I really need to stop getting my heart broken over literature. Reading it. Writing it. Books are, to me, like that one ex who keeps on hurting you, but you just can't leave them because you love them so damn much.
Chapter 4: These Bloody Spies
LOCATION: LONDON, ENGLAND
"Well hello there, Hunter," The boy says as he saunters into the room with Tulip and I. His clothing is dirty, and he smells like smoke. He walks with an unnatural cat-like grace that reflects the walk of every top assassin, including myself, whom I've ever met, and sits down next to me noiselessly. He has long, shaggy fair hair, which reminds me of Helen's, covering his medium brown eyes. He's tall, and looks a hell of a lot like Ian, "So, Scorpia, huh Dad? Me too," he says with a smirk.
It takes me a second too long to process this; I guess I'm really out of practice. Dad? Wait. "Alex?" I ask. Could this really be my son? He looks so different from the last time I saw him. Admittedly, that was 16 years ago, and he was only 3 months old then, but still.
"Yes, Hunter, great observational skills," He says sarcastically, "They did always say that you were a brilliant spy." His quick quips and sarcasm almost rival my own. I open my mouth to snark back, but Alex beats me to it: "So, Hunter, what brings you back to the land of the living? Honestly, you and Mum being dead was the one consistency in my life, and now, even that's gone to hell."
I ignore his rude remark. "We were hiding, Alex, ever heard the saying 'Scorpia never forgive, and-"
"-Scorpia never forget," Alex finishes the phrase with me. I've spent about three minutes with this kid in over fifteen years, and Scorpia has already been mentioned thrice. Any doubts I previously had were completely gone: Alex is definitely, undeniably, a Rider.
"Anyways, Alex, after I'd betrayed them, there was an assassination attempt involving a bomb on a plane. Your mother and I barely escaped, and so we went into hiding. It was only supposed to be temporary, but Helen didn't want to leave the safety."
Alex nods, before breaking out into a smirk. "You'd never have to worry about me doing that, Hunter. Danger laughs in the face of Alex Rider." I sit there puzzled, wondering what kinds of danger a sixteen-year old could possibly have faced. Then again, he has mentioned Scorpia. Presumably, he's just heard the name in passing from Jones when she told him about me. Speaking of Jones, the chief executive coughs, likely to cover up a laugh. Again, this confuses me, as an MI6 agent, especially one of such a high position, showing emotion is about as likely as my son facing any real danger. Christ, he's just a boy.(1)
"Please don't call me 'Hunter,' Alex, that was my Scorpia name. I'd prefer 'Dad.'"
There is a gleam of something in Alex's eyes that quickly disappears. Anger? Regret? "Yeah, Hunter, we aren't exactly on those terms. Even Ian was a better father to me than you ever were. Hell, Alan Blunt was more of a father than you. So, I will stick to calling you 'Hunter.' I think it more accurately suits our relationship." The kid has a point, but his words hurt. It's illogical, I know, but it makes me feel shitty to hear that my inferior, younger brother and Alan Fucking Blunt were closer to my kid than I ever was.
"That's hardly my fault, Alex, it was an impossible situation. Utterly unwinnable. If we had come back for you, Scorpia would have known we were still alive and came after all three of us. If we left you with Ian, we'd miss your childhood, and you wouldn't get to meet your parents. There was no winning. In the end, I chose our lives over our family, and it's a decision I stand by," I protest, trying to defend my honor and my choice.
"It's a Catch-22, Yossarian," Alex mocks with a frown. Up until this point, all of his quips and sass had been lighthearted enough. Now, however, that has changed, and all that's left is resentment. I didn't want to hurt my son with my choice. The little bastard should be grateful that my choice kept him alive and far away from danger. Imagine if my son would have needed to stay on the run and live completely off the grid to stay away from Scorpia. His perfect little life would have changed to one of sorrow, loss, murder, and death. He should be grateful that because of my sacrifice, he's loved a relatively calm, happy and peaceful life.
Tulip but in, her voice slicing through the awkwardness like a dagger. "So, Alex, Agent Rider, I have a proposition for you." Alex rolls his eyes, and slumps into his seat. The level of his sheer disrespect astounds me. This was the bloody head of MI6! Does Alex even know who he's talking to?
