A/N: Hello! This is my first attempt at Alex Rider fanfiction, so play nice. If you see any mistakes, please tell me so that I can correct them. This is an IanOC fic, because there is only ONE other. Which kinda sucks, if you ask me. So anyway, I've started a happy campaign for MORE IAN FICS! I mean, come on people. Ian Rider? He is such a completely undeveloped character. You can do so much with him, already! So, if you wish to join the campaign, simply put a note saying !MORE IAN FICS! somewhere in your fics/profile/etc. This means that you MUST WRITE IAN FICS! They don't have to be romance, but more are needed! SO write, people, write!
Disclaimer: I am not Anthony Horowitz. I am not male, I am not married and I don't have two children. I, therefore, do not own anything to do with Alex Rider. I'm just jumping on the bandwagon, and am SPREADING THE LOVE, PEOPLE!
Ahem.
Chapter One: ChancesIan Rider's job often took him away from home. He often, therefore, was away from his young nephew, Alex Rider. This was something of a problem, because the baby-sitter he had been employing had packed up and quit on him, just when he was called away again. Luckily, he'd been able to get a replacement: a friendly, American woman called Jack Starbright, who was in England doing a university course. Alex had just started school, so Jack would attend her lectures in the day after dropping Alex off, then would pick him up and do all the things that needed doing. They had even managed to arrange a fee before he went, and Ian had been able to introduce Jack to Alex himself, which was an added bonus.
However, although he missed being at home with Alex, he loved his job. There was something of a certain freedom of being away from the pressures of home life. Not, of course, that anyone outside of his workplace would understand that. To the world, Ian Rider was… an accountant. Who just happened to be sent away to conferences a lot. "It must be your people skills," Alex's ex-sitter had commented once, causing Ian to laugh. He told Alex that the conferences were extremely boring, and he wished that he didn't have to go, but "the bank needs me". Afterwards, he always felt horribly guilty about having to lie to his nephew, for, despite his almost constant absences, he loved him a great deal. Alex reminded Ian forcibly of his brother. Alex's father, John, and his mother, Helen, had died in an aeroplane accident. John had been Ian's older brother, and his best friend. Not that he saw him much in those last few years. Because Ian Rider led a secret life, hidden behind the lies of the Royal and General.
Ian Rider was a spy.
And right now, he was on a mission for MISO, the section on MI:6 that he worked for. MISO stood for Military Intelligence: Special Operations, and its head was an emotionless man named Alan Blunt. Ian didn't particularly like Blunt, but he was his boss, and had arranged things for Ian that could never have been done otherwise. Like the memorial for John and Helen Rider that Ian could never have afforded on his salary. And their paying off his mortgage just when he would have had to lose the house, so that he could stay near to the building that called itself The Royal and General Bank, but was really MISO headquarters.
He was situated in Victoria, Victoria Island, Canada. This was good, because it was one of the few places that he hadn't been. It was also bad, because Mr Blunt refused to take into account the time difference between London and Victoria. Which was rather irritating, especially when he called at three in the morning for check ups on his agent.
Ian was posing as a reporter for a British magazine that was here to interview and write an article upon one Mr Simon Richards and his business, CARMAL. For some reason, MISO didn't trust Mr Richards, but Ian wasn't to be privileged with the information that brought them to this conclusion. Instead, he was told to find out as much as possible about CARMAL and report back to MISO as much as possible.
He had spent almost a week in Victoria, and was currently sitting outside a small café at one of the umbrella'd tables provided, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him alongside an open notepad and a fountain pen. For himself, Ian hated writing in Biro, but would assent to using Rollerballs at a push. He was planning his "article", whilst really deciding upon the most important information for his report to Mr Blunt that evening.
He was halfway through re-writing a paragraph so that it would make sense to someone other than him when a voice came from in front of him, making him look up sharply.
"Would you mind terribly if I sat here? Only all the other tables are taken, and Canadians are… well, a tad scary, if you want my honest opinion. Too friendly."
