Booka: Hey, it's me again! I decided that I've been making way too many Percy Jackson fanfictions so I need some variety, if you know what I mean. This is an Alex Rider fanfiction, mainly just me clearing my head of ideas. I read a couple fanfictions that were themed like this so I decided I'd give it a try. If I failed, then boo hoo. I had a dream like this once when I was younger. Yeah, my mind's messed up like that. This is after Scorpia Rising, but it ignores the ending when Alex is free of MI6 and goes to America with Mr. Pleasure. Not that I have anything against that ending, but in order for this story to play out right, Alex needs to be in England. Also, the entire series takes place in a smaller time span; like ten months or something like that. I'm not going into specifics so if it doesn't make sense, don't blame me. I'm just the innocent author who had an idea. I hope you like it! It's my first tragedy fiction as well, so please be nice in reviews! But I always welcome criticism so flame away. WARNING: There is mention of torture in this story so if you get queasy at gore and blood, DO NOT read.

Disclaimer: I am not Anthony Horowitz so therefore I do not own Alex Rider no matter how cool that would be.

The clammy, unpleasant texture of wet metal chains wrapped around his arms was what welcomed Alex Rider into hell. He waited as he always did, for his faceless tormentor to appear seemingly out of air. Alex was neither shocked nor surprised as the black-clad figure formed in front of his filthy cell, clouds of dust and dry dirt accumulating when the leather boots met grimy stone. The tormentor was obviously male, characterized by a flat, muscular chest outlined in his shirt and closely cropped hair of a non-descript color. If Alex's torturer ever had a face, he knew that it would have cruel masculine qualities, perhaps enhanced by a broken nose or scarred mouth. But the man never did have facial features, only smooth pale skin sliding over a perfectly rounded head. That's what frightened Alex the most: the lack of character, the numbing impassiveness of the tormentor as he slowly abused the boy he held captive with a variety of weapons; knives, whips, scalpels, clubs, guns, you name it, he had it.

Alex thrashed in his bed; he knew it was a dream, he knew he had to wake up, but he couldn't. He fisted the sheets he lay in as if somehow he could escape by holding on to something he knew wasn't there…

The torturer stepped inside of the small, dirty cell. As usual he said nothing, asked for nothing. There was no information he didn't already know that he could deprive from Alex; he was only hurting the teenager for the hell of it, for the taste of fear that only victims could make. He held a lighter in his gloved hand…

The boy in the bed whimpered and cried out. He needed to wake up, he needed to escape the hell his mind was inflicting, but he couldn't.

The fingers flicked the lighter on, creating a small flickering flame at the end of the nozzle. The lighter was shaped like an orchestra conductor's staff, thin and slim like a stick with a hilt at the end of it. But the tormentor wasn't here to make music; he was here to make nightmares. The flame ever so slowly leaned closer to Alex who leaned as far away as he could from the blaze. Alex wore no shirt, so his torso was entirely exposed. The flame tilted lower and the steady pain of burning spread down his chest in an almost pretty pattern. Alex opened his mouth to scream but a hand, a leather gloved hand clamped down on his mouth, preventing the sound from slipping past his throat. If anything, this tortured Alex further. The silence of his prison was so complete, so utterly soundless it drove Alex to the edge. He'd have given anything in order to break the silence, anything, his freedom, his sanity, his life if only to hear a squeal, a scream, a cry, something to let him know there was sound. The smell of charred skin filled the room, and two large tears seeped out from under his lashes, rolling down his face to drip off his chin and land on his collarbone. The punishment continued for who-knows-how long. For Alex, it seemed to be a century. Finally the boy was released and he hung limply, supported only by the hated chains that kept him in his own private piece of hell. He sobbed, but still there was no sound as he stared down at his burnt chest, the marks forming a beautiful design etched into his skin. He cried. The torturer watched, his arm still holding the lighter. Then he disappeared, melting away into thin air as he always did. But the nightmare was not over. The floor opened up underneath Alex's feet and he fell, the chains dissolving into oblivion and Alex envied them. They could escape; he could not. But then black, icy water engulfed him hungrily, as if waiting for the infamous Alex Rider to fall into its jaws.

Alex screamed, but did not wake. He never did until it was over.

Alex struggled against the rough currents that tossed him to and fro, mocking him as he fought against something he knew he could not win. He was blinded by the utter darkness of the water, stinging his eyes from the cold and numbing his skin. The water suffocated him. As his hands tore through the waves of anger and loathing that frothed and pushed around him, he went nowhere, made no progress, caked in fruitless efforts. It was hopeless; he could not escape, he could not get out. Memories flashed before his non-seeing eyes.

