Hey! So glad to be joining spyfest! I was busy this whole week, working on some literature analysis paper for my Filipino class. One of the pieces was "Killing is Just a Matter of Getting Used To"and I decided to use it as my inspiration for this poem fic. Yay! Two birds with one stone!

Notes on "Killing is Just a Matter of Getting Used To." The poem is written by Alberto Alejo, a filipino poet. The poem is originally written in Tagalog and its Tagalog name is "Sanayan Lang ang Pagpatay."

Spoiler notes for Never Say Die: You just need to know that Jack's death was staged, they moved back to London together and life went back to normal.

Jack Starbright

Alex wasn't a killer.

Or at least he wasn't born one. Heck, Jack had raised that child and she prided herself in the fact that she had raised a kid who couldn't even kill an ant or fly without flinching in what could have been guilt. Alex never destroyed ant hills or tampered with bee hives. He looked away when he saw roadkill and had saved animals from the same fate.

Alex wasn't a killer.

Jack had never thought of those exact words because who needed to think about that kind of thing? Who needed to question that facet of someone's identity when all they did was study, play football and travel with their uncle during holidays?

That was until Alex's uncle died and Alex was blackmailed into working for MI6.

With every new mission, Jack found herself reflecting on that new line, repeating it to herself every time Alex came home from a mission.

For a while, she was right

The first missions had been traumatizing to say the least. Alex would wake up screaming and she would run to his room. Alex would argue against it but she would stay by his bed until he fell asleep again. The screaming nightmares eventually stopped, some nights after missions, he instead would go to Jack's room, lie beside her and tell her about his experiences on missions, many of them too graphic for even an R-16 movie.

There was always a twinge of something every time he would tell a story. She couldn't point out the feeling. Was he guilty? Was he traumatized?

Jack couldn't bring herself to ask how he felt. What was she so afraid to hear? Instead, she had listened, sympathizing when needed, holding Alex close when she heard the all too familiar crack in his voice.

It had become ritual after a while, for Alex to come to her room after his missions and recount the story of his missions and it had also become an opportunity for Jack to notice the deterioration of his psyche.

It was a gradual process but Jack could bet her life and all the money in her bank account that it was real. When Alex recounted stories, he always recounted the last face they ever made or his own questions during the ordeal. Was Herod Sayle lonely? Did Dr. Grief feel anything when his plane crashed?

With every mission though, the questions lessened. Alex started sounding less and less like a philosopher and more like an office worker sharing his long day to his family. Office workers' long days involve irritable clients and mixed up paperwork. Alex's long days involve irritable psychopaths bent on destroying the world and mixed up body parts at the end of the mission.

Alex shouldn't be talking about killing like it was an office job.

That was what Jack told Mrs Jones when she visited their office that one autumn afternoon.

Alex was in school. When he was not on missions, he spent as much time catching up with professors. A-levels were coming soon and she knew he had dreams beyond MI6. That was what she used to her advantage. Alex would have argued if he knew she met with Mrs. Jones to talk about him, especially about his descent into apathy which he believed wasn't true.

"What are you recommending?" Mrs. Jones asked, unmoving on her desk.

"A psychiatrist. Someone who can bring back at least an inkling of the old Alex." Jack answered, leaning forward on her seat. She knew that the task was impossible but MI6 was powerful and had made her question the impossible many times. She decided to try her luck with that.

"Alex is the son of John Rider, nephew of Ian Rider. They both have killed in cold blood for MI6. Their blood is inside him."

"Alex is not a killer. " Jack repeated again, this time forcing all the conviction she herself, had questioned once into the one line.

If Mrs. Jones wasn't hardened from the moral complexities and traumas of her own job, maybe she would have flinched. Instead, she nodded and made a note in her planner to book a psychiatrist for Alex.

"I'll keep in touch with you.""

Alex Rider

"Alex Rider?"

Alex nodded. It had taken all himself control not to answer that question with a sarcastic retort. It was a ridiculous question though. Any doctor or psychologist who had a clipboard with the info of their client and the actual person in front of them should already know their client's name.

Also, it was a waste of a good weekend. He had plans with Tom to check out the new sports store near Piccadilly Circus. The plans would still push through. Jack had insisted though he stopped by the medical arts building of Saint Dominic's and talk to a psychiatrist. She did not say what it was for but Alex had worked under MI6 long enough to know that this was organized by them.

