A/N: Thank you for your reviews, and I hope you continue to enjoy the fic! :)

Malagosto was … strange. It took a while for Alex to get used to the climate. It was pleasant, and the buildings were all air conditioned, but training outside took a few days of adapting when you had arrived straight from the Russian winter.

The people were strange, too. Ten students including Alex himself, of which he was by far the youngest. No one seemed to hold his age against him, though. He was easily accepted as another student. It was well-known he was John Rider's son and Yassen Gregorovich's student, and people respected that. Alex's own determination to prove himself worthy of the time and effort Yassen had put into his training only added to the easy acceptance and genuine respect he got.

They treated him like an adult, Alex realised his second evening at the school. All of them did, not just the teachers. Not like a liability or an annoyance or a child, but like an adult. A little younger and smaller than most of them, but an adult in every sense of the word, with the rights and responsibilities that came with it.

If he was old enough to sign his future over to SCORPIA, he supposed it made sense he was old enough to be seen as an adult as well. It also meant no leniency and no excuses, but Alex could live with that. They expected him to keep up, and he worked hard to do just that.

Alex was also one of the several students that already had warrant for his arrest. SCORPIA treated that more like a minor bother than anything.

Yassen stayed at the compound for three days and even assisted with several classes. He was a living legend in their particular circles, and it was a little bemusing to Alex to see the other students' reactions to the man. Almost everyone at Malagosto was a skilled sharpshooter, SCORPIA would accept nothing less, but Yassen Gregorovich was in a league all of his own.

It also gave Alex an idea of the standards he had been held to those five months under Yassen's tutelage. He wasn't in Yassen's league and wouldn't be anywhere near for years to come – if ever – but he was at the top of his Malagosto class by a comfortable lead.

In retrospect, it was no wonder he'd had to work so hard to live up to Yassen's expectations. The man had clearly decided to hold Alex to his own standards and expected him to succeed or kill himself trying. Failure had not been an option. Not with SCORPIA watching and waiting in the wings.

Yassen was off again on the fourth day on some assignment or another, and for the first time in almost half a year Alex was entirely on his own. Surrounded by people, of course, but on his own.

He quite abruptly missed Yassen's constant presence and the implicit protection it offered.

An operative called Nile became his mentor while Yassen was gone. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and moved with the same grace that Yassen did. Alex wondered if it came naturally or if Malagosto had taught them. He was black but with white blotches on his skin that could have been scars of some kind, and he had several large, vivid red scars on his right arm that looked very new. Alex recognised his name from Ross' comments about the London attack. He supposed the scars came from that, but he figured it was smarter not to ask.

Nile was also surprisingly friendly and good company. Alex had been surprised at Gordon Ross – it was just a little unnerving to be around someone who felt like they could have been an old friend and know they had been ready to kill you – but Nile was one step beyond it.

He was a genuinely helpful, easy-going person who was happy to assist Alex when he was lost in the middle of the compound or had questions about something or another. He seemed to have a deep respect for John Rider and Yassen Gregorovich both, which seemed to carry over to Alex as well.

"It's a delight to finally have you here. Cossack told us about you, of course, but he insisted on keeping you in the safe-house until your basic training was complete. John Rider's son … you look so much like your father."

"You knew him?" Alex asked curiously.

Nile laughed. "Do I look that old to you, Alex? No, I have seen photos and recordings, nothing more. I trained at Malagosto some years later."

Photos. Recordings. Alex took a slow breath to calm the sudden rush of nerves. He had only ever seen a few photos. Nothing else. Ian had rarely ever even spoken of him, but these people – some of them had known his father. Trained with him. And yes, he had been a deep cover agent, but … like Yassen, they had stories of him. Stories they might even share.

Don't show weakness, Yassen had said, but – his father.

"Can I see them?" Alex asked quietly. "I never … no one ever shared a lot of things about my father with me. Ian or MI6."

"Ian Rider?" Nile continued without waiting for an answer. "I never got the impression they were very close. You should have been brought up by proper family. Not a man who left you alone more often than not. It was wonderful news when Cossack found you. It was a shame you never got to meet Mrs Rothman. She and your father were close."