Alex forced his eyes open, but the dreams dragged him back under with the weight of sleep. A cry escaped his lips but his lids slid closed. He was gone.

Gone.

Alex's breath quickened and his chest rose and fell rapidly. He needed to wake.

Torture.

His broken moan rattled in his throat as he reached to the light he could vaguely see in his dreams. He knew the light was reality where he would wake up in his bed, screaming. But the water forced him down.

Alone.

Alex fought. The water resisted.

Pain.

The thrashes were decreasing in strength now. He was giving up.

Chains.

Alex's mouth formed a silent screech that no one could hear.

Whips.

He knew he needed to fight, but he couldn't find the strength.

Pain.

It wasn't real, he knew but he could feel it.

Guns.

He tried to open his eyes, but he couldn't.

Death…

No…

Death…

No…

Death!

NO!

Alex's eyes flew open and he sat up in bed like a whip. He gasped, clean, warm air flooding the dry cavern of his mouth. His skin was slicked with a cold sweat, his clothes sticking to him. A bead of the moisture slid down his forehead and off his chin. He sat there, shocked for a moment, as his eyes brimmed with tears and a large knot formed in his throat. But he choked it back and focused on breathing. The small hairs on his forearms prickled and he noticed the rough goosebumps forming on his normally smooth skin. He ignored them and reached for the glass of cold water resting on the table near his bed. His hands trembled and in a sudden flare of anger he forced the shivering to stop. He couldn't be weak; he was the MI6 Golden Boy. He couldn't afford to be weak. Those who were scared got killed. But the bitter truth was that he was scared.

He was scared he wouldn't come home from his next mission.

He was scared of the amount of torture that he would inevitably have to go through in order to survive.

He was scared that he would never have a normal life again.

He was scared that if he made friends, they too would be killed.

He was scared that his school would find out.

He was scared that if he died – no when he died – MI6 would replace him. They would replace him with another intelligent, strong but innocent teenager that was lured in by the false promises of glory and satisfaction that came along with being a spy. He could see it now; the horror on the kid's face when he found out what intelligence work was really about. That even the good guys were somewhat cruel; they had to be in order to survive in their life work. He wondered whether the government would tell the teen the truth; that once you were sucked in, it was more than difficult to get out; it was impossible. Most likely not. They wouldn't want to scare away their new agent, now would they?

Alex swallowed the cold water and forced himself to his feet. He glanced at the window; the sky was still dark, the stars still visible. It was early, unreasonably early for a teenager of fourteen to be up and on a school day as well. A shudder passed through his body as he staggered to the bathroom. Leaning heavily on the counter, he stared into the glass in confusion. The boy looking back did not look like himself. The large tawny eyes framed by long, dark lashes were wild and scared, dancing on the edge of insanity with dark purplish rings underlining the skin beneath his eyes. His normally light blond hair was darkened with sweat and curled on his forehead in wet, damp strands. His Caucasian skin had paled into a frightening alabaster white, drained of blood in terror and panic. Tremors raked up his bare arms and he struggled with composure, on the edge of tears. The handsome, sculpted features that he had inherited from his father were the same but when enhanced by the paleness of his skin they seemed unearthly attractive; inhuman even. Trembling, he splashed his face and shoved his icy hands underneath the flow of warm water. He took a shuddering breath and calmed himself down, drying his face and hair with a towel as he did. He couldn't afford to be late for school, he told himself even though it was around three hours before he was supposed to awaken.

He slowly dressed himself in his school uniform, the fabric of the long trousers and jacket a dark navy blue trimmed with silvery, delicate filigree on the hem of the jacket.(1) Alex lowered his eyes to the backpack stuffed with school work from last night sitting on his desk, surrounded by old papers and photographs. He sniffed incredulously at the smiling faces of his old elementary friends. Some friends you turned out to be, he thought dryly before beginning to sort the messy pile of photos and papers compulsively before accidentally stumbling upon something he would have rather kept hidden; it was a relatively young picture, only a few years old or so; it looked as if it had been taken only yesterday. Beautiful bright sunlight, frozen in time, filtered through the open window of the brilliant French cathedral Ian Rider and Jack Starbright had taken a thirteen year old Alex Rider to when in vacation in France. The teen was obviously younger there, the innocence of his childhood still twinkling mischievously in his golden/chocolate eyes as he held in his hand a small figurine of the Virgin Mary; her flowered robe was surprisingly a vivid coloring of dark azure and pale pink in his comparably dull palm. His hair was longer there, the glossy mass of brown-streaked blond that the older, more matured Alex had come to associate with a different time, a different version of himself. But it was not his own physique that drew him in; it was his guardians'. The creased lines that weeks of worry for Alex's safety (worry that now he thought was not deserved) had brought Jack were nonexistent in the photo, instead smooth and happy with youth, the signs of premature age gone with her boyish smile and pretty red hair draped stylishly over one shoulder, the bright bloodred strands mingling with his gold as she pressed her head against his in a one-arm embrace. Even as a young boy, Alex was slightly taller than Jack, her being rather "petite" as she used to say. He ripped his eyes away from her smiling expression and stared instead at the solemn, but slightly amused face of his uncle. There were fewer creases in his small smirk than the last sight Alex had ever seen of Ian Rider alive, but still time was catching up with him in the handsome chiseled features he, his brother and his nephew all shared, although his hair was dark brown instead of light blond.

