Liberosis
Warnings: death of children, mass deaths, injuries (burns, breaks, psychological damage), permanent injuries, suicidal thoughts, drug use, smoking. Rated T-M.
Summary: People say that Alex has the luck of the devil - but in his experience, angels are far worse. The devil's silver tongue will convince you to stray from the righteous path, but in the end it is you who strays. A fallen angel will take you by the hand and lead you into the dark, telling you it is the path to salvation. When an angel decides to drag you down to spend an eternity burning in hell, you'll never see it coming. / Alex meets an Angel Of Death.
Angel of Death: A type of serial killer. A person that is employed as a caregiver and kills people under their care.
Disclaimer: Alex Rider and his world belong to Anthony Horowitz. Any recognizable references, quotes or ideas belong to their respective owners.
It burnt.
The whole way down his throat - to his lungs, to every inch of his body. The smoke wrapped around his heart and squeezed until tears were forced from his eyes and he thought his heart would stop.
But he still raced forwards - down the dark metal hallway in the floating metallic death trap he'd found himself on. Bare foot, with the heat of the fire scorching the bottom of his feet black. A constant, agonizing heat that he couldn't pull away from. He was simply forced to endure it - or break in the attempt.
The smoke filled the hallway, pressing from wall to wall and forcing Alex to shut his searing eyes and stoop low. He tried to get below the smoke line, but he couldn't touch the floor without screaming in pain from the heat.
Eyes closed, Alex stumbled awkwardly down the corridor. He could feel his tears drip down his face; he could almost imagine them sizzling as they fell to the hot floor. He tried to hear past the cracks and snaps of the nearby flames - to hear the screams, to hear the people screaming for help.
He followed one voice, young and high pitched, to a tall metal door. The door was ajar - just slightly - but had a huge metal beam crossing it diagonally. It was jammed up in the roof and firmly shoved into a ragged hole in the wrought iron floor. It barred the door, keeping it from swinging out as it was designed to.
From the other side, a little girl was screaming. Sobbing. Crying for help, for her mum and dad, for anyone.
Alex dove forwards as fast as he could. Opening his eyes, he tried to blink back the tears; tried to focus on the scene that was blurring in front of him.
He placed his bare hands on the metal beam and tried to ignore the blistering pain that shot through his palms and begged him to just let go. Let go of the beam and save himself. He didn't need to be the hero here. This wasn't up to him. Just run.
Alex ignored the cowardly voice and shoved the beam upwards, getting a grip on the red hot metal and hoisting it to his shoulder. He moved, shifting the bar barely an inch. And again. And again. Until the heat drilled through his thin shirt and spread. It was unbearable.
Finally, he couldn't stand it. He flinched back. The rough metal dragged down his arm, slicing through skin. The dense bar slammed into his foot - the sound of bones breaking could just be heard over the spitting fire that was growing ever closer.
Little fingers appeared in the crack he'd created. A full hand and then all the way to an elbow. Bright red skin, the arm hairs burnt away. Fingertips black and blue from lack of oxygen. The arm waved around, elbow bumping the edge of the door. Blood ran down the arm and sizzled on the floor.
Alex grabbed the hand, stopping the movement and holding the arm tightly.
"Calm down, I'm going to get you out," Alex yelled through the crack. He choked slightly on the smoke that was like acid in his lungs, but tried to take his own advice and stay calm.
He yanked his foot out from under the beam, trying to push the pain to the back of his mind. Hands wrapped around the door handle, he tried pulling back. He made maybe another foot of room before the beam wouldn't budge; not enough for Alex to fit through… but maybe…
"Hey kid, how old are you?" His voice didn't sound his own; it was rough and choked.
"... six…" the voice was meek and trembling.
Six… she might just be small enough to squeeze through.
Alex pulled his thin shirt over his head. It wouldn't be much, but it was something. He pressed it along the sharp edge of the door and called out to the little girl on the other side. He tried to keep his voice steady - to sound reassuring. He doubted that he managed it.
"Sweetie? Do you think you could squeeze through here?"
"Take my brother first?" Oh shit.
The girls little hands appeared again, this time holding a bundle. A little boy, not older than a year. Light skinned with a tuft of chestnut hair. Holding still enough to be asleep, but with eyes wide open.
Covered in soot and marks from flying sparks. Little baby blue eyes red from the smoke. New skin rough and dry.
And when Alex looked a little closer, he realized the baby was dead. No pulse. No rise in the chest. Suffocated from the smoke. He choked back a cry and reached out with shaky hands.
