Unrelated to the story: If you're in Ukraine, or Russia and you're against this war, my heart goes out to you. I'm so sorry this is happening. I truly hope you're safe and that this is over soon, and that Ukraine wins. I'm so sorry if you're trapped in Russia and you're against this war—I'm so sorry your government won't listen to you. Ukrainians, I am so, so truly sorry that this is happening to your home. I'm praying for you every single day. Prayers for Ukraine 3
This was the most unnecessary fucking thing I'd ever been put through.
The worst? No. The most unnecessary? Yes.
I'd been sitting in this empty room for hours. I was exhausted, somehow hungry, and cold. I was in a small room with white walls, one of which was completely taken up by a massive mirror that I was sure was one-way glass. I was in one of two armless metal folding chairs on one side of the metal table—the side farthest from the door, where I could see the whole room. The lights were loud, fluorescent and flickering every so often, and the floors were bare and cold. Although I didn't regret being a pain in the arse, I'd give anything for my shoes right now—my toes were freezing.
The meeting with Blunt, after I'd gotten over my shock, had been dull. He'd told me what Jones had already said—that they needed me compliant, that the world needed me, that it had been irresponsible and reckless of me to run away, and he'd make sure I knew it. I'd already fucking said that I'd do the missions. I'd do the assignments. I'd carry the burdens and I'd take the injuries, so what the fuck did it matter if I wanted to choose when I wore my own shoes or when I talked back. If they didn't want me to talk back, they shouldn't have chosen me for this.
Still, I sat in the white room at the table, looking at the one-way mirror and wondering if this was a punishment or an interrogation. It looked like the detective interrogation rooms from the movies. I wondered what they thought this would do.
I shifted, hoping they didn't see. The metal chair was uncomfortable, and I'd been sat here for so long I didn't know if I could stand. I wasn't restrained, but I was still exhausted—being drugged twice, going into shock, being held at gunpoint, everything else that had happened in the past forty-eight hours…I wasn't exactly in any condition to try to get out.
And I wasn't going to. I wasn't going to try to get away this time, because I wouldn't risk it.
Still, they'd never wanted me so completely under their control before. Perhaps Blunt was angrier than I'd thought about getting him pseudo-fired—maybe this was his revenge, under the guise of practicality. Agents who didn't resist were more useful, I supposed.
I didn't know what they were going to gain from this—I was already as under control as I was going to be. I wasn't going to lick their damn shoes, but I'd go on their missions, no matter what they did to me.
I didn't have to wonder long. Fischer came in by himself with a stack of files under one arm and a cup of coffee.
Unsurprisingly, it wasn't for me, but I didn't know if I would've been able to stomach it anyway.
He set the files down on the table and sat, sipping his coffee. He didn't speak, so I didn't either. I wasn't going to show my fear—I'd hide it as well as I could, at least—but I thought maybe Fischer knew what he was doing when he hit me, because I could take a punch, but I was scared.
I didn't want to be alone with him. I didn't want to be hurt.
"Do you know why we're doing this, instead of simply sending you on your first mission?" Fischer asked after a few minutes of silence. I had to tense every muscle in my body to avoid flinching as the silence was broken.
"…no," I said after a few seconds, after I knew he really did expect an answer.
"Hm," he said, but made no move to explain as he picked a file out of the stack.
Well, that was infuriating.
After checking the label on the file and glancing briefly inside, he pushed it to the side of the table, taking a different file off the top of the stack. He slid it towards me.
I made no move to open it, glancing at him. His eyes were pieces of flint, beady and grey, and we stared at each other.
"Open it," he commanded, in the same tone he'd used when he told me to put on my shoes.
I wanted to open it. I wanted to obey. I didn't want to be hit. I was scared. I wanted to go home.
I crossed my arms and sat back, holding his gaze.
"Open it," he repeated, tapping the file twice.
Still, we stared at each other, and I watched his eyes darken.
"Would you like the other side of your face to match?" He asked, casually, and I felt my hands tighten into fists. I didn't want to be hit, but I also didn't want to give in.
If they took even the small choices, they'd take everything, and I wouldn't survive that.