Before I can mention this to him, he speaks in a slow, almost comically enunciated drawl: "I wonder where I've heard that one before. You know, Tulip, every time you open your mouth it means trouble for me. Can't you just make Bloody Hunter the Patriotic Prick do your bidding? I have literally anywhere else to be right now."
Anger rises up inside me. I cannot believe that my son is speaking to Mrs. Jones which such as obvious lack of decorum. Also, that was an incredibly rude nickname for me. The little brat shows no respect. I am about to bring this up, but to my surprise, Tulip just laughs. The sound knocks me off guard, as I'd bet my ass that laughter was something that has never before occurred in this office.
"Please, Alex just hear me out. This isn't like the previous times. You are allowed to leave at anytime, I'm just asking you to listen to what I have to say first." My son nods submissively, and his and Tulip interaction only serves to further confuse the hell out of me. These two clearly have a history, though I have no idea to what extent. "Anyways," Tulip continues, "Does the name Menna Rawlings mean anything to the two of you?" Alex and I shake our heads. Tulip sighs. "Agent Rider, that's unsurprising as you've been AWOL for a decade-and-a-half, but really, Alex? I thought I've told you to read up on our government."
Alex's eyes get big and innocent, though I can see straight through his faςade. "I'm sorry, Tulip, I've had a lot of homework lately," he breaks into a cheeky smile, "'Sides, in the little freetime I do have, I choose not to spend it boring the shit out of myself reading about the government." Tulip rolls her eyes, not taking Alex's bait.
"Right," she continues, "Menna Rawlings is the British Commissioner to Australia. She was recently in a meeting with Afghan leaders in Australia, concerned about possible terrorism threats. One of the bodyguards for the president turned out to have strong ties to the Taliban, unfortunately for Rawlings. After the meeting was concluded, she was promptly kidnapped, and smuggled into Kabul. The Taliban has been torturing her for information, and presumably plans to murder her. We need you two to get her back before it's too late."
"Of course," I say automatically. I will do anything for my country, even though Helen explicitly told me to stay safe. I love her and usually try my best to take her advice, but right now, my country is more important than her goodbye plea.
For some unfathomable reason, my son doesn't share my sentiments. I truly can't imagine why: England is the greatest bloody country in the world, and I honestly can't understand why someone wouldn't want to risk their life for her. It's what Ian and I always did. That's how we were raised: to put queen and country first. "No, Tulip, I have better things to do, like not getting killed. 'Sides, I promised Jack I'd stay away from you psychopaths." Who the hell is Jack?
"Who the hell is Jack?" I voice my question. However, it remains ignored by my present company. Meanwhile, Alex and Tulip are staring each other down. After about a minute, it's Alex who finally breaks his focus.
"You brought Hunter all the way back from Hell just to get me to go on a mission?" he exclaims, "Fuck you, Tulip, that's cold. And it's not going to work. Why would I go on a life-threatening mission with some prick I don't even know? Didn't it run through your mind that, as much as I'd glorified Hunter and wanted to know more about him, I never really felt any desire to actually meet him? My mum, I'd love to meet, but these goddamn spies are all the bloody same. They're annoyingly fucking patriotic and have a God-Complex bigger than my will to live!"
Alex's rant phases me. I am so far behind, that I cannot even begin to comprehend what he's just said. However, it's abundantly clear that he hates me, and doesn't want to be anywhere near me, which does hurt, to be honest.
Tulip sighs, admitting defeat. "I guess I hadn't really thought about how different you two really are," she considers, "I guess it was wrong of me to do this without consulting you first." Alex's eyes grew almost-impossibly wide.
"Excuse me," Alex mutters, racing out of the room. He and and Tulip have been incredibly unhelpful in answering my questions and filling me in, and I have never in my life been more confused. Hell, the inner workings of Scorpia were more sensical than this conversation. I turn to to face the latter, who currently has her head in her hands. I open my mouth to say something, but I am greeted only with a deep sigh and a 'not now, Agent Rider.'
