MY FIRST FIC! Next chapter will be longer, promise
Mr. Blunt shook his head, staring in disbelief at the file he had been handed.
Life at MI6 was not an easy job, mainly because they received assignments no one else could deal with. The missions he had to oversee left the lives of thousands depending on the actions of his employees. Lately however, the universe seemed to delight in throwing everything it could at the intelligence service. Let's see, Mr. Blunt thought wryly, not that he would ever admit to feeling wry. An IT millionare with access to a lethal version of small pox, the South African scientist that cloned himself doubles for the most influential people on earth, a Soviet Union general that tried to start an nuclear holocaust, the pop star that tried to launch nuclear missiles at the drug plantations of the world, SCORPIA, of course; god, that had been a nightmare, and now THIS.
Snapping his head back up, he made a decision. If the information in this report was correct, they were looking at the deaths of half the world's population. They couldn't go in through the normal routes, so that meant...Mr. Blunt groaned as pushed the folder to one side, his mind firmly made up. He buzzed one of his agents in, telling him to go fetch a certain patient from the medical ward. All he could do now was wait.
#########
a few weeks later later…
The facility was a mess. A total bloody mess. In the literal sense. Corpses strewn around the place, blood from humans, animals, and sick, twisted combinations of both formed a glossy carpet over the Californian rocks. medical devices, test tubes, and melted iron bars were strewn around the floor, courtesy of a lab that had been a few floors up and an exploded transport crate. The dead were all scientists and half wolfen... things. And in the middle of it all squatted a young teenager with blond hair, DS in hand, intently looking at the screen with a frown firmly fixed upon his face.
"Fuck," Alex Rider said.
12 days ago...
There is a building on Liverpool Street known as the Royal & General Bank. At first glance, it appeared to be the embodiment of lack-luster that every building associated with the Financial District contains. It took a keen eye and a powerful bug sweeper to see the multi-spectrum security cameras and the various other security protocols that encased the "bank", because the bank was actually the headquarters of the British intelligence service, MI6. Despite being one of the cores of British defense, it contained very little out of the ordinary that you would expect to find inside a spy agency... with its concealed hospital being one of the main exceptions.
Inside room 614, Alex Rider sat staring over the London skyline, reflecting on the past few days. He clearly remembered the color draining from his vision, not being able to move, helpless as the life drained from him. In retaliation for stopping "Invisible Sword" Scorpia, the terrorist agency that had killed his father, attempted to recruit him and kill all the children in Britain, tried to assassinate him as he was leaving his debriefing. He had accidentally tripped on the curb, meaning that the bullet had hit his shoulder instead of his heart. He had been unconscious for a few days, and needed to stay in bed for a week, but the doctor had finally given him a clean bill of health. So why hadn't he been allowed to leave?
His thoughts were interrupted when the door behind him opened, admitting a gaunt unsmiling man in a business suit. "Good evening, Alex." he said.
"Hello Mr. Crawley."
Crawley was the first MI6 operative Alex had met, his family not included. It had been Crawley that had knocked him into the world of MI6. However, Alex had learnt that he had worked with his father in the field before he had been killed, so his opinion of Crawley had improved somewhat. However, Alex got the feeling he wouldn't like why he was here.
Sure enough, Crawley gestured toward the door.
"Mr. Blunt would like to see you."
Alex walked into the office. Nothing had changed since he had last been inside, nor had he expected it to. The room was the same dull shade of gray with the same dull desk that had been in it when he had first met the head of MI6. On closer inspection, the owner of the room hadn't fared as well. He seemed worn, with more lines on his face then before.
For some reason, the idea of Mr. Blunt aging troubled Alex, though he couldn't decide why. Looking to his right, Alex winced as he stared at the deputy chief of MI6, Mrs. Jones. A few weeks ago, Scorpia had misled Alex to believe that Mrs. Jones had ordered the death of his father. Guided by that knowlage, Alex had attempted to kill Mrs. Jones, but intentionaly missed the killing shot. Despite that, it was still hard to look into her eye. Mrs. Jones however had no such problems, and with her usual implacable face, offered Alex a peppermint. He declined, and sat down.
"Alex, it's good to see you again," said Mr. Blunt said, without any form of conviction.
"What do you want?" Alex replied irritably.
