Disclaimer: Don't own Alex Rider, making no profit.


Alex Rider joined the exodus of people leaving the plane, finally heading home.

Three years he'd spent in the States, rebuilding the gaping hole Jack's death had torn in him. Three years spent getting his confidence back, learning to stop blaming himself, finding a way to move forward.

It had been hard; the method of her demise had shaken him, made him blame himself constantly. Always he would think 'What if I'd done something different? What if I'd fought, tried to escape sooner? What if? What if? What if?'. At times he would carefully not think of anything at all.

Everything seemed to remind him of that beautiful redhead; a woman's carefree laugh at the mall, a flash of bright-flame-red around a corner. The accent she'd possessed had been all around him in San Francisco, swamping him with memories of another voice that he would never hear again.

And always the guilt.

He shouldn't have allowed her to come. He knew how dangerous these things were. He knew she'd be a target, a weak point in his defences. But he'd selfishly wanted her there. He'd wanted someone there to understand, so he wouldn't be alone. Selfish.

Eventually he had sorted his mind out. He had rationalised that regrets and longing would not bring her back. What was done was done and he would never see her again. He could only remember and learn.

The Pleasures had been invaluable to his recovery. They gave him space when he needed it, comfort when he wanted it. They never pressured him and they gave him the time he needed to pull himself together.

But America would never be home. Alex had missed the feel of England. America seemed vast and loud and brash. England could be all these things but it was also familiar. Alex missed the way the city called to him. The crowds and the quiet spaces, the thrum of the populace and the closeness he felt with complete strangers merely because they were English. There was no way to describe how comforting it had been each time he'd heard an English accent cutting through the rolling drawl of the American speech. It was like a reminder that his home was still out there. He may not have lived in England anymore but it still held his heart. It was his birthplace, the place where he'd grown and learned of the world – the nation that he'd spent so much damn effort protecting.

There had been no question that he would return to England eventually.

So Alex had spent his time in San Francisco evaluating his life. He made sure to take part in the community, joining school teams and going to a few parties. However he always felt more mature than his peers, or rather his fellow students; peers denoted that they were equal in ability, and Alex knew full well that his true peers were soldiers, not students. He was always more reserved than the others, a combination of his English reserve and his resistance to trying to connect with people who just weren't capable of understanding him.

Now, walking through the airport, Alex considered what he'd like to do with his life. Menial labour would never allow him to feel any sort of satisfaction with himself. An office job would probably make him throw himself off a building just for the thrill factor before too long. Then he remembered. There had been a careers fair at school and one of the stalls was recruiting for the military. Spotting the two soldiers who'd been roped into recruitment, Alex considered what his experience with the military had been like. Training with the SAS, the elite of the British military, had been gruelling and even harrowing at times, but Alex couldn't deny the strong bonds he'd seen form between the soldiers. They trained well and they trained hard – and in the end they trusted those they were working with to always have their back. Being a soldier wasn't a job for them, it was a way of life.

Buying a rail ticket to central London, Alex thought it sounded perfect.


A/N: I had a little trouble with the tenses in this one, so if anyone spots any inconsistencies feel free to point it out, thanks