Standing next to the table, a mug very like his own clutched between her hands, was a woman. A young woman, Ian corrected himself, for she couldn't be more than twenty-four or twenty-five. He nodded, moving the notepad out of the way so that she could put her cup down. She smiled gratefully at him as she sat.
"Thank you. I didn't quite fancy drinking this standing up." She raised the cup in indication, then took a drink from it.
"You're not from around here, are you?" he asked, looking up at her as he slid the lid of his pen home with a click. The report could wait until later. She looked at him over the rim of her mug, apparently assessing him. Her eyes were a startling blue, lined with thick, dark eyelashes. She set the mug down with a soft chink on the wood table, and sat back in her chair.
"No, I'm not. And, if I'm any judge, neither are you."
Ian grinned. "Busted." She smiled back, hair falling into her eyes as she picked up her cup again. She blew on it, took a sip, then set it down again before answering his question.
"I'm Welsh, if you must know. From Cardiff." She glanced up at him, regarding him through her hair. "And you, you're from… London?"
Ian blinked, setting down his own cup. "How did you know?"
She laughed. "Don't worry, I'm not some freakish stalker. Your accent. I am from Britain, you know. I do have a television, and a month's train pass. But, why are you here? In Victoria?"
Ian tapped the notebook with his pen. "I'm a reporter for the Oxford Express," he said. The name and the paper were both fictional, but if someone wanted to check out the Oxford Express, they'd just be put straight through to the Royal and General. MISO was nifty like that. "I'm here doing an article on Simon Richards, and CARMAL. I was just consolidating my notes when you came along."
The corners of her eyes crinkled as she attempted to look mortified. "Oops!" she said, forcing the corners of her mouth down. "Sorry about that. I hope I wasn't interrupting something vital?"
Ian shook his head, smiling as he picked up his mug.
They spoke of nothing and everything for the next half-hour, until she suddenly looked down at her watch and exclaimed loudly. This earned her some nasty looks from the surrounding tables, which she quickly placated with a hurried apology. She glanced regretfully back at Ian.
"Sorry," she said, "but I'm supposed to be at a meeting right about now, and I'm running late. Thanks for the company…" She stood up, dropping a note onto the saucer and securing it with the mug. "Maybe I'll see you around?" she said, as she turned to go. Ian nodded.
"Bye." She walked away, and was soon lost to sight amongst the bustling crowds. Ian, deciding that he might as well get back to his rented apartment, followed suit. Standing up, he was putting his pen and pad back into the shoulder bag that he had by his feet when a touch on his arm caused him to look up.
"I… sorry to bother you again," she was back, "but I… you don't happen to know where the Angelton Spencer is, do you? 'Cause I'm rather lost, as it is…"
Ian laughed, feeling surprisingly glad to be back in her company. Maybe it was because she was the only other British person he had met in Canada. Yes, he told himself as he straightened up. That must be it. "Sure," he said, and her face lit up. "I'll show you."
Swinging the bag over his shoulder, he pushed his way onto the crowd.
A/N II: Hi again! This is just to prod you more forcibly to REVIEW! Love it? Hate it? Find something that you'd like to see more of, or that you think needs changing? (Like MISO, for instance. I'm not quite sure if I got that right…) If you like, you can flame. But expect several on any fics that you've written, if that's the case. Or (and possibly and), I'll send you a nasty e-mail, saying just how rubbish you are. Neener.
Oh, and one more thing. If any of you live in Victoria, I'm sorry. I have never been to… well, I haven't crossed the Pond (that's Brit slang for the Atlantic, in case you didn't know) at all, so I know nothing about Victoria. You may not have cute little awning'd cafés. There probably isn't somewhere called the Angelton Spencer. So you'll just have to bear with me. Hope you can bear the torture. To be fair, I have to put up with a lot of it in Harry Potter fanfiction written by Americans. So, we're probably square.
REVIEW!
LostInColour