Well! A new story - my masochism knows no bounds. Also, my plot bunnies know no sanity, the evil little furballs. It's 1.35 am, and when I started writing this 35 minutes ago, I had one page. I think my fingers are about to fall off.

Right! Well, since Alex Rider is THE place for Mary-Sues, I figured - well, we NEED a Mary Sue Parody. What kind of Mary Sue haven ARE we, if we haven't got a parody fic? So, I give my humble offering as remedy for this sad fact. It probably isn't funny; I may have unintentionally offended people with it. I don't really mind, to be honest. It's 1.35 am, and I'm knackered, so I'm going to post this and go to bed.

Oh, that's a point, actually; I don't really read Mary Sues. I did, extensively, when I was younger, because... well, they made me laugh, essentially. But now, they're all pretty much the same, with the odd different plot point here and there, and they're pretty obvious from the first chapter, so I stop reading them; I just can't be bothered. If this story looks like a ham-ed up version of your own - well, firstly, ARGH, WHY?! and secondly, it's not intentional.

Right! Onwards.

DISCLAIMER: If Anthony Horowitz even knows what a Mary Sue is, I will be surprised.

NOTE: OOC-ness and pointlessness abound. Yes, Mrs. Jones is out of character. Oh, wait, so is Alan Blunt. Yep, and when we get to them, Wolf and Yassen Gregorovich may also suffer from the dreaded plague of OOC. It is intentional. Please don't tell me about it; I already know.

Alex stared at the pair of them across the wide, leather-bound expanse of Alan Blunt's upmarket desk, in his upmarket office, in their upmarket Headquarters.

"Y-you – you have got to be kidding me."

Mrs. Jones bit into one of the extra-special, diabetic-friendly chocolate peppermints she kept on her person at all times – her dietician had told her that her recently discovered diabetes necessitated this – and casually offered one to the other occupants of the room. Blunt took one; Alex, looking faintly disturbed, did not. "Oh, no, Alex. We're not 'kidding' you." she replied, finally, through a mouthful of confection. "No, we're completely serious."

"Well, sanity never was one of your strong points, I suppose." Alex muttered.

"What was that, Alex?" Blunt looked up for the first time, big dark bags under his grey eyes. His three year old son had recently discovered ghost stories, and he, Blunt senior, paid for it every night when the child woke up screaming. At this point, on his fifteenth sleepless night, he was seriously considering having one of his agents take the little brat out.

"I said…" he trailed off. "Oh, never mind. Look, who is this 'partner' of mine?" he paused. "Why the hell are you giving me a partner, anyway? What earthly use could I possibly have for a partner?" he managed to make the word sound faintly dirty; Alex, despite being all of fourteen, had a way with words. "All of my assignments require stealth and, you know – stealth! And adaptability! Two people aren't exactly better than one, and – what if it's some useless prat who can't count to ten without taking their mittens off?" he paused, waiting for an answer. Slowly, horror dawned on his face. "Oh. My. God. It is, isn't it?"

Jessica Emerald Lumley-Partington looked mournfully at herself in the mirror. Her long blonde hair, which was put up in a stylish 'do', beautifully complimented her perfectly tanned skin and tragic blue eyes, glistening with the grief caused by the sudden and convenient death of her parents.

Jessica – better known as 'Sic' to her friends – was on the way to the funeral of said parents. Mr. and Mrs. Lumley-Partington had adored their daughter – enough to leave her in the capable hands of their bodyguard-come-housekeeper, Lars van Hulk, a six foot four, forty seven year old Russian man who appeared crusty and mean on the outside, but who had a heart of gold, Jessica just knew.

"Get ass down here!" a voice bellowed from below. "We go funeral!"

Yes, Jessica was certain that he had a heart of gold under the front of his brilliantly executed 'mean old bastard' act. It was just a question of finding it.

She smiled tragically at him as she reached the bottom of the stairs. "It's alright, Lars." She said, valiantly, her eyes bright with tears, though she smiled bravely through them. It was just as well her parents had got her that waterproof mascara she'd so wanted. "It's alright for you to show how much you miss them. Just in front of me. I share your grief."

Lars quirked an eyebrow at her. "We go funeral." He repeated, giving her a little shove towards the door. Lars' equivalent of a little shove was on a par with a low level earthquake, so it was almost miraculous that Jessica managed to keep her balance – but Jessica was no ordinary girl.

No, Jessica was special. Very, very special.

