Chapter 9: Alex Runs Away, Again

By: wolfern

Left alone again, Alex decided he had no one left to thank for his predicament except himself. So, he did. "Thanks," he said. Took a breath. "You're welcome." He felt slightly better. Maybe this was what they meant when people said they went traveling and found themselves. It only took… well, it had taken a lot to get to this point. Somehow, he didn't think the general population went around arranging their own assassinations, even if such options were available. But that wasn't the point.

Speaking of points, he needed something pointy to lockpick his way out. Once again, he reviewed the room: four walls, a door, some shelving that looked like they had been designed specifically to avoid damage from unruly teenagers locked in cupboards. He felt a moment of sympathy for Harry Potter. Alas, he was at his wit's end which was, while definitely pointed and not at all like Blunt's, only figurative.

"Walls, walls, walls." There was not much one could do with unadorned walls. He tried pushing against them, but nothing happened. They didn't even close in on him. At least then that would have been interesting. Then he tried to tap a secret code, which resulted in nothing but sore knuckles. So he knuckled down to thinking some more. Staring at his surroundings, he feared he was becoming wall-eyed. "You're my wonderwall…" he muttered. What was a wonderwall; was it a wall of wonders, or a wall that blocked wonders, like a dam? "Damn," he said. That was pretty deep.

There was a knock at the door. "Who's there?" Alex cried. Had they been listening? He knew they'd injected him with nanos at the same time as their vaccinations with Invisible Sword. Was there a way to reprogram nanos once they were in the bloodstream?

"It's Ross."

Alex frowned. Walker would have been more ideal. "Ross, who?"

"Ross Gordon. I mean, Gordon Ross."

"What do you want?"

"Booze. No, wait, I mean –"

"Boo. Boo to you and your nanos!" Alex crossed his arms. He did not pout.

"What?"

"What?"

"What – no, I mean, I've brought you booze."

"Well, I don't want you to boo me. Go away." Even if he didn't want to be locked in a cupboard, he didn't want the company while he was trying to contemplate his existence.

"Booze," repeated the voice, a note of exasperation slipping in. "Alcohol."

Alex's head hurt. "What for?"

"For you."

"I'm not a What, I'm a Who."

"What?"

"No, who."

"Me. You. Booze."

"… Why?"

There was a pause. "I was thinking about what you were saying, earlier."

"That I'm not your son?"

"No! No, I was thinking about what you said. About killing yourself. And how I said my drinking was socially accepted. And I thought, well, I believe that everyone has the right to die. And that's why I work for SCORPIA –"

"To kill people who don't want to die?"

"Err… To fulfill everybody's right to die."

"That's, uh, kind of you."

"…Yeah. Listen, kid, if I open the door to give you the booze, will you promise not to run away?"

"Will you open the door if I say no?"

"Probably not."

Did Alex want booze? Not really. What he wanted was some caffeine. He wasn't used to functioning with a normal heart rate. He needed at least six energy drinks a day to function, dammit! Did he want to hurt Ross's feelings by refusing his kind gesture? Yes. But also, something was better than nothing, and at the moment Alex was in an empty room. Empty except for himself. He wondered what that meant for him – did that mean, he was empty inside, and that's why he thought the room was empty? Maybe the booze would help his thoughts schmooze. Maybe it would poison the nanos in his blood. "Fine."

Walker may have been slow, mentally – but Ross was a sprinter, physically. In the blink of an eye, or rather two eyes (Alex's), the door had opened and closed, and the booze deposited unceremoniously before him. If Alex was a can of beer, he would've appreciated some more ceremony. As it was, Alex was unable to escape. But now he was two cans of alcohol stronger. Or weaker. He stomped in frustration. "Ugh!"

"Sorry, kid."

Alex felt his cheeks heat up. "I thought you'd left."

"Nah. But I'm going now."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"…You gone now?"

"Not yet."

"Now?"

There was no answer. Alex felt the weight of a non-existent gaze from the bare walls.

Even if he didn't want to admit it, the stomping had helped Alex's feelings. He stomped again. Maybe if he kept stomping, he'd eventually not care that he was stuck.

Or not. He stomped again, hoping that at least the floors were thin and he was causing someone below a headache. Caught up in his podic bacchanalia, he didn't notice the trajectory of his foot until it encountered resistance in the form of the can of beer. Resistance was futile. The can crumpled and split, spraying a foam of beer all over his shoes and socks.

Alex would have been unhappy, except that he'd already been unhappy, and now – as people often found with alcohol – he'd had an idea. Carefully, he pried the can apart like ripping a piece of paper, but more metallic and stickier with beer. He felt a moment of regret for the spilled beer, but it was no use crying over it. He tore the bottom of his shirt, which was like tearing paper, but more clothy. All in all, his yield was several shreds of aluminum, and a strip of shirt fabric, which he wrapped around each end of the metal strips. The thinnest strip of metal, he carefully rolled and then inserted into the door lock. It took a couple of tries, and some bending of his makeshift lock pick, but eventually he picked the lock. It picked gratefully.

