Disclaimer - No,Im (sadly) not Anthony Horowitz .
The boy ran down the damp, cobblestoned alley. The night was the blackest the boy had ever seen, with no moon and stars to be found, and almost all of the streetlights either broken or flickering. The air was freezing, going into his lungs like knives made of ice itself, and coming out as fog.
He could feel the heavy bass beat and smell the alcohol from the bars and clubs, the faint neon glow of their signs giving him just enough light to see by. The murders footsteps pounded behind him, hard and steady. His breath was rough, as if one of the serrated blades he held was scraping burnt toast.
The boy passed one of the many debilitated streetlights, and suddenly felt a complete, controlling, soul-deep urge to collapse, to allow his pursuer to catch up with him, to finally sleep forever. And so the boy fell, panting, to his hands and knees, in the shadows between the streetlights, listening to the approaching murderer, and waited for the peace of death to be delivered by the sharp kiss of a serrated knife.
Suddenly, he felt the murderer's hand, rough and calloused from handling the blades, on his bare calf. Silently he screamed at himself to do something, anything for the dead, for the killed, for his guardian, no, his sister. Almost of its own accord, his free foot snapped out and hit the man, wait, that wasn't right, the monster in the forehead. The things head snapped back and met the concrete with a sickening crunch.
The boy bent down and retrieved the knives. The blades, shining in the glow of some far off street light, with spots of blood that could've been ink or paint, but wasn't, all they did was take him back, to the damp, musty basement, chained to the wall, hardly able to scream, let alone help, watching as the filth on the ground sunk these blades into his best friend, his almost-girlfriend, and his guardian, relishing their death screams. He took a slow step forward, gripping the knives, preparing himself… but threw them to the ground, knowing that they wouldn't want him to become anything like this man, this killer. Alex Rider turned, and headed for the Royal and General Bank, disappearing into the night.
Five days earlier
It was ten minutes until the end of school, and Alex was counting every second. The stares, the whispers, it was simply hard to stand after Ash and his parents. He had the feeling that something was wrong, but surely-
Ring!
Finally he thought with relief as the usual rushed flurry to leave started and he prepared himself to go into the seething mass of teenagers. As he made his way to his bike, he saw a head of spiky hair. Tom, his best friend, was coming up to say goodbye for the "weekend". Really, they didn't have to do this, as Tom came over whenever Alex was there to escape the screaming at his house, but they never knew if there would be a mission or not, so they always said their farewells after school.
"Hey Alex!" called Tom, "see you next weekend?"
"I don't know Tom" Alex responded, raising an eyebrow "will I?"
"How should I know? Anyway, try not to die, that would be hard to explain James."
Alex heaved a sigh "Okay, mom, I'll do my best"
So Alex found himself biking to Chelsea alone, as usual, and could still feel something was off, but, honestly, how paranoid did that sound? He got so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't notice the black SUV in the neighbor's yard. This wouldn't be unusual, if the neighbors weren't in America visiting relatives.
He heard the car doors open and close. His head came up and he frowned. Wait...
As he went to turn around, he sensed someone behind him, right before he felt a sharp sting in his neck.
He leapt off of his bike and went to assume a fighting position, but he felt himself weakening. He was soon on the ground, and darkness was covering him like a blanket. Everything was fading...
The last thing he saw was a silver scorpion.
Please review! Constructive flames are accepted. Should I continue with this fic?