One of the first things they made me do was strip my hair of the dye.
It was a lengthy process. They brought in a professional stylist to do it. I didn't think she knew what was going on, only that she was tasked with getting me back to my natural color without asking too many questions. She cast quizzical eyes on the man standing guard at the door as she walked in but didn't ask.
I was relieved that Fischer wasn't here. Even he had to sleep, I guess, or go do some other work. They stuck me with someone named Agent Tolliver who was supposed to keep an eye on me.
I wasn't going anywhere. I supposed they thought it was necessary, anyway.
The process was done mostly in the bathroom adjacent to the room I'd woken up in—it was later explained that this would be my room. No windows, no inside door handle. Just a bed, dresser, nightstand, and bathroom, without much of anything. There was a toothbrush—pliable plastic that couldn't be whittled down to something sharp—and a small tube of toothpaste, plus a comb. There was a shower with little travel bottles of shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap.
I guessed they weren't going to get my stuff, after all. They were just going to let me consider it lost.
They'd had me change, too, into camo cargo pants and a coarse black t-shirt. My clothes disappeared; I was suddenly glad I wasn't wearing Lion's hoodie when I'd left. I probably never would've seen it again.
The stylist set to work without any conversation besides quiet orders. I was sitting with my back to the counter with my head over the sink as she worked product through my hair. I blinked numbly at the ceiling and wondered whether I was happy about getting my natural color back—I'd never liked it dark—or angry that this was yet another choice I didn't get to make.
But I didn't have choices anymore, did I?
I wondered if I ever really would again.
After several hours, my scalp was itchy and uncomfortable, but there was a towel around my shoulders and when I looked in the mirror, my hair was light again. It was still a shade or two darker than my natural color, but I knew the rest of it would fade with time.
I stared at myself for a long miunte, hair wet and dripping onto the towel around my shoulders, in clothes that weren't mine. My face was bruised. It took a long minute to gather the courage to look at my eyes.
Maybe the stylist thought I was crazy, but I laughed when I saw them. It was a brittle, hollow sound.
"…is it okay?" She asked hesitantly, packing her products up.
I nodded, turning from the mirror and reaching up to touch it. It felt heavy with moisture and product; unnatural. "It's fine. Thank you."
She nodded, and left.
"There are shorts in the drawer," Agent Tolliver said after he'd let the stylist out. I wondered if she noticed that this room didn't have a door handle. That Tolliver and the others with access had keycards they could scan to get out, but I couldn't leave. "Change, but leave your shirt. You're going to the gym next."
"I'm tired," I said, quietly enough to remain submissive, but I wanted to see how Tolliver responded.
Tolliver just glanced at me and rolled his eyes.
No sympathy from him, then. I wouldn't expect anything less from someone appointed by Fischer.
If nothing else, I thought as I changed, he wasn't cruel for the hell of it. He was just following orders, and didn't go out of his way to make me uncomfortable or upset.
I smiled to myself. What a low bar.
I missed them.
It had been three days since Fischer locked me in a room and told me I didn't get choices. Three days since he'd brought me to this room and told me it would be my home.
The first night, I went right to sleep, desperate to escape the onslaught of guilt and pain enhanced by the solitude of this room. The morning after when I woke up, I cried. I thought about trying to look for a way out on principle, but I knew I wouldn't find one, and I knew I wouldn't leave if I did.
This room was not a home.
I knocked on the door from the inside when I was done changing, and he opened it to let me out, escorting me to the elevator and up to the training level.
I was surprised at how much of a fortress the Bank really was. I'd only seen the offices the first few times I was here, but now that this was where I would live, they showed me more and more hidden levels, levels that didn't appear on the elevator keypad and required biometric scans to open. Tolliver took me to one of the hidden levels, the gym and practice arena, with weight machines, an indoor track, a boxing ring, and more.
I'd been here once yesterday. An instructor sparred with me to assess my skills. I got the feeling he was holding back, scanning me with clinical eyes that in another life might have been worried, but he didn't say anything. Fischer watched from the side of the practice mat with his arms crossed.
