A/N: Hello! I've written this - and the next chapter woo look at me on top of things for once - so, please enjoy. You'll see mention of Troy, the mysterious American, and his character was inspired by someone in an Alex Rider book. If you have any theories, feel free to share! Hint: There's a room in a hotel in New York City.
Thank you to those who reviewed! Please continue to do so.
Edit: Thank you so much to the Guest who reviewed with the gun caliber correction. I totally don't mind at all, if anyone sees any other inaccuracies *please* let me know because I'm trying to make this as accurate as possible and google lied about what constitutes a rifle. *blames poor research even though it's actually my fault*
The next morning, Danielle woke up on the couch.
She slowly sat up and stretched, raising her arms above her head, fingers entwined. A plaid blanket slid off her shoulders into a puddle on the carpet.
Alex sprawled out on the other end, his legs kicked out onto the carpet. Bright blotches of bruised purple skin covered the area around his right eye, the skin taut and shiny. A tiny cut bled from just beneath his eye.
Nausea rolled through her stomach. In the bright light, Alex looked much worse than he had last night.
Kicking away the blanket, Danielle stood and leaned over to the coffee table, picking up the bag of frozen vegetables. It wasn't frozen anymore; a puddle of condensation covered the tabletop, and she could hear water swishing around inside the bag.
She wandered into the kitchen and pitched the bag into the trash. It couldn't be refrozen, and somehow she doubted that anyone wanted green beans for breakfast.
The time on the stove read 5:53 a.m.
She almost groaned - she never woke up this early. Usually, her alarm had to go off at least twice to wake her up, and that was around seven in the morning on any given day.
A roll of paper towels hung from the underside of one of the cabinets. She tore off a few and returned to the living room to dry up the water on the table before one of the SAS saw. She didn't want them to be angry. When people were angry, they hurt her.
Danielle finished that and, checking to see if Alex was awake (he wasn't), she climbed the stairs and gently tapped on the door to the room she and Clara shared.
No one answered.
She turned the knob as quietly as she could and pushed open the door. Clara's mattress was empty, the sheets hastily kicked back. The closet doors hung open. Clothes were strewn across the floor.
Danielle grinned. Yes, Clara had been here.
The sound of a drawer closing came from the bathroom right before the sink cut on. Danielle remembered seeing a pack of bandaids and gauze in one of the drawers last night when she was looking for a hairbrush. She should get those for Alex.
After a few minutes, Clara still hadn't left the bathroom, so Danielle walked over, rapped on the door once, and went in.
It was Tom.
He stood at the sink in black sweatpants, shirtless, water dripping down his face.
"I thought you were Clara," Danielle said, her voice squeaking.
Tom stared at her for a second. ". . .no."
"Why are you in our bathroom?"
He pointed to the closet behind him. "That's our door."
So that wasn't a closet. Great.
Danielle cleared her throat. Her thoughts felt sluggish from sleepiness, and it took her a moment to remember why she was even there.
"Bandaids! I was looking for them. For Alex." She hovered on the threshold, wanting nothing more than to slam the door and run. "He has a cut on his face."
Tom smirked. "That doesn't sound new for him -"
"And a bruise. He saw something last night - people. Down at the dock. Not ours, someone else's. He got decked in the face. Can I just get the bandages?" She rambled on, nervous, trying to forget what was happening so her face wouldn't turn bright red.
"Are they in a drawer?"
"I think so. No, not that one -"
He reached for a different drawer.
"Nope."
Finally, frustrated, Danielle marched into the bathroom, elbowed him aside, and yanked open the very top drawer on the left. Boxes of bandaids, gauze, and a first aid kit were all nestled inside. She grabbed the kit and fled.
"Clara's out back!" Tom called after her.
Oh, Lord - her face was so red.
Taking a deep breath, Danielle plunked the kit down on the table near Alex's feet.
His eyes opened just a crack, and he yawned.
"Your face is bleeding," she said.
He groaned. "Ouch."
"Here." she sat on the edge of the table, balanced precariously, and unsnapped the hinges on the case's lid.
"I can do it," Alex muttered in a cracked, dry voice.
Danielle snorted. "Please. You look like you got hit by a bus, you don't have a mirror, and I've done this loads of times so hush."
She tore open the packaging for a sterile cloth.
Alex looked unsettled. "Loads of times?"
"Yep." She knew from experiences that the chemicals on the cloth stung, but he didn't move at all, not a twitch. His pain tolerance must be incredibly high.
"Why?"