Alex remembered Yassen and Ross' conversation about her. Close. Right. He didn't comment, though. He got the distinct impression that would have been a bad idea.

"I'll have someone deliver you copies of everything we have," Nile continued. "You should not have gone fourteen years without seeing a recording of your father when MI6 and Ian Rider had access to any number of them. Safe, declassified ones, too."

Alex nodded. Something in his chest clenched at the thought. His parents. "Thank you."

"You're very welcome. Mr Ross tells me you're doing exceptionally well in his class," Nile prompted. He took his job as Alex's substitute mentor serious.

Alex knew what Nile was hinting at. He could hit the adult size cut-out targets just fine, fast and accurate without fail. Yassen had accepted nothing less, and even the horror of shooting human-shaped targets with print-outs of real faces on them dulled after he had done it often enough. He had flat-out refused shoot at the child-shaped ones, and Yassen had not forced him. Ross had tried to convince him as well, with no success.

"I don't want to be a killer, but I know I won't have much choice. I refuse to hurt a child. You can't make me." The last sounded almost petulant, too much like the teenager that he was.

Nile laughed. "It's easy to forget how young you are sometimes." He fell silent and when he spoke again, his voice was a little softer and far more serious. "Most people would have a hard time killing a child, Alex, even people like us."

I'm sure you would, Alex agreed darkly. Not that it would stop them. Invisible Sword would have killed thousands of children. Sayle would have killed millions. SCORPIA didn't care as long as the payment arrived on time.

"It's not as hard as you think, to kill someone. I was eighteen the first time I took a life. Younger than most, certainly, but it was as easy as breathing. You will look back on your first job and wonder why you worried so much, you'll see."

Alex was afraid of that. It would make his life easier if it turned out to be the case, but he didn't like what it would make him. He was also in too deep to get back out alive, and he never forgot it. If he put his foot down, if he refused, if he went against orders, he had better make sure it was something worth his life, because he was not likely to survive the consequences.

"Yassen told me the same. Well, in fewer words and a bit harsher," Alex amended.

"You should listen to him," Nile agreed. "He is the best SCORPIA ever trained. Remember, you still have time. It will be months before your first assignment."

Nile probably meant that reassuringly. Alex really didn't agree.

Malagosto's teachers were unusual, too. Alex had already met Ross and been given a thorough briefing about the rest from Yassen, but it still didn't prepare him for the real life versions of them.

Alex was used to Yassen's martial arts lessons, but he quickly learned to fear Professor Yermalov. The man was incredibly skilled and obviously dangerous. He was also a brutal instructor, absolutely merciless, and with no patience at all for mistakes. He seemed to take Alex's age as a challenge, too, and held him to standards that Alex was sure Yassen met easily but which Alex himself had no hope of ever living up to.

The logic seemed to be that a child's mind was flexible and the more Alex learned now, the better he could build on it in the future. He would be grateful later.

Alex learned a lot from Professor Yermalov. At the very top of the list was 'Don't get into close combat with a Malagosto-trained operative'.

The Countess was probably the most regal, graceful person Alex had ever met. She was well into her sixties, her hair was grey and pinned into an elegant hairdo, and her clothes never had even a speck of dust on them. Her classroom – her home, really, an entire floor in an Abu Dhabi skyscraper that they visited every week or so – was all understated aristocracy.

Alex felt like a peasant.

Ian Rider had taught him the manners to handle himself in most situations, and Yassen had continued that, but they were both rank amateurs compared to this woman.

Eijit Binnag ("Please, Alex, call me Jet.") was as graceful and elegant as the Countess in her own way, even if she spent most of her time in the greenhouse.

Alex was not a big gardener, but even he could appreciate the deadly properties of her many plants, especially when there was always the risk someone might use them against Alex himself. Yassen had gone through a lot of the basic theory but it was something else entirely to have the lessons surrounded by several dozen plants all capable of killing him in more or less horrific and painful ways. Some were quick, painless killers. A number of them most definitely weren't.

Alex learned a healthy fear of a number of harmless-looking plants and a whole new respect for gardeners.

Then there was Dr Steiner.