That was really the only part of the bank I'd seen beyond a passing glance; otherwise, I'd stayed in the same room I'd woken up in, switching between borderline hysteria and depressed silence. They'd fed me in my room, bringing trays of food from the cafeteria level that I picked at and returned mostly uneaten for two days, until Fischer came in yesterday and told me that if I didn't eat, he'd force me.
I choked everything down, thinking of Lion and Snake as I did so.
They'd told me my next mission would start in three days from now, and they needed to assess my condition until then. I followed blindly, made compliant by the fatigue and the distant thrum of fear, though I was still sore from how yesterday's session had gone. Although he'd been holding back, he still landed some solid hits, and I was still too out of it to properly defend.
Today, the floor was empty save the instructor from yesterday, Agent Tolliver, and me. The instructor was looking at a clipboard with intent eyes and straight posture; he must've been in the army or something before working here, from the way his back was pin straight and the way he held himself. I couldn't remember his name.
"Sparring today," the instructor said in way of greeting, without looking up. Agent Tolliver went to sit in one of the chairs on the side of the gym and pulled out his phone. I couldn't tell if he was typing an important email or playing a game, honestly.
I nodded and wondered if I'd be able to defend better than I had yesterday.
I wasn't.
The instructor didn't hold back as much as he had yesterday. We started without much preparation, after he told me to stretch, and then we just…sparred. It was painfully clear that he was much, much better than me, especially with how out of it I was. I also wasn't nearly as fit as I'd been before the sepsis, before the major depression…I could barely keep up with defending, let alone attack.
He landed several hits that ached, and I knew I'd be bruised to hell and back by the time we finished. Twelve minutes in and I was struggling, so when the instructor landed a solid kick in my stomach, I went down hard.
I landed on all fours, one arm curling protectively around my stomach as I wheezed, tears forming in my eyes when I couldn't get a solid breath. I flinched after a couple seconds on the ground, fully expecting the hits to continue, but they didn't.
I looked up hesitantly, still gasping, to see the instructor look down at me. He was breathing hard, but he was struggling like I was. There was something reluctant in his eyes.
He gave me a few more seconds before he said, "Get up. In the field, they won't wait on you."
I felt the urge to say I know, but I knew if that got back to Fischer this beating would seem like a massage, so I didn't say anything. I heaved myself to my feet with a dull cough, wiping at my bloody nose and raising my arms.
I wanted to go home.
We finished half an hour later, and by the time we were done, I felt like tenderized meat. Every inch of me hurt, and I wondered with distant horror if this would be the schedule every day until I left for the mission.
I lay on the mat with an arm over my eyes, wheezing breaths around lungs that felt like they were collapsing. The instructor was noting something on a clipboard, but I couldn't pay him any more mind than surface-level awareness as I made an effort to draw deep breaths, pained and distant.
"We're done sparring," he said after a few seconds, and he surprised me by offering a hand to help me up. My ribs felt like splinters, but I'd checked them, and I didn't feel anything broken or cracked. "Your foundation is obviously solid, but your reaction time is slow. I'm going to recommend some reactive training with our VR system for the next week or so, alright?"
I hesitated, unsure if I should correct him. "You mean…after I get back?"
He paused, raising an eyebrow. "Back from where? Aren't you on lockdown?"
I opened my mouth to respond that no, I had a mission in three days, but suddenly, Agent Tolliver was there. "Are we done here?"
The instructor cast him a look that I'd seen on Ben a couple times—guarded suspicion. "Yes. I'm recommending some reaction training on the VR system—"
"You can put it in your report for Agent Fischer," Tolliver said dismissively, taking my elbow and dragging me behind him without a word. It took everything in my not to wrench my arm away on principle. "Thanks for your time."
The instructor didn't say anything. I didn't have to look back to feel his eyes on me all the way to the elevator.
…
Wolf wanted to drop kick the insurance agent in Snake's hospital room.
First of all, the son of a bitch had been here for an hour and a half asking the most inane questions, and none of them seemed even remotely relevant. Wolf had said the moment he walked in that there wasn't any reason to even question him, because the car was Lion's, not Snake's, and that Snake had just had fucking surgery to set his leg and he needed to be resting.
Didn't matter. Agent stayed. He looked like he had fucking straw hair with the squarest glasses Wolf had ever seen, in a gray, drab suit.