Alex returns, about fifteen minutes later, with a strange, furry object in his hand. Upon closer observation, it turns out to be a brown teddy bear. "So, Mrs. Jones," Alex says, more formal than I've ever heard him speak before, "I visited my old friend Smithers, and had him special make me this bear." He sits the bear on the desk in front of her, and makes a very dramatic show of pressing down on it's right paw.
"It was wrong of me," the bear admits, in Tulips voice, "It was wrong of me, it was wrong of me, it was wrong of me," the bear repeats, sending my son into peals of laughter.
Finally, between long spurts of loud cackles, he was able to form a coherent sentence. "I couldn't believe my luck, when the head of MI6 admitted that she was wrong. I had wished that this room was bugged, so I could get it on tape, and luckily I know just the guy! I went downstairs and visited Smithers, who had the recordings from the microphones, and he put the recording into this lovely bear for me!" Alex is wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I've ever seen. He is clearly enjoying himself.
Tulip says nothing. She simply opens her top desk drawer, unscrews a bottle of aspirin, and dry swallows a couple. "Wow, Tulip," Alex says incredulously, "Four aspirin? That's a new record."
She sighs and pops a fifth, much to my son's awe. "Alex, get out of my office," Tulip says, closing her eyes.
He stands up to go, but is interrupted by a knock at the door. "Come in," Tulip sighs, lifting her opening her eyes again in an attempt to look human.
A burly looking man with dark skin and hair comes in and hands Tulip a large manila envelope labeled 'TOP SECRET.' He bows his head and acknowledges her with a very polite "Mrs. Jones," before leaving again and closing the door behind him.
She sighs once again after examining its contents and swallows two more aspirin.
"Tulip," Alex says, his eyes as wide as frisbees, "Isn't that quite enough? No headache is that bad."
"No headache, but yourself, Alex. Care to explain why you came in like this?"
"Cunning and charismatic?" He asks innocently.
She sighs again. I'm really confused about what the hell Alex did. "No, you brat, why you came in with dirty clothes and singed bangs. Don't think I didn't notice, Mister."
"Oh. That's a long, short story," a heartbeat passes, "My clothes were a mess because I had to dive out of the tube. I almost missed my stop and had to dive out of the tube. I landed on the floor, and my clothes got mussed up. It was an accident, really." His eyes grew big and innocent again.
"How did diving out of a train set your hair on fire, Son?" I ask, prying for details that he was clearly keeping to himself.
"Oh, that happened yesterday. Tom-he's my best mate, Hunter-was fucking around with a lighter and accidentally caught my hair." His story seems valid enough, but something inside me knows he was lying. I am about to call him out on his bullshit, but Tulip once again beats me to it.
"Funny how that happens, Alex. I guess that means you don't know anything about an exploding car on Winchester Street?"
"No, ma'am," he shakes his head quickly.
"Really, Alex? Because I have some pictures that would say otherwise," she challenges, pulling out a stack of images and handing them to my son. They start out with Alex and a taller boy walking out of a tube station, and follow through the two of them moving cars out of the way of another car, in which they exploded. One of the images does indeed show Alex's bangs getting singed. The last picture is of the two in front of the Royal and General Bank. "Who the hell was that, Alex? And what the hell did you do?"
"Well. I met that teenager, let's call him Alan Blunt, at the tube station. He helped me up after I dived out of the train, right? Anyway, he needed my help, so I followed him."
"He needed your help blowing up a car," Tulip demands, "And you said yes?"
"It was the polite thing to do!" Alex protests, shaking with invisible laughter.
"That's it, Alex, you're going on this mission with your father. You need to learn that destroying private property is not allowed."
"Unless it's on a suicide mission," he stage whispers.
Tulip sighs again, unable to show any other emotion. She's clearly exhausted from Alex's antics. "Besides what I've already told you, gentlemen," she begins, addressing the both of us, "We don't know much else. Most of Kabul is under Taliban influence, so she honestly could be anywhere. You two need to find her and bring her back to England, preferably all in one piece, because it will be my headache if anything goes wrong."
"Yeah, and you've already taken all your aspirin," Alex adds unhelpfully.
