In Pieces

by pingnova

"You're a spy? You're sixteen!" Sam's teeth clicked when his jaw snapped shut. "No way. You're pulling my leg." He chuckled. "Good one." Alex looked resigned and amused. "You're the one with the monster conspiracy theory and I'm the one joking?"

2. Chapter 2: Luck?

Sorry this doesn't have italics or linebreaks. FFN keeps taking them out. If you want to see this fic with all its formatting, look it up on AO3. Enjoy!

Sam's mouth dried out. "What about Dean?"

"Well, first off. He's alive. And he's after us," Mick added wryly. "He's looking for you. Been quite the pain in the arse, actually."

Sam just stared. He figured he should feel shocked or awed, but all he registered was bubbling anger in his gut. "You expect me to believe that? From you? What, are you going to offer to give me his location if I do something for you?"

Mick sighed mournfully. "Nothing like that, Sam, though I don't hold it against you for thinking that, considering what we've put you through. Last I heard, he was in Los Angeles, with your angel, Castiel, and…" He hesitated.

"And?" Sam prompted harshly. If Mick was going to lie, he should at least tell it completely.

"And he was with Mary Winchester."

Sam could feel the blank stares from Snake, Wolf, and Alex. They'd lost the thread of conversation long ago. Sam just barked a laugh.

"My mother? Who died thirty years ago?" Now he knew he was lying. It was a lot to believe that Dean had somehow cheated death again, it was another thing entirely for a long dead Winchester to come back too.

Mick reached into another pocket in his blazer, and everyone realized at once that he had somehow freed his wrists from the handcuffs. Three guns were instantly on him and Sam was standing, chair thrown back, grabbing Mick's wrist. Mick allowed the restraint, keeping eye contact with Sam, and slowly drew papers out of the pocket. Sam let go of the wrist and snatched the papers away, quickly absorbing the black and white surveillance stills.

Two of the people were unmistakably Cas and a very upright Dean. He glanced at the date at the bottom of the footage. It was only a couple days ago. The third person was shorter than Dean, with light shoulder length hair. She had a hand on Dean's cheek and Dean was looking into her face. She was turned away from the camera, so Sam couldn't make out her features, but it didn't matter either way. He didn't have a single memory of his mother. Not like Dean had. He wouldn't have been able to pick her out of a lineup.

"One last question," Sam said, careful not to reveal the tremor in his voice. "How did you find us?"

"Simple location spell," Mick said behind Sam's back. He was once more secured to the chair. "Had more than enough of Alex's blood to find him. You, on the other hand, have got some serious protection going on. Spell had no idea where you were. It was luck you two were together, really."

The reunion wasn't yet physical, but spiritually and psychologically, Sam shed the weight of his grief. Altered by his captivity, his eyes were still dark, skin still overly-pale, face gaunt from the energy his body demanded fighting the interrogation drugs. When the gruff voice first spoke over Alex's cellphone, Sam collapsed onto the sofa, eyes wide and unseeing. He looked like a man who prepared speeches for kicks, but all that hissed out of his mouth was a tiny, "Dean."

Alex knew he'd be okay and left him in the livingroom to reunite with his brother.

"That was textbook cruel," he said once he joined Wolf and Snake in the kitchen again. Mick Davies blinked innocently, cuffed to the chair. "Letting a man believe his brother was dead for a month."

"Well, he knows now. You might want to watch him, it wasn't just the drugs blocking his memory of the interrogations. Grief played a big part. It might come back to him now."

Snake nodded thoughtfully. He was cautious of any information Mick gave them and didn't know why he would give them warning when they'd been the ones to hurt Sam in the first place, but he would file that information away for later.

Alex took Sam's former seat. He had questions, some that Sam had offered limited answers to and some that hadn't yet seen the light of day. It went beyond his captivity, into the world the British Men of Letters tried to eradicate. Monsters, demons, magic. How did the cuffs on his ankles immobilize only part of his legs? How did his blood lead Mick to the safehouse?

A staccato series of knocks on the front door cut into his chance to ask. Wolf let in Eagle and Fox, who paused to examine Mick warily before putting their grocery bags on the counter. While Snake filled them in, Alex conferenced with Wolf.

"We can't hold him here. Prisoners require a lot of maintenance," Wolf said. "We're not equipped for that."

"And that's why we won't hold him," Alex replied.

Wolf fingered his gun, looking the wrong side of confused. "You want to let him go?"

"You know," Mick butt in, "I'd be more than happy to speak with you all again. Especially you, Alex, about Kendricks. And Sam, he'd only have to call."

Wolf gestured at Mick incredulously. "And you just believe him when he says he wouldn't just go into hiding?"

Mick pursed his lips in disapproval. "I've been nothing but completely honest with all of you, despite the handcuffs and guns. I'm trying to right the British Men of Letters' mistake. I can't do that if I won't even talk to you." His hands clasped in his lap and Alex sighed in exasperation. He'd slipped the cuffs again.

"How do you keep doing that?" Snake wondered.

Mick smiled pleasantly and placed a finger over his lips in a shushing motion. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

"Oh, now Harry Potter is real?" Wolf scoffed. "I was having a hard time with monsters, but magic?"

"If there are magic creatures, why not magic abilities?" Alex asked.

Wolf looked at him askance and muttered, "You would believe this."

Alex smoothed a crease in the Kendricks invitation again. He knew Wolf thought he was young and naϊve, but Alex had seen some pretty unbelievable things in his time. It wasn't so much that he believed in magic that he was at peace with the thought of it. There must be a logical progression from the government sends a child spy to space to magic is real. At least, he hoped there was.

"Alex." Mick drew his attention. "Any question you have I can answer, but at Kendricks you can really learn about it all. Every curiosity would be satisfied."

Alex gave off an exaggerated air of contemplation, mind already made up. There was no question that the British Men of Letters were a threat, to both his new acquaintance (friend?) Sam Winchester and his own family: Jack and K-Unit, who were implicated simply by their close connection to Alex. No doubt his friends, Tom and Sabina, and maybe his classmates, would be targets as well.

He had done more with less. He could take them out from the inside, to ensure everyone's safety, not just his own.

And he had to admit, he was curious to see those parts of the world that were hidden to him. Magic and monsters. That information could be useful, or at least fun to learn. He deserved to indulge.

Alex folded the letter back into the envelope. "Invitation accepted."

Alex's bedroom in Chelsea was dusty. First, it was because of long holidays with his uncle, that he learned after his death were really either Ian's missions or Alex's training. Then, it was Alex being roped into operations for MI6. Between the operations, Alex got himself involved in his own missions. He never intentionally left for long enough to let the dust settle, it was just how the events played out.

Jack never touched his room when he was gone. She puttered around the rest of the house, managing to live up to her original role as a housekeeper, but his space was like a time capsule, documenting life before MI6. There were trophies from football and academics, posters of famous athletes, a shelf of novels.

Family photos: his parents at the altar, he and his uncle in skis, the backs of Jack and Toms heads as they ate ice cream on the beach. K-Unit squeezed into a sofa on a dare. His godfather Ash would be there too, if he hadn't tried to kill Alex but a month ago.

The top of his dresser was filled with the knick knacks he collected on vacations with Ian. A pink flamingo figure from somewhere warm, a globe filled with a flurry of plastic snow, a miniature Eiffel tower… Despite the dust, the souvenirs otherwise appeared new, where his posters and books had begun to fade from the constant light of the open curtains.

Alex pulled the curtains closed, inhaling more dust than he would prefer. It disturbed him that his room was untouched after his latest escapades. It reminded him of the rooms of dead children, preserved by parents who could convince themselves for a moment that their loved one wasn't really gone. To think of Jack, waiting for him, making sure everything was just as he left it, hoping he wasn't dead. It made him ill.

This wasn't who he was anymore. He wasn't following the Chelsea football club and excelling in maths. He wasn't carelessly enjoying adrenalin with his ordinary uncle. He wasn't even simply K-Unit's Cub, MI6's secret child operative.

He folded the last T-shirt into his duffle, zipping it closed and hefting the strap onto his shoulder. That left the Kendricks Academy invitation on his bedspread, which he noted was now slightly rumpled, with a clear space in the thin layer of dust over the quilt.