Wolf sat beside Snake with his arms crossed, watching the squirrely man scribble on a clipboard. "And you're sure that Daniel hadn't been drinking?"
"Positive," Snake said slowly, words slightly slurred with exhaustion. His friend's eyes were drooping more with every second, and he wanted to kick this dumbarse out immediately. "We'd been together…for a while before that. He hadn't had anythin' to drink, and neither…had I."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "Well, thank you again for doing this. We'd normally question the driver, but given the circumstances…"
"It's alright," Snake said placidly.
"How many more questions are there? He really needs to rest," Wolf said firmly before the agent could say anything.
"Well, I believe we can call it a day," the agent said with a plastic smile, filing his clipboard away in his briefcase and latching it shut. "Thank you again for your time, Lewis. I'm sure I'll see you again soon. For any additional procedures or questions, I mean."
Oh, good. More of this dumbarse.
The insurance agent nodded, and Cobra opened the door to let him out; Owl was at the café getting some coffee for the two of them.
"He was weird," Cobra said, and Wolf thought if the bloody silent man had spoken up just to say that, maybe he wasn't imagining things.
"Bloody talkative, too," Wolf muttered. "Okay, now nothing's stopping you, so go to sleep."
Snake smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Sir, yes, sir."
"Shut up. Less talking, more sleeping."
He was out like a light in seconds.
After a lot of arguing and a bit of shouting, Eagle and Fox had gone back to a hotel room with Bear to get some sleep. Tiger was with Lion. Wolf's mom was at her hotel room, too—she'd been in the room all day, and it was nearing night now, the sun sinking out beyond the horizon. Wolf probably needed to sleep, too, but he'd caught a couple hours in the armchair today, so he was still alright.
He grabbed a muffin from the complementary snacks in the lobby, but he didn't have much of an appetite. He went to check on Lion.
Wolf had never been philosophical, but he thought that this helplessness would become a madness.
He'd never felt so fucking useless in his entire life. All he could do was sit with Snake—his bloody brother, for God's sake, and listen as he tried to hide the sounds of pain, even with the medication. Wolf could only be a companion for Fox, who was too angry to be any use, and Eagle, who was feeling the effects of all this—and to get his fertility results at the same time? It was fucked up, that.
And Bear. Bear was the youngest—besides Alex—between the two units, and though he had just as much experience, youth—as they'd fucking seen—was a killer by itself. Wolf didn't have to be in his immediate unit to know that he wasn't handling all this well. The sunken eyes and pale face said it all. His father had come into town, so Wolf was glad he'd have some extra support.
Wolf had a feeling Tiger was handling everything as well as he was, which was not at all.
He confirmed this when he walked into Lion's hospital room, nodding to Shiba and Hawk as he did so. Tiger was slumped in the recliner, staring at the wall, and his entire body was tense.
"How is he?" Wolf asked in way of greeting, tossing him the muffin. He'd decided on the way over he didn't want it.
Tiger glanced at him, unwrapping the muffin with stiff fingers. "No change. Doctors have mostly lifted sedation, but he's not showing any more signs of consciousness."
Wolf knew enough about medical training to know that was not good.
It was one thing to remain in a medically induced coma to allow the body to heal, but a regular coma was hard to come back from. Wolf's stomach twisted.
There would be no coming back from this—not for any of them—if Lion died.
"Oh," he said, at a loss.
Tiger nodded, taking a bite of the muffin.
They sat in silence, thick like blood and desperation, until the nurse came in to change Lion's IV line.
Wolf hoped the Sergeant was having more luck than they were, because that was their only hope, at this point.
…
It was lucky that Mac did their best work under pressure, because there was a shit ton of it.
Mac had been working on hacking MI6 for three days straight, and they were pretty sure that they were now immune to caffeine, because they'd chugged about four cups of coffee in the last hour, and it wasn't doing anything. They'd already used their entire stash of Adderall (which wasn't much, but it should've done something) and were running on fumes and the fear of failure.
Because after Bear's story, how could they stop? MI6 was bloody bent backwards if they thought Mac was going to give them a single leg to stand on after what they'd done.
Fuckin' brutal, it was. To put a wee boyo in a warzone and expect anything more than trauma. But they'd done it, and apparently it had worked a little too well.