As he exited the room, he looked right, left, then right again, and then tiptoed quickly down the corridor. It looked a bit like how gymnasts sprint with their toes first, but far less graceful. Several turns later, he reached the rear of the school. Luckily, the car park was just outside. He didn't want to continue his tip-toe-sprint for too long, and not in public. It was tiring, and what was more, he felt quite ridiculous doing it.

It didn't take long for him to break into a car. He did so by kicking the front until the bonnet popped open. His eyes went straight to the car battery. His hands and the beer can strips, also went to the car batteries. "I'll na-No you no longer," he muttered, as he touched each pointy-bit of the battery with a metal strip in each hand.

If he'd had any nanos in his blood, they were probably fried. Unfortunately, it felt as if everything else in his body had also been fried in the process.

With a vague sense of regret, Alex passed out.

"Maybe I should call you Bernie… Then it could be like Weekend at Bernie's, but I guess it's not a weekend either…."

Alex awoke.

Beside him, Tom was muttering. "Like how even did that movie work? Come to think of it, how even did this whole thing work?"

"Plot progression," said Alex's mouth. It's too bright, said Alex's eyes, which squinted.

"What?"

Alex's brain caught up. "Where are we? What happened?"

Tom looked down at him, from beneath the shade of the large umbrella that overshadowed both of them with competence. With sardonic slowness, he lifted his sunglasses to improve the effectiveness of his condescending gaze. The gaze fell on Alex much like a condescending, which is to say, Tom's gaze seemed to land like a cat's disdainful grace upon Alex, the ground. It was very effective. Alex had seen Tom practice it often using mirrors he placed on the floor for such occasions. "We're in Italy," the dark-haired teen eventually said. "It's the summer hols. I found you in the carpark." As if that explained everything, which he supposed it did.

"Where's Jerry?" asked Alex.

"He's off being catfished."

"That rat!"

"No, mouse."

"Aren't I good enough for you?" James Hale's voice came from behind Alex. It wiggled around Alex's prone form to enter his ears. Alex turned his head to look at his friend.

"Nah, bro, you're good," said Tom.

"Thank you, brother," said James, slapping him on the back. "Well, my job's done, so I'm going to take my leave." He stood up and left to the right.

"I need a coffee," said Alex, but his body disobeyed his wishes and refused to move.

Tom brightened. For a moment Alex was concerned his friend had become radioactive, and then he realized it was just because Tom was smiling, and his teeth were very white. "You're in luck," said Tom. "We're in the land of espresso!"

"I didn't know Luck was a city in Italy…"

It being summer and Italy, many people were milling about. That is not to say that people were grinding anything (although, some people were grinding, which is to say they were using the app Grindr) but rather the city – Montpelier, it turned out, not Luck – was quite crowded. Not quietly crowded. Thus, as Alex and Tom perambulated with their coffees, they were carried along by the Brownian motion of the crowds.

One of the lesser-known facts of Physics is that Brownian motion is not truly random. There is one force stronger than even the Strong Force (which has nothing to do with Brownian motion, but it just shows how strong this other force is). Some people are more sensitive to this Stronger Force, and Alex, being a particularly sensitive soul, had felt it all his life. This force is called Luck. Which is neither good, nor bad, but just Is.

Under the influence of Luck, Alex and Tom found themselves carried into proximity of a television camera crew which, as it happened, was filming a live program about tourists in Italy. Now, they were not center stage. But Alex, who should have been a physicist with how well he understood his luck, understood that someone in SCORPIA would see them live and alive. And he became very nervous.

(In fact, it was Doctor Three who saw the program because doctors always have a television in their waiting rooms. It's a rule.)

"Tom, we have to leave urgently," urged Alex, urgently.

"Okay," said Tom. He was used to Alex's urges.

"Fetch James."

"Okay," said Tom again. In the blink of an eye (four, rather: Alex's and Tom's) James Hale had joined them again.

"We're leaving urgently," said Tom.

"We're going to Berlin," said Alex.

"Okay," said James, a testament to his friendship.

And then James became Jameses, which is to say that in Berlin there were now two: Hale and Sprintz. This took some time: first, they had to find disguises to create fake IDs to buy tickets for a train and several other avenues of transport as red herrings, and then they had to board the train, change their disguises, and perform this ritual three or more times.

It was truly a relief when they finally arrived in Berlin, walked some distance to an abandoned alleyway, and met James Sprintz, who provided them with new luggage and a car complete with a driver, who drove them some way out of the city.

"I'm glad you're here," he said, unlocking the staff entrance to his mansion.

"Did you miss me?" said Alex, touched.

"Not really," said James (Sprintz). "Social media exists, you know. I talk to you every day. No, I'm glad you've come to keep my house company. Giant houses get lonely, you know. That's why they get ghosts. I'd rather have live people than ghosts in my house."

"I would too," Tom admitted.

"I wouldn't," said Alex. "Ghosts don't go and die in a plane crash. Or fake-car-crash."

"There, there," James patted Alex on the shoulder.

"Hear, hear," said James (Hale).

"So what are we doing in Berlin, then?" said Tom.

Alex stretched his arms. "Well I don't know about you, but right about now, I think a bath seems good."