"I'll go on your missions," I said, pinching myself when I heard the shake in my voice, forcing myself to take a deep breath. "I'm not going to be your slave."
"And now asking you to open a file constitutes slavery?"
I shrugged. "Wanting to choose when I wear my shoes isn't a choice I get to have?"
"No," he said immediately, with the smallest smile, standing.
He didn't hit me, like I was expecting. Instead, he came to stand in front of me, and I had to force myself not to move. I looked up, meeting his eyes, every inch of me coiled impossibly tight, anticipating a strike. Instead, he put his arms on either side of me, hands resting on the back of my chair. His forearms were tight against my biceps, caging me in, and I was impossibly still.
"Don't fucking touch me," I bit out, not quite managing to keep the fear out of my voice, but I couldn't move. Desperation clawed at my throat.
"You don't get choices anymore," he said quietly, sparks in his eyes. I couldn't help leaning back, my arms shaking with the effort it took to restrain myself from lashing out at him, my heart beating erratically. I kept my eyes blank, my expression blank, but he must have seen the way my breathing hitched, the way I tried to keep as far from him as I could. "Because when you make choices, people get hurt."
"You forced me to make those choices," I shot back, nails digging into my palms. "I never wanted this!"
"Surely you know by now that the world isn't fair," he said with a sardonic smile, leaning in closer. I could feel his breath, hot and too close. "It doesn't matter what you want." He leaned back just enough to nod towards the table. "Open the file, Alexander."
"You should probably ask Jones for one of her peppermints," I said before I could stop myself, leaning back. "You really need one."
I expected the slap. I didn't expect the thick fingers around the back of my neck, twisting my body and slamming the side of my face into the cold metal of the tabletop.
I grunted, grasping at his wrist with one hand and pushing against the table for some kind of leverage with the other, but panic quickly overrode my senses as I realized I wasn't in a position to get away.
"Let me go," I shouted, swallowing a noise of pain as his fingers tightened. "Let me fucking go!" He further tightened his hand. "Ah, shit!" I could feel his fingers shaking from the exertion, and it hurt.
"I will, as soon as you open the file." He took the hand not on my neck from my shoulder, where he was pinning me down, and grabbed my hand against the table. He squeezed my wrist until my fingers went pliant, slamming it onto the table next to the file, readjusting so he was gripping my forearm. It would be a stretch, but in this position, I could grab the opening of the file, if I wanted to. I didn't.
"Fuck you," I ground out, screwing my eyes shut as I felt his nails dig into my skin. I couldn't tell if I was bleeding or not. It felt like it.
"I'm not letting go until you open the file," he said calmly, surprisingly enough.
I was anything but calm.
I was on the verge of panic.
I lashed out with my free hand, but the angle was all wrong; harmless blows glanced off his forearm. He was stronger than I'd thought. I couldn't get anything with my legs, with how my body was folded; when I tried, he casually raised one of his legs and knelt on my thigh, keeping my pinned in my seat.
It was only when it became difficult to breathe, my ribcage creaking from where I was shoved up against the edge of the table, that with trembling, numb fingers, I barely grasped the edge of the file, hoping that would be enough.
"Open it, and I'll let go," he said. I couldn't tell how long I'd been pinned like this. Time blurred beneath the panic.
Wincing, I managed to get my knuckles far enough the file's front cover to flip it open. It rustled softly against the table.
He let go.
It was abrupt enough that I fell sideways out of the chair, landing on my side. Instinct took over and I was scrambling away from him and onto my feet before I really knew I'd been released, not stopping until I was sucking in deep, free breaths in the corner of the room, braced on wobbling legs against both walls where the corner met.
"That was highly unnecessary," he said, rolling his shoulders with a look of discomfort, as if he was the one who'd been hurt. "Come sit down, before I have to have someone come restrain you to the chair."
I trembled, knowing full well that I was locked in this room.
I touched the back of my neck with shivering fingers, the tender skin throbbing, and saw specks of blood on my fingertips. His nails had broken skin, after all.
I licked my lips, but there was no moisture in my mouth. "I'll…come sit down. And do what you ask. Just don't touch me again."
"Don't give me a reason to," he said, sitting in the chair across from mine and nodding to mine expectantly.
