A/N: Okay, the plot bunnies are innocent this time, I swear. I brought upon myself this when a friend (an actual friend that I texted the original draft to) said that my LAST story was chilling. I tried for something more.
So, considering my unmotivated state-of-mind and lack of time, I'm pretty proud of myself. Do comment on any grammatical mistakes. FF auto-correct can be a B.
Monster
Summary:
"There was a corpse and a knife. There was blood and a tense atmosphere. Above all, there was a boy. A boy that had turned into a monster."
[Undisclosed_Area]
Ben Daniels couldn't believe his eyes. This couldn't be, shouldn't be, happening. The very thought of it was sick... Wrong... Immoral.
There was a corpse... And a knife. A knife run with blood and gore, tinted red in the light. A knife clutched in pale fingers that led to thin hands, strong arms, a young face, and then contemptuous eyes. Eyes that were sunken and cold from experiences not one person should experience.
There was blood. Blood run cold from death, the kind that was spilt. Blood run cold from experience, the kind that was still alive, in what could be called a hollow existence. Among these two types of cold-blood, Ben was unsure which was worse.
There was a thickness in the air. Thick with the smell of blood and the weight of death. Thick with a blinding hate and with sadistic joy. Thick enough to be cut with a knife.
And among all, there was a boy. A boy that had nothing, so decided to be so much just to make up for it. A school-boy. A Chelsea supporter. An orphan. A spy. An assassin. A murderer.
"No... " Ben murmured, as soon as he had recovered his speech faculties.
Cold brown eyes turned gleefully to the former SAS soldier.
"And why exactly not, Ben?" The boy replied back with a certain lilt to his voice that mocked the childhood he had oh-so-unwillingly lost. "He was just like the one before. And the one before that. And the one before that one. They all want to use me, blackmail me."
Ben shivered. The chill to the boy's voice...
"Still. This is... Unjustified. You just killed the head of MI6 in cold blood. What of his children? What of his family?" He protested.
The boy laughed. A cold, humorless sound.
"Oh yes. The children. The children that get to have a naivety that I never got the chance to have. The children who still have a soul." He sang. "Well, I'm doing them a favor. A favor to this DEMON's children and family."
"How exactly is this a favor?" Ben asked.
The boy licked blood off his lips.
"A wake-up call. A cold slap in the face to show them how cruel this world is." He stated. "Plus, the man deserved it. They all did. I'm retired, have been since age 18, and I know I'm not entirely sane. They should have known better."
Ben shivered and made up his mind, a choice that, in retrospect, had probably saved his life. He ran. Far from the boy, the world's Alex Rider. Far from the spy, Agent Rider. Far from the murderer, Alex's own Alex Rider.
He ran far away from the coworker he used to know, the blood-coated monster of today that dumped a body-bag into the Thames.