Talionyzero: Don't listen to prone2dementia; she did wonderfully in her own scene no matter the length, and she made my scene twice as good as it was originally. We don't all have the same amount of free time; frankly I'm amazed with our schedules and own writing that this chapter didn't take much longer. Now read on and enjoy...
prone2dementia: Blame me for the shortness of this chapter. My scene (the first one) was only two pages and Tyz's (bless her) was five. Also, blame me for typos. I had the job of editing (in which I took too much liberty and imposed myself all over Tyz's writing), but I was fatigued and probably didn't catch them all. So. If you see mistakes, tell me! Otherwise, enjoy the chapter. :)
Chapter Two
Apparitions were never pleasant experiences for Harry. International ones were even less so. As soon as the squeezing, tumbling, turning sensations broke, his green eyes snapped open to survey the surroundings, just as his calloused hands snapped out to seek purchase against cool brick.
He was in an alleyway, leaning heavily on the outer wall of a charming, little pub. At his side, the steep incline of burnt-sienna brick blocked out a good portion of the night sky, and somewhere near him, the scent of garbage made itself known. With equal speed, the absence of his partner also made itself known, and Harry glanced to and fro, searching for the familiar presence of a certain redhead.
"Ron?" he whispered, his breath fogging in the chilled evening air.
No reply.
Worriedly, he called again, "Ron?"
As if in answer, there was a resounding pop!
"Ron!"
Said Auror spun around, his movements almost like those of a drunken dance. "Sorry, mate." Uncomfortable fingers tugged at a rumpled shirt, evidencing how unaccustomed he was to muggle clothing. "Landed a few streets over by accident."
"Not a problem." Harry meant it, for he was foreign to Geneva too. "We should get going."
"Yes, the faster we can find the maniac, the faster we can get out of here."
Both men felt the pressure of their not-very-legal status. After all, Switzerland had not wanted interference in her affairs, and thusly condemned the agents of other countries. But England was desperate to rescind her treacherous son. Therefore, Minister Shacklebolt had gathered Ron and Harry in secret, informing them of their task.
It was supposed to be simple: capture and arrest.
Yet the simplest tasks often presented the most obstacles.
For one, the pair did not know the definite location of their target, Canton Brutus. Of course, they were aware that he would be in the brothel, but where in the brothel was the question. For another, they knew almost nothing about Brutus's background. He was clever and he was dangerous, but how much of a threat would he pose? What tactics would they need to use against him?
Trial and error appeared to be their best option, and plans based on chance never turned out right.
With that reality overshadowing them, they walked without talking, not in the mood to converse. Their silence was balanced, however, by the chatter and traffic that surrounded them. Although the streets were not packed, people constantly streamed back and forth, in the midst of their own business. No one paid any attention to the two men, strolling down the pavement with their heads down. They were just faces in a crowd.
Nearer to their destination, the masses thinned, and the voices were replaced by a loquacious wind.
"Rather cold for May, don't you think?" Ron's ears were bitten raw by the breeze.
Harry merely shrugged, running his eyes over the brothel that loomed just one block away. If he had not recognized the building's purpose, it would have looked rather attractive—somewhat like an old mansion spliced with a modern club. However, he was well versed in its reason for existence: prostitution. He was also well versed in his reason for being here: work.
"C'mon," he said. "Let's use a Notice-Me-Not and then see if we can find a back entrance."
That plan necessitated a quick spell, followed by a journey through a second alleyway. Once more, Harry was assaulted by odors and shadows, and his nose wrinkled in disgust as he picked his way over damp stone. Beside him, Ron kept a steady tempo, all the while pulling at his clothes.
Two left turns and a stretch of straighter passage led them to their intended destination, a metal door off the side of the brothel. Bounding up two precipitous steps before it, Harry fiddled with the handle, only to find it locked.
"Alohomora?" suggested Ron.
Hesitant, Harry bit his lip and then pulled his wand out to cast, "Alohomora."
To both their surprise, the door opened with a soft click.
Harry muttered, "What type of wizard locks his door the muggle way?"
"As long as it helps us, I won't ask questions." Ginger locks fell across Ron's blue eyes as he shook his head bemusedly.
Still not satisfied but willing to stow his inquiry for later, Harry pressed gentle hands against cool metal, and the door swung open with ease.
Within, there was a dark corridor, illuminated only by dim torches. The flames resided in brackets, spaced regularly along the wall, and between them, shadows lorded over the cold expanse.
"Just a tad eerie, huh?"
Harry nodded his agreement, straining to hear sounds beyond the crackling fires, his quiet breathing, and Ron's question.
His effort was to no avail. "I wonder where the people are."
"Probably farther in."
They continued down the hall, and Harry found himself unnerved by the lack of security, both magical and muggle. Using a facile charm to muffle his voice, he asked, "Do you think we should start with reconnaissance, or dive right in?"
Ron snorted. "We're Gryffindors. Of course we'll dive right in."
"If you say so."
-AR HP-
"Jonah, are you fine with me leaving you alone?" Agent Malone asked, careful to use the name Jonah instead of Alex, in case the room was bugged.
