Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews! This chapter...well, I won't ruin it now ;)
Disclaimer – I do not, have not, and will not ever own Alex Rider
Warnings – This is a SEQUEL! (well, more like five-quel...) So PLEASE read the preceding stories – I don't think this'll do well as a stand-alone. You have been warned...
Summary – Unbeknownst to them, all their past adventures had been leading to this point. Because it wasn't fate that brought them together. It was something else. A secret so big, that people would do anything to make sure it stayed just that. Secret. And so came the big question; how far would you go in the name of love? SEQUEL to "Not Every Story Ends Happily Ever After"
Chapter 6 – Forgotten
Ziva sat and stared at Desiree, who currently appeared as if she was asleep. Which was a very good thing, as she was sure the amount of staring she was currently doing bordered on social inappropriateness. But she just couldn't help it.
When a knock sounded at her door, she was up so fast she thought she might've sprained something. Flinging the door open, she saw the very worried Gibbs who'd driven over as fast as he could.
"Where is she?" he asked.
Wordlessly, she pointed over to the couch. Gibbs nodded, before dragging Ziva out into the corridor and lowering his voice.
"You haven't told them, have you?"
"I have restrained myself," she responded coolly.
"And will you?"
"What do you think?"
He gave her a long, searching look before nodding and letting her go. Silently he went inside, giving Ziva a few moments to compose herself. Finally, she too re-entered her apartment, locking the door behind her, before standing awkwardly off to one side, unsure of what to do.
Noticing this, Gibbs gave her a tired smile. "Coffee?"
"Oh yeah, sure," said Ziva, grateful. She went into her kitchen, leaving Gibbs alone with Dessi as she bustled around. Probably under the impression that she could no longer hear them, Gibbs began speaking.
"You can wake up now – I know you're not asleep."
Ziva started as Dessi's soft voice drifted through her apartment. "I wish I were."
Gibbs hummed softly. "There are times when dreams better reality."
The kettle was quickly filled and set to boil.
"Who are you?" asked Dessi. Ziva had to wince at how different she sounded; so unsure, so frightened.
"Leroy Jethro Gibbs," replied her boss, ever so confident, "and you?"
"I – I'm not sure. That's why I came here ..."
"Do you know where you are?"
"No," whispered Dessi, "but I know she can help."
"Ziva?"
There was a pause, where Desiree had probably shrugged her shoulders, if Gibbs' sigh was anything to go by.
"Do you remember anything?" said Gibbs, slightly exasperated.
"You're not the first to ask me that."
"I'm not?"
"No."
Ziva moved slightly to the side so that she was now able to see the two lone figures on her couch through a crack in her door.
"The people in the hospital always asked me. Every day. As if I'd suddenly remember," said Dessi, her voice defeated.
"The brain is rather remarkable," said Gibbs, leaning back into the couch. "I suppose yours wouldn't want to remember the murder."
"Murder?"
Gibbs tilted his head, expression grim. "You killed someone, Desiree. That's why they put you in an asylum."
"K – killed? Me?"
"I've worked in this field for a long time, and I must say I've yet to understand your motive. Did you think he ruined your life? Was it because of some argument?"
Ziva almost felt bad as she watched the trembles running along Dessi's shoulders.
"But ... I don't remember killing," whispered Dessi.
"You don't remember your own name," said Gibbs gently.
The silence followed was so loud it hurt Ziva's ears. Unable to take it any longer, she quickly finished making the coffee, before bringing out three steaming cups. The coffee was extra strong, much stronger than she normally had it – but she had a feeling she'd need the boost.
"Thanks," said Gibbs, taking a sip of his. Though he tried to hide it, Ziva easily caught the look of disgust that came over his face at the less-than-perfect nature of the coffee as he put it down. "I take it you were listening?"
"Of course."
"Do you have any of the old newspapers still?"