Jack appeared in the doorway. When he'd done the same, showing up at the door early in the morning after riding back from the safehouse all night, she'd glowed with joy, just happy he was back. He'd snuffed that joy out showing her the invitation and telling her he'd accepted.

Now, she folded her arms. "You're sure about these guys, Alex? They sound like a cult." Or Scorpia, she didn't say. She accepted his decision, but that didn't mean she agreed with it. Alex couldn't argue much, given his historical membership to nutty secret societies.

He told her almost everything. Everything she needed to know, anyway. She didn't need to know what he was really going to do at Kendricks.

"I'm sure," Alex said.

"You'll call me?"

A nod.

Jack shifted uncomfortably in the threshold of his room, then lunged at him, arms outstretched. "Oh, Alex. You've just come back. I'll miss you."

Alex dropped the duffle again to return Jack's embrace, burying his nose in her shoulder. She smelled like the detergent they used, a "fresh air" flowery scent. She smelled like home.

"It'll be okay, Jack. I'll be back before you know it. And you'll see me for holidays," he assured. Then he admitted, "I've missed you too. I wish I didn't have to go so soon."

They'd already talked about this, that Alex wanted to begin at Kendricks right away, instead of waiting for the next semester. He told her that then he would graduate quicker, be back home faster. It was a nice thought.

Really, he hoped the sooner he jumped into this world of secret supernatural librarians, the faster he could find their weakness, and the less likely he would die.

Wolf picked him up and was silent the entire car ride to the meetup point with Mick. The school's physical location wasn't a total secret, but only approved vehicles were allowed within miles of it, so Mick had volunteered to drop Alex off.

Hunched over the steering wheel, frustration rolled off Wolf in waves. He had accepted Alex's decision even less than Jack, probably because he had first-hand witness to Alex's condition immediately post-British Men of Letters escape.

They pulled up at the meeting point, a petrol station in the middle of nowhere with just one car parked in the lot, Mick leaning against the hood. Before Alex got out, Wolf grabbed his shoulder, dropping something in his hand.

Alex folded it open to look. It was a small multitool: scissors, knife, pliers, screwdriver, even lockpicks.

"Watch out for yourself," Wolf grunted, trying and failing to appear distanced from the situation. Alex pocketed the tool and went for a hug, comforted by Wolf's responding squeeze. Maybe the man was gruff, but he cared.

The ride with Mick was quiet as well. Unlike Wolf's tense silence, he had the radio on to a classics station. He tried to initiate conversation a few times about Alex's personal life and what he was looking forward to at Kendricks, but seemed to get the message with Alex's monosyllabic responses. They arrived shortly and Alex only felt a little bad that Mick seemed disappointed that he wouldn't engage.

Kendricks Academy was impressive. Surrounded on all sides by yellowing empty farmland, it towered over trees and nearby smaller structures. The Gothic architecture lended itself to pillars and eaves and ornate moulding carved into weather worn gray stone.

A boy with dusky curls and complexion met him at the large double doors and introduced himself as Iain.

"I'm head boy." He gestured and relieved Alex of his duffle. "Come on, I'll show you to your room."

The architecture continued inside, like the school had frozen in time since it had been built. The newest additions seemed to be polished wood floors and a few screens displaying student successes.

"Spell Club" said one screen, with a photograph of eight students gathered around a bronze bowl. If Alex wasn't positive he was awake and sane, that would have been the last straw.

Iain wove a path through the school, pointing out key features and explaining Kendricks facts along the way. Offices, including the headmaster's. Classrooms. Labs. The school motto is Latin for "United Strength Is Stronger." Alex nodded and hummed throughout the tour, but kept his observations to himself. Like that fact that they had a bad motto.

The halls to the boys and girls dorms branched in opposite directions, with the faculty and staff dorms straight down another hallway. They mounted the stairs and Iain knocked on the first door, opening it when no one answered.

The room had five four-poster beds, each with a worn wooden chest of drawers, a night stand, and a trunk.

Iain gestured to an empty bed. "That one's yours. I'm across the room."

Alex dropped his duffle on the bed. While he wasn't thrilled to share a room with four other boys, the bed itself was large a plush. He took a heavy seat to test the springs and fought a tiny smile. It was springier than a trampoline and he could imagine generations of students bouncing on it.

Several robes and uniforms were folded at the end of the bed. Alex picked one up to examine it and held it against his chest to make sure it fit, although he had no idea how a robe was supposed to fit.

"If they aren't the right size," Iain said from his own bed, "I can get you new ones."

"Thanks," Alex told the boy, folding the robe again. He'd change later.

In the dining room, Alex helped himself to a healthy portion of roast chicken and mashed potatoes, struggling to keep the wide sleeves of his new robe clear of any food. Iain waved at him from a small table by the windows and Alex joined him. A girl slightly older than himself made herself comfortable at the table seconds after Alex sat and smiled at him widely.

"Alex, this is Sophia," Iain introduced. "Sophia, Alex. She's a charity case like you."

Alex shook her hand and shot Iain a look. "Charity case?"

"There are two types of students here: legacies and charity cases. If your parents or your grandparents weren't Men of Letters, then you're a charity case. Someone vouched for you to get you into Kendricks."

Sophia nodded in agreement. "Charity cases can be looked down upon, so make sure you're doing your best. It reflects on all of us."

"I don't think you have to worry about that," Alex said, relieved that he wouldn't be around long enough to become too attached. Betraying the British Men of Letters to destruction would probably be the worst possible reflection on the lowest class of students.

"Good." Sophia grinned, then gestured with her fork. "Now, tell us about yourself."

Alex had breakfast, lunch, and dinner with Sophia and Iain every day. He decided to go with a watered down version of his own story: dead parents, dead family all around. Family by choice in his housekeeper and military unit. Iain properly oohed and aahed to hear that he worked for the military, to balance out Sophia's mild approval.

Sophia's entire family had been wiped out by vampires while abroad and she'd been contacted by the British Men of Letters upon returning to Britain orphaned and newly introduced to monsters. She was a perfect student and had proclivities towards poisons and interrogation substances. Alex wasn't shocked to discover that Lady Antonia Bevell had recommended Sophia to the headmaster, and that under the Lady's tutelage, had developed an experimental drug with djinn venom.

Iain was a legacy with an "unremarkable story" (his own words). He didn't elaborate and Alex felt a little disgruntled that the candidness he and Sophia had shown wasn't returned, though Sophia seemed supremely unbothered by Iain's quick dismissal of his own history. Alex supposed they'd known each other longer. And Alex hadn't exactly let them know the full version of his heavily edited background. He made no mention of what exactly he did for the military.

Though he was definitely feeling the Harry Potter vibes, his phone worked just fine within the walls of Kendricks. There was no magic interference with electronics. The first and second days he called Jack twice, once at lunch to chat and once before bed to say goodnight. After that they settled into a routine of calling every evening.

Alex was careful about what he told her. He told her that he learned what died when stabbed with silver and that the Dewey decimal system was incompatible with the British Men of Letters' particular type of classification system. He didn't tell her when his spells classmate Gerald was killed with poison, making Sophia the top of the class. Alex hid his disdain better than Iain, who had taken to eating meals at another table afterwards.

He was enrolled in five classes. There were a variety of offensive weapons and martial arts trainings mixed in with study on paranormal phenomena with a heavy emphasis on research, data collection, and archival skills. One class, which was simply titled "The Code," he shared with children as young as eight years old. He was the oldest in the class by years, but he didn't doubt by the looks in the children's eyes that some of them had aged beyond their years. Like him, they'd seen too much too soon.

The Code was dedicated wholly to hours of instruction on the British Men of Letters' standards. There were the typical rules of operation, including non-fraternization policies and amendments made in secrecy statutes for immediate family, but the further the class progressed, the more severe and arcane the Code got.

On page thirty: At any cost, the order of your superior is the Code.

Alex could let a few overly harsh policies stew, but not all of them.

On page five: He who ends a Man of Letters must meet his own end.

"So a British Man of Letters dies on the operating table. Do you kill the surgeon?"

"First we would investigate to eliminate every possibility that the operation was sabotaged," Mrs. Rutherford said with far too much patience, "then, yes, we would eliminate the surgeon."

Alex persisted despite the stares from his classmates. "What if a Man commits suicide by tube? Does the driver deserve to pay for something he couldn't control?"

