A/N: Ok, so here's how it works. You give me a word, I write a very short oneshot about it. The first thirteen I just randomly chose, but they mostly (ok, all of them) are angsty. Alex is just a great character to layer the angst on. These are somewhat related, but not all of them have to be. I could even try writing a humorous one. So just review or PM me with a word you want me to write to.

Run
Alex paused to try and catch his breath, looking behind for any sort of pursuit. The street was utterly devoid of life, but Alex forced his aching feet to move onwards. He wasn't safe yet. They were coming, if they weren't already hiding in the shadows.

Change
Tom shook his head wearily as he watched Alex. "I don't even know you anymore, Alex. You've changed." Alex simply started at him with that impassive face, and Tom turned his back on his best friend. He slammed the door as he left, never to visit again.

Sarcasm
Sarcasm had always come naturally to Alex. It was his last defense when criminals locked him up, his way of spitting in their eye when he was helpless. But he didn't have a comeback when his best friend shook his head, disgusted at what Alex had become. He just stood there, an impassive stony mask on his face as his last link to a normal life turned his back and walked out.

High
The addiction had started when he had to infiltrate a drug ring. Their idea of bonding was snorting cocaine skimmed from the dealers. He had to keep his cover, so he sniffed. Then he did it again, and again, and again, until he just couldn't stop. When he got high, he could forget everything that went wrong in his life. Nothing mattered except the cocaine.

Death
Alex knew he would die, whether from his spying or his drug habit. He never really cared though. Sometimes, when he was on a high, he would sit there with a knife or a gun, and consider ending it early. If he couldn't control his own life, he could damn well control his death.

Gun
He didn't tell Blunt when he had taken a gun, hiding it until he was back at home. Most of the time, he kept it in a locked drawer in his room. Sometimes, though, he would take it out and polish it until it looked brand new. Sometimes he would take it out and hold it between two shaking hands, debating with himself. Inevitably, it would always end up back in the drawer.

Fail
He could have tried to rescue her, sure. She had been so close, only a thin metal fence separating them. But he would have gotten caught and been killed himself. He buried the guilt in drugs, but no matter how many times he said it wasn't his fault, her face would constantly haunt his dreams. He couldn't walk into a room in the house without a memory of her springing to his mind. Jack. Why did they have to kill you?

Light
There was a flick and a hum, and bright lights seared Alex's eyes. He cried out and closed his eyes, but the ropes binding his arms to the chair kept him from covering them with his hands. Footsteps echoed in empty room, coming closer to the blinded spy. He opened one eye, trying to see who had him, but it was just too bright.

Green
The person Alex was protecting slowly turned green as he saw the corpse of the dead guard. Alex stared in confusion as the man bent over and threw up at his feet. He grabbed the man's arm, forcing him onward and ignoring the dry retching noises. Whoever had killed the guard was probably still in the house, and he wasn't there to sell girl scout cookies. Alex chanced another glance back at the body, before heading out the door. Why had the man reacted like that? It really wasn't that nasty, actually. It was a professional hit - two bullets in the chest, one in the head. A lot quicker than some other ways Alex had seen people die.

Shout
Alex lets out a shout as he crashes into the window. Razor sharp pieces of glass carpet the ground he lies on and he winces as they dig into his skin. The rope he clings to gives a sharp jerk and he is dragged out, scraping his legs on the knives of glass protruding from the broken window. The helicopter spins again and Alex grunts with exertion as he inches up the rope wildly whipping around.

Games
He slammed a fist into the leaping dog, ducking to the side to avoid its snapping teeth. The dog went flying but quickly regained its feet, growling menacingly. It lunged again, and this time he snapped out his leg to kick it away. "Is this your twisted idea of a game?" Alex snarled at the one-way glass and whoever was watching him behind it, dodging another attack from the rabid dog.

Rage
Alex raged at the criminals and felt alive. Rage was a good emotion. It kept you thinking about one thing, kept your minds off of what you could do and what you had to do. It put things into startling clarity and wiped your conscience clean. He despised them, and felt justified. He grabbed a gun, and felt justified. He aimed and pulled the trigger, and felt justified. He killed five men, and felt justified.

Regret
Regret always followed rage. The clarity faded away, the guilt began blooming. He tried to push it away, but it always managed to survive like the weeds in a garden. You attack it and push it back but it always returns. He couldn't banish it entirely, so he ignored it. He drowned it with drugs and adrenaline and locked it in a steel box in the corner of his heart.