Warnings: Later may contain limes, lemons, hard language, torture, whatnot.

Hi everybody,

I just had this idea which wouldn't let me sleep, so I decided to type it out. Hope you'll enjoy. (The further chapters'll be longer - I prefer writing between 2-3,000 words.)

Edit 12/09/09: I managed to find a wonderful beta Valar Morghulis, so in the future my work will be actually written in English.

Disclaimer: I'm not Anthony Horowitz, nor do I own Alex Rider, all the relating rights are his. I make no money out of this. (And let's say this disclaimer applies to the whole story.)

Prologue

The house was in the richer part of Chelsea. It had white walls and pale blue window-frames as did every house in the street. Three steps led from the little veranda to the front door, which was painted dark blue and, again, looked like every other door in the street. The doorknob was made of copper, the security system a simple lock beneath it and a discreet sticker saying that 'This house is protected by SJF technologies.'

The veranda had a low roof above it, matching the blue of the real roof and the windows. It was built in the Victorian style, like many other houses in London: the sort which, from a picture, you would never be able to locate on a map. Not too rich and not too poor. Completely average.

A black BMW stopped in front of it. It matched the house as well: expensive without being ostentatious, equipped with some special extras yet not attracting any attention. If a passer-by had seen the scene, the house or the car, or even the man getting out of the BMW, he would have remembered none of them afterwards. Maybe he wouldn't even have been able to find the house another time.

Of course, this was the man's exact aim: not to attract any attention. A spy didn't need to stay in the shadows – as long as no-one paid attention to him in the first place.

The chauffeur got out of the car and went to the boot take his passenger's luggage. There were many suitcases, but he didn't take them inside: only to the door, where he stood them carefully on the last step. The chauffeur was a nervous man with black hair and a muscular body. He was wearing jeans and a white shirt under a black denim jacket which whirled loosely around his shape to cover the holster with the two Smith & Wesson pistols in them.

The man getting out of the car was younger than his chauffeur. Calmness radiated from his every cell – calmness that no surprise could upset. He moved gracefully, and even if there hadn't been the noise of traffic, his footsteps wouldn't have been heard. His eyes, calm and slightly bored, checked the neighbouring homes and the street in a moment before returning to the house in front of him.

He was short but well-built, his blond hair grown longer than the hairdresser would have ever meant it to be when he had cut it months ago. He was wearing jeans and an ocean blue pullover against the chill of the early September weather, which meant drizzling rain for London. He calmly walked to the entrance and pulled a key out of his pocket, but he didn't unlock the door yet.

He waited patiently until the chauffeur had brought all his luggage to the doorstep. He nodded to him after he was ready. The man recognized the dismissal – he was a soldier at least. He didn't look into his eyes at all, avoiding his gaze as well as everybody else did.

There weren't many left who dared to stare directly into them. They feared what they might see in the dark holes. The man didn't bother with the frightened people around him though: maybe he didn't even notice them. Not because he was that sort of man whose gaze would slip on anything – just because he was apparently exhausted to death. The soldier wondered for a moment what he had done for Special Operations, but then just shrugged mentally. It was not his business, and maybe he was better off not knowing about anything the mysterious man did.

He walked back to the car and watched the man twisting the key around and around on his palm. Finally, he sighed and closed his fist. The soldier swallowed and although he knew he had no other job to do, waited for him to open the door. Only after a few seconds did he realize that maybe his presence was the reason why the man was still standing on the doorstep. He frowned and opened the car-door.

"Welcome back to England," he muttered under his breath sitting behind the wheel not paying any more attention to the man he had delivered home. The younger man at the door half turned back to him, a sad smile appearing on his otherwise emotionless face. With one fluid familiar movement, he opened the front door of his house and, grabbing one of the suitcases slipped into the hall.

Alex Rider had returned.

To be continued…