"It's not about deserving anything, Alex. It's just balance. It's just the Code."

Balance was a key theme in the Code's text. It insisted that everything had to be equivalent, as the light and the dark. Historically, this had the unintended effect of ensuring that everything the British Men of Letters did financially was mostly legit, sourcing their budget from wealthy legacy families and pooling earnings internationally from investments. They didn't obtain things through force or deceit unless it absolutely couldn't be bought. Alex's next few years at the Academy were preemptively paid for, he even got a handsome stipend, and that was already more money than he knew what to do with.

But revenge killing wasn't balance. It was just an eye for an eye; sometimes a completely blameless eye. It was anything but balanced.

"Alex," Mrs. Rutherford called after him as he gathered his things to leave. Alex approached her desk at the head of the room. He had already decided that whatever punishment there was for questioning the Code, it was worth it in the end. Turned out he didn't need to worry. "You're excused from your next class," she continued. "There's a Man outside to see you."

Or at least, he hoped that he didn't need to worry about what the Man wanted.

A familiar tailored suit met him outside the classroom. The hallway was nearly empty of students, since most had already made for their next lesson or found something better to do than stand around in a corridor, staring at Alex and Mick as they greeted each other.

"Alex." Mick clapped him on the shoulder with his signature cheerful smile. "Walk with me."

Mick led them on a winding path through Kendricks. Alex thought that he might be lost, until he caught the look on his face. The Man was reminiscing. They passed the hallway to the dorms and Mick chuckled.

"I remember my roommates getting kicked out of the girls dorm at three in the morning," he said fondly.

"You weren't caught with them?" Alex couldn't help but ask.

"Of course not, I was studying! I was a perfectly responsible student."

An obedient student who probably followed the Code precisely. Alex didn't doubt that Mick would kill the surgeon and the tube driver. He pursed his lips. "What do you want from me, Mick?"

The Man pulled the door to a terrace overlooking the courtyard and ushered Alex to the dainty table there. It had only two wrought iron folding chairs, equally fragile, exactly like what one would find at a high class cafe that didn't want its customers to get too comfortable. Alex took a seat, noting a plate of biscuits and a pitcher of something hot already laid out for them. Mick helped himself to the pitcher—the steam smelled of strong black tea—and offered some to Alex, who declined, but swiped a biscuit. Students milled about below, pointing to pages in old tomes or gesticulating wildly. Miles away from whatever world Alex had entered.

Mick took a sip of his tea, curling his hands around the cup in appreciation. "How have you been doing, Alex?"

"I'm sure you have my school records," Alex replied.

Mick inclined his head. "But how are you settling in? Teachers' notes from your lessons only give me so much detail. Made any friends? Joined any extracurriculars?"

Alex thought of Sophia and Iain. "Friends: yes, I suppose. No clubs."

"No clubs? Do you spend all of your free time doing schoolwork?"

Alex aimed his dryest look at the Man. "I spend a lot of my free time convincing Jack that I haven't completely lost my mind and joined a cult."

Mick nodded, smiling slightly. "Your American housekeeper. You call her?"

Alex broke the biscuit in his hand, watching the crack rend the sweet treat in two. "Every day." When he looked up again, Mick was sympathetic.

"Homesick?"

"I'm sure you didn't come here to ask me personal questions."

The sympathy faded from Mick's eyes as he placed his tea on the table. His face reflected excitement and joy, but Alex could tell by the terseness of his words that he was wary. "Of course, I have great news for you, Alex. I just—" He swept his gaze across the students in the courtyard below, grasping for a thought, then sighed, letting it go. "It's nothing.

"Your teachers think that you entered Kendricks at a far higher level than your placement tests could capture and by my recommendation and by approval by the old men, you'll be placed in the field. With me, and… a few other Men that you might be familiar with." He looked into his tea. "You have to understand, Alex, I tried convincing them to give you a different placement, but they felt that given your history and skills, that this was the best place for you."

"What's the placement?" Alex would withhold judgement until he knew exactly what he was dealing with. He found he wasn't so torn up about getting back into the field, even under a different organization, but given what he knew about the British Men of Letters' operations from his classes, particularly The Code with Mrs. Rutherford, and that he apparently knew some of the Men in the placement, he felt that some caution was not unwarranted.

"The American Operation, in the States, with Lady Antonia Bevell, Arthur Ketch, and I as the Heads of Operation."

Lady Bevell. His torturer. The biscuit crumbled in his fingers, but he gave no other outward signs of emotion. Somehow, she'd gone from enemy to ally. He would have to work side by side with her. Mick watched him, looking uncharacteristically worried.

"I tried telling them that you have a history with Lady Bevell, but they—"

"I am capable of working with her," Alex interrupted. "I wish I could say she was the first person bent on my destruction who later ended up on the same side as me."

Mick was quiet, ignoring his quickly cooling tea. He worked a careful smile back onto his face and his whole demeanor transformed back into the cheerful man who first met Alex outside the classroom. Alex supposed his acting skills, in combination with his natural outgoing demeanor, made him a great PR person, and were probably the reason he was Head of the American Operation. When he wasn't escorting prisoners to hours of fruitless pain, he was companionable, pleasant company. Something he'd need if he was going to convince American hunters to work with him, if they were anything like Sam Winchester had been.

"Good, then it's decided." He gulped down the cold tea and gestured for Alex to take another cookie. The first was just crumbs on the ground, Alex had never even eaten it, but he took a second just to please Mick. "You leave with me tomorrow."

"What about classes?" Alex had only just begun most of them. He'd been looking forward to uninterrupted study, for once in the past couple years.

"They'll send you with the work for the academic courses, and I'm assured by your physical education teachers that you are well versed enough in martial arts and weapons enough to pass your exams."

Alex chewed the biscuit slowly. Mick had been speaking personally with his teachers and was taking him on a trip to America. This was more personal than professional, but he couldn't argue with a chance to become involved in the British Men of Letters regular operations earlier. He decided to push his luck. "Why me, Mick?"

Mick blinked. "Why you, what?"

"This is more than another Man would do for a student. I broke into headquarters and you helped torture me, probably would have killed me, and I escaped, injuring you and other Men. Yet, here you are, plying me with biscuits and tea, offering me work on another continent, a position I'm sure many more qualified and dedicated than me would be honored to accept. Why me?"

Mick smiled, lopsided, revealing perfect white teeth that matched his perfect tailored suit. "I wasn't a legacy when I entered Kendricks. I remember being a charity case, like you. I was young and foolish, orphaned and just barely scraping by. I stole from a Man and when they caught me, instead of punishment, they offered me a chance, a way to make something of myself and my natural skills. Sound familiar?"

Alex nodded. It was his interactions with the British Men of Letters to a T. Mick stood, smile turned soft, and Alex followed him back into Kendricks.

"I think you've got potential and it would be a waste to antagonize you when we could be teaching you, making you more formidable than you already are." Mick stopped at the hallway to the dorms with a slight wave. "I'll see you tomorrow, Alex."

Alex waved back.

The American Operation was based out of a former factory in Illinois, in order to be central to any further operations in the States. An otherwise empty warehouse housed a corrugated shipping container complex assembled like a scattered stack of shoeboxes that managed to look simultaneously alien and horrendously mismatched.

"Don't worry about the looks," Mick assured him as he scanned his hand for entry. "We're roughing it until we secure a site for a proper headquarters. The shipping containers are a temporary thing. But these hand scanners are top of the line. We'll get you in the database and you'll get access for yourself."

Mick left him outside Alex's room in the dormitories with a promise to return within the hour for a complete tour. Alex sized up the door. It was several white metallic panels bolted and welded together, with the Men of Letters seal and the number twelve stenciled in with black spray paint. He knocked, just in case he had a roommate, and when no response was forthcoming, slid the door open and let himself in.

The room was one shipping container. Utilitarian cot with crisp white sheets and one pillow. A dresser, a night table, and a hanging mirror. A modern, lightweight desk with a metal swivel chair. An open closet system of shelves and rods, upon which were hung or folded the suits and accessories he was expected to wear. In contrast to the worn classic wood-and-stone Kendricks aesthetics, everything was paint white and steel gray. It reminded him of his cell in the British Men of Letters London headquarters. Except this time, he was here as one of them, not an outsider breaking in.