Hesitantly, trying not to stumble, I made my way to my seat and sat, pushing it back far enough that I thought he wouldn't be able to reach me if he leapt over the table.
"Go ahead and take a look," he said, taking a sip of his coffee, as if this was a leisurely chat. "We've quite a few more to get through."
Although the last thing I wanted to do was take my eyes off of him, I hesitantly took the file, taking it off the table and putting it in my lap. I didn't want to scoot closer to him.
I scanned the opening description, skipping over some of the redacted text and flipping through to give everything a cursory look. I saw soldier's profiles, the profile of the lead agent in the case—deceased, the pictures of several children smiling for the camera in thumbnails on one page, blueprints, photographs of a before and after of an obvious explosion or some kind of air strike, and a conclusive report at the end.
I scanned it, and my heart twisted as I realized it was a premeditated bombing of an orphanage, orchestrated and carried out by the orphanage director, who'd severe bullying from the children at his own orphanage, when he was a child, as his reasons. Children had been going missing from the facility, one at a time over a few months.
It was an international orphanage, doubling as a boarding school for children displaced in Europe, and had students from France, England, Scotland, Portugal, Poland, and more. It was a massive facility funded by all of the governments with students there. Ninety-eight children of varying ages had been killed after a twenty-two-hour standoff; another one hundred and two had been injured. The incident had been kept quiet by the governments responsible for funding it, and no one asked questions, because this was an orphanage. No one missed kids with nowhere to go back to.
"Why are you showing me this?" I asked, putting the file back on the table. It was depressing, sure, but I didn't know what purpose it served.
Fischer, regarding me with cool, observant eyes, put down his coffee and tugged the rile towards him, tapping it with two fingers. There was something like plastic grief in his voice as he said, "This was the assignment you were supposed to go on once you returned from Egypt. The one you would have gone on, had you not quit."
As soon as the words left his mouth, I knew where he was going.
My body froze.
"This wasn't my fault," I said immediately, but even I didn't believe the words, no matter how desperately I wanted to.
"Yes, it was," he said confidently, putting the file to the side, on the far side of the one he'd picked out earlier. "You have a one hundred precent success rate, Alexander. You would have gone in undercover as a student, found the culprit like you always do, and circumvented the bombing. Because of you, almost a hundred children are dead, and three hundred more lost their home."
The words carved fissures in my soul, and I knew I wouldn't survive this room. "That's not—that's not. You could've sent an agent! A real agent, one who would've done just fine—"
"They did. Mr. Blunt and Ms. Jones sent four different agents—one, the lead agent, to pose as a teacher, the other three to pose as groundskeepers. There was an influx of new hires, so they blended right in. Three of them were found out and executed quietly in the first ten days, buried on the grounds. The one posing as the teacher managed to survive up until the bombing, but he died in the explosion."
Fischer fixed his eyes on me as I felt my resolve collapse. "You could have saved them."
You could have saved them.
I shook my head. Slow at first, then faster, until I thought my head was going to come off. I put my hands over my ears, feeling insanity creep in at the edges. "Stop," I said quietly, the one syllable shaking. "Stop. It's not my fault. It's not my fault."
"Yes, it is."
"It's not—"
"The sooner you accept it, the sooner we can move on," he said matter-of-factly, finishing off his cup of coffee, standing.
On instinct, I shoved myself back from the table with such force that the chair almost toppled backwards, watching him with wide, frightened eyes. I was too raw to hide it.
How many kids? How many—ninety something? How many? And I—and I. It was my fault.
I was scared he was going to come towards me again, but he'd stopped when I scraped the chair back, and he laughed at me. Hot anger bubbled in my chest and was crushed by the guilt in an instant. "I'm just going to get some more coffee, no need for all that. We have a long night ahead of us."
Slowly, with visceral dread, horror filling my stomach, my eyes slid reluctantly to the stack on the table.
He followed my eyes and smiled with a shark's teeth. "Get comfortable."
…
Blunt watched his computer screen, observing the events within the interrogation room through the camera pointing through the one-way glass. He watched as Fischer pinned Alex Rider to the table, seeing real fear in the boy's eyes for the first time.
Blunt, though not a vindictive man, hoped that Alex learned his lesson.