"You know why. It's not a big deal, Alex, just shut up and stop moving your face." Leftover nerves made her hands shake slightly.
". . .are you okay?"
"Me? Fine! What could be wrong?" she hoped he didn't catch the sarcasm. From the way he rolled his eyes, though, she guessed that he did.
"What cut your face?" she asked, trying to change the subject. If he was still groggy, maybe he would tell her more.
"The lady who decked me had a ring on."
"Does metal always leave marks like that?" Finished, Danielle shoved the kit away.
"Depends on how hard the hit is." He grimaced, but if she hadn't had so many years of learning how to read people, she wouldn't have been able to tell that he was in any sort of pain.
Alex gingerly felt the bruised area. "Is it bad?"
"I wasn't lying when I said you look like you got hit by a bus."
"Thanks, Danielle."
She patted his shoulder as she stood. "Gotta keep the narcissism away, Alex."
"Ha. No worries there."
Danielle heard the door to the deck slide open and bare footsteps cross the tiled kitchen. Soon Clara appeared in the door, her hair pulled up, pale blue pjs on. She held a mug of coffee with both hands.
"What happened to your face?" she asked.
"I ran into the doorframe," Alex blithely replied.
Clara gave him her patented eyebrow raise and he shrugged innocently, heaving himself to his feet.
"So, is there a coffee maker?"
"Yes," she said. "And it looks more like the doorframe ran into you."
"Semantics."
"Rider."
"Clara," Danielle jumped in. "What's there to eat?"
She shrugged, stepping aside as Alex ambled into the kitchen and tugged open the fridge. "I don't know, but I've got to shower. Cars don't drive themselves to the Academy."
"Can I get a ride?"
"Sure."
As Clara's footsteps faded off the stairs, Danielle followed Alex into the kitchen. She peered over his shoulder at the contents of the fridge, comprised of exactly one carton of milk, a loaf of store-bought bread, and. . .
"Is that cheese?"
Alex tentatively poked the object of inquiry. "It was."
". . .I don't think I'm hungry anymore."
"Well," a deep voice rang out from behind them. "Were you expecting a five-star hotel?"
Danielle nearly jumped out of her skin. She whirled around, her elbow ramming into the countertop. Cursing, she cradled it against her side.
Luke lounged up against the wall, his arms loosely folded over his chest. He had been jogging, if the track pants and sweaty shirt collar were anything to go by. Actually, no - Luke didn't seem like the kind of person who would jog. Running, maybe, but probably something more along the lines of scaling a rock wall blindfolded with molten lava pouring over the top.
Okay, maybe he was slightly intimidating.
Only slightly.
Danielle didn't look at him when she asked, "Did you come in the door? I didn't hear you."
He gave her a dismissive glance. "that was kind of the point, kid."
She stared at the floor, wondering how soon Clara would be ready. She disliked encountering four people before any decent hour of morning - her brain wasn't ready for interaction.
"I found the coffee maker," Alex said, his voice muffled from the pantry. He emerged with it in one arm and a box of instant coffee packs in the other. Ignoring Luke, he set it on the counter and plugged the cord into an outlet above the stove.
Danielle wordlessly filled the carafe with tap water and pressed the button to heat.
The sound of the heater starting easily overpowered any opportunity for conversation, not that she was complaining.
Five very awkward moments later, she had retreated to the living room with a mug of what had to be the bitterest coffee in existence. It left a disgusting taste in her mouth, but she craved the caffeine.
"Shouldn't you be saving the world or something?" she asked when Alex walked in.
"Probably," he said.
"What's your job like?"
"Intensely frustrating and filled with self-loathing."
She almost laughed - what a typical melodramatic reply - but he was . . . completely serious. From the way he stared at the TV wall and not at her, she could tell that he wasn't joking - not at all.
Instead, she frowned and said, "don't do the self-loathing gig. It isn't satisfying."
"Oh yeah?"
"Wow, you do Clara's eyebrow thing, and yeah, it really isn't." she took another sip of coffee and almost gagged, glancing at him. He smiled, faintly amused, but still looked troubled.
"And you would know this because?"
She stiffened at the verbal probe for information that she didn't want to give, because giving meant remembering everything and she was just getting a handle on locking away the shadowy recollections that woke her screaming in the middle of the night.
"Um. Tried that? Not what I was looking for?" She was confused - how did they get to this topic? "Alex, do you think you have a concussion or something?"
"No, why?"
"Just checking."
Luke entered the room en route to the basement but pulled up short, suspicion clouding his face when he saw Alex. "What did you do?"