Mac had been tasked with finding any evidence of their use of Alex Rider and compiling it as evidence. Well, they'd been given simpler tasks for sure, but they'd had harder assignments, too.
Still, cracking MI6 was turning out to be a right challenge, and it was takin' a fuckin' donkey's years.
Mac sat down at his desk with a mug in one hand and an upper in the other, swallowing it with a mouthful of coffee. They knew that was a little more than unhealthy, but these were desperate times.
Mac couldn't imagine. When they were 14, they were bunkin' off with their mates and spray-painting tunnels by torch, messing around on the free computers at the library, or bothering their sister at university…not saving the bloodied world from a damn nuke or hotel asteroid (?). They still didn't quite get that one.
Mac didn't know how the lad had gotten himself into such a fucking mess, but Mac knew they could only help on the tech side of things, and it sounded like their friends were a little desperate for some leads. Even Efrem had called to ask Mac how things were going, which meant it was damn serious.
Mac surveyed his set up. They had four separate computers running code on the MI6 outer firewall, looking for any backdoors or security flaws they could sneak in through, but it was an intelligence agency—they weren't cutting any corners on security. Mac wondered if it would take them weeks to get in—they wouldn't be surprised.
That was why Mac was absolutely flabbergasted when someone sent them a private message on a secure messaging site that, when they decided to investigate because they didn't even have a bloody account on there, discovered a single message—"Maybe this will help"—and a link.
Curious and unwilling to stifle it, Mac clicked the link.
They were inside MI6 ten minutes later.
Mac was unashamed to say that they spent the first five minutes of their excursion into MI6's inner system staring blankly at their computers with their jaw hanging open, wondering who on God's green waterlogged planet had sent the message, how they'd gotten it, and why.
The handle read user348795&$36smith and did not answer Mac's questions in the slightest.
Still, Mac wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. They'd investigate the handle later, of course, but right now, they needed to find some evidence.
It didn't take them long, but they had a feeling they weren't supposed to find this.
It was a video clip of a boy that fit Bear's description in an interrogation room. For a while, he just sat there, staring at the table, and Mac distantly thought that they would've lost their mind sitting so long with nothing to do. Then the man came in with a stack of files.
Two minutes later, Mac was sick to their stomach watching the boy held face-first against the metal table, then shrinking into a corner with eyes like a cornered animal, and Mac knew they'd found something.
They didn't want to find it, didn't want to see it, but they'd found something.
He called Bear.
…
Matthias disposed of the uncomfortable wig and changed from the suit into his regular coat and sweater in the petrol station bathroom before returning to his rental car, stowing the briefcase in the backseat.
Lewis was worse than he'd imagined, and the knowledge made his blood positively boil.
His friend. His only, first friend—broken in that damn bed, bruised like an oil painting and broken like cracked sidewalk. And the fucking ogre next to him—he supposed that was James san Luca, Lewis's shadow. It was obvious they care about each other quite a bit. Matthias wondered if that was going to be a hindrance when he returned Lewis to his place at Matthias' side.
Oh, well. He'd take care of it if it came to that.
He began the drive back to the airport, where his plane was waiting to return him to Paris. SCORPIA's current headquarters were located in one of the sealed-off areas in the catacombs. The bones were slightly off-putting, but the privacy the area afforded was quite worth it.
He called Romera on the way there. "Any update?" He asked in Spanish.
"Yes," his assistant said, rifling through her papers over the line. "We've traced the driver of the car that struck Lewis to fit a Jacob Platt, but we're almost positive that's an alias. We're working on tracing any known associates of that pseudonym and any intelligence employers now."
"Focus on MI5, MI6, the SAS, and the CIA," he said, positive the car accident was more than that—it had been a tool to manipulate Alex Rider. He knew it in his bones. "MI6 most of all. I want a report tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," she said, and he hung up the line.
It was a meager step. He needed a name. He needed someone to blame that would be more than a pawn. He needed the chess master, and when he had him, Matthias would destroy him.
He smiled wryly, thinking of the tirade that awaited him. That was, if he survived the volatile Miss Rothman's wrath. He'd missed a meeting for this, after all.
It would always be worth it for his own goals.
