This is my fic for the Alex Rider Big Bang! Thanks to Tess and Nem for mod'ing, and all of the other writers and artists involved :D
I really advise you to read this on AO3 (I'm waterandsilver over there) as wolfern has made some gorgeous art for this fic, which is included in the version posted there. It's been so fun to try writing a murder mystery. Way more difficult than I thought it would be, but still fun. I'll try to make updates swift!
Chapter 1
The Body
Alan Blunt was a careful man. It was the reason he had lived so long. He was, and had always been, meticulously careful, with a reputation for leaving no loose ends - for cutting them off, and viciously. He was the longest reigning head of Special Operations, and he attributed it to that.
Yet despite all his care, Alan Blunt was going to die tonight. Because he had done a great wrong, and Fate was finally catching up with him.
It was late, gone 10 p.m., and Blunt was still in his office, where he had been for hours. His old age had not prevented him from working late into the night, or affected his mental stamina in any way. He needed very little sleep, and his wife no longer stayed awake waiting for him to return in the evenings. He had spent so many hours in this grey box of a room, that it had sometimes occurred to him that it was quite likely that he would die here. He imagined a heart attack, or perhaps a stroke.
But that was not the end that was scheduled for Alan Blunt.
Tonight, the file that was preoccupying him was one that he had read hundreds of times. He could probably recite it by heart. He knew its ins and outs; there was nothing more to be learned from it. And yet this was the file that, time and again, Blunt found himself coming back to, during these late nights. Especially in the last few months.
It was supposed to be over now. But he was unable to let it go. And who could blame him? The results... they had been like nothing that MI6 had ever seen... they couldn't just let all that potential go to waste. Blunt couldn't let that happen...
His pen seemed to move by itself, jotting down notes.
The digital clock on his desk had just flicked to 10:08 p.m. when the door opened. Pressurised air wheezed out of the hinges, and Blunt glanced up, his brows already drawing together into a frown. To enter his office required a particular code, that only a few people knew. He had specifically asked not to be disturbed tonight, and it irked him when his subordinates disobeyed him. It was a sign of weak authority. If he couldn't trust his secretaries to do something as simple as that, how could he trust them with such sensitive information, that he dealt with on a daily basis?
But when Blunt's eyes met the figure in the doorway, he saw that it was not, in fact, his secretary. And he knew instantly that this was not a cursory visit.
Blunt was not a man of great movement, but all at once, he was perfectly still. His visitor entered the room quiet as a shadow. The door made no noise as it shut behind them.
"You don't have an appointment," said Blunt.
"I won't be needing one."
And then he was staring down the barrel of a gun.
Alan Blunt had dealt in Death for a long, long time. He had commissioned it and prevented it, analysed it and concealed it. He had gazed into the eyes of countless bodies. Death had been his lifelong colleague, walking by his side throughout the entirety of his career, with loyalty that was hard to come by, in these circles.
And he recognised Death, now, as it finally came for him.
There was a panic button underneath his desk, only inches from his fingers. Guards could arrive within a minute. Within less.
But it would not save him. He realised this, as he looked into the eyes of his soon-to-be-murderer. There was nothing but grim commitment there. Blunt could tell that they were prepared to deal with the consequences - because they would be caught, and both of them knew it. There was no way that they would get away with this. But they were still here, and they were still going to pull the trigger.
Blunt opened his mouth to ask the obvious questions. How? Why? But they died on his tongue. It occurred to him that he already knew the answers. He didn't know exactly how they had gained access to his office, but with their skills, and their connections, it did not surprise him that they had.
And he knew why they wanted him dead.
He couldn't get away, and there was nothing left for him to solve. His job was done.
And so Alan Blunt simply put down his pen, and gazed into the gun's dark black eye, waiting for the end.
.
.
The Detective was the first on the scene.
The body was found with its eyes still open. A single red tear had wept from the bullet wound in the dead centre of the forehead, and trickled down the left cheek. The victim had died instantly, and the blood flow had immediately ceased. The exit wound, however, was messier. He was missing the back of his head, and blood had sprayed onto the wall behind him, marring the pale grey paintwork that had been immaculate for so many years.
When the body was discovered, rigor mortis had not yet set in, but the body had lost much of its warmth - although the Detective had heard that Alan Blunt had been an infamously cold man.
A quick and simple death, for a man of such dynastic influence. No gunshot had been heard. The room was quiet and serene. The potted plant on the window-sill was flourishing, its soil still damp from afternoon watering, and the clock ticked steadily away on his desk.
It was hardly the bloodiest crime scene that the Detective had set eyes upon. As soon as the police had received the call - Alan Blunt, dead! Shot in his office! Murder at the Royal and General Bank! - there had been no question that there was only one man for the case. The Detective was, indisputably, Scotland Yard's best. Eyes had widened and whispers had flown as he had walked into the reception of the Royal and General, and the employees of this "bank" had seen a lot that had shocked them, tonight.
Yes, a simple death. But as soon as the Detective stepped into the room, he knew within seconds, that this one was a lot more complicated than it looked. The simplicity of the crime scene made it more, not less, difficult to solve. It should have been much, much harder than this, to kill Alan Blunt. The various levels of MI6's security had failed to stop this killer, and the surveillance footage had mysteriously disappeared.
As cameras flashed and forensic experts moved like ghosts in their white suits, the Detective made his way slowly to the body. It was the look on Blunt's face that confirmed it, more than anything. There was not a hint of surprise. He knew his murderer, and he knew them well.
Yes. The Detective was certain.
This was an inside job.
Blunt's chalky, lifeless cheek had come to rest upon the file that he had been reading. With gloved hands, the Detective carefully peeled paper from skin. When he saw the name on the front of the file, his face darkened.
"What is it, sir?" asked his assistant, who had worked with him long enough to recognise that look.
"We need to find out who Alex Rider is, and locate him straight away."
.
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Please review if you liked!