"Nothing," Alex snapped.
"That's not true," Danielle said. "You shouldn't lie to him - I mean, you lie to me, I get that. Luke, though-"
Alex gave her a dark look, his mood rapidly darkening. She could tell from the way he sat forward, ramrod straight, hands curled into fists.
She shut up.
Luke's eyes flicked from her to Alex, calculating. "Is this relevant in any way to why we're here?"
"I don't know. That's what everyone keeps telling me." Standing, Alex stalked over to the stairs.
Danielle watched his retreating back. She wanted to say something, but words and arguments died in her throat.
"So you're running away," Luke said. "That's what you're used to."
Alex spun around, his face filled with grotesque anger. His eyes darkened to black pits that no one could escape, especially not the person who lived there.
Danielle felt her chest heave but her legs couldn't, wouldn't, work. This - she thought she could be safe there, or with Alex, but all she'd really done was trade one hell for another. The only difference was that now she was on the outside looking in at someone who was much, much further gone than her.
And she thought she had it bad.
All that ran through her mind in mere seconds as Alex advanced on Luke like an angry bull. "Shut up," he said, his voice shaking - not from tears, no, but with anger. "You know nothing about the things I did - things you can't run from."
"Really?" Luke was the picture of serenity, leaning casually against the wall, looking at Alex with the barest hint of a mocking smile playing around his lips. "Your file is a child's, Cub. Try some grown-up tasks, and then come talk to me about not knowing about war."
"I'd rather not run around shooting people," Alex said flatly.
"No. You leave them."
The sound that Alex made was inhuman.
Danielle almost cried out- she wanted to get to the door, open it, but her body was frozen in place even as her mind screamed for flight, not fight, never fight. She couldn't tear her eyes away as Alex lashed out at Luke, who blocked the blow with ease.
Tom hurried down the stairs. His eyes widened in horror. "Danielle!"
"No," she murmured. Don't look at me, look at Alex - I'm fine I'm fine I'm fine.
"Oi - Alex!" Tom yelled. "Stop!"
Danielle jumped to her feet, finally able to move, and flung herself across the few feet to the door, fingers fumbling for the lock. She flipped the deadbolt. Wrenched the door open. Ran out - and slammed into something warm and solid.
"Whoa, steady." Quinn's hands came up to grab her shoulders as he took a step back. His brow wrinkled in confusion. "What's going on?"
"Alex - Luke -" her words stumbled over each other, blurring together. She took a shaky breath. "They're - fighting!"
He swore. Darting around her, he leapt over the threshold and sprinted across the living room. He wedged himself between Luke and Alex, receiving a sharp uppercut to the ribs, but shoved hard against Luke's chest.
"What're you thinking?" he shouted at Luke. "He's nineteen! You're nearly a decade older! Are you goddamn stupid?"
Alex's shoulders heaved. Tom grabbed him by the arm, yanking hard.
"Now you won't have to go through psychotherapy," Luke said, still calm as ever. "We know what makes him tick."
"I'm going to kill you," Quinn growled. "One day. Shove a knife into your impossibly thick skull. Maybe you'd survive that." the Scottish brogue in his voice was more pronounced now.
"Snake-"
"Fox is injured, Cub has God-knows-what-form of PTSD, you're still not the same after Iraq, and we have training in six months! Are you trying to get yourself discharged? Christ!"
Danielle didn't hear Luke's reply; she was too busy trying to sneak through to the staircase.
"Danielle. Don't you dare go up those stairs."
She could hear the frown in Quinn's words even though he didn't turn around. With a sigh, she slumped down on a stair, leaning against the wall like it could hide her from their eyes.
He ranted on at Luke for a few moments, then turned on Alex, who looked stricken with guilt.
"I know the people at St. Dominic's, Alex, and you're starting psych evals next week. I don't care that you're legally an adult. All unit members have to pass an evaluation to be allowed into the field, and you sure as hell haven't had one in a while."
Alex gave him a silent nod.
"You can't just blow up at anyone who sets you off."
Another nod.
Quinn's eyes landed on Danielle and she fought the urge to cringe away. "You're part of this too, whether you want to be or not, so stop pretending otherwise. We'll try to help you."
She stared at the carpet.
"You lot need to sort yourselves out like reasonable adults, I'm not your bloody mother." Quinn sighed, throwing his hands up into the air and went into the kitchen. A drawer slammed shut.
Danielle winced.
Alex turned his head slightly, as if afraid to look at her.
