Disclaimer: Who are you kidding? me? own anyone? hah! well, I'm back, sorry that it's a really short chapter, but i couldn't wait to put it up. it's like a teaser i think... anyway, same drill, press that button...

Disjointed images flickered through the shattered consciousness of Yassen Gregorovich. He groaned and tried to move but his muscles wouldn't obey him.

"He's awake." Someone said from nearby. Or far off. It was hard to tell in this state. Yassen opened one eye, and then shut it again. The light was blinding white and so were the walls, clearly a hospital room.

Someone grabbed his wrist, fingers pressing onto the vein. He turned his head and tried opening his eyes again. It was less bright from this angle and he managed to force both eyes open. A couple of doctors and a nurse were bending over him, checking his vital signs.

"Where am I? What happened?" he said, forcing the words from his lips as he tried to draw in the fractured pieces of his mind. The nurse leant over his head as if to check that it had been him who had spoken. He repeated the questions and her eyes widened.

"He's speaking!" she exclaimed to the doctors. Yassen winced and tried to push himself up on his pillows. He felt bandages slide over his skin and over the wound in his chest. In a burst of pain, the memories flooded back in to fill in the gaps. Air Force One. Damian Cray had shot him. Alex Rider… but he was safe.

"My name's Doctor Smith. You've been shot, lie still for a bit, we don't want you to break your stitches. You've been out for about a month by the way." The man muttered something to the nurse and she nodded and replied in an undertone.

Yassen's eyes flickered around the room, his training taking over. He noted the window, the only patch of darkness in this dazzling world. It was a possible exit… or entry point. The door was to his right, opposite the window, that was good at least; any would-be attacker should be dazzled by the light. His hand flew to his hip as he missed the familiar weight of his Grach.

Yassen drifted into an uneasy sleep. He was back.

And, a little over a mile away, a man lay sleeping. He twitched and lashed out with an arm…

Fire, the searing heat scorched his skin and he could smell his hair burning. The plane was an inferno, the hungry roar of the flames drowning out every other sound, except one. Somehow, the screams of his wife as she fought to escape from the fire reached his ears. He tried to run forward but he was held back by a fireman. He broke free and ran towards the plane. But now the ground was playing tricks on him, he was running but the plane wasn't getting any closer. The screams stopped and John Rider awoke, bathed in sweat.

He got up and walked over to his computer, the screen had blinked on accompanied by a mechanical bleep. He had an e-mail. He clicked on it and read.

His eyes widened and he laughed out loud. Yassen was alive. John Rider allowed himself a few minutes to celebrate his friend's wellbeing before picking up the phone. He had work to do.

About two miles from John Rider, to form a triangle over the centre of London, Alex Rider sat in his room, reading a book for his English homework. He couldn't concentrate; his life was so different now. He realised that he wanted to talk to Yassen again, to ask him more about his father. But he was dead…so was Ash…Ian Rider…his mother…his father. Everyone he'd cared for was dead, except Jack.

God, he'd just included Yassen in the list of people he cared for. But the Russian had saved his life, he felt grateful. Alex shook his head and focused again on the page in front of him. But he couldn't remember what was happening and gave up.

He lay down on the bed and stared blankly at the silent stars outside his window.