How the tables turned.

Alex dropped his duffle on the mattress and took down one of the suits, admiring the fabric and construction. He didn't know as much about them as he probably should, but he thought it must be a two-piece cotton suit with a nice collared button up underneath. Simpler than most of the other Men wore, but he wasn't technically a Man yet, not even graduated from Kendricks, so maybe his clothing signified the distinction.

With admirably little difficulty, he donned the suit and pawed through the shelves of shoes, socks, and ties. Standing at a distance from the mirror on the wall, he allowed a small smile. He looked sharp.

Jack would be trying to get him to pose like a statue for a photo, and Eagle or Ben would be behind her, trying to break his composure with silly faces. The smile dropped off his face when he remembered exactly how far away they were now.

Voices filtered through the thin corrugated metal above the cot. Alex peered out into the hallway and at the room next door. The door opened and before Alex could duck back into his room, Lady Bevell stormed out. Thankfully, she seemed too steamed to notice that Alex was there and took the closest right out of the dorm hallway. Gone hardly before she registered.

Someone stepped up to the open doorway of unit eleven and leaned against the frame, watching where she'd gone. It took a minute for the presence to break through Alex's panic. He'd frozen in the doorway, eyes locked on where she left. Usually, Alex could keep his ease, but the moment he'd seen Lady Bevell his mind went straight back to the knives and fists of his interrogation sessions.

"Hello," the inhabitant of unit eleven said with interest. "You look shaken."

"I've had… experience with Lady Bevell," Alex managed.

The man nodded sagely. "Yes, she's a right psychopath. I'm Ketch, by the way. Arthur Ketch." He held out his hand. Alex took it in a light shake.

"Alex Rider."

"Oh!" Though the way Ketch said it, it sounded like a question. "Mick's little project. I've heard great things about you. I wonder how you'll live up to expectations."

"Just fine, hopefully," Alex said, not liking the Man's tone.

Ketch tightened his hold on Alex's hand when he tried to pull away and leaned in, eyes glinting like a knife turned in the light. "I hear you have a background in special operations. Tell me, Alex, have you ever taken a life?"

It would have been easier if Ketch radiated bloodlust or madness. Instead he just seemed intent, like a snake about to strike. He wasn't a murderer, but an assassin. Alex's mind flashed to another man he once knew like this, a certain Russian who met his end on Air Force One for Alex's sake. Somehow, he didn't think Ketch would have such a legacy.

Alex was saved from answering when Mick rushed by. "We've got a call. We'll have to have your tour later, it's time to help the Winchesters."

Alex shook off Ketch's hand, following the other Man, not missing the flash of irritation on Ketch's face. He hoped he wouldn't have much to do with him during his stay at the compound. "The Winchesters asked for your help?"

Mick flicked across his phone screen as they pounded down the stairs. "Their angel, Castiel, gave me a call. They're in Colorado, Rocky Mountain National Park. No one's seen the brothers Winchester in almost two months, they must be tangled up in something bad to reach out to us. This could be a moment to establish trust."

"Taking advantage of their desperation?" Alex queried.

The Man grinned, a hint of fondness in his voice. "Maybe, Alex. But whatever I can do to sway them, I will. The success of the Operation hinges on them." He tapped on his phone, then slipped it in his pocket. "There's an airfield ten minutes from here. We'll get there in five. We've got a three hour private flight to Colorado and a rental waiting for us at the airport. Ketch will accompany us."

Alex's stomach dropped. So much for his hope. Perhaps no one unsettled him more, except Lady Bevell. Thankfully, the Man met them at the airfield and only tilted his head in acknowledgement of either of them. The plane ride was mostly silent.

None of them knew what they were flying into. It could be a complete bloodbath, could be an active war zone, could just be that one of them needed a car jumped. Castiel hadn't offered much over the phone.

Mick said, "He didn't seem to understand why we would need more convincing than just knowing that the brothers Winchester were in trouble. But angels can be dense like that."

So Alex had to be prepared for anything. He felt like maybe his recent trip to space on Ark Angel might have covered him in the "anything" department. At least, that's what he had hoped before running into Sam Winchester and the supernatural underbelly of the world. Now, his definition of "anything" included things like witches, wendigos, black dogs, ghouls, angels, and demons. God knew what would blow his world this time. He hadn't been at Kendricks long enough to learn about it all.

The ride to the park was equally silent. Nobody spoke a word until a car and two figures appeared on the other side of the windshield.

"Castiel and Mary Winchester," Ketch said pleasantly, observing them from the passenger seat as their rental car slowed. Alex shifted in the backseat, perpetually wary of that tone of voice. It was like a predator sizing up its prey, wondering if one had enough meat on its bones or if two would have to die.

Whatever the situation turned out to be, Alex hoped no one had to die.

They held conference on the side of the empty stretch of road. Mary was rightfully suspicious of them, given that the British Men of Letters had greeted Sam with weeks of torture. Castiel assured her that at the very least, the Men had assisted them in the past, and could once more. Mary was rigid, every line speaking to her unwillingness, but she relented. Desperation was convincing.

They finally learned about the brothers' predicament. They had been apprehended trying to "assassinate" the President of the United States and were now imprisoned at a government black site in the park known as Site 94. It didn't exist, legally. Alex scanned through his sparse American military intelligence contacts, but most were dead or useless. His primary interaction had been the CIA, and being that they concerned themselves with external affairs, Site 94 wouldn't be in their register.

"We don't need to break in, just find them," Mary supplied. "They called us and told us to meet them along this road."

"This is a long stretch of highway," Ketch noted with dry amusement. And he was right. Route 34 was over a thousand miles of asphalt.

"But that's alright," Mick was quick to assure. "We can detect them with heat-sensitive satellite. Just need to borrow one."

Plan agreed upon, Mick set Alex and himself up in the backseat of the rental with a portable computer array. The screens covered their view of the windshield and Ketch sitting in the front seat, tapping his fingers on the wheel while watching the two figures mill about outside their own car. He glanced at Castiel every once in awhile but tracked Mary's every move, like he was trying to puzzle something out. Mick set up the last screen and then all Alex could see was the login dialog for a US government satellite network.

"Observe," Mick said with a smirk, and within minutes of typing and tabbing through several windows running programs in languages Alex could never hope to decode, he had access to the satellite's functions.

With a few commands, he aimed the sensory array at the park. On one screen, the commands scrolled as they were carried out. On another, a green and black matrix mapped out the rough terrain of the park. A few counter-commands popped up, like the technicians in some lab or observatory across the country had noticed the intrusion and were trying to combat it, but whatever programs Mick was running cancelled them out. Mick scanned every mile until he came across a moving yellow-red clump. Scanning a mile ahead revealed two red dots, pursued by the clump.

"That would be our boys. They've got company."

Alex could practically hear Ketch smile, all canine teeth. "Splendid."

It was simple to drive to the meetup point. Sam and Dean reunited with Castiel and Mary, radiating weariness and joy in their muddy gray jumpsuits. Skin sallow and eyes dark, they looked like they hadn't seen the sky in years, when apparently they'd been gone for nearly two months, about as long as Alex had been at Kendricks.

"Alex," Sam said, a little shocked and a little delighted. Everything he said was quiet and subdued, like regular talking volume was too loud. "What are you doing here?"

"He's with us," Mick said before Alex could get a word in. Alex closed his mouth as Sam's shocked expression faded into dull suspicion. The hunter noted Alex's suit and his position beside Mick. No doubt he was remembering the interrogation sessions, the connections they made while imprisoned. All that, and Alex still decided to take up their invitation to join.

Alex wished he could reassure Sam that it was only temporary, that he was just doing it to get what he needed, to make sure he could really stop them if he needed to, but nobody could know that. Not until the end. So he just nodded and didn't smile. Sam could be wary of him, even hate him, if it meant that in the end, the hunter and all others would be safe from the British Men of Letters and all their machinations. Sam nodded back, frowning, and neither said a word to the other.

Sam and Dean had been running all night and just finished a confrontation with the tactical force chasing them.

"We should get," Sam said, gesturing to the getaway cars. "The people we left will call for backup any second."

Ketch rose from his position against the rental. "Uh, you left survivors?"

Sam squinted, like he could understand Ketch differently if only he could see him clearer. But Ketch's intentions were clear.