She scrambled to her feet and ran up the stairs, shutting the door to her room and leaning against it.
Clara sat on the floor painting her fingernails. "What was the noise about?"
"I have no idea." That was true. "Are you ready?"
"Yeah. I think it's dry." She flicked her hand at the bottle of nail polish - dark crimson.
"Wonderful. Let's go."
"Dani?"
"Yes?"
"Put on some real clothes first."
Danielle rolled her eyes, but acquiesced.
"What do you mean, we can't leave?" Clara yelled.
Alex swore his ears burst from the sheer volume of her voice.
"Well," Ben said calmly with an effort of forced patience. His leg was propped up on the coffee table. "You can. Danielle can't."
Danielle looked like she was about to deck him in the mouth.
"Why not?" Clara asked icily.
"She's a minor, and a witness. Therefore, technically we have custody of her. Obviously her legal guardian isn't an option."
"Please, Ben," Danielle's tone was soft, pleading. "It's just to the Academy."
"Sorry, Danielle."
"You can't have group custody," Alex cut in. "I was a special case."
Tom nodded. "That makes sense. Would it be Wolf, then, because he's your leader?"
"Stands to reason," Eagle said. "I'll go with you, Danielle. That way you technically aren't out of custody."
Ben's brow furrowed. "But legality-"
"Screw legality, Fox." Eagle held up his keys. "Come on, let's go."
Danielle slipped out the front door before Ben had a chance to argue any further, Clara right behind her. Alex wished he could go with them, desperately wanting to feel the soothing familiarity of violin strings pressed beneath his fingertips. However, he knew his company probably wouldn't be welcome. Not after the. . .disagreement. . . an hour ago.
Wolf was still in the basement. Last Eagle said, he was whaling on a punching bag.
Alex regretted trying to punch Wolf - it was wrong, he knew that, but he was so angry. It was like Wolf was confirming his worst fears.
Somehow, hearing another person voice his own thoughts made them seem slightly more ridiculous.
Snake had mentioned something about Iraq. Alex would have to ask about that if the topic ever came up.
"You," Ben said, jabbing a finger in Alex's direction. "Are going out."
"Where?"
"Basic recon," Snake said. "The guy who tipped us off about the assassination is American."
"Is he credible?"
"He has been in the past. Still, I'd like to see where his team is holed up." It was Ben who spoke as he noisily flipped a page of the newspaper. "Obviously, things have changed."
"Okay."
Ben raised his eyebrows. "Really? No arguments?"
Alex didn't feel inclined to argue - it was much more exhausting than agreeing. "Nope."
"Progress. So, Snake - take Alex in your car, will you?"
"Yeah."
Ben had become the de facto leader of KUnit for the few hours that Wolf was absent and he fit into the role rather well, probably because of his shift to MI6, even with a bum leg.
"Come on, Alex," Snake said. "We can talk."
"I don't want to talk."
"That wasn't a polite request."
Fantastic.
As soon as Alex buckled his seat belt, Snake put the car in reverse and said, "Tell me what happened this morning."
"Nothing," Alex replied. "I just got angry and lost it. Won't happen again."
"But why?"
"Huh?" Alex glanced at him. What was Snake talking about?
"Why won't it happen again?"
"I won't let it."
"Uh uh. Bad answer." Snake jammed his foot onto the brake pedal as he almost ran a red light.
Alex breathed out through his nose with only the faintest pangs of irritation. "Do you have a better idea?"
"Actually, I do. Tell me about Jack."
"No!"
"Why not?"
"I don't want to talk about her."
"Why not?"
"I - I don't want to."
"Why not?"
"God!" Alex shouted. "Stop asking that! I don't want to talk to you."
"Frankly, I don't care what you want, this is about what you need."
"Oh, and I suppose you've got that all figured out too?"
"You need to believe that you're not a completely horrible person."
Alex rolled his eyes and slumped back against the seat. "You're a regular Dr. Phil."
"That's what they tell me." Snake stared straight ahead at the road. "But you wouldn't appreciate the subtle probing, would you?"
Alex thought about that for a moment. Subtlety would feel manipulative - like Snake or whoever had used conversation as means to an end.
"No, I guess not."
"Me either."
"You have to go?"
"Yeah," Snake said, nodding. "All soldiers do. Can't have someone breaking down in the middle of a battle."
"Don't want a loose cannon," Alex muttered.
"That, and no one likes drowning in a pit of utter self-loathing. Really, Cub, stop trying to punish yourself because you can't get at the ones you really hate."