Blunt, when he'd been let go by the Prime Minister, had quite angry. Did they not understand that Alex Rider was the single most effective weapon that British Intelligence had ever possessed? Did they not understand that he'd stopped catastrophes, world wars, missile strikes, massacres, with just his wits? He was a weapon that they barely had to pay for. He was a once in a lifetime find—Blunt didn't know how they could even think it possible to give him up.
Besides. He'd proved time and time again that the world of espionage was where he belonged.
Blunt knew it was unethical. If the people of Britain—of the world—knew just how many ethics were disregarded in the name of public safety, this would be just a drop in the ocean of immorality. It wouldn't even be on people's radar.
Despite all that, Blunt lost his job—temporarily. He handed over the title to Jones, and was unsurprisingly summoned back by the Prime Minister to consult on Jones' first big failure—the incident with the orphanage on one of the Faroe Islands. It was obvious then that his former Deputy couldn't do the job like Blunt—he'd never had a failure so great in his career.
So, obviously with reluctance, he was reinstated by the Prime Minister, to operate MI6 from the shadows.
That was fine. He didn't need the glory—he'd never gotten it before.
Still, he felt the loss of Alex. Suddenly missions involving children became much more complicated and were often resolved far less safely and effectively. They'd lost a few agents and several civilians because of his absence.
Once they'd found Alex in the SAS, Blunt hired Amell Fischer to retrieve him. Jones signed all the paperwork, of course, but Blunt was the one pulling the strings.
It was the only way to get anything of consequence done around here, after all.
Fischer was the man for the job—Blunt chose him because he had an insanity reminiscent of several of the terrorists Alex had taken down.
Some would call it cruel, but Alan called it effective. The boy had been through so many extremists that someone who looked like them, acted like them, would incite fear. It would bring to mind the things he was afraid of, and though Alex could push through fear, he was likely to respond more to Fischer because of that fear.
He watched with interest as, when Fischer stood, Alex threw himself back, away from the man.
Perhaps this would work faster than he'd thought.
And if none of the files convinced him, the last one would. Blunt had given Fischer special instructions to save it for last.
A disobedient agent was a liability, and Blunt wasn't taking any more chances.
By the end of the day, they'd have Alex Rider ready to do anything they asked.
…
By the time we'd made it through the stack of files on the table, I wanted to die.
It was a pounding, insistent feeling. I wanted to escape this room, I wanted to escape this man, the guilt, the weight, the fear.
The second file was more manageable than the first, but they got worse from there. Each one involved more loss of life, more destruction, more calamity than the last. Faces of crying, orphaned children, faces of displaced parents with worn expressions, faces of stoic soldiers as they stood over fallen companions. Images of burnt-out buildings and sunken ships. Devastation on papers, all with arrows pointing to me.
The blame was palpable. The guilt was immeasurable.
"Please no more," I begged, having lost any dignity three files ago. I was bent over with my forehead on the metal table, my hands over my ears. The blood roaring in my head did nothing to drown out the voices, the accusations, the guilt. "Please. I'll do—what you ask. I will. Please just—stop."
There were a few seconds of peace before Fischer's fingers took my wrist, pulling one hand away from my ears. I flinched, pulling away, but didn't replace my hand.
"Sit up. There's just one more," he said, dropping the file in front of me.
I obeyed.
I had never felt so heavy in all my life. There was an impossible weight on my shoulders—hundreds of lost lives of people I'd never met, people I'd never know, because I wanted somewhere to call home.
Fischer had said it many times in this endless night, and I'd grown to agree with him.
What was my desire for home against thousands of lives? It was inconsequential.
Still, he'd worked our way through all the files, and now we were at the last one.
I swallowed, my hands shaking on the front cover. "How many…how many people died? In this one?" I didn't know if I could take any more.
"Just one."
I paused, glancing up suspiciously. The losses of life had been far greater in the other files—just one? "Really?"
"Just one," he repeated, circling his hand in a motion to hurry up. I did.
His profile was the standard for British soldiers, but it was the face that drew my attention. A familiar face stared back at me, grinning at the camera.
