Everyone was surprised when Alex started working for Scorpia, few more so than the SAS camp he was sent to be guarded at a year later.. But they notice something off - is it really Alex? And if not, where is the real one, and what's happened to him?
NOTE: Not Crocodile Tears compliant, seeing as I haven't been lucky enough to get a copy yet. -sob-
Also, yes, this is just the prologue, so don't worry, the writing improves and the chapters are longer. Now on with the story!
I do not own Alex Rider, but perhaps if I bribe Horowitz with some cookies?
Getting Back Up
An Alex Rider story
Prologue - Or, How We Came To the Start
The fearful man looked up at his superior, his glasses glinting in the grim light, wide fearful eyes tracking the taller, pacing man. He has a small name-tag - unusual to see in a criminal base - identifying him as Frederick Green.
"So it is definitely ready?" The other asks in a soft voice very gently, a slight smile on his lips. Despite this, all those around him flinch in fear, and Frederick, shaking violently whispers, "Yes sir." Zeljan Kurst smiles even wider - he always viewed laughing as your plans come to fruition as a bit too cliche - and commends the quivering man, a silver scorpion shimmering on the wall behind him.
"Yes, very good. I am glad to see that you did it so quickly, and so well." Kurst suddenly stops pacing and tilts his head as if just struck by a thought. Of course, he wasn't - anything he is doing right now is premeditated, and everyone around him knows it. He continues, "You see, how do I know you won't betray us? Us it on us? Warn others? Sell it to others?"
"No! P-please, I wouldn't! I never would! Never!"
"Ah yes, but how can we be sure? We can't, and loose ends must be tied up. Scorpia cannot afford anymore. So, I'm sure you understand.." His soft voice is barely heard over the increasingly hysterical protests of Frederick Green. It does him no good. With a nod, the screaming man is tied to a chair, and the other Scorpia members leave the room, leaving two men, a pile of round objects, and a radio.
Kurst smiles again - but this time it is twisted, sadistic, feral. "Now.." he hisses, "Why are you screaming already? I haven't even started yet!" Slowly, the man turns on the radio, and Mozart fills the room, as Kurst places electrodes on Frederick.
Screams and music echo out of the meeting room of the Scorpia leader. No one comes to look in - it is a common occurrence.
Scorpia never forgets, Scorpia never forgives.
And somewhere, a fourteen year old boy lay in bed, tossing and turning from nightmares (though they are more memories then dreams), the rising sun illuminating his face. And the next day, when he is surrounded by armed men in an alleyway, he knows that he is far from being forgotten.
x-x-x-x-x
There is a fine line between good, and bad - if those two classifications even truly exist. The world is painted in shades of gray, there is no black and white. But some people must tell themselves that there is black and white, and that they are the white, so that they can keep going, and not see that they have crossed the line into the dark grays.
Such is the case here, where a man sits, also in a meeting room, face just as coldly impersonal as Zeljan Kurst. But there is a difference. He is the head of MI6.
The good guys.
"You are certain? Alex Rider has defected again to Scorpia?"
"Yes," answers an upset looking woman, an untouched peppermint in her hand.
Alan Blunt tilts his head, and narrows his eyes. "Something is not right here."
"Does it really matter? He is gone now. Alan, we must have pushed him too far."
Jack Starbright silently watches the two, knowing that for all her kindness, Mrs. Jones is just as over the line as Mr. Blunt, and would like nothing more to attack them, to avenge the boy that she knew. She wishes to also believe that there is something off about the situation, but she can't.
Is it really so hard to picture someone preferring to sell their soul, rather than have it torn away?