Legends never die when the world is calling you
Can you hear them screaming out your name?
Legends never die, they become a part of you
Every time you bleed for reaching greatness
Relentless you survive
Alex trailed his finger along the rough edge of the marble headstone. The inscriptions on it were already starting to fade, even though it had only been three years since that fateful day. The day that Alex Rider watched the one person who was always there for him be blown to pieces. Tears fell from his eyes, creating tracks on his blood and dirt covered face. He sank to his knees, the morning dew seeping through his black pants. Alex stayed there for a few moments before he felt a presence approaching.
Tulip Jones, deputy director of MI6, was not known for her impeccable timing. She always tended to show up during the times where she was most unwelcome. This was one of them. Alex felt hatred start to break free from where he kept it locked away, and he quickly put a clamp on his emotions. It would not do to accidentally kill Jones, no matter how much he wanted to at that very moment. She placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, and he contained the urge to shudder from the disgusting motion. No one cared about him anymore, not after what Scorpia had finished with him.
"Alex… We have received word from the Americans that they need help with a little issue", Jones said and by the time Alex could process what she was asking him to do, she was back in her car and driving away.
The familiar feeling of being used started to creep out of the deep, dark hole he had hidden it and if anyone had been looking at his eyes at that very moment would have run screaming. A darkness that should not have existed in any seventeen filled the chaotic, blue void that were his eyes. Alex's lips curved into a thin smirk, and he was aware that he looked like a psychotic killer. He was covered in blood, guns hanging from his back and hips, knives in sheaths around his legs and arms, and smirk on his face.
'Although', Alex mused, 'if anyone knew what I have seen or done, I doubt they would be able to fault me…". It was true, no one should of had to suffer what he had. Endless torture for three years and being forced to surround yourself with murderers and sociopaths was enough to drive even the strongest person to insanity.
It was surprising that Alex had been able to retain some semblance of sanity, although the debate about whether or not he was still in control of his mind was still up in the air. No one truly wished to listen to what the seventeen year old boy had gone through, and no really wanted to. They felt partially responsible for what had occured and were trying to distance themselves from the object of their guilt.
With a sigh, Alex pulled himself off of the ground and with a groan stood upright. His multiple wounds were aching, and the stab wound in his chest was throbbing. The smart thing to do would have been to go see a medic or doctor, but when had Alex Rider even been the most intelligent being on the planet. Barely able to hide the wince of pain that glanced through his bruised, battered, and bloody body, Alex started to walk toward a nondescript black motorcycle. He pulled a helmet over his artfully tousled blond hair. He swung his leg over the seat, and grimaced as it stretched the bullet wound situated on his thigh.
A little sat next to a grave that was only marked by a halfway rotted wooden plaque. She set a beautiful red rose down, and with great effort was able to tear her eyes away from the place that her beloved mother lay. She had managed to sneak away from her father for a few moments, but she knew that he would be furious with her for wasting money on a rose.
The little girl's moment was tranquility was destroyed by a large, lumbering beast of a man stumbling over to her. A half empty beer bottle was resting comfortably in his hand, bottles stretching behind him a trail. The little girl had enough time to compare them to Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs before he was yanking her to feet. His breath stank of alcohol and dried vomit resided on the side of his mouth. The girl hid a shiver of disgust at the man who happened to be her father.
As he was dragging her away from her mother's resting place, she turned around and saw what he felt had to be the most beautiful sight in the world.
A boy with messed-up blond hair and sky blue eyes sat on top of a motorcycle, his coat trailing in the wind behind him. The sunlight was shining at the perfect angle and perfectly illuminated his blood-covered face. He was a rough, broken person and anyone could see it.
For years afterward, the little girl would tell the story of the fallen angel she saw at the cemetery.