"No," I said after a long few seconds, closing the file and shoving it back towards him. "No. That wasn't—that wasn't my fault. It was unrelated. You can't connect that to me without anything."
Fischer, exasperation in his features, pushed the file back towards me. "Why do you think he was on the mission in the first place?"
"It was—it was their job," I argued feebly, staring at the file in front of me like it would burn me if I touched it.
"It was. But that mission was because you were not there to go," he said, sounding tired. He was on his fourth cup of coffee and looked like he just wanted to go to sleep. "Just finish the damn file."
I didn't know how he could look so tired when everything was unraveling.
I knew he wouldn't let me be done until I'd gone through the file.
I opened it, slowly, and flipped as quickly as I could past the soldier's profile, reading through the report.
They were there to back up an agent sent by MI6 who'd been compromised. The agent, a young woman in her early twenties who'd made it out alive, had been posing as an eighteen-year-old sweatshop worker, gathering information on an insurrectionist group who owned the shop in Iran. It was a collaboration between the British and American militaries to retrieve the agent and share the intel, but it went wrong.
The agent was ambushed on her way out, and though she escaped, their vehicles were cut off in the middle of the desert by the Irani insurrectionists, and they were pinned down. It was a bloody fight that eventually ended in a win for the British and American soldiers.
One of the soldiers was killed, and though a few more were injured, everyone else made it back safely.
"You were supposed to be the agent in the sweatshop. He probably wouldn't have been in the retrieval unit, had you gone," Fischer explained as I stared at the end of the report, covered in black lines of redacted text.
They knew this would break me. And it did.
I closed the file to the front, and though it went against every instinct to flee from this knowledge, I opened the cover again to look at the man's face.
Elliot Kirigaya, smiling, stared back at me, and something inside of me shattered.
"That's what happens when you're not here," Fischer said, tapping the folder twice. "People like him die. Families are torn apart."
He leaned forward, his eyes no longer tired, but sharp. "If you try to leave again the people he left behind—the people you love—will suffer just as much. Do you understand?"
He didn't need to say it. I understood.
I was out of options, out of time, and out of choices.
"Yes," I said quietly, closing the file.
In that moment, I knew that even if something miraculous happened, even if I was allowed to walk out of here, free, with no strings attached, I could never face them again.
Not with Lion in the hospital and Elliot's blood on my hands.
"When I tell you to put on your shoes, what will you do?"
I sank. "Put them on."
"Good. When we give you a mission, what will you do?"
"…go."
"Good."
Good.
This was…good.
Perhaps it was best that I didn't have to make any more choices. Perhaps it was good that my freedom had been taken.
If the stack of files in front of me was what my freedom led to, perhaps it was good I'd never see it again.
In fitful sleep that night, I dreamed of the dead.
…
"I thought I'd made it expressly clear that I didn't like things being done without my knowledge. Especially not without my permission," Anyssa Rothman said coolly over a glass of wine as Matthias joined her in their headquarters' lounge area. Anyssa, obviously preparing to turn in for the night, was dressed in a lilac nightgown mostly hidden by a silk robe cinched around her middle, exposing bare feet. She reclined on one of the chaise lounges, wine glass resting in one palm as she turned furious eyes on him.
Matthias smiled, shedding his overcoat and hanging it by the door, joining her in one of the recliners by the fire. He'd just gotten back from his visit with Alex, after quite a long journey to deter any unlikely tails and was thoroughly chilled. "I promise, this is for the best. He needed an incentive to stay."
"I see. You're sure it wasn't your conflict of interest?" She asked with a tilted head, strawberry hair tangled where it fell at the movement. Rothman cared little about her appearance—she'd much rather gain allegiance through brutality than seduction, Matthias had come to find.
And this was an example, because Matthias had to work quite hard not to react adversely to that.
"…I shouldn't be surprised that you know," he conceded after a moment, taking the empty glass on the end table between them and filling it with wine. "No, it was not. There is no conflict of interest—only an additional reward to be gained at the end."
She rolled her eyes in obvious disagreement. "You're obsessed."
Matthias smiled, but he knew that if she said one more word, he was going to be liable to shoot her. "I would appreciate a degree of professionalism, Ms. Rothman. I don't bring up your mother without provocation, do I?"