He wrapped the child up and placed the tiny body to the side.
"Okay, your turn." He moved in front of the gap between the door and the wall so he could see into the room. He got his first glimpse of the little girl he'd been trying to save.
Blond hair, gone grey with the smoke that was coming up through the grate flooring in the room. Eyes - baby blues like her brothers, bright blue that hadn't darkened over time. Red rimmed with tears streaming from them.
Her face was pockmarked with red and grey blemishes. There was a cut on her forehead and a burn on her cheek. She looked so scared. She didn't even know that her baby brother was dead.
"What's your name?" Alex bit his drying lip. He pushed his shirt higher, keeping it on the door and ignoring the burns forming on his hand.
The little girl sniffled, choking back more tears. She placed one, small, delicate hand over the shirt. She leaned forward, and Alex thought she was just small enough to fit through the gap.
She opened her mouth, lips cracking. A puff of air came from her throat as she tried to speak her name.
It turned into a scream as the ceiling above her caved in.
Metal beams, bigger than the one that had blocked the door, ripped free with a horrible shrieking noise - as if the ship was screaming in pain along with her passengers. Bolts popping, metal crumbling and shuddering.
It sounded like his world was being torn apart.
A gust of venomous air slammed into him like a freight train. Alex fell, landing flat on his back and smacking his head on the hallway floor. The world spun around him.
He could feel a scream being torn from his smoke-damaged throat as bare skin met furiously hot floor, but he heard nothing. It was like someone had put the whole earth on mute.
When he looked up, there was a wall of fire where a little girl once stood. Alex stared in horror at the blaze.
There was no noise. Not a single sound. Just the growing heat of the fire that was steadily crawling closer. The screams that had become like background music had vanished. Alex suddenly felt overwhelmingly alone.
Alex turned his head. He took in the sight of the corridor that had been consumed with flames. The way Alex had come was completely gone; metal melted and beams collapsed. Entire walls had warped to become impassable.
The all powerful, raging fire was now so close that he could almost reach out and touch it.
He didn't want to touch it, he didn't want to be anywhere near it. He'd seen what it could do.
Alex turned and ran.
He sprinted away, feeling the fire close in on him from all sides. He tried to call out for help, but his voice seemed to have left him.
The floor beneath him started to shake - like a tsunami had run full throttle into the ship. As if they didn't have enough problems already. Alex was thrown to the floor again, every muscle seizing in pain. He landed on his stomach, looking through the grate floor at the licking flames. The main fire was just a floor below him.
Something heavy landed next to him, shocking him to his feet. The ceiling - weakened by smoke - was starting to cave. Alex took a few unsteady steps before crumbling to his knees. The thought crossed his mind that it might be best to just give up. Roll over and accept his fate. He'd had a trial by fire, and failed.
You can't win them all.
Alex sat there, letting the smoke encase him. Letting the heat draw ever nearer.
He had always thought he would meet his end on a mission. He had thought MI6 would be the death of him. He thought he would go down in a blaze of gunfire, or perhaps a painful but creative death at the hands of an insane enemy. Eaten by crocodiles or a giant man of war jellyfish.
Instead, he would meet his untimely end on a cheap passenger ship. The perfect way to end his uneventful vacation. He had thought the time off had been too good to be true. He was going to die in a burning ship, with the shoreline in sight.
Something touched his arm. Something that wasn't burning metal or open flame. That was odd.
Alex found that he had just enough energy to be curious. He wrenched his eyes open with great effort. At first, he thought it was a solid wall of flame; that the fire had finally cut him off and was seconds away from eating him alive. Then he blinked the smoke and tears from his eyes; a figure seemed to rise from the smoke, glowing with firelight like a guardian angel. The figure appeared to be made of the fire itself - like a phoenix.
A firefighter, dressed in a bright yellow, flame retardant suit. The mans glass mask reflected the imposing flames.
"Get up, kid. We've got to get you out of here." Alex didn't actually hear a word the man said, but he could read lips well enough. Even through the smoky haze and the firefighter's glass faceplate
Alex allowed himself to be pulled to his aching feet. His broken foot gave way under the stress and his arm was slung over the back of the fireman. He struggled to keep up as he was dragged down twisting corridors. The fire followed in their footsteps. He doubted that there was any part of the boat that wasn't seconds away from being consumed.
A twisted hunk of molten metal landed in their path, but the fireman grabbed him and they hurtled over. At the end of the corridor, Alex could see blue skies.