"A bit… unprofessional," Ketch said.

"We'll handle it," Sam countered, and the Winchester party departed.

Ketch and Mick conversed with their eyes and Mick went for the car, Alex hesitating before trotting along after him. Like a good little puppy, he thought with some bitterness. He was taking charge the next chance he got.

"You know what to do," Mick said to Ketch. "Gear's in the trunk. I'll get back to headquarters to report and send another car for you."

Ketch stripped out of his tailored suit and folded his clothes neatly into the trunk, suiting up again in black tactical gear. Every inch was covered in kevlar and blades, like a thick-skinned spiky porcupine. Ketch nodded once in Alex's direction and marched into the woods, rifle primed.

Alex carefully kept his face dispassionate as Mick calmly drove them away, like images of Ketch slicing arcs of warm blood out of unsuspecting guards weren't dancing through his head.

Alex parked the car outside the building and checked the GPS again. The day-long drive had taken longer than he'd hoped, mostly due to the fact that he kept drifting to the left side of the road, but as long as the address in the compound's records was still accurate, he was in the right place. The American chapterhouse bunker. Sam and Dean Winchester's base.

They took a minute to answer his knock but he supposed two people living in a large facility would. Thankfully, it was Sam that opened the door. He looked better, refreshed, since Alex had last seen him gaunt and worn after his isolation at Site 94. He smiled at the thought of the hunter catching a break for once.

Sam's eyebrows rose in surprise and he leaned out the door to look behind Alex but frowned when he found no one. "Where's Mick?"

"It's just me," Alex said.

"Really?"

"Yes," he said plainly. A little suspicion was warranted, given he'd joined their captors. He didn't hold it against Sam. "Mick isn't invisible behind me. He has other things to do and I thought I'd stop by. I haven't seen you since Site 94."

Sam grimaced at the mention of the government blacksite. Alex didn't know the details, but he figured the American military hadn't taken a perceived attempt at the President's life lightly. It was just Sam's luck he went from British Men of Letters torture to whatever his own government cooked up.

"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Come on in. We're not doing anything right now."

As he descended from the door, Alex noted the American late 40s architecture. The bunker was old, but sturdy. Equipment that easily should have broken down over the last seventy years seemed operational, lit up internally and humming, dials shiny and displays functional. The entryway led into a war room, graced with a giant illuminated map of the world at the center. The map was currently acting as table for some boxes of takeout, empty beer bottles, and piles of paper. They weren't concerned with global warfare like the builders had been.

Sam gestured to a chair beside the table and headed down a hallway, presumably the kitchen. "You want anything?"

"Water," Alex called after him. "Long car drive."

The hunter returned with an open bottle of beer and a glass of water. Alex took the glass gratefully. The car had air conditioning, but that combined with the heat outside still dried up his liquids.

"So, how've you been?" Sam started. "You really went through with it and joined them."

Alex set the glass down carefully. "Yes, I did. It's been going fine. I was at Kendricks for a couple of months before they pulled me out for field work. I'm not even an official Man of Letters yet."

"Guess you're just that good."

Alex thought of Mick reaching out to him and his personal interest in his success. He shrugged off the praise. "Maybe."

The older brother, Dean, strode into the room, eyes glued to his laptop. "Hey Sam," he started to say just as Sam said, "Dean, we have a visitor."

Dean stopped beside his brother, watching Alex. "Mick Junior is here? What does he want?"

"Dean," Sam scolded, but Dean kept going.

"Those cowards sending kids to do their dirty work now?"

"Dean!"

"It's okay," Alex interjected.

"He was held with me, they got to him too, Dean. Cut him some slack. He's fourteen."

Alex resented the thought that his age affected his decisions or warranted him more pity, but he kept his mouth shut about it. "Nice to meet you, Dean."

Dean just grunted. Alex obviously had the delight of meeting the cordial brother first. The older hunter practically tossed his laptop on the table. Without ceremony he announced, "Case in Akron. Animal maulings." Then he left.

Sam watched him go with pursed lips. "Sorry about that, he's touchy since I was kidnapped."

"Understandable," Alex said. "I guess I'm not exactly your friend right now."

Sam turned to Alex with sad eyes. "Of course you're my friend, Alex. Despite the British Men of Letters thing. I mean, if it doesn't work out, if you ever need somewhere to go." He gestured to encompass the bunker. "You know where we are. You got me out of there, you practically reunited me with Dean. You're a good kid. It's the least I could do."

Alex's lips settled into a soft smile. Even when he was out of it during their captivity, Alex had sensed how kind Sam was, underneath all the bravado and grief. To him, it really just came down to helping people. That's why Alex helped him back. There were too many cruel people in the world. It couldn't be without Sam Winchester.

"Thanks," he said simply. Sam's eyes crinkled as he smiled back. Then he leaned back in his chair, propping his feet on the table, and took a swig of beer.

"By the way, you never told me why the British Men of Letters had you. Was it a spy thing?"

Alex chuckled. "No. I told you this a couple times when we were in the cells, but you always forgot." Sam's face fell at the reminder of his blank episodes, but Alex was quick to reassure. "Don't worry about it, I'm always happy to tell you again.

"I broke into their headquarters out of curiosity. I noticed people acting strange outside the building and decided to see what that was about. I thought it would be a drug gang or the mafia, but I got into their computers and it was just old artefacts and recipes." Which later turned out to be magic items and spells, but Alex hadn't known that at the time.

The British Men of Letters London chapterhouse was, ironically, across the street from Royal and General Bank on Liverpool Street, masquerading as a financial company, just like MI6's headquarters. Alex was finding it harder to believe that any company specializing in money was actually what it said it was. Neither organization seemed aware that the other existed right on its doorstep, and Alex would let that go on as long as possible. At the very least for his personal enjoyment, if not to ward off the total collapse of the supernatural and mundane organizations protecting Britain.

"You were just curious," Sam said in a tone of flat disbelief. "You were captured and tortured for a month because you just wanted to see 'what that was about?'"

Alex sipped his water and shrugged with a cheeky grin. "Curiosity killed the cat, is how I think the saying goes."

Sam broke into a laugh. "I think it does."

"You never told me about the Darkness and the sun," Alex countered. "Or is that still top secret?"

"It was never top secret, I just wouldn't give anything to those sons of bitches. No offense."

"None taken." Alex had been doing the exact same thing. If he'd told the truth instead of taking the beatings wordlessly, he would've told them that he wasn't looking for anything, wasn't trying to destroy them, wasn't sent by anyone. But he wanted the bastards to sweat about it.

"And it hurt, at the time," Sam continued. "I thought my brother died to take out the Darkness. She was killing the sun, we had to do something, so Dean was going to blow her up. He didn't, though. Turns out she just needed to talk about it."

"Hold up," Alex interrupted. "The Darkness is a person?"

They settled in for a long discussion.

Hours of explanation about Sam and Dean's adventures later, Sam finished his flat beer. He set the empty bottle on the illuminated glass of the war room table, eyebrows drawn together and gaze averted.

"And all of that, as amazing as it is, it was also the worst. Winchester luck is just the worst case scenario. It would have been bad enough if all I'd been doing all these years was just hunting the small fry, the wendigos and ghouls. I never wanted to be a hunter. I was dragged into it, the decision was made for me before I was old enough to fight it. I was training to kill before I could drive." Sam peered into Alex's eyes. "I'll bet you've got a similar story. I mean, child spy?"

Alex slowly sipped his water, startled by the conversation turning his direction. For the past hour or so, he'd been able to nod and respond to the fantastic tales Sam was spinning. They were absolutely insane—God, the devil, the apocalypse?—but Sam wasn't lying. It was about as insane as manufactured natural disasters and computers filled with poison aimed at schoolchildren. The idea that there were larger forces out there, executing plans bigger than any one person, playing with the lives of millions, if not billions. It wasn't anything new to him.

"My father was a spy for MI6 too. When he was murdered, my uncle raised me to spy, though I didn't know that. I speak six languages. I can parachute, rock climb, dive. I know martial arts. Now, I can navigate nearly any firearm. They didn't ask me to spy—they would take away my only family if I didn't." Alex paused, a little shocked to feel his throat closing up. He drank deeply from his glass and flicked the empty vessel across the table. Sam watched him softly and he almost hated it.