He didn't need to specify; they both knew which newspapers he was referring to. Nodding, Ziva got out of her seat once more, paying a visit to her closet where she kept the stack of newspapers, yellowed with age and full of holes from the various critters lurking about.
"Here," she said, dumping the pile onto the coffee table and causing an eruption of dust.
Gibbs nodded his thanks before taking the top newspaper and passing it to Dessi as proof. It was an edition from fourteen years ago. It was the first time anyone in America had heard the news; within twelve hours of its release it had made headlines, splashed across the front page of almost every major newspaper, becoming the most talked about piece of news that night.
Young Love Comes To A Tragic End – Australian Girl Turned Murderer, Body Yet To Be Found
Murderer to Stand for Trial – Claims Of Mental Instability
When the newspapers had learnt about the orphaned child, they'd been thrown into an even greater frenzy of gossip and rumours.
Child of Murderer to Grow Up In Orphanage
Killer Mother, Dead Father – an Orphan's Miraculous Escape from His Mother's Murderous Wrath
There had been some controversy too.
Murderer Innocent?
Claims of "Lack of Convicting Evidence" by Civilians and Detectives
Ziva quite clearly remembered the claims that the young couple had been done wrong, that they'd clearly seen the supposed murder leave the house that morning and not return. Several detectives had also claimed their case to be declared closed well before they'd exhausted all their options. But the media had only this to say:
Cold Case, or Attention Seeking Gossip?
The final newspaper, one which was much more worn than the others, having been passed around their NCIS bullpen several times the morning it came out, read:
Murderer Receives Life Behind Bars, To Be Served In Mental Asylum After Proven Mental Instability and Memory Lapse By Respected Doctor
"You do not remember any of this?" Ziva asked.
Dessi just shook her head, shaking as she took in the sight of her supposed crimes laid out in front of her in black and white.
"I – I don't ..." Dessi gently traced the word "orphan" with a finger.
Correctly interpreting her hesitance, Gibbs said softly, "You had a son."
"His name is Gregory," added Ziva.
"Is he still alive?"
"As far as we know," Gibbs nodded gravely. He paused, before adding in an almost hopeful tone, "You really don't remember?"
"Not a thing."
"Yet they say love surpasses all ..." Gibbs trailed off.
"I think we are missing something," said Ziva grimly.
An idea suddenly came to her, no doubt borne on the back of one of the many articles she'd read about memory-loss, though she wasn't sure how good an idea it was. Gibbs however, seemed to know exactly what her idea was after a single glance, for he gave a nod of approval. Then again, he did teach them all the art of communicating with their eyes.
Getting out of her seat, Ziva bounded to her bedroom with renewed energy, her heart increasing speed as a surge of hope rushed through her veins. She returned with a single photo album, and began feverishly flipping through the pages as she squeezed herself between Gibbs and Dessi.
"Here!" Ziva said, all but throwing the album into a startled Dessi's lap. "Please, look at it!"
Blank blue eyes tossed her a confused look, but nonetheless Desiree complied. Ziva held her breath as Dessi scanned the photo in front of her – one of Gregory only a few hours after he'd been born – without any sign of recognition. Quickly, Ziva turned the page, which showed their entire alliance – AIS, MI6, Mosaad, and NCIS. Still nothing. So she turned the page again, and again. And again. Until suddenly –
"Alex?"
And those crystal blue eyes filled with an understanding and knowledge that had been lost from their depths for almost a decade and a half.
.
It was the dead of night. Nothing seemed to penetrate the darkness, not the moon, not the stars, and most definitely not the feeble lights used by the guards around the island. A thick fog had arisen, surrounding the complex, putting the sentries on edge as they jumped at each shadow, froze at each whisper of the wind.
They knew that night would not end well for them.
They had read the omens right.
The second round of guards left their stations in the dungeons, ready to rest for the night. As usual, they'd left half an hour too early, not bothering to wait for the third round of guards to arrive; they'd grown complacent over the years, convinced that the single prisoner on the island could not pass them.