"My name is Richard Donough, and Mrs. Jones told me a lot about your case. She said she was worried about you."

"Worried, that's new." Alex said. He slouched on the chair, trying his best to look uninterested. Maybe that would make the psychiatrist dismiss him faster.

"You're fifteen years old, yet in the span of just this year alone, you have seen men shot, saw a man kill himself, a man burned to death. You've seen planes crash, men killed in the explosion, men hacked to death by propellers…"

The doctor was reading off of a clipboard and even Alex wondered how he got all the data. He understood though that MI6 was thorough with agents. He shouldn't be surprised.

"And, your housekeeper. They staged her death and when you thought she died, you shot someone soon after. How did it feel?"

Alex flinched when the doctor mentioned that last piece of information about Jack's "death". The memories of his own mourning cut into him like a knife but he willed himself not to react. He didn't want to stay there any longer than he needed to.

"The killing you mean?" Alex asked. He deliberately left out the death, hoping he wouldn't probe. Alex didn't want to work too hard keeping up the Devil may care attitude.

"What led you to make that kill? According to Mrs. Jones, you couldn't even aim the gun at her, yet you killed this man, point blank."

Alex narrowed his eyes when he realized that Doctor Donoughe did not mention that the "man" he killed, looked exactly like him. Either Mrs. Jones left it out or the psychiatrist had other plans. Was he aiming for a certain answer? Did he want to bring out the sensitive side of Alex? Alex wasn't having it though. The last thing he was going to do was pour his heart out to a stranger.

Killing is Just a Matter of Getting Used To

(For the sector of society which kills people)

Killing someone? It's all just about getting used to it, man.

Like with a lizard. Of course at first

you'll flinch. You won't stomach

slingshotting or hitting it like some cockroach or mosquito

because it seems like it's always on top

of some saint's forehead on an altar,

and a voice is always there telling you

No no no, killing is bad.

But like so many things

"Killing is just a matter of getting used to. You can even say it was something like a skill for me." Alex started. "When I started working for MI6, it was a big thing. I used to think killing was bad but I've been shot at, burned, almost dissected, almost fed to animals" Alex paused for a second as he thought of a way to articulate himself better. He made eye contact with the psychiatrist before looking back down suddenly feeling a little self conscious. "Killing is bad, but it happens everyday and sometimes, I need to kill to survive. I need to kill so others can survive."

"But, only last year, you couldn't even aim at Mrs. Jones. What changed? What pushed you to pull the trigger at point blank range back in Egypt?"

Killing is something you learn if you work hard at it,

if you listen to those with more experience.

I learned from my uncle how to strike with a slipper

or hit with a garter the lizards on our ceiling,

and when they fall on the floor twitching

you pin them down so they don't run away

while you focus your weight slowly

on one tiptoed foot: then suddenly you bring it down.

"I don't think it was a sudden thing. Yes, around that time, I thought my housekeeper was dead but if I lost Jack a year ago. Maybe, I wouldn't have managed to pull the trigger. In all my missions though, I had to survive, so I had to kill. If I hadn't experienced the killings I did, If I hadn't watched those people die, maybe I wouldn't be alive right now.

"Go on."

Alex felt a surge of enlightenment and he hated to admit, he almost understood the point of therapy. He was starting to understand how to articulate how he felt in ways, he couldn't, only hours ago.

This is good training

because you don't see it, you just hear the crunching

of the skull of that goddamn lizard who won't be ticking from now on.

(if you think about it, they're quite the villain to moths themselves)

"It kinda snuck up on me, the way skills like riding a bike or skiing do. At first, I wasn't the killer. They fell into their traps on their own. Herod Sayle was shot by Yassen, Dr. Grief died in a plane crash. Sarov shot himself. Damian Cray fell into the propellers on his own… Half way through, I guess I realized that I still killed them. I was still the one who threw the snowmobile that caused Dr. Grief's death, I was the one who pushed Damian Cray close enough to get sucked by the propeller."

Richard did not have to say anything anymore. Alex was talking on his own.

Before long my hands grew more creative

with gouging out their eyes,

cutting off their feet with blades, crushing the eggs inside them

until they writhe as if on top of burning coal.

