A/N: Disgustingly late and terribly cliche, I know, but written for SpyFest Revival's August prompt 'New Blood.' Dedicated to the best friends a girl could have: Jamie, Victoria, Gabby, and Wenwen, - love you guys, even though you might never see this.
Also - I feel the need to acknowledge the great Nienna3791 here, who indirectly introduced me to Throne of Glass and therefore a whole fleet of feels and ships. I was so hooked by the first forty pages that I read four books in four days while going to camp for science from 8 in the morning to 10 at night.
Last note, I promise: I have an AP German test on Friday, so I'm practicing in my disclaimer below. Ich will mehr Deutsch in meinem Leben sprechen, weil ich auf Deutsch fließend sein will.
Disclaimer: Alex Rider gehört mir nicht...außer in meinen Träumen. (thanks to a guest reviewer for helping me with the last bit...the dative case still messes me up occasionally)
Alex Rider is having a decidedly terrible day – which, when you're a nineteen-year-old MI6 agent and war veteran, is saying something. The reason for his displeasure sits beside him in the clichéd black car, twisting his hands nervously (a tell, Alex's subconscious notes). Agent Pearson is new to MI6, recruited out of a job as a bodyguard for a high-profile security firm after he unobtrusively saved the life of the Prime Minister's daughter. He is being sent to a certain SAS camp in Wales for training – and Alex, as a recently 'injured' (read: captured and tortured) agent also in need of 'training', is going with him. Which is why the spy is in a car at six in the evening as opposed to heading home to his small yet cozy flat to recover from his last mission.
Pearson, Alex knows, has no respect for him as an agent – the man is over ten years his senior and an expert fighter, thus leading to a rather awkward silence in the car as the senior agent is summarily ignored by his junior.
Alex is shaken from his thoughts as their car passes through and stops just inside of the iron gates that marked the entrance to Brecon Beacons – or, as the soldiers and MI6 agents know it, hell on earth. The agents step out of the car, Alex nodding to the soldier who opened the gates (a man he vaguely recognizes from his many stints at the camp). He gestures to Pearson with a curt nod, indicating the way to the sergeant's office, the other agent following closely at his heels.
"Where are we going?" Pearson's voice breaks the decidedly uncomfortable silence between them. The man's tones are sharp, deep, matching his build in strength. Alex decides he disliked the man's voice instantly.
"Sergeant's office," the spy replies tersely.
Pearson sneers, and Alex groans internally, cursing a certain dark-haired woman for forcing him to look after her new agent (as though he doesn't have enough on his plate as it were, really).
"And I'm assuming you know where that is?"
Alex pauses to glare at his companion. "Yes, or at least I'm good enough at bullshitting that you'd never know that I didn't."
He stalks ahead angrily, resisting the urge to rub his aching left shoulder (why the shoulder, really? Every megalomaniac he's ever gone up against seems to result in a somehow-wounded shoulder/back/torso).
Thankfully, the rest of the journey to the sergeant's hut passes without any more comments from the new agent, for which Alex is fervently thankful.
"Inside," he mutters to the other man, gesturing with a jerk of his head as he holds the door open. Pearson enters and Alex follows, closing the door quietly behind him.
"Sir," Alex acknowledges the officer with respect, nodding to him while assessing him with a cool gaze. The sergeant hasn't changed much (if at all) since the spy saw him last – harsh brown eyes under knitted brows and a fierce expression.
"Agent Rider," the sergeant greets him, voice neither friendly nor hostile. "It's been a while."
Unsure of what to do in the face of the man's unusual politeness, Alex settles for a nod.
"Why are you here, Agent?" The question is expected and yet the tone in which it is asked is not – the sergeant sounds weary, tired, and resigned to the fact that Alex would, once again, throw a wrench into the organized discipline by which the SAS is run.
"Training, sir. Recovery."
The man grunts, satisfied with his answer (or at least unwilling to pursue the matter further).
"And him?"
Pearson, looking indignant at the lack of recognition, opens his mouth to speak, but Alex cuts him off with a sharp elbow to the ribs.
"He's new, Sir." Only the sergeant and Alex himself notice the slight twitch at the corner of the spy's mouth that indicates how he feels about this development – his face and voice are otherwise expressionless, blank as they have always been.
"And I suppose they want you to show him the ropes, eh?" The man's brow furrows, the only evidence of his dislike.
This time Alex really does smile, lips curving upward at the sergeant's obvious distaste for his agency.
"Yes, although it's not 'they' any longer – he retired. She's in charge now," Alex tells the man whom he's seen for training every year since the age of fourteen.
"And?" The sergeant's arched eyebrow asks the question he doesn't voice, and Alex allows himself a rare grin.