Fluent in Mongolian, Esperanto and Swahili, a tenth degree black-belt in Tai Chi, and origami, and the possessor of her very own glue guns, Jessica had long been a cause of interest at MI6. And, since her parents had both worked there – Jessica wasn't supposed to know this, but she was amazingly observant, and had worked it out when she was two and a half – and hadn't liked her enough to arrange guardians after their likely deaths who weren't Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones, Jessica was now a legal ward of Britain's elite secret intelligence service.

But she didn't know that yet. No, at the moment, Jessica was sat in the back of the sleek black car which had been hired to take the mourners to her parents joint funeral – they wanted to be cremated together; Jessica thought it was sweet, but then, she wasn't always the best judge of these things – and casually re-arranging her chic black skirt over her knees, quickly checking her nails to make sure that the polish was perfect, and pouting her perfectly glossed lips in the drivers mirror.

"Are you alright, Lars?" she asked, sweetly, after a long pause, glancing across at the man; he was staring out the opposite window with the expression of one who has been facing his own doom for the past several years. "You know, I feel your pain."

Lars glanced at her, shook his head, then grunted. "You will shut up now."

"You know, Lars, some people find it easier to deal with their grief by pushing others away," Jessica told him, gently, "But it's not healthy for you to deal with it like that. Talk to me. You know you can talk to me."

He didn't even bother to reply. Jessica made a little moue of disgust, but determined not to give up; just because he didn't want to be helped, didn't mean he shouldn't be.

At the funeral, Jessica was careful to look the picture of gorgeous grief, to the point where she was so engrossed in her façade of grief that she didn't notice the service was over.

At the grave side – the crematorium had said, firmly, that they on no account did 'double bookings', so they had decided to simply bury them together – Jessica amused herself by staring round at the other mourners, casually taking in their clothes and general air.

I don't like her hair cut, she thought, of a frumpy looking woman with black hair cut into the woman's equivalent of a pudding-bowl haircut, and her clothes are simply hideous, but… with a little bit of decent make up, she might be alright… Her eyes landed on a tall, grey man, with bags under his eyes. But there is no hope for him. She decided, firmly. None. None at all.

Once it was all over, Jessica decided that, for the sake of her façade, she should act just a few inches away from prostrate with grief, and was therefore hanging, limpet-like, from Lars' unwilling arm. She barely noticed the approach of Hopeless Man and Pudding-bowl Woman until they were a few feet away, and already talking to her.

"…Your new guardians. Your parents worked for us, before their tragic – accident." Pudding Bowl Woman was saying. "I'm Mrs. Jones, and this is Alan Blunt."

She held out her hand, and Jessica wiped away her false tears, taking the hand, and shaking it, limply. "Yes, of course." She wisped, faintly. "I'm so pleased to meet someone who knew Mummy and Daddy."

Mrs Jones gave her a faintly confused look. "Um – of course you are." She squared her shoulders, business-like, and fumbled in her bag for another chocolate peppermint; so much tastier than the plain mints she used to suck. "Would you mind coming down to the Bank this Friday, to discuss some things? I think it would be useful…"

"Of- of course. I'm sure Lars will bring me." Jessica whispered, forcing out a few more tears.

The look Mrs. Jones gave her this time was frankly doubtful, and Jessica wondered, for a moment, whether she was over-playing her part, but then realised that it was probably more to do with Lars and his crusty-old-bastard exterior. How could she possibly have doubted her own acting? She was, after all, perfect. But then, no one except her saw past Lars' crusty-old-bastard exterior. It was because no one else was as innocent and sweet and kind-hearted as she was. "Perfect." Mrs. Jones pronounced, already starting to turn away. "We'll see you there, then. This Friday, at four. The Bank will send a car to pick you up."

"Wonderful." Jessica quavered, clinging even harder to Lars. Once the two adults were out of earshot, she sighed, and murmured, "Lars. Take me home."

Lars shook her off, and glowered at her. "Car. Now." He grunted, and stumped off. Jessica trailed behind him, calling,

"Its alright for you to show your pain, Lars. I understand. I feel it with you…"

That Friday, Jessica was met at the doors of the Bank from the luxurious black car which had been sent to pick her up.

"Miss Lumley-Partington? This way, please…"

She was taken up to a nineteenth floor office, mincing her way along corridors in her 'high-powered, professional' high heels. The office had fantastic views over London; a leather sofa stood in one corner, with some exotic flowering pot plant next to it, and a modern glass coffee table was stood in front of it. A man was stood by the window, and Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones were sat behind the enormous antique desk. Mrs. Jones' hat bore a strong resemblance to the exotic flowering pot plant, and Jessica wondered, vaguely, whether she was a devotee of Isabella Blow, the recently deceased eccentric hat designer. It certainly wouldn't have surprised her.