Dr Steiner was a psychiatrist and something about him made Alex second-guess every answer he gave.

There had been a Rorschach test during Alex's second day at the school. After five months of Yassen's training, every last one of them had reminded him of death.

Herod Sayle's corpse and the shadows it had cast in the sunlight.

The MP-443 Grach that Yassen had repeatedly pulled on him without warning to test his ability to deal with an armed attacker.

General Sarov's suicide and the slowly spreading pool of blood.

A Portuguese man o' war.

An exploding helicopter.

Alex had suppressed his instinctive shudder and rattled off his answers in the same calm, clear, even way that Yassen had expected him to answer any question in. This was just another test in a long line of them. It was easy to slip into the same mindset and keep the memories a bit more at a distance in the process.

The psychologists at MI6 would have had a field day with it, Alex was sure. He wondered what Dr Steiner made of it. The man gave no indication of his thoughts but kept up the patient, interested expression he had worn every single time Alex had seen him, from the sessions in his office to a brief glimpse in the dining room.

"Do you think a lot about death, Alex?" Dr Steiner asked the second time Alex saw him for a psychological evaluation.

Did he? Alex supposed it was only natural, being around Yassen Gregorovich, and told the man as much.

"And before?" Dr Steiner asked in mild encouragement. "Ian Rider was killed in March, was he not? He was your guardian?"

Something about the way the man said it sent a flare of pain through Alex. He didn't let it show.

"Yes. And yes, he was."

"By Mr Gregorovich."

Alex swallowed. "Yes."

Dr Steiner made a note. Alex wondered if it was anything that mattered or just another way to unsettle his patients. "Your uncle – he never told you the truth about his work, did he?"

"He said he was a banker." The silence and the short sentences started to feel uncomfortable. Alex forced himself to continue. "They told me he died in a car crash. Hadn't been wearing his seatbelt, you know, dreadful business. I only found out the truth because I didn't believe them and investigated myself."

"Indeed?"

"He always used his seatbelt. Always. Maybe they didn't know, or they didn't care enough to make the cover story fit right." Or maybe it had been a way to lure him in. He wondered sometimes. At what point did it turn from reasonable suspiciousness to paranoia?

"MI6 never cared much once their agents were dead," Dr Steiner agreed. "Few agents have families. Those that do, the families rarely question what they are told by a respected authority. MI6 sees little reason to put the resources into anything but the most basic of cover stories when those resources are better used elsewhere, I suppose."

Alex shrugged, all the comment he felt like. It sounded plausible to him.

"And you, Alex?"

Alex didn't bother to hide his confusion. "Sorry?"

"They sent you on three high-risk missions. Perhaps they didn't know immediately how dangerous it would be, but they made no attempt to pull you out when the truth became clear, did they? You came close to death a number of times."

Maybe they hadn't cared. Maybe they hadn't believed him when he told them the seriousness of the situation. His money was on the former.

"I don't think they really cared. I was just another tool they could use. At the most it would be a little more inconvenient if I died, just because of my age, but I was never officially employed by them. Even if someone traced it back to them, they could claim they had nothing to do with it." He hesitated and wondered if he should continue. "If I'd died somewhere, they would probably have claimed it was complications to whatever illness they used as a cover that time. Weak immune system after my uncle's death and all that."

"There are no heroes in intelligence work," Dr Steiner agreed. "The ones that live can never speak of it. Those that don't will be given nothing but a grave, empty more often than not, and a memory built on lies. They never acknowledged the full truth of your uncle's work, did they? Not even to you. Fifteen or more years of dedicated service, and only vague platitudes to show for it."

Alex thought about his uncle, about his father – who would never be anything more than a disgraced soldier turned hired killer to the world – and wondered. Did it make a difference that they themselves knew what they had done? How many people they had saved? Did it matter if the rest of the world didn't know?

The choice had been easy in Murmansk. Terrifying but easy, because Alex hadn't had an alternative he could accept. He imagined himself bleeding out in the middle of nowhere in MI6's service instead, alone and cold and scared, with no guarantee that anything he had done would matter in the end, and he imagined Jack and Tom and the bland lie they would be given about his death.