"And have I not been provoked?" She replied, sitting up and fixing him with dead eyes. "You used my resources. My assassin. You went after my target for a little warning that we aren't even sure was necessary, and you jeopardized the entirety of this organization by going yourself."
"I took the necessary precautions, I assure you," he said dutifully, swirling the wine in his glass and taking an experimental whiff, consulting the bottle—Domaine de la Romanee-Conti, from Burgundy. A Grand Cru, from 1967. He took a tentative sip—it was fine, he supposed. He idly wondered, if Rothman was so worried about him using a fraction of their budget, why she felt the need to buy such expensive wine. "And he was liable to run just about anywhere when I showed up."
"We would have just brought him back," Rothman argued, sounding more spun out.
Matthias sighed, setting his wine glass down. He was sure he was going to be shot in the back when he left if he didn't explain now. "With this, he'll come to us."
Matthias knew the second he'd gotten her attention. Cool jade eyes cut to him in the firelight, dancing with intrigue that she wouldn't quite let show. "How, exactly? The boy isn't stupid. Were he, we wouldn't need him. I doubt he'll be running back to us anytime soon."
"It does require a degree of patience," Matthias agreed. "I just received word from my source in MI6 that they're on the move to retrieve him—he should be back with them in just a few hours. Had I not gone to deliver that warning, it would have been much more difficult for them to find him."
Matthias saw Rothman's eyes narrow as he stopped talking. "I fail to see the value in MI6 getting him back under their thumb."
He smiled, casting eyes to the fire. It consumed the kindling with each lick of flame, destroying and desiccating everything in the fireplace. "MI6 destroyed that boy. He's barely human anymore. It won't be long before they do the same, and that's exactly why he worked so well under your mother—hatred for his employers."
Matthias saw the moment understanding reached Rothman. "Enemy of my enemy," she murmured, a coy smile on her lips.
"Precisely. They don't take care of their things—he'll be vulnerable again soon. That's when we'll come to get him. It may be a game of give and take for a while, but eventually, his hatred for MI6 will be so strong that he'll play right into our hands."
"And then what? He's a resilient little bastard. Do you want to threaten his units again?"
"On the contrary, then we'd be as bad as MI6. We'll offer protection for them," he said thoughtfully, excited to see his plans unfold as time wore on. The long games were always the most satisfying, at the end. "We'll make it clear that nothing and no one will ever harm them. Not MI6, not any of his other enemies. They will leave safely and without worry, physical or financial, for as long as they live, their families too. He's really a very simple boy—protect those around him, and he'll do anything we ask."
"…I see," Rothman said pensively, a subtle smile on her face, even now. "You're more useful than I thought you'd be."
"The highest honor," Matthias said, fighting the urge to scoff at his won words.
"Will you be able to make this work within our timeline, though?" She asked. "There's a reason it has to be him, and we're on a schedule."
"…Perhaps six months," he said after a moment of thought. MI6 were liable to use him mercilessly once they finally got him under control—it wouldn't take long for Alex's hatred to grow uncontainable, not with the foundation already laid. Then they'd reach out with an offer he couldn't refuse.
Then, they would put their plan into motion.
"I'm not patient," she muttered into the wine glass, throwing the rest of it back and standing. "Fine. You can be in charge of your little project, as long as you don't compromise our other interests. I have my hands full with LeBlanc's division, anyway."
LeBlanc's division—human trafficking and mass prostitution—did little to aid Matthias' appetite for the wine. He had limits, and that was one. "Leave it to me, mademoiselle."
"By the way, Matthias," she said, pausing in the doorway. She leaned against it, and small and delicate in a nightgown, in the warmth of a crackling fire, Matthias could see just how easily she had slipped into the seat of power—lesser men would have no guard up against the petite woman, and he was thankful he had no interest in women. Had he, even a bit, he would've been bitten by this snake. "If I find out that your little fixation on Rider's friend is compromising your ability to do your job…"
She gave him a smile sweeter than the saccharine wine in his hand, and left the sentence unfinished, trailing fingers along the doorframe as she went.
He did not hear her footsteps down the hall, though he knew she left.
He set his unfinished wine on the end table.