"Leave." The single word is packed with so much venom that I have to repress a shudder, and Alex and I get up and leave immediately.
Once we are out on the street, I ask Alex a question that's been on my mind for awhile now: "So, Alex, where's Ian? Does he still live in Chelsea, or has he moved?"
He freezes for a second. The hesitation is so minute that even I barely notice it. "Um," Alex starts, "He's still in Chelsea, but he's moved to a different location."
"Show me?" I ask. Alex nods, and we begin walking. I miss Ian. It's been forever since the last time I've seen him, and I really need to thank him for the whole raising-my-child thing. Not that he did a great job or anything…
I am kind of surprised that he moved; Ian loved his Chelsea home. It was close enough to Stamford Bridge to catch a Chelsea game on Saturday afternoons, and just far enough from the bank to be its own separate reality from MI6.
Alex leads me into the nearest tube station, and just under an hour later, we emerge on West Brompton Road, in Chelsea. We turn right onto Fulham Road, and stumble upon the Brompton Cemetery. This confuses me. Why the hell would Alex take me to a cemetery? Is my little brother dead? The thought wrenches at my heart. Alex walks into the cemetery and refuses to take a map. It's clear he knows his way around, which doesn't settle my concerns about Ian at all. I feel sick to my stomach as we walk past a funeral. Tens of people are standing around a casket being lowered into the ground. The motion of the casket dropping reminds me how my stomach is dropping further into my legs with each step I take. At this point, the logical, MI6 part of my brain knows for a fact that Ian is dead. However, the emotional part of me, which I'd assumed was gone, was convincing me otherwise. It is an emotional civil war. The seven minute walk to Ian's grave felt like seven hours.
"Well," Alex says awkwardly, shifting his weight, "Here's Ian."
He gestures towards a square slab of gray marble. It has Ian's birthday carved into it, as well as his supposed date of death: late March of two years ago. Below the date there is a single sentence: A GOOD MAN TAKEN BEFORE HIS TIME. I don't disagree with this: Ian was a good man. However, the problem with being a spy is that no one can truly know how 'good' of a person you are. So much of it is sensitive and classified, and before you know it, your entire life is just a red stamp reading 'TOP SECRET.' It kills me that they've condensed a bloody great patriot like Ian into one bland, nondescript sentence. I know it's for the best, but damn, does it hurt.
"So," I question Alex, "Um, how exactly did he die?"
"Car crash," Alex says somberly, "T'wasn't wearing his seatbelt."
"Bullshit," I laugh inappropriately, "Ian was the most anal person I've ever met. He wouldn't even start the bloody car until everyone was wearing their seatbelts."
Alex's big brown eyes sparkle. For the first time today, he actually looks happy. Even though we are talking about his dead uncle, I can tell that he enjoys discussing the man. I'm glad that Alex has fond memories of Ian. He truly was a great guy. "Oh my god, he really was! Once he insisted on driving me to my friend Beto's house-Beto lived three houses up the street, mind you-and when I refused to put my seatbelt on, he lectured my for a solid twenty minutes. I could have walked to his house in about a tenth of that! Anyways, Ian made me late, and Beto and I were watching the Chelsea versus Everton match, and I missed three goals!" Alex pauses for a second, catching his breath, and reigning in his emotion. "Yeah, he was a good guy though. Um," Alex begins, for my benefit, "He died on the job. I really don't like discussing it because it just reminds me of all the lies he's ever told me…" he drifts off.
"So," I say, trying to continue this moment. It feels good to laugh with my son, and I don't want to end it by discussing his childhood, "After Ian died, who looked after you? You were what, barely fourteen when it happened?"
Alex cracks another genuine smile. "C'mon, Hunter, I'll show you!"
We arrive in front of Ian's old house. We had quite a few good times there, my brother and I, and the sight of the house is making me feel really goddamn nostalgic. Alex knocks on the door, and a couple seconds later a young woman opens the door. She is of average height, has light eyes, and bright red hair. She pulls Alex in for a hug, who returns the gesture. "Alex, you're alive," she says dramatically in an American accent. I can't exactly place it; but it sounds metropolitan, as though she is from a big city.