"Great," said James Sprintz. "I've got twenty. Well, my dad does. But I can show you them all, and you can choose, and then we can go hang out."

Tom and James (Hale) seemed to have boundless energy, but Alex rubbed his face. "Get me some caffeine with that bath and we'll see how I feel then."

Of course, while the friends made tracks, they were also making – well, leaving – tracks. And Yassen had a track record, which is to say, he recorded the tracks they made and tracked them down. Being so notorious these days, it was easier for him to skip the whole air-security debacle, and instead, he sailed his private yacht to a secluded spot along the coast of Poland. From there, he borrowed a car and crossed to the border into Germany. Unfortunately, like Alex, he was sensitive (to luck, among other things) and luck had decreed that he had been followed by the DGSE, or the French Intelligence (they preferred a name that didn't set them standards).

Yassen caught Alex in a coffee-shop-by-day-bar-by-night, in the middle of a double-shot-espresso with extra Redbull – a habit he had taken to each morning as James, James, and Tom slept off the night before. Alex didn't have time to sleep it off – he had to focus on what he was going to do next with the mess that was his life. Shuffling off the mortal coil hadn't worked, so now the strategy he was developing was to throw himself into the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that he was now so familiar with.

"Perhaps you should take it easy."

Alex looked towards the assassin, trying to move slowly and not twitch. "Perhaps you should leave me alone."

The assassin picked up the empty can of Redbull and moved it to the side. "This sort of thing is not good for you."

"Redbull gives you wings, don't you know? Maybe if I could fly, I could avoid annoying bastards like you."

Yassen didn't have to sign to show how he felt. "If you continue like this, you will get your wings because you will be dead."

"Aw," sneered Alex. "You think I'll be an angel?"

"Sasha."

"Yashka. Where are your dogs?"

The Russian's nostrils flared. "I thought you would appreciate no entourage. And it is less conspicuous –"

"Ha! Less conspicuous than –"

There was a great big bang.

By instinct and lightning reflex, Alex and Yassen found themselves holed up behind the bar of the hole-in-the-wall bar that hadn't been a hole in the wall until Yassen and the DGSE had come along. While Yassen was pretty much always armed to the teeth, literally (Alex wouldn't have been shocked if he'd had an exploding fake tooth for special emergencies), Alex had taken to the lifestyle of Berlin, and, well, there wasn't much one could hide on their body when they weren't wearing much. He had only a Walther PPK which held six rounds. He had about twenty-four bullets.

Luckily, there was a bar fridge next to Alex, filled with cans of Redbull. Well, projectile weapons were always useful, and he hated to see energy go to waste… As Yassen exchanged shots with the DGSE, Alex also found himself exchanging shots – that is to say, he was taking shots (of energy drinks) and taking shots (with the gun).

"Why are you so troublesome," grumbled Yassen (though he would deny he ever grumbled, and grumble complaints that anyone would think that he did).

Alex rolled his eyes, sensing a Lecture, and then winced because his eye-roll had skewed his aim so that he shot the roof above them. "Stop giving me shit," he moaned.

"Me giving you shit," said Yassen, "You are giving me shit! You are a shit stain in my life!"

"Um," said Alex. "Ew?"

Yassen silently radiated regret. Alex forgave him. English wasn't his first language, after all.

"Don't worry," said Alex. "I understood."

Yassen was silent (although his gun was not). "Shit is important," he said eventually, as though to keep the conversation flowing.

"For fertilizer, if nothing else," agreed Alex.

"Fertilizer makes good bombs."

They continued shooting in amicable loudness.

"You are losing your touch," said Yassen, apropos of nothing. "You were easy to follow."

"You know, I evaded all of you for like two months," Alex said. "Maybe you're losing your touch."

"I am not."

"Maybe that's why your heart is so numb."

"Hearts don't have sensory nerve endings."

"You don't know that – you don't even have a heart."

"You don't know where hearts are, judging by your aim," said Yassen. "You should stop drinking."

"I'm not drinking," said Alex. "I'm shooting." And he took a shot (from the gun) before taking another shot (from the fridge). "Anyway, I'm hitting what I want to hit."

"That's not the point."

"You're right, the point is Me," said Alex, pointedly. "What're you going to do with me?"

"When?"

"Now. Or tomorrow. Or when I run out of shots." Alex's heart was pounding, and it wasn't from the adrenaline of the shootout, or the caffeine from the energy drinks. Or maybe it was a combination of both, plus… He didn't want to admit –

"Now, I am going to ignore you and finish this fight. Tomorrow, I don't know."

His heart was beating strongly. His head spun, as his lips and fingers numbed. He looked to the side at Yassen and then watched as his vision went sideways. No, that was just his body.

Yassen's eyes briefly flickered to Alex laying on the floor, and then back to the scattered DGSE.

"You'd better finish up quickly," mumbled Alex.

Yassen emptied the magazine, and then calmly placed his gun on the floor. From somewhere obscured from Alex's darkening vision, he extracted the components of an RPG-7.

As his vision faded against an orange glow, and he felt the ground shudder, Alex hoped this time it would turn out to all be a dream.

But it was not, and he just knew they were going to try weaning him off the drinks.