Alex couldn't have felt worse if Snake had hit him in the chest with a battering ram, which incidentally was exactly how he was feeling. He wasn't ready for this - a fog descended over his mind, he didn't want to think about what Snake said and if he was right (he was, and Alex knew it), because that would be admitting that he was helpless to do anything to atone.
The truth? Alex wanted Jack's death to be his fault. He wanted to be able to do something, anything, that would atone for it. He wanted to hurt because Razim and Julius couldn't. Someone, something, needed to be punished for what happened to her.
Why shouldn't that be him?
Unsettled, he stared out at the passing buildings that gradually grew taller as they approached London.
Snake didn't say a word for the rest of the ride.
The hotel was decidedly nice.
At least, that was Alex's first impression when he and Snake stepped in through the sweeping doors. Luggage carts with brass-adorned handles crowded the lobby but there wasn't a single scuff mark on the cream-colored tiles - marble? Granite? The carpeting was a deep shade of red, and the lift shafts were clear class, allowing for the mechanisms to be visible.
*Definitely impressive,* Alex decided.
He took in all the embellishments in a single glance as he trailed slightly behind Snake to the reception counter. Staring would have looked suspicious. Most of the hotel residents were probably accustomed to such finery, and more.
He pulled down on the rim of his baseball cap - it was Eagle's, Alex borrowed it to hide the bruise on his face.
"Name?" the receptionist asked.
"Quinn Cariston," Snake said without missing a beat.
Alex was surprised that he'd used his real name. He tried to look bored, pulling his phone out and pretending to scroll through an app.
"Quinn and Alex?"
"Yes."
"Fourth floor, room three."
Quinn smiled and took the card and receipt from her. "Thank you."
"If you need anything, let us know."
"We will. Come on, Alex."
Alex vaguely glanced in the receptionist's direction - short, blonde, glasses -, filing her appearance away in his memory, and waited a few seconds before sliding his phone back into his pocket and wandering after Snake towards the lifts.
"You do 'bored teenager' very well," Snake said as the doors dinged open.
"It's an image I've carefully cultivated -" Alex began.
Snake elbowed him. "Shut up."
"So," Alex leaned back against the glass as the lift began to rise. "Are we here for long?"
"Just long enough to get into their room. Fox doesn't trust Troy."
"Troy?" The name sounded familiar, but Alex couldn't place it.
"Yeah, the American bloke."
"Why is he here?"
"He did some work with MI6 a few years back in Belarus. I guess they've kept in touch."
They stepped out, one after the other, Snake in the lead. All the doors were painted white with metal plates for room numbers. Theirs was two doors down from the elevator, a convenience.
"We don't have any luggage," Alex muttered.
Snake slid the keycard into its slot. "Doesn't matter."
The room was also nice - plush carpeting, a large window at one end, two beds, an en suite. Alex didn't notice anything else, he was too busy watching Snake press a button on his watch that made the entire face glow with a faint violet color and emit small beeping noises.
It was a bug detector.
Alex wondered where Snake had gotten that - had be been to see Smithers at MI6? The SAS didn't seem the type to have gadgets of any sort, that wasn't their division.
"We're good. Do me a favor and open that door." Snake gestured to a bolted door in the left wall. "It's the adjoining room."
Alex slid the bolt back and pulled it open. The room was an exact mirror of theirs but a better strategic choice - it was the last on the hall with windows on both sides, and high enough above the surrounding buildings that surveillance would be easy. The added height also had the advantage of safety - no sniper or recon team could get a clear image from forty feet below, especially with the glare from the glass windows.
Cobweb filaments hung across the doorway, catching on his shoe when he stepped in. There were three black suitcases sitting on one of the beds, take out containers spilled out of the trash, and a pile of rumpled towels by the door.
"who's in here?" Alex asked. "Troy?"
"Yep." Snake's voice was muffled. Alex peered back into their room and saw the medic stretched out on the floor, his head and shoulders under the bed closest to the door.
"What are you doing?"
"They said. . ." The rest of his sentence faded fades into the carpet when Snake pushed himself back and got to his feet, clutching a plastic bag of small black plastic in his hands.
"Mics?" Alex held out his hand for the bag and examined the little plastic devices. They looked like flat, circular batteries the size of a pencil eraser.
"Go in and place those, will you?"
Alex did. In the bag there was a small kit of files, brushes, and paint; he used a file to scrape away the plaster on the wall near the headboard and quickly painted over it. Luckily the wall was textured - no need to smooth out the brush marks.
