Thanks for the reviews/follows/favorites/views/etc. Happy/Merry Christmas! Well, depending on your culture/religion, anyways. Tell me if the italics made it confusing.

Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

O-o-O-o-O

Alex closed his eyes.

It was a mess- the whole thing, from start to finish.

He had failed; making one mistake after the other.

"You can't make mistakes, Alex. You can't afford to make mistakes- there are too many consequences."

"Yes, Ian," he mumbled.

Ian had been an odd combination of a realist and a perfectionist- always pushing Alex to do his best, to his full potential, but only to what he was capable of.

"Alex- that was an easy punch to block," Ian scolded.

His twelve-year-old nephew gasped for breath on the mat, doubled over from the blow to the solar plexus. "Sorry, Ian."

"It's not me you should be apologizing to, what have I told you about guarding your solar plexus?" Ian snapped. "In a real fight, you would have lost."

Alex looked blankly at him. The fights he lost were almost always against older students, or the teachers- and of course, the sparring he did with his uncle in their basement. Plus, at the dojo, there was always protective padding, and constant supervision by the instructors- the only brutal ones were against Ian, the fights without the protective padding, where he was pushed harder than ever.

The older spy sighed, straightening up, automatically signalling the temporary break. "Alex, if you lose against someone, you are at their mercy- what if they wanted to kill you? You would have been dead."

Alex wouldn't know for another two years that his uncle's seemingly paranoia had kept the spy alive- the same kind of thinking he would later grow accustomed to, and rely on.

"All mistakes have consequences, Alex," Ian said quietly.

"But it was an accident!" Alex blurted out, immediately regretting it.

"Accidents are mistakes that need to be fixed."

"Accidents are mistakes that need to be fixed," Alex muttered under his breath, repeating what Ian had told him years previously.

Where had he gone wrong?

"Where did you go wrong, Alex?" The teenager imagined Ian asking critically.

"The credit card withdraw," Alex answered automatically, remembering.

He had been overconfident with covering his tracks online- he should have known that the MI6 technicians would be monitoring the accounts carefully, building hidden security features he wouldn't know about. And of course, he hadn't thought of the pound-euro transaction.

Alex almost smiled as he walked off plane.

France- Paris, to be exact.

He had a new identity, plenty of money to start him out- he just needed to switch out the pounds for euros.

The spy smoothly went to the nearest machine. Ian had taught him how to make currency transactions at an early age, when they had their many trips and vacations.

Alex frowned as the machine ate up the notes, but didn't spit out the euros in exchange. What the-? He had just seen it work for the person in front of him.

The boy closed his eyes briefly. The pounds- MI6 had marked them. Which meant- he paled. They could track him.

The realization sunk in; it was only one of the many mistakes that sent his escape plan crashing to its knees.

Alex immediately left the airport, constantly checking and double-checking the pedestrians around him.

The machine hadn't given him any euros in return- but he still had his new bank account he could use. That was still untraceable.

The spy quickly found out that the nearest ATM rejected the bank account- apparently, someone had frozen it.

He then realized the horrendous situation he was in.

Alex shook his head, clearing his thoughts.

"And your other mistakes?" Ian pointed out.

"I know, I know," the teen grumbled. "The first step in fixing an accident is finding your mistake," he quoted. "A mistake- something that I know is false."

"And?"

"The security cameras," Alex breathed. "Not only were they able to track where I was- they knew what I looked like."

Even with the disguise... it hadn't been enough.

"So we're looking for a redhead?"

Alan Blunt gazed hard at the lead agent in charge of finding Alex Rider. "No- Alex wouldn't have been careless enough to leave around traces of red hair dye, or the remnants of the package, either."

The agent frowned in confusion. "But the Airline records say Alex Rider landed in New York an hour ago- a redheaded boy."

Blunt chuckled dryly. "Call your agents off- our technicians said that Alex made two airline ticket purchases- he wouldn't have been stupid enough to buy the ticket in his own name."

The agent blushed, flustered. "Of course, sir." He hesitated. "So we're not looking for a redhead or an Alex Rider?"

Alan Blunt looked amused. "No, you're not. Tell your agents to take another look at the security footage at the airport- look for a man that approached the boy."

"A man? I thought you said-" the agent cut off abruptly, giving up the lost cause.

Blunt thought for a moment, quickly analyzing the situation, and calculating the result. "Yes, a man- most likely looking in his early twenties, who approached a boy a few minutes before the plane took off. He would have avoided the cameras as best he could- most likely shielding his face, and went to a restroom right after- possibly an employee's," he mused. "The flight he was on- I believe the technicians confirmed it was France- would have left no later than thirty minutes after the the New York plane departed..."

Alex should have realized not only would they have been able to track him, but they would have recognized him as well- not to mention how much he had underestimated Blunt being able to figure things out so quickly.

"Even with the security footage, they wouldn't have been able to get a good enough description of your disguise," Ian pointed out.

The teen froze. Of course. He hadn't realized- but he should have, should have realized MI6 were monitoring him closely- and were following him.

"What the hell are you doing?!" R yelled as the MI6 agents dragged her into the black Sudan, arms restrained behind her, a bag over her head. "What are you arresting me on- are there any charges?!"

Fifteen minutes later, she was glaring at the Director of MI6, in a room Alex always dreaded being in.

"I believe you have something of mine," Alan Blunt began, immediately taking control.

"What the hell are you talking about?" R snapped. "I've never seen you before in my life."

"You make fake passports for a living," Blunt drawled on. "I believe a boy by the name of Travis visited you several days ago, yes?"

"What about him?"

"I just need one simple thing- a copy of the passport you sold him."

Alex closed his eyes.

He could imagine the rest- having been in that situation too many times to count.

Blunt would blackmail and manipulate until he got what he want- he just hoped Blunt would leave R out of it, he didn't want any more people caught in the mess he made.

"What else did you forget?"

"That Blunt has connections," he said quietly. "And I never stood a chance."

Alex had been feeling more like a trapped animal each day- he didn't regret deciding to lay low in the city, there was more cover there.

But... it hadn't been very pleasant living in the back alleys for four days, scrambling to steal food each day, always on the lookout for the gendarmerie nationale, the French Police- he hadn't realized Blunt could set up the manhunt for him so fast, he thought he would have at least been able to have some time to find a safe place to lay low before MI6 agents began sniffing around- but Blunt had foreign connections- something he hadn't counted on.

"We're looking for this boy, have you seen him?"

Alex slowly backed into the shadows, recognizing the clipped, British accent- three agents were showing a picture to the other street urchins.

By the time one of them had turned around, the spy was gone.

Alex inwardly shuddered. After that, it hadn't taken long for them to catch up to him.

"We got him!"

"Get him under control- we have orders to restrain him!"

Pain splintered across his forehead as he struggled against the arms that held him down; his arms were wrenched behind his back, cold steel clicking into place, and someone else forced him to his knees-

He gasped for air, and suddenly he couldn't see because there was a blindfold, and-

O-o-O-o-O

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The teen forced in another shuddering breath, taking in the familiar (dreaded) grey walls, the blank room.

Then, a voice spoke- cold and hard, powerful and controlling.

"Welcome back, Alex; it's good to see you again."

O-o-O-o-O

You cannot afford to make mistakes- they will always have drastic consequences.

O-o-O-o-O

Sowhatdoyathink?