Speaking of goals, he supposed he should send someone to keep an eye on Alex Rider during his next mission. He couldn't wait to see how the boy performed after everything—would he prove himself a drowning child, or the spy that everyone revered so highly?
Matthias loved a good bet. He couldn't wait to see the end.
…
I spent the next two days locked in my room, given no instructions but to review the files they gave me for the next mission.
It would be in Russia. I was going in undercover at a shipment facility outside of Yekaterinburg suspected of smuggling drugs, parts for nuclear weapons, and on occasion, people. They hired young adults for most of their hard labor—it was disguised as a program to give opportunities to struggling youths, or youths who needed reform, and was open to children fourteen years and older. They provided food, housing, and recreational facilities in exchange for thirty hours of work and twenty hours of schooling per week.
In reality, intel had gathered that the reason for hiring children was that they asked fewer questions and were easier to manipulate, especially where illicit products were concerned. Those with promise were groomed to become actual employees when they graduated from compulsory schooling or moved to the program fulltime, and the return rate was startling.
Intel had gathered that a nuclear weapon would be passing through this shipment facility to be broken down into parts by experts and packaged and shipped to several other locations. This way, several people could bring them together at the detonation site, construct the bomb, leave it, and detonate it when they were a safe distance away. I didn't know where it was supposed to go, only that it was going to be easier and safer to ship it that way than to ship it whole.
My job was to observe and report. There was no strict timeline for the bomb's arrival—only that it would be there sometime in the next three weeks—and until then, I would gather evidence on other crimes and any information about destinations for the illegal products that I could. Then, when I had visual confirmation of the bomb, MI6 would send two teams—one extraction team for me and one infiltration team to secure the bomb and overtake the warehouse.
I'd be going in as sixteen-year-old Alexei Aslanov. I had a troubled past, with my mother killed in childbirth and my father killed in mafia violence in Moscow. I'd gone to live with an uncle who'd committed suicide and then in an orphanage, where I was known for picking fights with other children and misbehaving. The final straw was when I had tried to steal from a convenience store and had been beaten by the manager and storeowner when discovered; the orphanage directors were concerned for my safety and decided this was the best option. I was in desperate need of a disciplined, strict environment with a suitable routine.
I almost scoffed.
I spent two days reading over the files and memorizing my background and all the associated facts, as well as my responsibilities. It was boring, in a way, and I pushed away the panic that edged at my mind without movement to distract myself. I supposed I would rather have this than the sparring—I ached. I was really sore. I wondered if they'd intended for me to show up as bruised as I was. I supposed I could hide it under the clothes I'd be wearing—Russia was bloody cold, after all, so I'd be in layers—and there wasn't much bruising on my face.
I set the files aside on the nightstand when I was sure I'd memorized everything and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
I wondered how Snake's leg was. If he'd had surgery yet. I hoped he had, and that he was healing well. Was Wolf mad at me? I didn't think so, and we really had come quite far since Brecon Beacons, but I couldn't be sure. I'd bet he was worried too, though. I wondered if Eagle was still cracking jokes. I hoped so—they needed something to cheer them up. I wondered if Fox was okay. How angry would he be, if I saw him again? I bet he'd yell at me. I'd let him yell at me forever if it meant I got to see him.
I wondered how Bear was—if his dad being there was helping. I hoped he was handling things a little better. I wondered if Tiger was taking on the position of leader while Lion was out of commission.
I wondered if Lion had woken up yet.
I wished I'd gotten to say goodbye properly. I wished I'd gotten to see Jessie one more time, or Jonah. I wondered how Evie was handling everything—how much did she know?
I felt horribly, utterly isolated in this poisonous room. It was sucking life from me.
I didn't want to go on this mission. I didn't want to fear for my life every second again.
But I didn't have a choice. I didn't have choices.
I blinked as I heard the sound of the door buzz, indicating that someone had used their keycard to get access. Agent Tolliver, Fischer, and Blunt walked in, and I sat up on the bed, shoulders tense.
"At least have the respect to stand up when we come in," Fischer said, narrowing his eyes.
I wondered if he'd ever learned that respect was earned, but I didn't feel like being hit, so I just stood up.
"Your transport is here," Blunt said, checking something on his phone. "It'll take a day or so to transport you to the facility, so you'll be leaving in the next hour. Have you memorized everything?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. What will you answer to from now on?"