They took the home stretch at a sprint, desperate to get to that sliver of blue. Alex stumbled over a door that had been kicked off its hinges, then found himself on an open air deck. He doubled over, gasping. He sucked in the clean oxygen greedily, feeling his brain kick back into action. The world swam back into focus; he could hear the roaring fire and the blaring sirens. The sound of people yelling and helicopter blades overhead.
"Can you swim?" Alex looked at the firefighter that had dragged him from the inferno, the voice sounded oddly familiar. The man grasped Alex's shoulders, looking at him face to face. Even through the glass, Alex thought he recognized the man. Alex nodded, more than a little confused.
Seconds later, the hands on his shoulders tightened and he found himself in open air. Falling. Alex had the presence of mind to suck in a lungful of air before his body slammed into icy water. He went under, struggling to find which way was up. He managed to follow the bubbles from his breath, and was soon bobbing at the surface. He started treading water and looked at the ship above him.
Every visible part of the ship was ablaze. There was no way to save it.
The few firefighters that were actually on board were retreating quickly, pulled to the safety of helicopters that couldn't land on the inferno that was the top deck. The ship - and any passengers or bodies still on board - were being abandoned.
Wind whipped through his soaked hair, and Alex looked over his shoulder to see a helicopter lowering itself to sea level. A hand appeared, and Alex was being pulled into the cockpit. The helicopter hovered for a while longer as more people were pulled from the sea. With still room to spare, they set off to the mainland.
Looking out the window, Alex saw a few lifeboats rowing inland. Most of the lifeboats had been set on fire before ever managing to leave the ship. The few that had survived held precious few lives. Alex counted a few dozen passengers and crew on the rafts below. Plus another handful from his helicopter. Three other helicopters followed their trail.
Maybe fifty survivours in all, off a ship that had held two hundred.
Alex counted himself very lucky to be alive.
Alex was airlifted out the following day.
The port in which the survivours had found themselves was small, not at all equipped for the injuries that presented. The small seaside hospital had been overwhelmed with burn victims. So after being stabilized, Alex and several of the other more badly wounded were shipped to better prepared trauma level hospitals.
Alex was sent to St. Dominic's. Not that he remembers the journey - he was heavily sedated from the moment he reached the shore.
The next memory Alex has after the helicopter lift out, is waking up in a familiar room in back in London. He woke during the night - stars glimmering outside of his single window. The room had been dim, just enough light filtering in for Alex to see the extent of his injuries.
He wished it was darker.
When he was younger, him and his best mate Tom had gone to a Halloween party. One of the games was to wrap each other in toilet paper until they resembled an Egyptian mummy. Alex bore that same resemblance now.
His hands were wrapped from fingers to wrists. They rested on a contraption, metal pins stabilizing them. More bandages stretched from his wrists to shoulders, preventing him from bending his arms more than a millimeter.
His torso was also heavily bound, as well as his legs. The leg that he had broken was in a thick cast, suspended above his bed like the limb of a marionette. He couldn't even see his toes.
Alex fell asleep (passed out) soon after, awaking again a few days later.
The room was empty, but muffled voices sounded close to him. He tried to pinpoint the direction of the voices, and found the culprit in the room across from him. The ward he was in was full of private rooms, but most of the doors were open to allow nurses free flow between patients. His own door was wide open and gave him a view into the room across the hall.
The television in that room was playing, which was the source of the voices he had heard. Alex - who couldn't really move due to his bandages - shifted as much as he could to view the screen.
Alex watched a news clip of a medium size ship going down in flames. The scene switched to an interview - Alex's eyes widened as he recognized the man. The firefighter that had pulled him from the ship. He couldn't make out the words being said, but he could see the captions.
Hero risks life to pull passengers from burning ship.
His view was quickly blocked by a nurse entering his room. She looked harried and haggard and rushed straight to the table to Alex's left.
The nurse fiddled at his bedside before noticing him stir, then went off in a hurry. She returned moments later with another woman, this one in a white lab coat, and Mrs. Jones.
"Alex," the woman in the white coat spoke in a low, soothing voice, "I'm Doctor Bell, head of plastic surgery and the doctor on your case. The surgery went very well, with minimal complications. Everything has been explained to Mrs. Jones, she says she would like to explain it all to you in private, if that's okay?" Alex nodded his consent. "Then I'll be just in the hall if you have any questions. Dr. Patel, head of ortho, is also available."
Before leaving, Doctor Bell turned to Mrs. Jones, "Don't overtax him, he'll be very tired for the next few days."