"Things are better," he admits to his CO, "not the worst they've ever been, considering." The 'but not the best, either,' goes unsaid (as it has for years between them).
"And how long will you be here?" The sergeant switches back to his professional tone.
"A month, Sir." Alex matches the officer's voice exactly, tone cold and detached.
"Very well, then. Cabin seven – J-Unit. K's on tour," the sergeant says, anticipating Alex's question. "Dismissed."
Alex nods agreement and salutes stiffly, striding crisply out the door and not waiting to see if Pearson is following. The journey to cabin seven is as awkward as the rest of their interactions have been, so Alex mostly ignores the other agent, choosing instead to maintain his expression of detachment.
"Here," he tells the other man gruffly, halting before their cabin. He can hear voices inside, the typical sounds of a unit, and allows himself to feel a slight ache for his own unit before the emotion is quickly stifled.
Alex knocks on the door sharply, and all voices hush instantly. The door opens, a dark head peering out before yanking the door all the way open.
"Crow, J-Unit," the man says, eyes wary but not unfriendly as he offers a hand to shake.
Alex accepts the handshake and is just about to return the greeting when Agent Pearson decides to make himself heard.
"Agent Pearson, MI6," the man says, voice too loud in comparison to the other men.
Crow, to his credit (and sense, Alex thinks) merely raises an eyebrow at the self-proclaimed agent and turns back to Alex.
"Rider," he says, offering no further information.
Crow, after a glance back at his unit and a quick shout of 'we've got guests, boys!' allows them in. J-Unit's hut is like every other SAS hut Alex has ever seen, beds made neatly as per regulation but with all the signs of being lived in. Personal touches shape the room as much as its occupants – a photograph here, a folder there.
Three men, who, judging by the cards spread on the floor, had just been engaged in a game of poker, stand hastily at the sight of Crow and the two agents.
"Asp, Ox, and Penguin," Crow says to Alex and Pearson, gesturing to each of his unitmates in turn. Asp is, as his name suggests, lean and sharp-featured, intelligence glittering in bright eyes. Ox is unsurprisingly strong, taller than the rest of his unit (and Pearson, Alex notes to some delight) by a good few inches. Penguin is the smallest of the unit, dark hair and slightly slanted eyes at odds with his too-innocent face.
But what strikes Alex most about the entire unit is how young they are – not in terms of age, for all of them are at least three years his senior, but in terms of what they've seen and done – in terms of experience, he's light-years ahead.
"How long are you here for?" It's Penguin that asks the question, up-tilted eyes curious.
"A month," Alex answers, feeling slightly awkward simply standing in the doorway of the hut.
"Well then," Crow chimes in seating himself on one of the beds, "I suppose we'd best get to know each other, then. I'll start, I guess. Crow, J-Unit, six months of SAS and a year in the army before that."
He looks to his right, where Asp is leaning against a wall. "Asp, J-Unit, three months in the SAS."
The man nudges Penguin beside him, who announces, "Penguin, J-Unit, four months."
"And I'm Ox," the last member concludes, "two months."
And Alex, though he doesn't show it, is surprised by their lack of experience – judging by how long they've been in the SAS, none of them have seen action.
"Pearson," the new agent tells them, "…a few days, I suppose." He looks somewhat abashed at this, and Alex's feelings towards him thaw a little.
And then every gaze in the room turns to him – four curious, if a little cautious, and one openly skeptical.
"Rider." Here Alex hesitates, and then, "Four years."
Penguin whistles, but it's Asp that's looking at him in assessment.
"In MI6?" Asp asks, and Alex studies him for a moment, deciding how much to give away.
"In part. MI6, SAS, a stint in the army once." He shrugs, slightly uncomfortable with the attention.
"SAS?" Crow asks, head cocked to the side like the bird he's named for.
Alex nods. "K-Unit," he tells them, and braces himself for the inevitably questions – questions that don't come, and when Alex looks up, he sees that the unit is returning to its card game. It's a welcome change from the inquiries that come with being an MI6 agent in the SAS, especially one with as much experience as he has, and Alex is grateful for the different environment.
And then, with a glance in his – and by extension Pearson's – direction, Ox gestures to the pile of cards in front of him.
"Poker?"
Alex accepts with a half-smile, and a nod of acknowledgement, displacing thoughts of another oh-so-familiar unit and seats himself beside Penguin, taking his cards from Ox. And as his gaze sweeps around the cabin and his temporary unit, two of whom are cheating outrageously while the other two laugh at the fifth's naivety, Alex can't help but think that maybe this latest bout of training won't be so bad after all.
Penguin is for you, Wenwen.
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