Or during Christmas, when there are a lot of fireworks

I carefully stuff a firecracker inside their mouths

so when they explode the snout says goodbye to the tail.

(I still don't understand though

why they just continue to grow plenty)

That's why sometimes killing can get rather dull.

"Then by the time I was recruited for ASIS, I was searching for concrete methods to kill. I burned the hospital in Australia down, not expecting any survivors. I attached the exploding pen to the keg, intending to really burn Desmond Mccain up."

"Let's stop for now. Talk about something else."

"Why?"

"Go wash your face."

"Why?"

"The toilet is first door to your right. We can talk more after."

Alex reluctantly stood up and made his way to the bathroom. He had to note that he felt lighter, as if the feelings that he had kept bottled in for so long just came out. At the same time though, he felt heavier. He reflected on this strange feeling as he entered the comfort room and washed his face. He looked up at the mirror as he grabbed a tissue from the dispenser and wiped his face. His eyes were red rimmed. Had he been crying?

Alex roughly dabbed at his eyes and rushed out of the comfort room. Mrs. Jones was waiting outside.

"Doctor Donough had to leave early for a family emergency. He said he will make it up to you in a future session."

Alex couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment. The session had awakened feelings inside him that he didn't even know existed. At the same time though, with saying his own feelings out loud, Alex started to realize how twisted his own emotions were. As the memories of the killings flooded in, he couldn't but think that if MI6 hadn't recruited him, he wouldn't have ended up this conflicted.

Tulip Jones

Fortunately, doors and windows have a way

of surprising you, letting you unwittingly take lives.

"Does this happen to everyone in MI6?"

Mrs. Jones shrugged. "Your father and your uncle were already seasoned killers by the time they joined MI6. You're a different case though. You're fifteen years old and we plucked you straight from year nine." She attempted to keep her voice toneless and straight to the point. With that last sentence though, she may have cracked a bit and she saw it in Alex's eyes.

She thought of Alex recovering from the bullet wound in the hospital, connected to all the tubes feeding into his stomach, mouth and nose. She then thought of Alex in the hospital in Nairobi and the pains they went through, more importantly he went through to get transported back to London.

Do you have any idea what this must be doing to him, inside his head I mean?

Mrs. Jones suddenly remembered what Jack had asked him before she went to Alex's hospital room. She looked up to Alex and when she made eye contact with him, she started to understand.

Alex's eyes were more serious, they were wary. She also had to note that even in the few times she saw Alex talking with Jack, the wariness stayed, forever etched in every look or glance.

"Do you think things would have been better if we didn't recruit you?" Mrs. Jones asked. She scolded herself for asking that but a part of her was still proud to have brought up the topic.

"Yes." There was no hesitation in Alex's voice.

"So you regret it?"

"No I don't."

Mrs. Jones could not control the confusion on her face. If she were given a few more seconds to analyze and comprehend his answer, maybe she would have understood the way the paradoxical answers complimented each other. Alex though went ahead and explained.

"Life would have been better if I stayed in school. I would have gotten a part time job, scored high in GCSEs and would have had a secure path to a good sixth form school. University would have been a very attainable dream. I don't regret doing the missions though. If Sarov succeeded in bombing Murmansk or if Invisible Sword pushed through, maybe a lot of us wouldn't be alive today. Killing may be a big price but it is also a small price to pay in the grand scheme of things. I just drew the short straw in life and it ended up my job to pay that price..."

Alex's explanation was matter-of-fact. It was a sign of resignation to what lay ahead. Alan Blunt would have been happy, it meant a more effective spy. Mrs. Jones was not Alan Blunt though and she found herself almost guilty for having pushed so far as to resign himself to his fate.

Mrs. Jones watched Alex walk back to the room and get his things. She knew he was meeting Tom in Piccadilly Circus. After the shooting in Liverpool Street, she made sure to keep tabs on him. Alex's life was one big sacrifice. He didn't deserve anything worse than that.

Really, that's all there is to killing:

If not me, someone else will strike;

if not now, maybe some other time.

But what really lets me do this

is our deep and lasting bond:

while I am here killing, all of you just watch.

Hope you enjoyed! Leave a review :D

If you enjoyed, it would also help if you voted for this in the Revival Forums for Week 2 of the Spyfest :D.