It wasn't the sort of life he wanted. It wasn't the sort of death he wanted, either, but he had accepted that he would never die of old age. He would be lucky to see twenty. How long would he have survived with MI6? To fifteen? Sixteen?

"It was need to know. I guess I didn't need to know." He sounded bitter. He was fourteen, discussing the death of his only remaining relative. He was allowed to be bitter about it. "They liked to keep me in the dark. Maybe they just didn't trust me. They didn't send me backup at Point Blanc when I called for it. When I finally got out on my own, they sent me back in. Manipulated me into it when I flat-out refused. They sent in the SAS, too. One of them died. Maybe his family didn't know what he had done, but they knew he had died a hero. Died fighting for something. I would just have been another unfortunate casualty."

"The truth about intelligence work, unfortunately." Dr Steiner sounded understanding. "You are not the first person to have decided they had enough of it. Rogue agents are more common than most agencies would admit. It's not hard to understand why, is it?"

It wasn't. Not when Alex was one of those rogue agents himself. He imagined being a little older, with a few more experiences of backup that never arrived, sent to his potential death again and again with vague reassurances that it was perfectly safe and with next to no information to go on …

No, Alex decided. It wasn't hard to imagine why someone would have had enough.

"You are not alone here, Alex. There is no shame in wanting to live. You will never regain the childhood MI6 took from you, but you can control your own future. Here, they can take no more from you than you allow them to."

Calm, understanding, reasonable, and able to make murder sound like the most sensible thing in the world. Alex would never like Dr Steiner or his ability to get into someone's mind, but he could see why SCORPIA employed him.

Alex Rider celebrated Christmas in Dubai at a hideously expensive restaurant of the sort with a strict dress code and a menu that depended on the whim of the executive chef.

He wondered if they had done the same in Italy, gone out to celebrate the holidays, or if this was some concession due to his age. If it was, he couldn't bring himself to mind. The Countess turned the whole thing into a lesson, and conversation was light but cheerful, and when they returned to the compound, Alex found two wrapped presents in his room.

The first was from Nile and consisted of a thick folder and a USB drive. When Alex opened the folder, the very first thing inside was a photo of someone who looked a little like what Alex imagined he might look like as an adult. It was John Rider, familiar to Alex from the few photos they had kept in the house in Chelsea, and he felt his breath hitch. There were other photos as well, photos and documents and probably recordings on the USB drive, and Alex gently closed the folder again to look through in the morning.

The second present was a phone and a note in Yassen's standard handwriting with two numbers, the first of which was circled. The second had the American country calling code.

Alex hesitated for only a second before he called the circled number. The phone rang once before it was picked up.

"You're back late, Alex," Yassen said without bothering with a greeting. He sounded like he was in a good mood, though. Alex had learned to pick up on the tiny hints in his voice.

"We spent the evening in Dubai," Alex said by way of explanation. "I see Santa dropped by. I'm pretty sure that's a mistake. I like to think I've worked hard to get on the naughty-list."

"Ross delivered it for me. It's a burner phone," Yassen said from wherever he was, Alex had no clue and didn't ask. "Untraceable as long as you keep the conversation shorter than four minutes. Call your Jack Starbright on the second number and destroy the phone afterwards. I am aware you fear to bring her to our attention, but you should be well aware by now that there is little SCORPIA does not know about you. I trust you to put your lessons and common sense to good use."

Assume MI6 and SCORPIA will pick every word apart, say nothing incriminating, give no hint about his plans or location. It was probably a test, but it was also Jack.

Alex took a breath. Tried to keep his voice steady, and didn't quite succeed.

"... Thank you," he said quietly. "I didn't get you anything."

"You have done very well, Alex. That is gratitude enough for me."

Alex smiled, even if Yassen wouldn't see it. "Still, thank you. Merry Christmas."

He could almost hear the faint amusement in Yassen's voice, one of the small reminders that the man was far more patient with Alex than with anyone else. "Merry Christmas, Alex."

Yassen hung up. Alex lowered his hand and noticed distantly it was trembling.

Jack.

