Warnings: Angst

I've been here long enough to know that if you are HERE you obviously don't own whatever you are writing for. For legal reasons though:

Disclaimer: GOD DAMMIT! I DON'T OWN THE SERIES!

For some reason or another, I'm alive.

I've been hiding out wherever I could pay the rent for at least ten years now. I played MI6's game since I was fourteen. I never really had much of a chance to be average. Even if I hadn't gotten involved, the uncle I've lived with for several years was a spy, I had no parents, and my main guardian was a twenty-nine year old woman. As far as I know, that isn't 'normal.'

Even if I had both my parents, I doubt that MI6 would have cared. Blunt made me do things that a boy of fourteen years can only do in a video game. I've killed enough people to fill a morgue. I've broken so many laws that I should have a rap sheet the length of my window, but MI6 has been covering my tail in exchange for my services. I've called more bluffs than a room of tournament poker players and told more lies than I can remember. For me, a gun is a prosthetic body part, and my looks are a luxury. I'm the living dream of many, the worst nightmare of others.

I am a spy.

MI6 kidnapped my childhood. I've had to move away from all my friends for their safety. They think that I am living the American dream when I am truly living an international nightmare. I'm still in contact with them; I travel enough for them to believe that I roam as I wish. I do travel, but I have no more say in where I go or what I do. I can't even choose what juice I drink in the morning.

When they robbed my childhood, they took away chances I had to love. Sure, I've met enough models to fill the Playboy Mansion, but I've never truly felt love. To stay alive, I've faked affection for both women and men so they would spare me, but true love is still elusive to me. There was a girl once, Sabina Pleasure, but I didn't feel it for long. I led her on and she fell for it, completely. There have been several others, all just for my own sick pleasure of lust, but there was never any real connection to them.

Why would I be thinking such morbid thoughts? It all started on an ordinary day. I was doing some post-mission recovery by removing the blond hair dye. When I got home, there was a package on my doorstep. Immediately my heart rate shot up. How could anyone find me so easily? I looked at the sender: Jack Starbright. Figures, I thought. I told her that anything addressed to me goes to me. I hauled the package inside and took a knife to slit the tape along the top. On the inside was a book of some sorts and two letters. I decided to read a letters, so I picked up the first letter, which was printed in neat manuscript on a sheet of pastel blue paper.

Hey!

I hope this letter finds you well, and that you have not died yet on a you-know-what. I really miss having you live here, but I wanted to tell you that my wedding was fabulous, and the honeymoon was so much fun I insist that you come over when you have time. Love,

Jack

I immediately rushed over to the mailbox, and I nearly ripped open the door on it. Sure enough, there was a fancy, white envelope and several other letters that I ignored when I took the white envelope. I ripped it open, and a wedding invitation fluttered out. I read the date. August 18. Of course, I'd been on a mission at the time. I was ashamed that I had to miss Jack's wedding, but I cleared that out of my head. I started browsing through the book, putting it down only to read the other letter, which was written illegibly on a piece of lime-green paper.

Hey!

I hope you're still alive. The way that Jack was acting, I thought you were dead. Anyways, I finally compiled a picture book of our time at school. Whatever you're doing is not of my concern, but I still hope that you are okay.

Best regards,

Tom Harris

Indeed it was a school yearbook! I looked through the pictures. There was one kid whose pictures were mostly him participating in sports. He had lightly-colored hair and brown eyes that were familiar, but I couldn't remember where. I looked through to the student portraits. There he was again! Now I could finally learn his name: Alex Rider.

"What!" I exclaimed. "That can't be! That person right there is a thief. He stole my name, he stole my yearbook picture, he stole all of it!" I was going to rant more, until I realized what I was saying.

That kid hadn't stolen my name; that kid was me. I was shocked that I had changed so much that I couldn't remember what I looked like. I curled up in fetal position and sobbed.

Who was I? If I couldn't recognized my own face, who was I? Who went out of this house everyday and worked for MI6? I hugged my shoulders and looked into a mirror. My hair was brown and resembled straw after dying and cutting it so much. My eyes were still brown, but they were haunted by the ghosts of the past. This wasn't Alex Rider looking back at me; this was an unloved secret agent. This was the monster I had become.

I may have survived dozens of missions against highly trained assassins, but Alex Rider had died. I was only the name on the passport MI6 gave me when they had a new mission.

AN: I hated this, but I needed to write something. Don't let my suffering be for nothing, leave a comment. I accept praise, flames, and CC.

Yes, I know that I could expand writing this, but I ran out of ideas. If you have some idea of ways I could add on to this, leave a comment saying so, and this will become a WIP.