I hesitated, then said, "Alexei Aslanov."
"Answer faster," Fischer said. "That is how you get killed."
I don't need you to tell me that, I thought wryly, but I swallowed the words down.
Fischer was staring at my face, but it was different from the intimidation he'd used before. I looked down, a little uncomfortable by how he was scrutinizing me so closely.
"What have you been doing in sparring?" Fischer said indignantly, turning to Tolliver. I didn't know if he was talking to him or me, so I stayed quiet; I didn't think I could answer, anyway. What was he looking for? "He's barely bruised."
Barely? I felt like a bloody speed bump. I supposed it didn't show on my face, though.
"They sparred for two days. You'll have to ask Grisham if you want to know more," Tolliver said with a shrug, unconcerned with Fischer's piercing eyes.
I began to realize why sparring felt more like a beatdown, and why the instructor—Grisham—had seemed so guilty. I supposed they'd told him to intentionally bruise me, to corroborate the story that the beating was the final straw that put me in the program.
I had to swallow the laugh, and it hurt.
How far would they go before there was nothing left of me? I was being eroded with every word spoken, every moment passing. I felt like a statue ground to dust.
"This will not fucking work if he goes like that," Fischer said, turning back to me. He took a step forward, and I assumed he was going to ask me something, so I didn't think anything was coming, and didn't have time to dodge the fist.
The hit was hard. It sent me to the ground, stunned and dizzy, half of my face absolutely throbbing. My vision in my left eye blurred as translucent green and black orbs filled my vision, and the hinge of my jaw spasmed. I'd landed on my elbows, and I reached up with shaking fingers to touch tender flesh, the touch sending tears to my eyes. God, it bloody hurt.
I looked up, prepared to ask what the fuck or why or something, bloody something because why would he fucking do that when I hadn't done anything, but I was met with his fist again.
His last hit had landed on my eye; this one landed on my cheekbone on the same side, and I was sure my face was broken. I was sure. I cried out in pain and surprise and fucking fear as I hit the ground again. Instinct took over on the second hit, and I knew nothing more than that I wasn't safe. I dragged myself frantically back until I was against the wall, shielding my head from any more hits, but none followed.
My head swam, but through the ringing in my ears, I heard, "I'm done, get off the bloody floor. If your story is going to hold any weight you need to look the part. It was not personal."
It felt personal. It felt painful. My face was like a hotplate with shards of glass—it burned on the inside, and I knew something must have been damaged. My eye ached—would it swell? I was sure it would. My vision was still blurry.
Hesitantly, swaying as my vision bobbed, I stood, holding the bedframe for support.
"Put this on," Tolliver said, tossing a shopping bag in my direction. I couldn't catch it, still disoriented, and it fell at my feet. "You have five minutes."
Fischer and Tolliver both left the room, but Blunt paused in the doorway. I swayed as I looked at him, too dizzy, too scared to be angry, but I felt something like desperation leak into my eyes.
"Make us proud," he said, and for the first time in my life, I saw him smile.
It was a slimy, evil thing, and it chilled my rattling bones.
He left, and the door closed, and I stood there with a bag at my feet, swaying.
Brecon Beacons was not hell. It was paradise compared to this.
This…this was hell. Utter, inescapable, pure hell.
A/N: I am concerned for myself after having produced this.
Sorry for the long hiatus. Hope you enjoyed!
As always, much love for all my wonderful reviewers! They really do make me so happy: fuzzyshungee, CakeMania225, lauren, , jeps, IshaIsha666, Ff1892, Guest, BBCLove, Lira, Guest, KMER79, Guest, Eva Haller, and VINAI!
Guest (can't wait…): Thank you!
Guest (We are still getting…): Yep! I just took a break :)
Lira: I did! Aw thank you so much! Hahaha no worries! Yeah Evie is a strawberry blond, so it's basically like light red or dark yellow with red hints? Something like that. I don't remember what I said for Anyssa
Guest (the plot thickens): Hahaha yes! You're welcome lol. I love Efrem too! And the Sarge haha. BRO ME TOO HONESTLY
Lauren: Hey! They're all going to be on the same one. Thanks!
Thank you all for your continued support!