"I'm not five, Mum." Alex turned to look at the woman pretending to be both his mother and, unfortunately for her, a hooker. For Alex, that meant people who held a grudge against him at his new school had some basis to their insults. Oh, happy day.
"Are you sure about that, honey? Because I'm pretty sure that someone older than five can wash their own clothes."
Alex rolled his eyes. At times, it seemed that Agent Malone was too good at her job, or that she should have been an improv actress. She certainly had the looks—perhaps that was why she was chosen to play a high-class hooker?
There was a comfortable pause as the agent finished adjusting her makeup in a tiny mirror hanging on the wall juxtaposed to the TV. The tiny apartment was only about as big as a medium hotel suite; the people that owned the 'worker quarters' apparently didn't consider hookers, high class though they might be, worthy enough of a bigger apartment. Not that any of the higher paid employees stayed in the worker complex; they were only allowed for the ones with several young children and a couple short on money.
"So, honey, while I'm out making a living to better your future—" A classic Mom guilt trip, if Tom was to be believed, "—why don't you go meet the other kids." It wasn't a question but an order—another Mom thing, of course.
"But all of the other kids around are babies," Alex grumbled. Translation: He was going to do as was advised and go check out the higher-up's offices around the back of the brothel. He was somewhat sleepy after a day around the new school, meeting all of the new kids and taking tests in each class to assess his level of schooling; but if he could get this over with, at least he would get back to his real life sooner. At least, Malone was good for one other thing besides being a great spy: she didn't underestimate him like certain predecessors did.
"Not all of them, Jon. Now, no more complaints from you or I won't leave you any money for takeout."
Like the lazy teenager that he was supposed to be playing, Alex huffed and fell backwards onto the old couch. The springs croaked upon impact, but neither of the agents paid it any mind—the couch was at least free of lice.
"Doesn't matter. I'm already used to not eating, from all the days that you try to cook dinner. One more night without food won't make a difference."
"Fine," Malone said shortly. She approached him and, using his navy blue t-shirt to her advantage, grasped the sleeves of the shirt to drag him up. Swallowing him in a hug, she melodramatically whispered, "Take care, hon. I know this is all a bit sudden, but you'll adapt. We all have hardships in life, and this is just one more bump on the road."
Inconspicuously, she shoved a piece of paper down the sleeve of his shirt as he pushed her away.
"Shut up! You don't know anything about how hard it is for me to leave all my friends. Just because you decided to be a hooker instead of a fast food restaurant worker, doesn't mean that I'm going to make it easy for you!"
Malone nodded sorrowfully and turned to the door. On her way out, she paused and placed a hand on the chipped wood doorway to steady herself.
"I'm sorry, baby," she said, "but this really is for the best."
Snorting derisively for show, the young spy turned and headed toward the bathroom. Once inside, he smoothly retrieved the piece of paper from his sleeve.
Smither's device has a map, on which I placed homing mechanisms. They indicate the suspicious rooms. Using the game that Smithers gave you, go to these rooms, plant the bugs, and search them. I'd wager that you have from 7 to 11 to do this task carefully. Don't get caught.
Alex ripped the paper into a multitude of tiny pieces and then threw them away, watching them flutter into the toilet before flushing. As he did so, he decided that, yes, Agent Malone was a thousand times better than Troy or Carter because she treated him like an equal. He had met Malone a mere six hours before they had to act as mother and son, and during that time, she had neglected to mention whether or not she had accessed his file. Yet he suspected that she had.
He shook away the thoughts and focused on his task. Right. So, about three hours if he wanted to be safe.
Sighing, Alex headed for his bedroom closet. A few minutes later, he emerged with a black ski hat pulled low over his face, unconsciously fixing his flattened hair. Idly, he flicked through the song list of the iPhone Smithers had given him, special edition, as expected. Not that an ordinary person could gather that; all of the songs and games were completely legitimate, and at first glance, there were no special features. However, if a person were to rate three certain songs one star, the special features would activate. The certain artist of the certain songs reminded Alex, yet again, of Smither's particular brand of humor.
Poker Face, wasn't it? he thought absently.
Once outside, he jogged down five steps of stairs to the base of the stairs and then finally clicked the 'one star' rating. Suddenly, the iPhone converted to a black GPS screen with five green dots blinking upon it. They were all close by, mostly coming from the nearby office building directly behind the brothel. Keeping an eye out for the women's armed guards and for the few high-class men in charge, he proceeded to the nearest office entrance.
The building wasn't locked well. Very little needed to be guarded, and the things that did were mostly financial records and health papers to ensure none of the employers had any transmittable diseases.
But he wouldn't need to bug those rooms, for the documents were not what Alex had to track. No, the rooms that needed bugging were the rooms that served no obvious intention, therefore making them easier to be used for a cult's occasional meeting. If they were like any of the other fanatics that Alex had met, they'd probably be using it to make plans about terrorizing small African towns.
The first room, indicated by his device's green blinker, was mostly empty and easily accessible. He stole through the shadows, and placed a bug behind one metal cabinet before proceeding to the next room. It was larger, with chairs drawn up to a table and a computer out. Was there a meeting prepared?
As soon as the thought passed through Alex's mind, he heard feet pounding outside the door. He froze.
