Each tape, Alex had quickly come to realize, was a different phase. They hadn't been easy to watch. And how current some had been! The last tape, tape 9, had been when he was thirteen years old. Alex shivered when he thought about it. The things they'd done. The way he'd responded. How he'd just submitted to it. And the worst part was, he had no memory of any of it ever taking place. He tried. He thought as hard as he could. He'd given himself a headache trying to remember, but it just wouldn't come.
Furious, Alex had stormed down to MI6. He'd slammed down Ian's copies of the tapes, demanding to know what had taken place, what had happened. Blunt had called Dr. Kerns and Alex had walked straight up and punched the man.
After they'd calmed him down, Kerns had agreed to explain the process. Since he was young, Kerns explained, they'd been subconsciously training him for his job. Yes, Kerns said, they'd "programmed" him, but only at the explicit permission of Ian Rider.
And that was the worst part of it, at least for Alex. Ian had given them permission. He'd let that happen, he'd encouraged that to happen. And all he'd done at home was reinforce it. It was horrible. Alex had demanded the rest of any documentation they had. To his surprise, Blunt handed it over.
There was, indeed, more documentation. Some from before Ian's death, some from after. Alex struggled to recall the times, but he couldn't. He'd watched in fascinated horror as he'd sat there complacently, letting them inject him with bright yellow serums and put headphones on him with subliminal programming messages playing looped. He'd watched the screens with programming on them. He'd been broken down from such a young age that he didn't even fight.
Alex was loathe to admit it, but he'd cried. Watching those videos, huddled on his bed, seventeen year old Alex had hugged his knees to his chest and cried. He'd shaken and sobbed and trembled with fear and let the terror overwhelm him. He'd spent the next two weeks having almost daily panic attacks as he wondered, picking up milk at the store, did he actually like milk, or did MI6 decide he liked milk because it was good for him? Of course, that was absurd, but the thought had struck him, and it had taken three store clerks and two helpful shoppers to hold him down when the panic about it hit.
He'd had fun talking that one off. "No, no, it's really nothing. I have anxiety is all. PTSD. I was in a bad car crash…"
And eventually, it had all lead to this. Him leaving his apartment building and heading down to the street to hail a cab. The taxi pulled up and he climbed in, reciting the address he'd memorized. The cab driver had looked at him in the rear mirror. "It's a bit late to be in your uniform, kid. Got a dance or something?"
"Nah, going to visit my aunt," Alex lied. "She wants pictures. It's my last year in school and all. She's got no kids, so it's a bit of a big deal."
They pulled up to the apartment building and Alex paid the driver. He looked at the door nervously and swallowed hard. He could still pull away. He could turn and walk away. He could back out if he wanted to. If it was too much, he could leave.
No. MI6 had proven that two years ago with a bunch of tapes. He started forward, and with a last tremble, opened the door. He wanted to leave, but he couldn't. He didn't have the will power.
He was broken.