Then he and Mrs. Jones were left alone.
She spoke to him in the voice of someone in mourning. She gave him the details of how severely each part of him had been injured. Second and third degree burns. Nerve and tissue damage. Lung and airway damage. She told him - in a voice that didn't sound like she believed a word she was saying - that he was very lucky. The injuries could have been so much worse. He could have died - so many others had.
As if Alex didn't know.
Then came the real reason for Mrs. Jones's visit. MI6 wouldn't be at his bedside unless they wanted something from him.
"Did you notice anyone suspicious on the ship?" She asked.
"No-" Alex broke off, the word burning his throat. He shook his head instead. Of course, Alex hadn't exactly been looking. He'd been on vacation.
Jones leaned out of view. Alex heard the click of a briefcase before she reappeared, holding a large photo. "Do you recognize this man?"
Alex nodded instantly. It was a passport photo of a middle aged man, dark haired and clean shaven. Alex had seen the man through a soot covered face plate, with a scruffy beard, but it was certainly the same man. The firefighter.
"Was he a crew member?" Alex shook his head no. Mrs. Jones seemed to have expected that.
"A passenger?" Again, Alex moved to say no, but paused. On the ship, in those brief moments of interaction, Alex had thought the fireman had seemed all too familiar. He had assumed the smoke had addled his brain, making connections where there were none, but...
Alex nodded. He was positive now that he remembered seeing the firefighter around the ship. In the dining hall, he recalled. He had held a short conversation with the man at the bar, as they both waited to be served drinks. A polite exchange of pleasantries that Alex had done dozens of times with dozens of passengers.
The simple Hello. What's your name? Enjoying the trip? and then a goodbye.
Mrs. Jones nodded, still holding the picture for Alex to see. "Do you recognize him from anywhere else?" If he didn't know better, he would say Mrs. Jones looked nervous.
Alex nodded. "Firefighter," he croaked out painfully. If the look on Jones' face was anything to go by, he had just confirmed her worst fear.
"Alright, Alex," She rose to her feet, collecting her things, "that will be all for now. Try to rest up."
Alex made a move to reach out to her, but was restricted by the multitude of bandages and contraptions. Jones saw the motion anyway and stopped. She looked at him, and he tried his best to put all his questions into a single facial expression.
Mrs. Jones hesitated, then seemed to come to the conclusion that they owed him an explanation. "This is the man that placed the first distress call to mainland emergency services. He was also the first to be pulled from the ship. Incidentally," the way she said it made Alex think it wasn't incidental at all, "he was a firefighter in the nearby town, returning home from a short trip. The first respondents were from his own brigade."
That's one hell of a coincidence - and Alex hardly believed in coincidences anymore.
"They needed all hands on deck, so his chief gave him a suit and he went back in. He alone pulled eight people, including yourself, from the ship." Mrs. Jones stopped like she wasn't going to tell Alex anymore. He gave her a pleading look that he hadn't used on her since he was fourteen.
She continued. "We believe he was the one to start the fire. Deliberately."
It made sense. Alex had thought the fire was more than a little suspicious; on a mostly metal ship, Alex had thought the fire had caught and spread remarkably quickly. If it was set deliberately, with the use of accelerant, that would explain it.
Also, the spot where the ship caught fire was interesting as well; close enough to the mainland that search and rescue were able to arrive at the site and pick up the few survivours, but at the same time, far enough away that the ship couldn't be saved. No evidence of foul play would be found now that the murder site was a melted husk at the bottom of the ocean.
Jones moved towards the door as he tried to let that sink in. No evidence - and the man that had killed all those people was being celebrated as a hero.
She paused just shy of the exit. "Alex?" He looked up. "When you get out of here... it is unlikely you will be permitted to stay alone. Is there anyone who can help take care of you?"
He looked back down again. His years with MI6 had left him with precious few people to call on. But...
Alex nodded, still not looking up. There was one. One person he certainly had left in his corner. One person that might be able to understand and help him.
The door clicked as Mrs. Jones left. It was the last time Alex would see her.
It burnt.
The whole way down his throat - to his lungs, to every inch of his body. The smoke wrapped around his heart and squeezed until tears were forced from his eyes and he thought his heart would stop.
He welcomed it.
He took another drag from his cigarette, letting the nicotine laced smoke curl around him in an intricate pattern.
It floated into the night air, off the balcony he stood on. Away from the cool railing that he clutched so tight just to keep himself upright. Just to keep himself from collapsing on the spot.