Nothing good could come of this.
A split second later, Alex was diving for a desk, pulling a chair after him in a feeble attempt to hide himself. Just seconds later, the door opened.
Voices drifted in, preceding the patter of feet. Breathing as quietly as possible, Alex listened to the ongoing conversation, spoken harshly in a language that he couldn't comprehend. Then, turning his gaze to the carpet, he spied three pairs of feet. Two were clad in brown Oxfam's and the other wore blackened slippers, surrounded by a lack of soft material.
Upon seeing them, he tried to bunch up into a ball without making a sound. What was going on?
Sweat beaded upon Alex's brow as he waited. And waited.
Possessed by déjà vu in the presence of the scheming madmen, Alex tried to stay silent. It felt like hours were flying by as they conducted a heated business discussion, but was in more likelihood half an hour.
And then, there was a shriek, foreign in words yet English in syllables. No ulterior motive seemed to have prompted it:
"Avada Kedavra!"
A body dropped awkwardly, accompanied by a loud thump.
Alex stopped breathing altogether. Why couldn't I have had one case without death? he thought desperately.
Above him, he could hear a torrent of pleading; the second man had dropped to his knees and was begging in the alien tongue for—for mercy, forgiveness, a second chance.
Blinding white sparks flashed through the air.
The pleading man screamed, and helplessly curious, Alex craned his head just a bit to see what was going on. Fortunately for him, a cloaked man stepped into his limited vision, gripping the source of the flashes. It was a...a stick of wood?
More frantic this time, the man's appeals seemed to reflect the knowledge that he wouldn't have much longer. As he turned on his knees to face the cloaked man, Alex scrambled back into his corner, praying frantically that he wasn't caught.
The cloaked man spoke firmly, for exactly three minutes; Alex counted the seconds individually.
Apparently, mercy was granted, for the other stood up amidst a flurry of thanks. Together, the two left the room.
Shakily, Alex climbed out from under the desk and chair. Across the floor, a body laid spread-eagle. Although his face was contorted by surprise, Alex recognized him as a perfect match for one of the Cult members. Swallowing heavily, he secured one of Smithers bugs behind the desk and then scurried out of the room.
A few minute later found the next two rooms secured. Eyes flickering back and forth, he continued to inch forward, even though he wanted nothing more than to run away, back to Agent Malone.
But he wouldn't.
Something was being hidden in this place, something worthy of murder, and Alex would find out what it was.
Which meant that he needed to bug all of the rooms, and quickly at that.
"Mreoaw…"
He jumped, turning around as he did, but immediately relaxed. The sound had come from a mere cat, black as night with golden yellow eyes to suit. How it had gotten in, Alex had no idea, but as long it stayed quiet, he didn't care.
"Shh, come on, stay quiet kitty," Alex whispered. He didn't have a lot of experience with cats, and was simply parroting what he had seen on TV. It was working, though, and that was all that mattered. Content that the cat would stay silent, he turned back around to inch forward some more.
Pop!
Alex whipped around, his back pressed against the wall. What...? It was impossible!
A man now stood where the cat had been moments before. He was garbed in clothing similar to a hijab or a Halloween wizard cloak.
"Who are you?" the man demanded.
Alex gulped, trying the classic, "Me no Eenglesh?"
"Please don't try that on me. How did you get in here?"
"...I – I'm just looking for a restroom."
"I don't think that is the case," said the man, calling out to a security guard that must have arrived while Alex was distracted. The guard carried a gun, and Alex realized that it was the first weapon he had seen here.
Before he could wonder about it, a jab of pain in his head made him double over. It felt like someone was twisting the contents of his brain with a scalpel.
"Hands up," the cloaked man ordered gruffly, and Alex did so, standing up slowly.
The guard was behind him now, shoving the gun at the back of his skull. "Let's go into the other room to work this out, deal?"
It was a rhetorical question, but Alex—being Alex—couldn't resist answering.
"No deal, actually. I think I still have a chance at finding the million dollar case."
A laugh. "Very good, but not quite good enough."
Leading the procession back into the murder-tainted room, the robed man raised a piece of wood.
"I gather that you are a muggle, which means all I really need do is change your memory," the man mused. "But after going through your mind, I don't think that will help. Goodbye, Alex Rider. You had a good run while it lasted, though."
Alex's light brown eyes widened immensely, and he tried to back away but was hampered by the gun at his head. Frantically, he shoved his arms back, trying to elbow the guy who held him in place
It didn't work.
The man holding him was muscular, trained. Alex's second grade Dan wasn't going to help him here.
Because everything had changed.
An hour ago, he would have scoffed if someone said he would be frightened by the sight of a grown man in sapphire robes, pointing an eleven-inch maple stick. But that was an hour ago. A lifetime ago, in some ways.
What Alex felt was not the normal shock that came with a mission, that came with seeing a sadistic madman, casually plotting the deaths of thousands of people. No, this was worse. This was the shock that came with seeing the impossible.
Almost pityingly, the robed man regarded Alex. The boy's demise would not matter in the long run; if anything, it would probably be a quicker, painless death for him.
"Avada Keda—"