It was the sight of him, the uncle he thought he knew, that caused Alex to forgive Ian. He didn't care that it was his uncle's fault he was in this mess; they say holding a grudge rotted the soul; Alex's soul was already corrupted enough without rotting it any further. A rare, contented smile played across his lips as he stared at the photo, remembering the happy memories it brought back. He tucked the photo into the breast pocket of his jacket and sat on his desk's chair, not moving until daylight, looking like a nobleman's statue with the sun hitting him just right, his uniform not helping the factor at all.

When the clock struck 7:00 am, he stood and exited the house, walking purposefully towards the school building. A self-satisfied expression decorated his usually stoic, vague face and the students and teachers alike were surprised, shocked even at the sudden change in the teenage spy's demeanor. Ever since the death of his guardian, Alex Rider seemed to have transformed into a vague and broken young man that no amount of counseling could fix. He hid his emotions expertly from his peers and even more effortlessly he refused to answer their questions about Jack Starbright's death. They all drew it down to gang activity and many of his classmates jeered at him, calling the impassive teen "Junkie," and "Druggie," or "Murderer." There were even rumors that he killed Jack himself. He had made no attempt to stop the swarm of gossip because in his mind, he did kill her. He had goaded the Scorpia and gotten stung; he deserved the hatred of his former friends. The only person who refused to leave him alone was Tom and at first he was treated with the same cold manner like all his other classmates; but as time wore on, Alex was grateful for Tom in still being his friend even though it would most likely end in death for the both of them.

Alex was unlocking his locker when Tom caught up with him before the bell rang for 1st Period. By this time he had again lapsed into his solemn, vague self. "Tom," Alex greeted shortly without looking up from the books and binders that he was hurriedly stuffing into his bag.

"Hey, Alex," Tom said nervously. He seemed anxious for some reason; he kept looking worriedly over his shoulder as if expecting some large and ferocious animal to attack him.

"Roran again?" asked Alex, referring to a particularly unpleasant, meaty bully that insisted on picking on him and Tom.

Tom didn't answer right away but eventually nodded.

Alex frowned. "Do you want me to talk to him for you?"

Tom shook his head firmly. "You don't have to. It's my problem not yours."

"It's my problem if someone's picking on my friend."

Tom shook his black-haired head and said resignedly "I'll just have to ignore him for the rest of the day and I'll be fine."

Alex nodded and said "If that's what you want. But remember, if you ever need to give the ass a thrashing, I'm always here." At the last sentence mentioned, the small twinkle of amusement that had been absent for over three months entered his eyes again.

Tom stared at his friend. "Are you ok? You seem a bit… different than yesterday."

Immediately Alex's jaded demeanor returned and Tom wished he had not spoken. "Yes, of course; I feel fine." His tone was clipped and somewhat harsh. "Why wouldn't I?"

Tom, used to the hostile note in his best friend's voice, shrugged. "I dunno. You just seem… Huh. I can't really place it, but something's changed."

Alex snorted and said dismissively "Well, sure, whatever. Let's get to class." He shut his locker with more force than necessary, but he didn't seem angry. He was just as vague and unreadable as ever. But Tom couldn't forget the speckle of mirth glinting in the agent's usually dark, tormented orbs. No matter how Alex tried to ignore and deny it, Tom knew the truth; the scars that had tortured him so were healing. Finally.

Alex looked up, his face indecipherable as the substitute teacher handed out the assignment, a bored expression on her otherwise pretty face. He took the packet in his hands and glanced at the typing on the front of the page. It said in clear print

In detail, describe a time in which you lost something valuable to you. Maybe an old necklace or favorite pen? Did you ever find it again? Keep in mind that the lost object does not have to be a material item. It could be a friendship that ended badly or a deceased loved one.

Alex stared at the assignment. He knew what he wanted to write about, but he wasn't allowed. He had signed the Official Secrecy Papers in MI6 headquarters. Despite the reasoning his mind was telling him, your conscience refuses to budge. If not the complete truth, than half. And he began to write.