It was not an obsession. It was not a fixation.
Despite that, he often dreamt of the day he'd be reunited with his childhood friend.
"I do miss you, Lewis," he muttered to the fire, thinking of the man he hadn't seen in years, save the brief few minutes on that platform.
Still, they'd have plenty of time to catch up once they had Alex Rider in custody, and his responsibilities to the organization thinned out.
His only fear was the fact that Lewis had always been quite moral. He'd leave SCORPIA, if that's what Lewis wanted, but he anticipated there being a bit of unease in their relationship once they reunited.
No matter. Lewis would come around.
God, Matthias couldn't wait for the day he had his friend back.
Lewis was the only friend he'd ever had, after all.
A/N: Told you Snake's character arc was far from over.
Also—that heartbreaking, gut wrenching bit in the middle? The one about Elliott? That's what I meant in the Discord when I said that what I thought of was absolutely soul-crushing. I can't believe this came out of me. This is the most despondent, horrific thing I've ever written.
Happy 3-year birthday to this story, and I adore every single one of you for still reading and sticking with me, even through the rough patches like this one!
Um. Reviews. I can't believe you're still here, though I'm eternally grateful and love you to the ends of the earth: KMER79, MillieM04, Guest, Wraith and Demjin, Asilrettor, MistyToryRabiyah, Puff and Proud, marthecaterpillar, Riderkitty, Only A Bookworm, fuzzyshungee, The Wall, Guest, Guest, Cakemania225, Ff1892, Lisabeth Mills, , Storyspinner16, Guest, cortanacoredeliacarstairs, AlexRiderFan, Iblyfoo, cowboykelley17, NeleWW, Eva Haller, Guest, Guest, Guest, Guest, and Lira!
Guest (Something happened to the formatting): Thank you! I fixed it!
Fuzzyshungee: SORRY I HOPE THIS WAS FAST ENOGUH
Guest (How absolutely dare…): Dude you have to be used to me by now!
Guest (RETIREMENT be lookin a little different here): RIGHT? Why couldn't he just retire to Florida. Um…oops. Numbness is def back. Hehehehehehehehe. NEVER BE SORRY I LOVE RANTS
Guest (IFX IT): PLEASE DON'T RIOT HERE YOU GO
Cortanacordeliacarstairs: Hehehehe don't worry XD Thank you! Yeah this got VERY dark. Sorry.
Alex Rider Fan (44): No worries! No worries at all, glad you're back! (45) THAT'S TOTALLY OKAY YOU HIT NEXT DUDE (46): MUAHAHAHA Lion is too pure I know omg. Love Sarge. THANK YOU FOR LOVING MY OCS I LOVE THEM TOO. That's so sweet and I'm so honored this could be a good space for you :) (48) good ole RTI lol. Thanks for the comment on perspectives! HAHA I ALWAYS GET SO SELFCONSCIOUS IN MY ANS LOL (49) SAME. I really thought this man was gonna make me do it. Hehehe I love angst. Hahaha yeah, Fox is human, bless him. (50) I'm sorry, but I'm glad he's relatable! Love Sarge SO MUCH lol. Hahaha poor boy's been through a lot is all. Thanks! (51) Hehehehe (52) HAHAHA SORRY (53) ALWAYS WORTH IT! THANK YOU! You're so sweet. Thank you for that; I think I needed to hear it. Don't worry about it at all! Just be whoever you are in your comments, I'll love them regardless :)
Guest (GIVE US MMOOOOREEE): HERE YOU GO
Guest (YOU have come so far…): Thank you! You've come so far with me :) HAPPY ANNIVERSARY
Guest (…and now no one can be certain…): Nope lol. Hehehe that's how it is in the world of spying! We shall see. God I love Snake. Um…oops on that. Thanks!
Guest (AHHHHHHH THIS SI AMAZING): AHHHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH! OMG PLEASE GO STRETCH BUT THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR BINGING IT! Hahahahaha that made me laugh lol. Thank you so so much!
Lira: Hi! How's your art coming? Glad you're back! Omg that's so much dedication, thank you! Oh wow I'm so honored you read it to your friend! I hope they liked it :D I'm so glad it feels like home. Thank you :)