"I don't need pity," he said.

"I don't pity you," Sam replied. "I just— I understand."

Alex remembered Sam, pale as a sheet, just woken from a seizure-induced sleep, refusing. Refusing Alex, his existence, his reality.

"I'm not telling anyone, especially not you," he'd said. "You're, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? You shouldn't be getting mixed up with this, any of it! You're a kid and this is dangerous. And when you do dangerous things as a kid, you get killed."

Sam had feared for he and his brother's lives as children. It must have been a horrible thing to see another child in a similar place.

Sam checked his watch. "You're welcome to stay tonight, or however long you need. It's getting late. We've got a guest room made up."

"Thanks, I'd like that."

Sam showed him to room fifteen and bid him goodnight, making his way down the hall to room twenty one. There had to be at least thirty bedrooms in the bunker. It wasn't hard to imagine that a formidable contingent of Men of Letters had at one point directed all of the States from here. And maybe would again, if Mick succeeded with getting the Winchesters onboard with the American Operation.

Alex's cell buzzed and he answered with a quick, "Hello?"

"Alex, where are you?" Mick's voice said into his ear.

"Mick," he confirmed. "I'm with the Winchesters in their bunker."

"That's a day's drive. Whatever are you doing there?"

Alex turned to his bed, preparing his excuse. "You need Sam and Dean for the American Operation, right? Sam likes me. I decided to capitalize."

"Hm." Mick sounded suspicious but didn't feel the need to voice it. "You should have told me."

"Do I need to tell you everywhere I go?"

"We might have needed you. And I don't think you're old enough to legally drive."

"I'm not legally old enough to do a lot of what I do, Mick. Not going to stop me."

"Alex," Mick sighed, crackling the speaker. "You know that disobedience can be tantamount to betrayal. It's the Code."

Alex rolled his eyes but kept his voice neutral. Code this, Code that. Maybe he had reassured Jack he hadn't joined a cult not for her benefit, but his own. The Code was practically their religious text. "I wasn't disobeying. I had no orders. I'm taking initiative."

When Mick was silent in displeasure, Alex added, "And I brought my schoolwork. You can expect it completed when I return."

Mick finally relented. "Okay. Just don't be gone too long. We have work to do."

The work Mick was referring to was recruiting American hunters. Alex didn't go to the one-on-one meetings Mick had with them. They'd tried that, but hunters turned out to be a surly lot who didn't take well to "kids" being involved with the professon. So Alex had an office—a closet, really—where he mapped hunter networks from the little information Mick was able to gather from the hunters themselves and that Alex was able to glean from databases listing booking charges and news articles.

One of the surefire ways to identify a hunter virtually was grave desecration or robbing. It wasn't a popular crime among petty criminals and if it matched up with recent ghost-related disturbances, such as otherwise normal people acting out (possession) or a string of odd deaths that suddenly ended without explantation, it was with ninety nine percent surety that Alex pinned the identity of a hunter.

Ghost hunts—"salt and burns"—were the easiest and most common form of hunting in the States, so tracking them tracked the most hunters in the least amount of time. The one downfall was that since they were such easy hunts, while they got a good cross section of hunters, they weren't exactly top shelf.

Alex didn't feel too bad about exposing so many hunters. Most of them told Mick to "fuck off", according to his reports. Every record of American hunters was digital, and Alex understood that each computer in the British Men of Letters compound in Illinois was networked. He still had what Smithers had fondly referred to as a "drive bomb" on a USB stick among his personal items. All he had to do to wipe everything off every computer was plug the stick in. When the time came, American hunters would go back to being under the radar.

They finally had a stroke of luck a day after Alex returned from the bunker. Pierce Moncrieff, a hunter out of Baton Rouge, agreed to work with them.

"With," he emphasized. "Not for. I'm the Hunter King of Baton Rouge, I don't work for nobody."

"Yes," Mick said with a strained smile, seated at his desk and looking like he wished any other hunter had said yes. "Of course, we'll work with you."

Pierce moved into unit thirteen, right next to Alex, but thankfully they saw little of each other aside from running into each other in the hallways. Pierce seemed uncomfortable with the thought that Alex was involved in any way with hunting, just like every other hunter had been. But Alex felt that he was needlessly shifty about what he did. The heavyset man moved in with designer clothes from high-end department stores and didn't seem to want in the money department, though he accepted the British Men of Letters' hunter stipend like it was a lifesaver.

So their weekly team meetings now included Pierce, who was starstruck upon meeting Mary Winchester. Apparently, stories of Sam and Dean's escapades saturated hunting legends, making Mary as mythical, or maybe even more mythical given her recent resurrection, as Sam and Dean themselves.

Alex didn't know Mary well. She kept her distance and looked distressed when she overheard him speaking to Mick about a recent case he'd unearthed, not sure if there was an alternative to beheading vampires.

Alex took frequent trips to the Winchester's bunker to talk with Sam. The hunter was genuinely happy to talk to him, and eventually even Dean warmed up, though he was still wary of Alex's membership with the British Men of Letters. He was too smart not to be.

Before he could knock the heavy steel door, it ripped open, revealing a very pissed off Dean, who used every inch of his height to loom over Alex before pulling him inside.

"What—" Alex began to protest.

"Did you know?" Dean demanded, dragging him down the stairs into the war room.

"Know what?"

"About our mom. Mary Winchester?" Dean held his wrist in a vise grip, glaring down into his eyes like he could see the deception. "Did you know she was working for the British Men of Letters?"

Alex made a confused noise. "You didn't know? How could you miss something like that?"

"Hey!" Sam slid between them and forced Dean to release Alex's wrist. "Dean, calm down. Alex, why didn't you bring this up before?"

Alex rubbed his wrist. He didn't owe them any explanation, especially after a welcome like that. Dean stood before his brother, tense, still glaring at Alex. Sam had a hand on his chest, light pressure to remind Dean he could push him away if it came to it.

"I didn't know you weren't aware," Alex said into the strained silence. "It just never seemed relevant before."

"'Didn't seem relevant?'" Dean growled.

"Dean," Sam warned.

"No," Dean snapped. "I know Alex is your prison buddy, or whatever, and you're willing to trust him because he smiles and got you out of there but that's not enough for me. He's keeping things from us."

"Of course he won't tell us everything about himself, he worked for MI6, Dean."

"And the Brits!" Dean burst out. "Now he works for the British Men of Letters, who are so trustworthy, that they'd just torture my little brother before even trying to establish contact."

"Calm down, Dean. You're not mad at Alex, you're mad at Mom," Sam said lowly. "Stop shouting at a fourteen year old boy."

"He's not just a fourteen year old boy," Dean hissed. "He's their pawn! Don't you see it, Sammy? He's taking all this effort to get chummy with us. He doesn't really like us, those limey sons of bitches just need an in on us and if Mom didn't work, why not some kid?"

If Alex followed correctly, Dean was implying Alex was practically a double agent, planted in the cell next to Sam's to get his trust during captivity in order to keep that trust after escape and later betray him. Quite the accusation. Alex bristled.

"I have only been completely honest with you both," he said. "I'm sorry if that wasn't enough. I will leave you two to your disagreement."

Sam tried to call after him, but Alex was already out the door.

Blood rolled across the cement, congealing under the tread of Alex's regulation Oxfords. He raised a foot, peeling the sole away from the floor, and placed it back down gently.

He'd beheaded something. It looked human, but Sam assured him it wasn't.

"Vampires!" the hunter had warned just before the compound had been stormed.

His suit was ruined, sprayed in crimson from torso to neck. Blood was cooling on his cheek, thankfully not his own. Yet, as he stared down at the severed head and body, still jerking with echoes of life, he had a hard time feeling grateful.

Technically, he told himself, this isn't the first time I've killed. Sure, it was the first that was up close and personal, but it had been he who ended Damian Cray, Julia Rothman, Winston Yu. In ways much worse than simple beheading.

Although the beheading hadn't been simple. The neck was shredded where Alex had fought with the vampire, restraining it enough to get the blade in once, twice, three times, four times. Scraping bone, severing muscle, one agonizing inch at a time. Alex was strong, but he'd never had occasion to separate extremities from a body before. He figured with as much practice as Sam and Pierce had, their kills would be with just one slice.

Their kills.

His kill.