"Of course I am, Jack, it's not Jones you have to worry about hurting me," Alex chuckles. I wonder what he means by this.
"Who's this?" The American, who now has a name, questions.
"Oh, right. Jack, meet my dad. Hunter, this is Jack. She's the one who has looked after me since Ian died." Alex is grinning again. It's different than his usual shit-eating grin when he's done something mischievous. He seems truly happy around this woman, and I'm glad. Four hours ago, I didn't even know my son, but for whatever reason, it makes my heart swell that he is feeling this delighted.
"Hello, Hunter," Jack greets me with a smile. She reaches her hand out, and I shake it. It's a light, casual handshake, "It's great to finally meet you after dealing with this brat," she gestures at Alex, "for the past nine years."
Alex rolls his eyes playfully. "Oh, but what would you do without me, Jack?"
"Well, for starters, the house would be a whole lot cleaner. Y'know, it was a lot cuter when you 'accidentally' set appliances on fire when you were seven," she shakes her head and laughs, "Honestly, Alex, the sheer amount of chaos that one teenager can cause is astounding."
My god, is there anything this child doesn't destroy? I look over at Alex, but he just shrugs. "Yeah, she has a point. I'm quite good at destroying things," he admits with a smirk, "it's a talent, really. I mean, if blowing things up were an Olympic sport-"
"So, Hunter, why don't you come inside?" Jack asks, interrupting Alex, "I've just made lunch."
I nod, accepting her offer. "Thank you. Oh, and it's uh John, not Hunter," I clarify.
She smiles. "No problem. John, it is then."
After lunch, Alex shows me around Ian's old house. It's actually pretty similar to what it used to look like, minus Alex and Jack's rooms. Ian never was one for change. It hurts, though, to be in this house without my brother. God, I miss him.
Later on, after Jack had gone to bed, Alex and I begin discussing the mission.
"We have almost no information," Alex points out, "And not enough time to get it. What we need is someone who already has eyes on the inside. I could-"
"I know just the place," I assure him. I don't know what Alex was about to suggest, but surely even my dated connections are better than whatever the hell ones he has. I mean, the kid's sixteen! How would he know where to get this kind of info?
We take the tube again, this time to Soho. It isn't too late, luckily, it is just after 11p.m. I'm glad that Jack went to bed early, so she wasn't awake to question where Alex was going. That was one conversation that I could live without having. 'Yes, Jack,' I imagine myself saying, 'I'm just taking the teenager that you are in charge of and taking him to a seedy pub to get information on the whereabouts of an old Scorpia colleague who is probably dead.' I chuckle to myself. I can just imagine how poorly that would go, though I could honestly see Alex being able to talk himself out of any situation. He's a clever little prick. Charming, too.
We walk for a couple blocks in silence. Six minutes later, we are standing outside of a pub called Charlie's. It's pretty seedy, but it's where Ian and I would always go to get information all those years ago. What Ian and I learned about Charlie's, is that anything you'll ever need to know is known by somebody there. You just need to pay the right price.
"What're we doing here, Hunter?" Alex questions.
"We're getting information on a man called Cossack. He's an old Scorpia connection of mine. Also, Alex, don't use the name 'Hunter' in there. I was always known as Cathcart."
He nods. "Got it, Cathcart," he pauses, and looks really uncomfortable. Finally, he opens his mouth to speak again, even though he obviously doesn't want to: "Just so you know, Hunter, Scorpia doesn't exist anymore. They, uh, disbanded about a year-and-a-half ago. I don't know the specifics, y'know, the hows and whys, I just know that Scorpia doesn't exist anymore." This is news to me. I'm surprised, really. If I couldn't disband them, who the hell did? And how the hell does Alex know about it?
I nod my head. I can ask Jones about the specifics later. "Just so you know, Alex," I warn him, "This place is dangerous. I want you to stay out here, so you're safe."