He had no idea of the range these bugs needed to work, so he settled for gluing one inside the lid of the coffee machine and another beneath the sink in the bathroom. Usually the way a person's living space was structured said a lot about their personality, but the room was a blank mask. Troy - whoever that was - was obviously too busy to eat regularly, hence the large amount of take out, but he did spend some time in the room.
Enough towels were there for . . . two, maybe three days.
Alex slipped a bug behind a lengthwise mirror fastened to the wall outside the closet and decided to take another look around the room.
He didn't dare touch the suitcases; chances were, Troy had memorized their exact position on the bed before he left.
Instead he looked through the trash again (there was an unhealthy amount of Chinese food), checked the dresser drawers (nothing aside from clothing), and dropped onto his stomach to look under the bed.
Jackpot.
Alex stretched his arms out as far as he could beneath the bed frame. His fingertips grazed the side of a hard plastic case, but there wasn't anything to grasp for leverage. Leaning forwards, he smacked his forehead against the bed. Ouch.
Finally, he managed to get his fingers around what felt like a corner and tugged. The case was larger than he thought, and heavy.
He rocked back on his heels.
The case was dark grey with red buckles on one side and hinges on the other. He knew what it was before he flipped the latches; the rifle lay in pieces inside, nestled against heavy foam padding. The case's weight was from the lid, which felt unusually heavy, and the lead panel encased inside to hide the contents from any x-ray scanners, like at the airport.
Suddenly, the doorknob jiggled.
Alex cursed himself - years out of the field had dulled his instincts and reactions; he shouldn't be moving so slowly. Adrenaline began coursing through his body and he had to force his hands not to shake as he fumbled to pull the lid back. What was happening? He never experienced tremors, not when holding a gun, not when hanging from the top of a flagpole. Why now?
There was no time to answer that as the doorknob twisted again and opened.
Right before the man entered the room, Alex dove under the bed, pushing the case before him. Fire shot up his back - the bed frame's edges scraped his skin, even through his shirt. He ground his teeth together and hoped against hope that Snake remembered to close the adjoining door.
"Is anyone in here?" A sharp American accent demanded.
"No," someone else - a woman - replied, her voice carrying a gentle melody. "You're paranoid. Now can we go before the client changes her mind?"
Footsteps stomped across the floor. "The optics are gone - someone's been here."
An exasperated sigh followed. "Probably housekeeping! Come off it, and move your bloody arse before I leave you to rot!"
The American snorted. "You wouldn't have the guts to see her alone."
"Yet more balls than you."
Their bickering didn't cease as they left again and the door clicked shut behind them. Alex gave it a count of twenty before easing himself out from underneath the bed.
The cobwebs tangled on his shoe - they weren't spiderwebs, they were tiny optic fibers, alarms. He should've noticed. A hotel this nice wouldn't leave dirt in its rooms.
Alex tapped twice on the door to the next room. "Snake?"
"Gave me a heart attack," Snake's scottish brogue replied, and the deadbolt twisted open.
Alex shouldered the door open and darted through, shutting it as quietly as he could. "Massive rifle under the bed."
Snake shrugged, looking faintly puzzled as he brushed a few clingy pieces of carpet fuzz off his shirt. "He is a sniper."
"But does he need a -" Alex shut his eyes, recalling the image of the pieces. " .50 BMG?"
"Probably not. Those are outlawed for civilians, and we don't exactly deploy MI5 to the streets."
"You're not concerned."
"I am - I just expected this. The guy's a wackjob, Alex, you'd understand if you met him. But his info checks out."
"Maybe he's on to something," Alex suggested.
Snake rubbed his forehead. "Apparently. Did you get a good look around?"
"Nothing besides the gun. Risk the mics?"
"Yeah," Snake gestured to his watch. "It turns them off and on, like for a sweep."
Alex raised his eyebrows. "Where did you get that?"
"I don't know, it's Ben's. He was supposed to be here."
"You're not horrible."
"I'll take that as a compliment." Snake took one last glance around the room before heading over to the door, ever the image of a relaxed university student.
Alex did too. Part of him was tempted to stay, but he decided he'd rather not hear Troy and his companion argue every hour of the day and night.
A burning curiosity gnawed at his mind - Troy, the name was familiar. He knew he should remember it, but from what?
REVIEW REPLIES:
Nrynmrth: As a teenager I feel particularly inspired to write angst, as it is approximately 80% of my emotional existence lol
Torchwood Cardiff: I did consider that, but sadly there won't be any kids in the safe house this time. Maybe in a sequel :)