What I Lost

By Alex Rider

When I was one year old I lost my parents to a plane crash. They didn't suffer; Jack used to tell me the wreck happened so quick they didn't know what happened before it hit them. It wasn't really comforting at the time but now as I look back on it I'm glad they didn't feel any pain in their last moments. It would've been a stupid way to end somebody's life; only being able to focus on the pain and nothing else. People say you can't lose what you never had; but I never had parents yet I lost them. I had a planned future, yet I lost that. If my parents hadn't died than I would most likely be somewhere far away from here, speaking French and playing soccer. I love my home. I appreciate my friends here. But if that one moment that killed my parents hadn't happened, I wouldn't be in the situation that I am now.

When I was fourteen years old I lost my Uncle Ian to a car crash. He, like my parents, did not feel any pain in his last moments. They say that if Ian had been wearing a harness he wouldn't have died. It was a hit and run accident. I didn't know who the killer was until a few weeks after the accident. That didn't help the loss anyhow. I didn't feel any satisfaction or pleasure knowing that the person who murdered my uncle was dead. Maybe I should've been relieved or happy; I wasn't. I didn't care; not really. There was nothing to celebrate about. Only death. The doctors say that it's because of my sorrow that I always get so sick. Lowered immune system, they say. I honestly don't know why. All I know is that I'm going in and out of the hospital more and more these days. It's awful and unfair but I can't do anything about it.

Three months ago I lost only guardian and best friend in the entire world to terrible death. Jack was killed by a robber who broke into our house. She was alone; I was at school at the time. She was stabbed multiple times in the stomach and chest. The police estimated that it was during the second time the blade entered her chest that she died. She, however, felt a lot of pain unlike my parents and Ian. Sometimes I wished I had been there; I wonder if I would have been able to stop it; maybe, maybe not. It wasn't fair; she shouldn't have died so young. Even though the robber had nothing to do with me, I can't help but feel that Jack's death was my fault. Crazy right? But I can't pretend that everyone I love ends up dead in some gruesome bloody way. Some people say I've inherited my father's luck of the devil. I'm not lucky; everything I touch is destroyed. And I have no one to blame but myself. It's not fair; nothing about my life is fair but still I have to live with the guilt that I'm still alive while everybody I care about is dead. Talk about last chances; I've had so many I can't count. And now the only thing I have left is nothing. Absolutely nothing.

As Alex Rider walked away from school that afternoon, there was no emotion on his face as usual. Only the old, old eyes that belonged to someone less innocent than the attractive fourteen year old kid that walked heavily down the familiar street that led to someplace that he no longer called home. There was nothing welcoming about that place anymore. The only thing that kept him there was the bed in his room and the food in the fridge. But apparently even that wasn't enough to keep the spy in that hellhole.

A bright red flyer stapled to a wooden cable pole flapped loosely in a chilly gust of wind, a thick layer of gray rain clouds hiding the sun from the inhabitants of London as expertly as always. A large crowd of students from Brookland High had gathered around the dampened paper, whispering and gossiping among themselves. The words that were printed on the paper were in bold and in a dull, block form. The flyer read:

Missing

Alex Rider

(Insert picture of Alex here)

Age: 14 years

Appearance: Blond hair, dark brown eyes

Last Seen: Walking down (Insert Alex's home's street name here) from school

Suspected reason for disappearance: a deranged, confused runaway, grieving for his recently deceased guardian, Jack Starbright.

If seen, call Social Services immediately. Rider is trained specifically in karate and several other forms of martial arts. Do NOT confront. Extremely dangerous when angered. It cannot be guaranteed that Rider will be in the right state of mind when found.

If found please call the following number: *** *** ****

Needless to say, Alex never returned to Chelsea. His classmates (with the exception of Tom) regretted their actions in bullying him, but eventually everybody (again, except Tom) forgot about the broken-hearted boy who never really made sense. After all, he was Rider. He was a stupid druggie (despite acing all his classes he missed) who didn't deserve the time of day. He didn't really matter; did he?

Fin.

Booka: This took a small amount of time to write and because of that, I am particularly proud. This is a planned and thought out oneshot. But I eventually intend to turn this into a story; EVENTUALLY as in, a couple years from now. I hoped you enjoyed!

I don't know if Alex has to wear a uniform in the books, but heck, this is my version. In my version, he does.

Please, PLEASE don't forget to review. Those who do are my favorite people in the world. Seriously, I NEED reviews. Don't you just hate it when people take time out of their day to read, but they don't even review? Honestly! Please, just do me a HUGE favor and review already!

Always, Booka.