"Excuse me?" he exclaims, "No. I didn't wait all these years for my dad to come, just so he could leave me outside of a bar the first chance he gets! I'm going inside." Alex has a point, but he also has no experience with less-than-posh places like this one. I voice these concerns to him. "Really, Hunter? You haven't seen me since I was a baby. How the fuck would you know what I haven't done?" Again, Alex has a point. I sigh. I have no legitimate excuse to ban him from the pub, just a premonition, and from my experience, my premonitions are basically fact. I have way more experience than this kid, and I can almost smell the shit that's about to go down. However, as much experience as I have, I also have zero control over Alex. I can't play the 'dad-card.' I can't do anything about this.
"Fine," I sigh, "But follow my lead. You don't know what the hell you're doing." Alex rolls his eyes. Stupid teenagers.
We walk in to Charlie's right in the middle of a fight. Typical. Charlie's is just your average hole-in-the-wall pub. Until you walk downstairs. You need a membership to get in, and you can only acquire a membership if you have the approval from five other members. Which can cost quite a bit of money and/or favours. All of the members' names are on a master list, and members can each bring one guest. Most members bring girls as their guests; very rarely do they bring their teenage sons. During the Cold War, Charlie's was insane. People were murdered there almost daily, and information changed hands hands faster than pints of beer. I can assume that it's calmed down, though who knows? It is Charlie's after all.
Luckily for Alex and I, members remain on the list, even posthumously, as many of us have to fake our deaths at some point or another. We are admitted downstairs without too much trouble, but our luck changes once we arrive.
Just like in all the old westerns, the entire pub goes silent when we are seen. Even the fight goes silent. In the middle of the one-room basement, there is a shoddy boxing ring. On the wall left of the entrance, there are bleacher-like seats facing the ring. On the walls to the right of, and facing of the entrance there are two walls lined with alcohol, and a long, L-shaped table littered with peanuts shells and pints of beer. About three dozen bar stools line the table, and about half of them are filled. In total, including the people at the bar, on the bleachers, and fighting, there are about seventy people. And all 140 eyes are on Alex and I. Well, maybe not 140, as this is Charlie's and even Charlie, himself, as well as a handful of others, wear an eyepatch. It's a crazy world, and it's not always easy to keep both your goddamn eyes.
"Wow," Alex remarks, referencing the staring, "I didn't realize I was this pretty." My brain stops for a second, as this was almost my exact line when I first stepped into Charlie's all those years ago. Deja vu aside, I jab my elbow into his stomach, and tell him to shut up.
Everyone ignored Alex's comment, thankfully. I look out over the still silent crowd, and realize that I actually recognize about half of the members. It's not entirely surprising, as Charlie's was at its peak in the Cold War, many of the old members refuse to admit new ones, and I did spend a lot of time here with Ian back in the day.
"Cathcart, as I live and breathe," Charlie, the owner of this fine establishment, sighs incredulously. He's fatter and greyer than I remember, but he's still the same old Cold-War-Charlie, with his pale, splotchy skin; a long, choppy beard; a black eyepatch; dirty clothes that barely fit him; and a cigarette in his mouth. He has black jeans and a faded white shirt on.
"Good to be back, Charlie," I remark, walking over and shaking his hand. Alex stays put, standing more confidently that I had previously expected. It's strange, but he almost looks at home? I don't know. He's kind of a weird kid, to be completely honest.
"Where the hell have ya been, Mate?" Charlie questions, "S'been awhile. And who've ya got here?" He points over at Alex.
"He's crawled out of the depths of hell," Alex elucidates, "And you can call me Yossarian."
"What the hell kind of name is Yossarian?" Charlie demands.
"It's my name, sir," Alex clarifies.
"Yes, I suppose it is," Charlie gives in. Addressing the entire bar, he says "They're alright, men." After Charlie's conformation, conversations pick up, the fight resumes, Charlie goes over to another member, and Alex and I ignored once again.
"Okay, Yossarian, you stay here," I address my son, gesturing at an empty, isolated stool. "Don't fucking do anything. Don't talk to anyone, don't drink anything, don't pick any fights, don't ask anybody their business. Just don't fucking move, okay, Kid?" The absolute last thing I need is to save Alex from getting into any trouble.
"Got it, Mum," Alex salutes me, mockingly. I want to smack him in the side of the head, but more than that, I don't want to start a scene.
