Alex's plane set down in Washington DC early the next morning. He was accompanied by the woman who had saved his life at the stadium. She was acting as his "mother" and his body guard. He found it almost disconcerting, the strange increase of security. Previously he'd never been accompanied in his travel. MI6 rarely saw a need to give him a partner. He'd previously found it irritating, wishing they'd show a bit more concern for his health when they sent him into potentially fatal situations. Now he almost wished they hadn't.

His "mother" lead the way to a shuttle that took them to a slightly run down bed and breakfast, Catherine Ingram's Attic. Alex snorted. They were always so obvious with their acronyms. When they reached their rooms his "mother" wouldn't even let him set foot through the doors until she had searched the room and scanned it for bugs. She gave him the okay and he pulled off the itchy black wig he'd been forced into. He couldn't stop thinking that SCORPIA had better disguises.

Waiting on a bedside table was a stack of business cards for the b&b. The top one was flipped over and on the back, in bold, black writing, were the words "Room 327. 12:00." It was 6:00 am, he had 9 hours. Plenty of time to take a nap.

His spy mother sat in a chair at an angle from the window. She remained silent and Alex found himself grateful for that. She didn't want to be there, he didn't want her there. It was better if they just ignored each other. He set his watch for 11:45 and laid down on the lumpy hotel mattress. You would think the CIA would provide better accommodations.

He drifted off quickly, but slept fitfully. His mind was full of chaotic images and sounds. Jack and Tom at the game. The crack of a gunshot. There was pain in his chest, he was dying. Faces flashed past, friends and enemies alike. Yassen Gregoravich. Nile. Ash. Belinda Troy and Tom Turner. Herod Sayle. They were dead. All of them. And it was his fault. Blood covered his hands, soaked into his clothes. He was drowning in it. It filled his ears, his mouth, his eyes. He choked, drowning in blood. It was thick, warm and salty. The bodies floated while he sank. He couldn't swim. He saw red, the people cried out to him, screaming, begging to be saved. All he could do was choke, swallowing the tangy liquid. He choked and coughed, coughed and choked, the screams and blood filling his ears. And the beeping, oh the beeping. The ticking of a bomb. He had to stop it, had to stop others from dying, but the beeping continued on and on, never ending, as Alex sank deeper and deeper into darkness.

Alex sat up. His watch continued to beep in a high pitched whine. Smither's sure knew how to make them, he thought wryly, rolling out of bed. When the large inventor had given him the watch he had smiled largely, like a kid in a toy store- though the person who could confuse Smithers with a child was sad indeed. After pointing out all the nifty gadgets he had installed in the watch including a GPS tracker/emergency beacon that he could activate at will, and a mirrored surface that he could use to check corners, he had proudly shown him how it was a fully functioning watch, complete with abnormally annoying alarm.

After taking five minutes to wake up and fix his appearance he turned to his "mother" who was still guarding the window. Had she moved at all, the entire time he was asleep?

He cleared his throat and her gaze flickered over him before returning to the window. "I'm going to a meeting."

He jumped when she stood up quickly. "Uh, you don't have to come with me," he said uncomfortably. Why couldn't she just let him be for two minutes? "I mean," he gestured at the room around him, with its tacky furniture and pristine interior, "Look at where we are. Catherine Ingram's Attic? We're in friendly territory. I think I'm safe."

The woman shook her head. Alex didn't like the tell-tale gleam in her eye. "Mrs. Jones gave me strict instructions. I'm to stay with you until you leave for your mission."

His stomach sank. "What does that mean exactly?"

"I'm not supposed to let you out of my sight." Her face was blank, her eyes emotionless. Did all spies end up like this, after years of letting MI6 control their lives? Ian hadn't been like this, but Ian had been special, unlike any other spy Alex had met. Mr. Blunt and Mrs. Jones were certainly the epitome of being detached, unfeeling. He shuddered. He had to get out before his life was consumed like this woman's had been.

In an attempt to lift the oppressive air he asked, "I am still allowed to have privacy in the lou, correct?"

No reaction whatsoever.

"Right," he muttered, not sure if he wanted her to hear or not. "This is going to be fun."