The red emergency lights blinded Alex as he slid down the wall, falling to his arse across the hallway from the body. In each flash of the lights, everything was illuminated red. The white walls, the white skin, drained of blood, all the red outside. All the red on him.

What was he doing? Trying to take down an organization much bigger and much older than any he had ever faced before. Scorpia was twelve people and founded after the modern intelligence agencies were established. The British Men of Letters was literally ancient and there were at least twenty people within the American compound alone.

Something growled down the hallway and Alex stumbled to his feet, machete raised, despair locked behind a thick layer of steel. He had a mission: survive.

This time, the blade went through the vampire's neck and caught on the spine. With a kihap, the spirited yell from his taekwondo training, he ripped the blade the rest of the way through the monster's neck and it collapsed minus a head.

Leaning against the wall, Alex put a hand to his forehead, trying to collect himself. He couldn't risk distraction while they were under attack but he was hyperventilating and light headed. He could see the inside of the vampire's neck, the trachea and spinal column and twitching muscles, oozing thick blood.

Someone called his name. Instinctively, Alex raised the machete, then realized it was only Sam, barrelling down the hall.

"Alex," the hunter panted, leaning down to meet Alex's eyes. "Are you alright."

Alex's voice sounded far away to his own ears when he responded, "Fine."

Sam had less than a spray of blood on his jacket while Alex was veritably soaked.

"Come on." Sam grabbed his wrist before Alex could complain and he followed the hunter through halls splashed in red light and red blood, numb to the carnage around them. "We got the alpha vamp but there might still be others around. Stick to the main room, it's safer there."

The room came into view. A man, presumably the alpha vampire, lay face-up on the floor, a single bullet hole between his eyes. Serena, who Alex only knew in passing as the security expert, was collapsed in a pool of blood in the corner of the room, part of her neck ripped to tatters.

"Alex," Mick sighed. "I'm so glad you're okay. You'll have to report on this once the situation is resolved."

Alex just nodded, a quick bob of the head that betrayed his shock.

"Mick," someone scolded. "He's in shock for God's sake. Alex, honey." Mary suddenly appeared with her jacket outstretched and drew it around his shoulders. Despite himself, Alex grasped the edge of the jacket like a blanket. She obviously had a lot of experience with victims. It was nice, to have someone offer comfort after something terrible. Alex wasn't sure what to do with it.

Mary didn't seem offended by his silence and pushed Mick in his direction with a hard look. Mick stood awkwardly aside and patted Alex on the shoulder, a weak there there motion that would have made Alex laugh if he were able to feel anything.

The hunters cleared the building and gathered everyone into the garage. After the alpha was killed, most of the vampires fled and only a few stragglers had to be taken out. Serena and Alton, the alchemist and weapons developer, were dead, along with most of the guards who hadn't hidden themselves in time. Pierce was nowhere to be found and according to Sam, the Hunter King of Baton Rouge was a traitor anyway. Ketch and Dean met the group of survivors in the garage.

Mick kept Alex under his arm. Alex kept Mary's coat over his shoulders. Sam approached them after a short conversation with Dean and Mary.

"I'm in," Sam said. "Look, tonight was bad, no doubt, but the Alpha Vampire is dead. You're changing the world," he glanced at Alex. "And I want to be part of it."

Alex felt Mick tense in surprise and then ask after Dean. Sam watched his brother and shook his head.

"Give me time to convince him."

Alex gripped the jacket tighter. He'd played a part in persuading Sam to trust the British Men of Letters. He hoped bringing the hunters into it wasn't the end of them all.

He visited Sam and Dean at their bunker one more time. Prior, Mick had practically peeled him away from mapping hunter networks. Alex hadn't slept in days. The Winchesters were happy to see him, but Alex couldn't look them in the eye. Couldn't stop thinking of himself covered in red, not just vampire red, but hunter red, if this all went wrong.

He'd broken into Mick's email and personal documents. The British Men of Letters' Plan B was to eradicate all American hunters, Sam and Dean especially. Mick was trying his hardest for Plan A to succeed, but Dean was making it difficult. And Alex knew he couldn't do anything more to convince Dean, who already suspected treachery from Alex.

He left the bunker almost as soon as he came.

It was time.

When he returned to the British Men of Letters compound in Illinois, it was chaos. Technicians fluttered around the monitors, activating protocols. Ketch was briefing his special operations team in the conference room, while an older woman stood imperiously aside, taking a call on her cell phone. Alex took one look at the main screen and made for the service hallway behind the main bank of computers.

The screen listed American hunters and beside each and every name: EXTERMINATE.

The hallway was empty. Alex glanced around quick, just to make sure he was truly alone, and pulled out the multitool Wolf gifted him. With the screwdriver bit, he pulled away part of the wall leading into the backside of the main computer. Behind a sea of colored wires he could make out a flashing red light, which indicated the main USB access point to the hard drive. Alex rummaged in his bag, extracting the "drive bomb" USB stick from Smithers, and reached inside, feeling around for the right place.

First he reached too far to the left and felt a warm fan buzzing under his fingertips. Cursing internally, thinking of Ketch with his entire team just a few rooms over, he adjusted his knees and shoved his shoulder further into the open pane, awkwardly jamming his arm backwards into the mechanism.

The safety clicked off a gun. Alex froze.

"What are you doing?" Unmistakably Mick, except his voice wavered, like he'd just had a nasty shock. "Get up."

Alex slowly stood, holding his empty hands out from his body. Mick would kill him. He must have concluded that Alex was trying to sabotage their system. Alex knew the Code said that threats to the British Men of Letters were to be countered with extreme prejudice. Mick was a Man through and through, and the Code would trump even his affection for Alex. Mick tightened his grip on the gun and Alex braced for the shot.

But Mick didn't jump straight to violence. "When I was at Kendricks, they accepted me, they brought me up, they taught me how to live. You didn't get any of that, Alex. But you still can. Stop whatever this is and stay by me. The British Men of Letters… Me. We can give you so much."

"No." Alex watched Mick stiffen with hard eyes. "They taught you how to live by their Code, their rules. Not your own. You don't have to do this, Mick."

Mick ground his jaw, almost looked to be fighting back tears, but the gun didn't waver.

"Mick," Alex said cautiously. "What is going on?"

"Did you know?" the Man began in a quick, rough burst. "I killed my best friend? I was twelve and they gave us a knife and said only one of us could live or we'd both be out. They didn't lock the door, didn't hold my hand. Timothy, he would have helped me, hidden me with his family. But I didn't have one, and if I didn't kill him, I wouldn't have the British Men of Letters either."

The Code said: At any cost, the order of your superior is the Code.

"They tested your loyalty to the Code," Alex surmised.

"And I passed with flying colors at the tender age of twelve. I had my priorities sorted. I'd made my decision. You think I would change it now?"

"I think you're smart," Alex replied evenly. "And I think being a Man has taken its toll in ways you were never willing to test. Even if you shoot me, will you at least think about it?"

"I've thought about it. I'm just back from meeting the Winchesters. Renny is dead, a hunter did it. That hunter? Is alive."

Alex sucked in a breath. Mick had broken the Code. Hope expanded his chest and his heart slowed its frantic pace. He had a chance to get out of this. The Man was straying. He was fighting with himself, Code versus choice, and choice was winning.

Mick had his own line of thought. "How did you think you got out?"

"Got out? Of what?"

"Headquarters." Mick lowered his gun, brows and mouth heavy with anguish. "Back when we'd had you captured. Why did you think no one was there but me and two guards? That Lady Bevell was allowed to interrogate Sam outside regular hours with minimal security? That the cameras didn't immediately give you away? That you could short out the locking mechanism in the first place? How did you think that happened? Luck?"

"It was you," Alex realized. "I didn't know that. Wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"You weren't supposed to take Sam. You weren't supposed to get attached."

The conversation wasn't just about himself anymore. "That's your mistake. It's human to get attached, to help someone out."

Mick's gun dangled from loose fingers. He'd wanted Alex to escape, to get out. Perhaps he'd saved blood specifically to track him down again and make his Kendricks offer. The plan had always been to turn Alex. Or maybe it had been Mick reaching for something to turn him. Some memory of the friend he'd killed all those years ago.

Several expressions tried to assert themselves, but Mick settled on grim determination. He sheathed the gun in his belt.