"Ah, Jessica." Mrs. Jones said, with a smile that barely touched her lips, let alone her eyes – botox, of course, Jessica recognised it straight away; her own dear, departed mother (who hadn't been anything like 'dear' until she had so suddenly become 'departed') had been so Botox-ed up that, by the end, she'd barely been able to talk, let alone smile. "Have a seat."

Blunt gave her a considering glance. "You look like an idiot. You'll do fine."

"Alan!" Mrs. Jones hissed, venomously, at the same time that Jessica, quivering in indignant rage, said,

"And you, sir, are abominably rude!" she attempted a dry smile. "But then, I suppose you wouldn't know courtesy if it bit you."

"And you wouldn't know how to use sarcasm if you were given an instruction manual, now shut up." The man at the window snorted at that. "I haven't slept for three weeks, and while I could pussy foot around you, I can't be bothered. I want you all out of here, so I can catch up on my sleep; so, here's the deal. We're MI6. If you tell anyone, we'll kill you. If you don't work for us, we'll sell your house, send that guardian of yours back to Poland-"

"Lars is Russian!"

"-back to Poland, and send you out onto the streets to work in a brothel." Blunt said. Bluntly. "So what's it going to be?"

To her credit, Jessica only paused for a minute or so. It took her a while to process all of what she was being told, and, besides, her feet hurt. "Well, I suppose you leave me no choice…" She sighed. "I-"

"Good." Blunt interrupted her, sharply. "You're going to be taken down to our training camp with Rider here," he gestured at the man by the window, who gave her a sarcastic little wave. She didn't deign to look at him. "In fact, you're going now. We've made all the necessary arrangements with everyone. Now, get out."

Jessica stood. "Don't think I'll forget your despicable behaviour, Mr. Blunt." She said, venomously.

"And don't think I'll forget your amazing capacity to talk like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel." He returned, coolly. "Now, get out, before I have someone throw you out. If I don't sleep soon, I may have the sudden urge to blow something up. Like Kuwait."

As the two teenagers left, Mrs. Jones said, a little confused. "Don't you think you were a little – harsh, Alan?"

He shrugged. "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." (1)

Jessica stalked – as well as she could, in her high heels – down the corridor to the lift. "Disgusting – horrid – rude – ugly man!" she hissed, under her breath.

"You sound – stressed." The man – Rider – said, quietly. She turned to face him, and was surprised to see that he wasn't a man – more a boy. More like her age. More approachable. And very, very good looking.

Her mood changed on a sixpence. After all, Jessica Emerald Lumley-Partington, beautiful, newly-orphaned socialite, and now spy to MI6, was nothing if not adaptable. She slunk towards him, a little unsteadily. "Oh, no. Not any more."

The boy looked terrified out of his wits. "Um?" he squeaked.

Alex stared at the girl in unashamed terror. He didn't think he'd seen anything quite as scary since – well, since ever. Even Herod Sayle had been less terrifying.

"You know what?" he said, voice still embarrassingly high. "You take the lift. I'm going to take the stairs. Good exercise. And all that."

He made a dash for it.

The car journey down to Wales was hideously uncomfortable. Last time Alex had taken this journey, he'd been asleep – or, rather knocked out from tranquilizer darts by John Crawley – and he spent the entirety of this one wishing for the same blessing. Jessica Lumley-Whatsit was so unremittingly dull that Alex had taken to bashing his head against the window in a vain attempt to try and knock himself out.

"Alex, stop that!" she said, coyly. "You know, every time you hit your head, you lose ten brain cells?"

Alex shut his eyes, feeling black despair washing over him. "You must do it frequently, then." He muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Sorry, nothing." He said, more clearly, and went back to banging his head against the wall.

After half an hour, although Alex himself wasn't blessed with the chance to escape from the little MI6-created hell he was stuck in, Jessica herself fell asleep, which at least gave Alex the chance fro a little peace.

The driver glanced back at him, using his rear-view mirror. His expression was one of deepest, deepest sympathy. "You poor bastard." He said, simply.

Alex nodded, feelingly.

Done! And Done!!

(1) Yep, you guessed it, "Gone With the Wind"'s most famous quote. I nabbed it. Sorry, Margaret.

hope you enjoyed it!

-ami xxx