Rolling my eyes, I walk over to an old contact of mine to discuss the whereabouts of my old Scorpia partner. The contact is far from moral, and always knew way more about Scorpia than anyone else was ever comfortable with, back in the day.
Not ninety seconds later, I hear my son yelling, the little prick: "You can't just do that! Human trafficking is not okay!" Alex roars. The entire room, including the fight, goes silent again, save for their little scuffle.
My head whips around. Alex is standing face-to-face with a young man whom I don't recognize. While I don't know his face, I do know that he towers over Alex by a good 6-inches and outweighs him easily by 100 pounds of muscle.
"Excuse me, Kid?" The man asks. If Alex has any intuition, he'd keep his fucking mouth shut.
"I said human trafficking is a human rights violation! Though, with you ego clouding up your ears, I wouldn't've expected you to hear, anyways." This kid is officially suicidal. He's loud, brash, and clearly can't read a fucking room.
"Yossarian!" I hiss, trying to deter the fool from getting himself killed, but he ignores me.
"That crazy bastard," Charlie remarks, giving a low whistle.
"That crazy bastard indeed," I admit, "Who is that guy, anyway?'
"Maurice," Charlie explains, "He's a mercenary." I nod.
"You're making a mistake, kid," The now-named Maurice warns.
"This piece of shit," Alex announces to the entire bar, "Buys and fucking sells people, and I'm the one making a mistake?" Maurice, clearly pissed off, takes a punch at Alex's head, but he easily steps left and dodges it. The dodge was pretty impressive, as Alex would have been knocked-out cold, had he stayed in the line of fire.
Before Maurice realizes what was happening, Alex does a roundhouse kick straight into his kneecap, causing him to stoop over in pain. "Listen here, ya little cunt!" Maurice announces, pulling a gun on Alex. The entire bar is frozen; nobody knows what is going to happen next. I can't speak for everyone, but I was almost one hundred percent sure that I'd be explaining to Jack Starbright why the fuck Alex ended up with a bullet in his head. Then, the impossible happens. I thought for sure that Alex would stand there like a stupid kid, mouth off to Maurice, and then get his brains blown out. However, my son very unexpectedly kicked the gun straight out of Maurice's hand. It falls to the floor, and Alex quickly dives over a scoops it up. Time freezes once again when Alex has Maurice in a head-lock, three seconds later, and has the gun shoved into his mouth. The entire bar is stupefied. No one realized how badly we had all underestimated Alex until it was too fucking late.
We stan bad bitch Alex, who stands up for human trafficking victims! (Also, this is so fucking typical of him to be pissed at MI6 for sending him on missions, and then getting into a fight based off of his loosely-defined morals)
S/O to my boy A.A. for Alex inspiration. This fool used "It's a long, short story" as an excuse to our coach once, and I'm cackling now, just thinking about it.
So many literary allusions in this chapter!
(1)An allusion to The Things They Carried. Please read this book. It'll rip your heart out and stomp on it, but please read it.
The guy Alex fought, Maurice, is named after the guy from The Catcher in the Rye. Not the best character(he's a pimp; take that as you will), but it's a damn good book.
Haha, I just had to take the names Cathcart and Yossarian from Catch-22 (And there are so many Catch-22 allusions in this chapter...this book is taking over my life lolol). Colonel Cathcart and John Rider; and Yossarian and Alex aren't that different, afterall. I mean honestly, John and Cathcart are arrogant pricks with patriotism running through their veins, and both Alex and Yossarian are manipulated by their respective governments to go on suicide missions. They are both ironically good at what they do. They both deal with that trauma through being sarcastic pieces of shit, but both have a strange charisma and people can't help but like them. I feel like Alex would see the similarities between the two of them, and that's why he chose to be Yossarian. That's just my opinion/literary analysis, but lmk if you want to talk AR and Catch-22 with me! (I'll actually analyze/debate any literature with you, just hit me up!)
Now that I'm done promoting other people's very famous literature, allow me to promote my own not-very-famous literature: Be very ready for a spinoff fic (probably a one-shot) fic about Charlie's during the Cold War Days.
Also, this will likely be the last chapter for awhile(probably the summer because SCHOOL)
This was a long-ass authors note haha but please! review!