DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER
A/N: Hey guys! Don't worry, I haven't died – I just had a lot of schoolwork, and I'm sure you all understand, right? Anyway, as you may know, today is September 11th and to say that this day isn't emotionally stressful for us Americans is a lie. This is for those lives that were lost and those lives that were effected by the terrorist attacks on 9/11/01.
Assuming Alex's original year of birth (1987), he would be fifteen.
TO SAVE A LIFE
0730, September 11, 2001; Alex Rider and Ben Daniels
It was the most ordinary, routine day for Alex. Two months undercover as an aspiring mafia member. Two months in New York City. He couldn't wait for those two long months to be over.
He knew exactly what he was going to do that day. The two month long mission would finally come to an end once he trapped the Boss and called in reinforcements from the CIA.
"Alex!"
Alex turned his head slightly to the familiar voice that called him. Ben Daniels, his partner for the mission, prodded him with a small grin.
The two were in a small coffee shop. It was bustling with activity except for the corner where Alex sat.
"What?" Alex rolled his eyes and slouched in a teenager-ish fashion, his accent unfamiliar to him.
Ben offered him a cup of coffee, "Drink it," he sat down across from Alex, "We all know how cranky you are without your morning caffeine."
Alex accepted it, but didn't bother to drink it. He didn't like to depend on caffeine.
"Are you excited?" Ben asked, sipping his own cup of coffee eagerly, a grin plastered to his face, "Our hard work finally paid off, eh?"
Alex shrugged, enjoying the warmth that radiated from the cup in his hands, "I guess."
His short response didn't deter Ben, who was set on getting undercover-Alex to talk.
"Don't you think..." Alex had to admit that undercover-Ben was a bit off-putting. He'd rather talk to normal-Ben, who actually had something interesting to say. Undercover-Ben was portrayed as an idiot that only knew how to fire a gun.
"Ben, Ben-" Alex interrupted Ben with another eye-roll, "No one cares, alright? Let's get going before the Boss gets mad at us."
Ben sent him a half-hearted glare before standing and making his way out of the shop. Alex followed in suit a few moments later, still clutching the steaming cup of coffee.
"Yeah, yeah. I know the interview is at eleven. I just wanted to be extra early," a man brushed past Ben, talking loudly into his phone, "I mean, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! It's an interview! For a job at the World Trade Center!"
The man barreled straight into Alex, who hadn't been looking at where he was going.
The coffee cup in Alex's hands went flying, spraying hot coffee onto the two. Hot liquid splashed onto Alex's hands, and the man's pristine white shirt was suddenly covered in brown paint.
"Oh, shit," Alex was sporting a bruised tailbone, burnt hands, and a new headache, having been knocked to the ground.
"Ow!" the man glared viciously at Alex before speaking into his phone, saying, "got to go," and snapping shut his cell.
"Sorry," Alex apologized, scrambling up. He'd just broken his undercover image, but really, who was watching them?
"Sorry?" the man fumed, trying to wipe the coffee off his shirt to no avail, "Damn teenagers – I have an important interview today!"
Alex, always the bigger man, apologized again, handing the man a couple of napkins, "I'm sorry-"
The man snatched the napkins away from Alex, stalking past him angrily.
Alex glanced at Ben, who was holding open the door. Shrugging, he made his way out of the coffee shop.
"What an odd fellow," he commented under his breath.
Ben agreed, sending a glare at the man, moping up the mess on his shirt, "What an odd fellow indeed."
TO*SAVE*A*LIFE
0800; Maxwell Morgan
Max was having a horrible day. Sure, it had started off promptly at six in the morning with hopes and dreams, but those were quickly dashed when he ran into a troublesome teenage boy.
He had filled out a resume and applied for a job at the World Trade Center and finally, when they asked him to come in for an interview, a stupid boy decided to dump coffee all over him!
His previously new, white shirt was now stained with brown, drying liquid. Though he tried his best to remove the stains, it was all in vain.
Max headed for the subway station, thanking whatever deity had urged him to come early. He still had plenty of time to hop on the subway, take a forty-five minute trip back to his apartment, change, and hop back on the subway.
Max checked his watch. It was 8:00. Plenty of time.
He was jumpy on the subway, his nerves in overdrive. He hated to be late and according to his strange sense of time, he was most definitely going to be late.
"Plenty of time, plenty of time," Max told himself repeatedly as he rushed out of the subway. Glancing at his watch, he noted that it was 8:47. Ten minutes later, and he was making his way up the stairs to his apartment.
Ring! Ring!
Max sighed in annoyance, reaching for his cell phone, "Yeah?"
"Oh my gosh, Max!" the hysterical voice on the line belonged to his girlfriend, "Where are you?"
Max pushed open to the door to his floor, stopping as he noted the amount of people in the hallway, shouting at each other in confusion.
"I'm back at my apartment," Max said into the phone and to the people in the hallway, loudly, "What's happening?"
One of his neighbors took the liberty in answering, "We don't know – did you see the news?"
When Max quickly shook his head, the neighbor elaborated, others joining in, "A plane-"
"-crash-"
"-World Trade Center-"
"-North tower-"
A horrible feeling welled up in the pit of Max's stomach. If that boy hadn't spilled coffee on him that morning…
"I was supposed to be there," he realized with a jolting horror. No one could hear him over the chatter, but a nearby neighbor gave him a comforting squeeze on the shoulder.
It was amazing how quickly everyone grew quiet as someone turned the radio on for the benefit of the whole floor.
"We have confirmed reports that a second jet has crashed into the South Tower..."
TO*SAVE*A*LIFE
September 11, 2015
Max always made a point to go back to that coffee shop every year on that day to remember the boy that had inadvertently saved his life. It wasn't much of a tribute, but he felt that it meant something special – just to the two of them. It was the point that decided whether he would live or die.
If the boy hadn't been so careless with his cup of coffee, Max would have never stumbled onto him, and he would have never stained his shirt. If he hadn't stained his shirt, he wouldn't have gone back to his apartment, and he'd most likely be one of the victims.
"It's nice to see you again, dear," the waitress, an elderly woman, smiled at Max, handing him a cup of coffee.
"You too," he murmured back, turning his attention to the TV screen mounted on the wall across from him.
A documentary of the event was playing, a new one that the news reporters had made. It was the same thing every year, but like those surviving the attack, Max relived the horror of the day.
Images of the wounded flashed onto the television screen, and Max watched as a teenager was captured on camera, helping an older man limp away from the towers.
There were plenty of things happening besides the two, but Max's eyes were drawn to the boy. The familiar blonde teenager that had spilled his coffee on Max.
The boy handed the older man off to another person before turning and pushing past the river of terrified people. He pointedly ignored the older man, who was shouting incoherently at the teen.
Max barely registered the voice-over. He kept looking for the boy, even though he knew it wouldn't make a difference now, fourteen years later.
"You lose someone?" the elderly woman shuffled over, replenishing the coffee that he hadn't realized he'd been drinking, "I lost my son – he was a first responder."
"Um," Max found it difficult to answer as he watched the people, terror written plainly across their faces. More screams, and Max knew why a moment later. The first of the twin towers had collapsed.
Max stared mournfully at the screen, "Yeah, I lost someone."
"I'm sorry dear," the woman patted his arm.
"I didn't know his name," Max told her, his voice cracking a little.
"Whose name, dear?" the woman looked at him, motherly concern displayed on her features.
Max picked up his mug of coffee, welcoming the warmth on his palms, "The boy. The boy that saved my life."
A/N: I know that ending wasn't very good, but I felt like it served its purpose. Anyway, I hope you liked this tribute.
-Alice x