He flicked the cigarette around his fingers - his burnt fingers that he had pressed against a scorching door, and had let blister and bubble. The skin grafts had helped, but his nerves were damaged, his hand still shook sometimes.
It shook, trying to hold the cigarette. It shook trying to hold a gun. It shook.
MI6 had let him go, because it shook.
Because he'd never hold a gun the same. Because the burns running up his arms hurt all the time. Because he'd scorched his feet black - burnt them so bad his nerves had frayed and he didn't feel that pain anymore. Because the smoke inhalation meant he wouldn't be able to run, would barely be able to walk, on his own for a while. A long while. His constant wheezing breath sounded painful to his own ears.
That burning ship had mangled him beyond what MI6 was willing to repair - so they'd let him go.
Now… he was smoking. Watching the grey smog twist into abstract shapes; into babies and blankets and blond girls with beautiful eyes.
"Come inside? Please?" A voice sounded behind him, questioning. Firm - not timid - but not going to force him.
He didn't answer, instead staring off determinedly at the horizon. He told himself that it was painful to talk, that the smoke had shredded his windpipe and that it hurt. In reality, Alex didn't want to talk. Didn't want anyone to help him or save him or pull him back from the flames. He didn't want to be held back from the edge.
He wanted to jump.
"Let's go inside," the calm voice came again, accompanied by a warm touch on his upper arm.
A warm touch - not hot, not burning, just warm. Touching his arm - the tiny part of his arm that wasn't covered in healing burns or scar tissue.
"I can't." His voice came back. Not rough, not trembling. Not showing a sign of the smoke that filled them day and night.
"Sure you can." The voice deliberately missed his meaning. "I'll help." Firm arms wrapped around him, being agonizingly careful of his healing skin.
Alex shifted, pressing himself against the warm body's side. Leaning in, he let himself be led inside. Like a dog on a leash, or a puppet on a string.
He focused his dwindling energies on putting one foot ahead of the other. One step at a time. Trying not to wince each time he stood on the foot he'd broken - the foot that had been so completely shattered that it would never heal quite right, that he'd never walk quite right. He'd limp, he'd drag, he'd always feel a bit of pain.
And he was lucky. Lucky that he was so young and he could bounce back so well.
No matter how young you are, you can't bounce back from being burned alive. From having the roof of a ship dropped on you. From breathing in lungfuls of smoke until you asphyxiate.
That's what he thought about as he was helped into bed. As the covers were pulled back - covers that were all too hot all the time.
That's what he thought about as he was wrapped up and coddled, like a baby.
As he watched the light cast on the ceiling from the bedside lamp, dancing like flames, he thought: there are some things you just can't come back from.
Those kids were never coming back. So why had he? Why had he survived when they had not? What was so damn special about him, that he could keep surviving? He flirted with death so often that it was almost cruel that he hadn't married it yet. He had brushed with death so many times that it was unfair for him to continue living.
Maybe Alex was lucky. Simply devil's luck that he survived. Again and again.
Lucky that he was young and healthy and would heal to a degree. But he didn't feel lucky. When he had escaped the ship, Alex had been grateful just to be alive. He had thought himself very lucky.
But nowadays, Alex often found himself wondering if he wouldn't have been better off dead; instead he was stuck with the pain and the guilt and the horror.
Alex could live with the pain. Live with the limp and the shaking. The pain from the burns and the breaks didn't hold a candle to the pain he felt when he thought of those kids. He tortured himself with images of them - scared and alone and without luck on their side.
Alex should have died in that inferno, yet here he was. Those kids had their whole lives ahead of them, and their ashes were spreading across the sea.
The bed dipped, and Alex felt arms wrap around him again.
Everyone was wrong; he had been wrong. He wasn't lucky.
The dead were dead and gone, but Alex was stuck here. Stuck reliving the same few moments over and over again. Stuck wishing he had done something to have saved those kids. Stuck knowing that those kids had died on his watch.
MI6 had been right to let him go. Alex couldn't save anyone. He couldn't even save himself.
MI6 were right to drop him, because a good agent would get over it. Agents lost people all the time.
Alex wasn't a good agent. Alex couldn't let it go. He fell apart at the thought of those kids.
He could let go of the pain, the permanent injuries and the scars. He couldn't let go of those kids.
Alex couldn't let go, no matter how much he wished he could.
Liberosis: the desire to care less about things.
This was just a oneshot, but I might expand on it in the future.
Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome, but please remember to be polite! Thank you!