if there was a problem, we would be slightly hesitant about sending her—"

"That's sexism!" Alex exclaimed. "You can't seriously be telling me that you won't allow her to go on field duty because she's a girl, that's not—"

"That's not why," Blunt interrupted. "We don't know if she's good enough, I told you. I had no qualms about sending you to Herod Sayle because I saw you leap from a fifteen-story building to break into your uncle's office simply because you were curious. I have no data about her other than she likes literature, Jane Austen novels especially, and that she's on the hockey team at her school, Bennett's Academy for Young Ladies."

"We just want you to, ah, set up a mission for her, Alex," Mrs. Jones said, having finished her peppermint. "Her parents worked with Crawley; they died in a car crash a few days ago. The funeral will take place soon."

"A real car crash?" Alex asked. "Or was this one a cover-up, too?"

Mrs. Jones gave him a look. Alex quieted. "Anyway," she continued, reaching into her black purse and pulling out a Peppermint Pattie, "after the funeral, we'll be sending her to Brookland, where she'll mysteriously uncover a mysterious plot."

"How on earth am I going to set up a 'mysterious plot' at my school?" Alex demanded. "I don't have the time; there's make-up work for all the time I've missed and football games, not to mention the drama club!"

"In a few weeks, your school will be closed due to the holidays, Alex," Blunt said. Alex flushed slightly; he had forgotten this fact. "You can leave a few notes promising threats to wreak havoc on the innocent people of London for her to discover. Perhaps you can even set a deadline. She'll be investigating during the break."

"Alright. When do I meet her?"

"You'll meet her after we collect her from her parents' funeral," Mrs. Jones said. "Thank you, Alex. You may leave."

As Alex turned round, he heard one more thing as the door shut behind him. It was Blunt's voice. "When did he join drama club? It's not as if he needs the acting lessons anyway…"

When Alex had left, Mrs. Jones turned to Blunt, sucking the dark chocolate off her index finger and thumb (honestly, York's Peppermint Patties were delicious). "Alan, be honest. You don't want this girl just for her abilities. Spit it out."

"Well," Blunt hedged, "we already have Alex as one of the youngest agent of the MI6, and he turned out better than half the adult agents combined. Imagine two of them!"

This was as close to excited that Alan Blunt had ever been. His gray eyes were narrowed in thought, his tight, pale lips pursed. "There would be fewer casualties, and more work done. And," he added, "less paperwork, unless, of course, the girl got herself arrested."

"Why would the girl get arrested? If I were a police officer, I'd go after Alex!"

"Oh, do you honestly think Alex would get himself caught be a mere policeman? He's much more skilled than the whole London police squad, and twice as clever. Moreover, he has the perfect cover. Who would accuse a fourteen year old boy of being a spy?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mrs. Jones snapped. "Maybe Herod Sayle, Dr. Grief—"

"Grief is dead," Blunt interjected.

Mrs. Jones continued as if she had never been interrupted. "– Alexei Sarov, Damien Cray, SCORPIA, and God only knows how many more people!"

Blunt had to admit that this was true.

There was a moment of silence.

Mrs. Jones broke it. "Alan…"

"Yes, Tulip?"

"What if the girl isn't up to standards?"

"…Then we may have a problem."