Decided to do some short drabbles in the Alex Rider world to help me get me more used to the characters. Expect Yassen/Alex in later drabbles, and possibly other relationships too. The rating will probably go up in later chapters as I cover more adult themes.
Hope you enjoy, and feel free to suggest prompts/song lyrics in a review.
prompts: the darkest hour - choosing sides - might as well - stargazing
They'd hurt him, damaged him, broken him. So broken that he didn't think anyone would ever be able to put him back together again. His left arm hung limply against his side and he grimaced each time his feet met the concrete. The knuckles on his right hand were white against the sleek black plastic of the Glock, clutching the gun as if it somehow promised salvation, the trigger slick with the blood of the previous owner. His own blood was hot and sweet in his mouth and he fought the urge to gag, aware that his only chance of survival rested on the few moments of head start that he'd somehow managed to snatch from his captors. If he stopped running, he was dead.
But something in him told him that he'd managed to get away. Another successful mission, the memory stick in his pocket proof enough of that, another potential threat neutralised by MI6. Britain could breathe easy again. If he booked himself onto the next plane, he'd probably be home and debriefed by dinner, patted on the back and sent off to the hospital to be patched up again. In a few weeks he'd be fit enough to do this all over again.
He wondered what would happen if he didn't go back. He'd accepted that he would never be normal, too damaged to be content with the mundane, but there were other options. Years in the field had gained him a reputation as one of the best; going freelance would allow him the freedom to choose his own contracts and the resources to spend his down time in luxury. The naïve belief that the world was split into good and evil had faded as he'd grown up and morphed into a jaded realisation that there was little difference between the people on both sides. Did it really matter who was in the sights when he pulled the trigger?
He snorted and slowed, pausing for a moment to regain his breath, content that he'd lost his pursuers in the maze of backstreets. Knew already that he'd return to MI6 again and again and again, taking on any mission they gave him with little protest. He might as well. He couldn't deny the thrill that accompanied each assignment, or the claustrophobia that clawed at his thoughts when he was forced to stay at home and recover. There was even a part of him, a part that hadn't been vitiated by his involvement in this world, that was still proud that his actions had saved hundreds – thousands – of innocent lives, even if he was finding it harder to bring himself to care.
He tipped his head backwards and rested it on the wall behind him, exhaling slowly as he glanced skyward. Stars winked back at him, half obscured by the glow of light from the town, and the sharp reminder of how small humanity really was, how little any of this mattered, was enough to ground him again. It would be all over soon enough.
For now, he had a plane to catch.