The security officer in the surveillance room had long since fallen asleep. On the flickering screen in front of his dozing head, the lone prisoner slowly opened his eyes.
Within their dark brown depths flooded a determination that hadn't been there for a decade and a half. Alex Rider would escape that night, even if it killed him.
Twenty nine minutes...
Slowly, mindful of the fact that he was too weak, that it'd been too long since his body had endured anything more strenuous than breathing, Alex ever so carefully unfolded himself from the prison floor and stood. His hand shot out to steady himself as he swayed, he's eyes shut against the sudden bout of dizziness.
Gritting his teeth, he took one tentative step forward.
And another.
And another.
And soon, he'd reached the metal bars of the prison door. It was locked, of course. But the guards had been lax; no one had even bothered to trigger the alarm anymore, so sure that the prisoner wouldn't even have the strength to think about escaping.
From within the folds of his ... well, rags, Alex drew out a long, thin piece of metal. He had pulled it out from under his own skin several months ago, after some of the guards had decided to 'have some fun'. It seemed rather ironic that they would supply him with the one thing he needed to break out.
With skeletal hands that had miraculously lost none of their skill, he carefully moulded the piece of metal, before reaching around and inserting it into the lock. He'd never been any good at picking locks; it had been something his friends had once teased him for, all those years ago. That was until Rose had helped him out in return for his helping her to actually aim a gun.
A ghost of a smile spread over his lips as he heard the soft 'click' of the lock. He only needed to give the door a gentle push before the entire thing slide sideways, and he was free.
Adrenalin, the likes of which he hadn't felt for years, flooded his body, racing through his veins, setting his limbs on fire.
He felt alive.
Twenty-three minutes.
Alex crept through the deserted dungeons, before reaching a flight of stairs. Hoping that that was the way out, he forced his body up those stairs, the adrenalin masking any drain in energy he would've otherwise felt.
There was a door at the top. After pressing his ear to it and listening carefully to make sure there was no one on the other side, he threw the door open and stepped out.
Seventeen minutes.
And suddenly, fresh salty air hit his face, almost throwing him off track. Blood rushed wildly in his ears. He'd done it. He was almost free. The only thing that stood between him and that freedom was the wild expanse of water, dark and churning and ready to swallow anything that dared cross its depths.
But he'd worry about that in a while. For now, he stood panting, head raised towards the dark skies. The night wind blew through his hair, caressing his face, swirling around his body as he savoured that moment.
Eleven minutes.
There was a newspaper clipping in his hand, slightly crumpled. He'd held onto it through the entire escape. But now, faced with his next task, he would have to let it go.
Carefully, Alex smoothed out the uneven clipping he'd ripped from the newspaper thrown ever-so-casually into his cell, gazing into the blank face and those crystal blue eyes for what felt like an eternity.
Soon, hopefully, they would all be reunited.
Eight minutes.
The newspaper article fluttered gently to the ground.
It was now or never. Alex took in a deep breath. Surely whatever was ahead couldn't be worse than what he was leaving behind. But the water looked so deadly...
Six minutes.
And Alex jumped. Straight off the cliff he'd been standing on, plummeting down, down, down until he dropped into the churning waves below.
With powerful kicks that belied his starved, skeletal frame, he began the long swim away from the island. He had no clue which direction he was headed in. The only destination in mind was 'away...away...away...'
By the time the third round of guards arrived for their shift, Alex was long gone. The alarm sounded six minutes too late. Even as bright fog lights flooded the island, the guards all knew that their search would be in vain.
For they had forgotten.
They had forgotten that the beaten and starved prisoner on their island had once been the world's greatest and most feared spies, rivalling only perhaps the deadly assassins trained by Scorpia and the Mossad.
That night, they would pay the price for their lapse.
.
Go Alex, go Alex! Woot you escaped!
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