Mr. Blunt blinked once, then responded. "I wanted to thank you Alex, for all your help dealing with the missions you participated in this year." Alex shifted in his seat. Mrs Jones, continuing from what Blunt had said, went on. "Although all your missions were classified, so we cannot openly reward you, we would like to give you 500,000£ for each mission you completed, including your involvement with eaglestrike and invisible sword." Alex was struck dumb. Out of everything he was expecting MI6 to say, giving him 2 and a half million Euros was not what he was expecting. "Thank you!" he said. He was about to continue, when Mr. Blunt cut him off. "There's just one thing we need help with." Alex's expression went from excited to dead in less then a second. "No," He said, getting up. "Alex-" "No," he repeated. "I don't care how much you pay me, I'm not working for you again." He turned to leave. "Alex, please." He stopped in his tracks. The fact that Blunt had said please meant that the mission was huge. He turned around. "You have 5 minutes. Start talking."
"There is a company, a company that specialises in genetics. It has recently opened a branch in London."
"So? It's a free country, A/N is it? companies are allowed to expand."
"Correct. However, we think this paticular company is performing illegal genetic experiments on humans."
"What kind of experiments?" Alex asked. In response, Mr. Blunt passed over a folder. Inside it were grainy but horrifying pictures, people with extra arms, gills, and other things that you would kill me for if I described them in anymore detail. There was one thing that all the experiments had in common. They were all children. Realization shot through Alex in a heartbeat. "Oh no," He said. "No no nonononono."
"Alex," Mr. Blunt said, "There's no other way to get into-"
"You want to send me in to that place!" Alex yelped. "You have got to be KIDDING me!"
"Alex, wait. There's something else." Alex sat down again, staring at the pictures in disgust. "One of our agents went into the new branch. We found him a week later in the Thames. He had a piece of paper in his pocket with his handwriting on it. We were able to make out a few words." Mr. Blunt passed the paper over to Alex. There were a few segments on it that had been enhanced.
...GENOCIDE...THE BY-HALF PLAN...REPLACEMENTS...MONSTROUS...HELP.
Alex stared at the note for a long moment. "What does it mean?" He asked.
"Considering the words 'genocide' and 'by-half plan,' we believe..."
Mr. Blunt stoped for a second, taking a deep breath. "We believe that they mean to reduce the worlds population by one half." Alex's jaw dropped. He looked at the pictures again, then at the note, then back to Mr. Blunt, noticing what appeared to be a worried expression on his face. "So stop them!" He said, finally finding his voice. "Send an SAS squad in and arrest everybody there!"
"Alex, I wish we could," Mr. Blunt replied, "But the fact is, a note and a couple of grainy photos can't get you a warrant in any first-world country."
"Our agent had been stripped of all his gadgets," said Mrs. jones, speaking up for the first time in many minutes. "However, we think Smithers' new toys, combined with your cover, should be able to get enough information to incriminate the company."
"And what is my cover?" Alex queried. Mr. Blunt indicated at the file next to Alex, and he pulled out the last piece of paper in the folder. He frowned. "You want to send me in as a orphan?"
"Yes," Mr. Blunt responded. Recently there have been kidnappings from orphanages in the same locations as some of these company's 'deliveries'.
"So they're being kidnapped for experimentation." It wasn't a question, but Blunt responded anyway. "That is what we believe, yes."
"And you want the same thing to happen to me."
"Yes."
"And if I refuse?" Alex let the threat hang for a moment before Blunt replied. "If you refuse Alex, then there's a 50/50 chance that Miss Starbright, and everybody else you know, will die." Alex looked down at the paper and the photos. He thought of Jack, waiting for him to come home, blissfully unaware of the potential danger the world was in. Then he made a decision.
"Toss in another 500K."
"Done."
Mr. Blunt and Alex shook hands. "You'll find Smithers downstairs. He's been cooking up some new toys for you, and you'll need visit the disguise lab, to get you looking the part. Good luck Mr. Rider."
"Thank you," he responded, getting up to leave. He paused on the way out. "Yes?" Mrs. Jones asked.
"One last thing. What is the companies name?"
"Itex."
Alex left the room. It was a long while before Mrs. Jones spoke. "You know he would of agreed to the mission regardless of the extra payment." She said.
"Yes Mrs. Jones, I could of. But frankly, we should of paid him 5,000,000£."
Then all was silent in the HQ of Military Inteligence 6.
A/N and done! Whew! So next time, Smithers and disguises, plus getting kidnapped.
Alex: sweet.
Me: why?
Alex: Because Inventor + Unlimited budget + overactive authors imagination = op gadgets of doom.
Me: we shall see Alex, we shall see. Anyway, R&R for cookies, portal guns and chapters. and also ca-
Alex: don't you dare.
ME *pouts*