With the door closed, Alex's room was soundproof, and the night outside was still and quiet. Even if MI6 or the CIA or someone else recorded the whole conversation, there would be nothing to give away his location. And Yassen had given him permission. Had pretty much made it an order.

His hand was still shaking as he set his alarm for three and a half minutes – just in case – and called the number.

It was picked up on the third ring.

"This is Jack Starbright, if this is Santa, my nieces have been naughty and would like to return their presents. In fact, they want to give them all to me instead."

Someone protested loudly in the background – children, based on the sound of it.

Alex gave a startled laugh. "Hey, Jack. It's Alex."

There was a scrambling sound that he interpreted as a phone almost being dropped.

"Holy shit, Alex?"

"Yeah. Merry Christmas," he said softly, in lack of anything better. "I've only got about three minutes on this phone, then I have to run, but I wanted to let you know I'm okay and that I'm sorry for running off like that."

"You should be! Do you have any idea of how worried we were?" She made a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "Oh, Alex."

Alex winced. "I'm sorry. About the questioning and stuff, too. I heard about it."

"Yeah, they weren't too happy with you. Not much we could help with, though. Your letters were spectacularly useless." She seemed to have picked up on his avoidance of any specific terms and played along. He doubted it would make a difference but it was still a good precaution.

He laughed in spite of himself. "Hey, I worked hard on those things!"

"'Sorry, I'm off to see the world'? And the next thing we know, you're off with a contract killer and wanted for terrorist activities? Alex!"

Guilt settled heavy in his chest. "Yeah. I'm sorry. About everything." He was saying that a lot. He was pretty sure he owed them that, that and a lot more.

"Oh, Alex," she sighed, a little tired and a little resigned, and he knew he was forgiven in spite of everything. "I don't suppose you can tell me where you're at?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm doing all right, though. All healthy, no injuries or anything." Minor lie. Some bruises from close combat but that came with the territory. It wasn't anything he even noticed much anymore.

"Well, that's new," she said, a little sarcastic but mostly affectionate. "Three minutes, huh?"

"Well, more like a minute and a half now. You're back in the States?"

"They wanted me to stay in case you came back, but I couldn't." Her voice was quiet and a little hurt in a way he never wanted to hear again. "Everything was quiet and empty. It was too much. Last I heard, the Bank kept the house in case you come back. They figured it was somewhere familiar, I think, so you might seek it out. So, you know, don't."

Alex smiled. "Helping a wanted criminal now?"

"Well, someone should. If those people hadn't made you do this -" she cut herself off before she could start on the rant that was familiar to both of them.

There were a lot of what-if's in Alex's life. MI6 was involved in most of them in some way or another.

"Would you let Tom know I'm okay? This phone is only good for this one call, and I want him to know, too." If SCORPIA knew about Jack, they knew about Tom. They probably even knew the contents of his letter. It didn't make sense to stay quiet, then. He wanted Tom to know he was all right, at least, even if he couldn't call himself.

"As soon as we hang up," Jack promised. "It's a little late over there but I know he'll appreciate it. He didn't take it too well, either, but I think he understood. I explained things and … yeah. He got it."

He would, too. Tom was that sort of person. The guilt tightened in his chest, the painful knowledge that this wasn't just him throwing his life away, that there were people that cared -

"I'm sorry." He tried to put everything into those two words and hoped she understood.

"I know," she said softly. "Thank you for the call. I've been worried, but you knew that. It was good to hear you're still alive, even if that's all you can tell me. I'll keep this number if you get the chance to call me again. Merry Christmas, Alex."

"Merry Christmas, Jack," he responded just as softly.

He hung up well before before the alarm went off. Then he picked the phone apart and destroyed the individual pieces.

They were probably the strangest two Christmas presents he had ever been given, but right there and then, he couldn't think of better ones.

A/N: I haven't been able to find a decent codename for Alex, so any suggestions would be welcome. Some kind of large cat (probably Puma) is an option as deliberate mockery on SCORPIA's part of the 'Cub' name the SAS gave him, or 'Hound' as a reference to Hunter, but I don't really like either of them. So yeah, ideas are welcome!

Next: Yassen returns.