"My arm is longer," he said. "Move aside and tell me what you need done."

The car ride was too quiet after Mick explained everything that went down when he and the American hunters tried to apprehend the nephilim's mother and the Prince of Hell, so Alex started talking. If he didn't, he might actually start freaking out. Satan himself was expecting, and not just a normal kid. No, a superpowered anti-Christ. That was far beyond Alex's worst case scenario. He had to focus on something they could actually do something about.

"You did the right thing letting the hunter live. We're doing the right thing," he said. "They would have killed all the hunters. They'll probably still try, even if the drive bomb takes out their lists of names."

Mick's silence continued, Alex's only response the sound of the road passing under the car. His eyes were distant, brow worried, hands white on the wheel.

"What can we expect?"

That woke Mick up. "The special operations squad will be after us. Ketch is the unit leader. This car will have a tracker, so once we're far enough away we'll have to ditch it. Do you know how to hotwire a car?"

Alex nodded. "Where will we go?"

"I don't know," Mick admitted. "There are safehouses in Britain, but they'd find us there eventually. They'll be staking out the airports now. Maybe if we're quick we could get to Mexico, there's a Men of Letters chapterhouse there. Barely anyone left now, but besides the point."

"I mean right now, where will we go? What will we do? We can't just run. They're planning total annihilation of American hunters." Plan B was in action. Alex remembered when he first visited the Winchesters' bunker, Sam had offered him a place to stay if the British Men of Letters didn't work out. "Maybe we could go to Sam and Dean."

"No—" Mick started to say, but Alex got there first.

"We worked enough with them, they would help us. You turned your back on the Code for them."

Mick made a strangled noise, like he wanted to defend himself but the guilt was still eating him. Alex lurched forwards when Mick hit the brakes. It was lucky they were on a deserted stretch of highway late at night. Yanking the wheel at an angle that almost seemed impossible, he turned around.

"The first hunter on the list was Eileen Leahy, the one I didn't kill. She's the reason I'm out of the British Men of Letters. I'm not going to let her die for nothing. She's in North Carolina right now, that's a twelve hour drive. It'll take them two days to get to her, we can get there in one."

Eileen was suspicious of them, given that she'd been on the run from the British Men of Letters for a couple weeks. She'd touched down in North Carolina from Ireland in the hopes that getting out of Europe would give her some distance from the British Men of Letters' operations. It took awhile to convince her to run with them and in the end, the only way she'd agree to go was if she drove the truck they'd hotwired.

"We should go to Sam and Dean," she said from the front seat. "If anyone can help us, they can."

Mick made to protest again, but Alex butt in. "Sam once offered the bunker to me if I ever needed help. I agree with Eileen."

Mick threw up his hands in the passenger seat and grumbled, "Fine." The rest of the ride he stared out the window at the passing scenery, seeing none of it.

The bunker was locked tight when they got there. Someone had bolted extra locks to the outside doors and a constant mechanical hiss could be heard around the perimeter. It took a minute, but Mick's eyes widened when he recognized the signs.

"They've locked the bunker and reversed the air pumps," he said. "Alex! Go around back, get into the mechanical room. There's a lever for the manual override there, push it back up. I'll work on the door." He spent a minute observing the padlocks, trying to figure out how to open them, before Eileen pushed him aside and pulled out her lockpicks.

Alex rushed around the smaller above ground level of the bunker until he noticed a door hanging open. Pushing inside, he came face to face with a wall of glowing buttons and switches. This must be the mechanical room.

He peered into the darkness of the room, trying to make out a lever among the controls. Feeling along the south wall, he came across a handle, and feeling along that, he hoped he found the lever. With all of his weight, he pushed it upwards until it was flush with the wall, then he hurried back to the front door.

Eileen disengaged the final lock and hauled the door open.

"Don't shoot!" Mick shouted, ducking for cover as soon as he looked inside.

Dean watched them from inside, face totally baffled, finger on the trigger of a rocket launcher. Sweat soaked straight through his clothes, he was disheveled like he'd panicked for days, and he had a couple days growth on his face.

"Guys," he said, slumping with relief. "You have perfect timing."

"Go over the plan one more time," Sam said from the driver's seat. Alex would have rolled his eyes if they weren't on the warpath, so he complied.

"You and the rest of the hunters go into the British Men of Letters compound, Mick and I hold the perimeter and keep the cars running. If you're not out in an hour, call Dean and leave."

If they weren't out in an hour, or maybe even less than that, Alex planned on going in himself, but he didn't tell Sam that. It had taken all sorts of rhetorical acrobatics just to convince the hunter to let him come in the first place.

Sam didn't respond to his recitation. The gate to the factory was in view. Each car in their caravan accelerated and the sheriff's truck burst through the gate, taking fire from the guards. Alex climbed into the backseat of the Impala as it stopped in line with the other cars, forming a barricade between the factory and the only way out of the gate.

Hunters tumbled out of cars, dodging gunfire from the factory entrance.

"Remember!" Sam shouted above the cracks and cries. "Stay here!"

The guards dropped and the hunters disappeared into the building.

Mick cautiously approached, gun drawn. With the guards down, it was quiet outside, aside from the bursts of machine gun fire that echoed through the factory. Alex tried not to imagine Sam and the other hunters cut down by a hail of bullets, trying to retaliate with their inferior weapons. He pushed himself upright in the back seat, carefully holding his handgun away from his body.

"Alex," the Man acknowledged. "Good, you're well. I don't like it, but I have an idea."

"Idea?"

Mick worked his jaw, shuffling in discomfort. "When I first made you the offer to join the British Men of Letters, you asked if we had any sway with the British consulate. You wanted your housekeeper's visa sorted. Well, I got her permanent resident papers awhile ago, but I was holding onto them. They're in there," he gestured to the factory, "and I won't be able to get doubles. Now's our only chance to get them."

Alex didn't even have to think about agreeing for a second. Anything to free Jack from MI6's hold. This was part of the original reason he joined. "What about the cars?"

"They'll be fine. Now, here's the plan…"

Alex was careful to keep his finger off the trigger and the barrel pressed to Mick's forehead. With his arm around the Man's throat, the Man himself stooping ridiculously to walk with him, Alex entered the factory. A trail of blood and bodies marked the hunters' path through the outer defenses. The door to the inner complex was blown completely off its hinges, so Alex steered Mick inside.

Alex was playing the part of loyal student of Kendricks, who had captured a Man of Letters that had broken the Code. It would be enough to make it past harried guards, though if they came across Ketch or the new Heads of Operation, things might get sticky.

"Left," Mick muttered, and Alex turned them left. "It's in Hess's office."

Dr. Hess was a British Men of Letters Elder and the former Headmistress of Kendricks Academy. Alex had never met her, since she flew stateside only when the American Operation turned to Plan B, and Alex had chosen that moment to bail. He thought it put her priorities in perspective, that she was only interested in personally overseeing the extermination of American hunters and not their recruitment.

"Stop," Mick said. "It's here."

Alex let go of him long enough for the Man to scan his hand to open the door. As luck would have it, they hadn't updated the accesspoint database to erase Mick's prints from the system. Alex was grudgingly impressed that any computerized system was working at all, considering only a few days ago he'd loosed the drive bomb into the main hard drive. There was something to be said about the British Men of Letters' efficiency.

The door popped open and Alex led with his gun.

Dr. Hess startled when Alex entered. She reached for a gun on the desk but Mick wove around Alex and got there first. Now with the business end of two weapons on her, she raised her arms, pasting a pleasant smile on her face.

"Mick," she said. "Allen."

"It's Alex," Alex grunted. "And you're Dr. Hess."

"Indeed. I remember approving you for the field by Mick's request. Such an impressive record."

"Alex, check the desk," Mick said, eyes glinting while he watched Dr. Hess. "I've got her."

While Alex rummaged through drawers and files, Mick endured Dr. Hess.

"Mick, you were such a good student. You graduated top of your class as Kendricks and here you were living up to your potential, leading the American Operation."

No mention of immigration papers or Jack Starbright. Alex tried the next drawer. Nothing.

"It's understandable that you might struggle with the Code, but remember, it's all that separates us from the monsters. You made a decision not to be a monster all those years ago. You did what was right, you followed the Code."

Alex scattered files on the desk. Still nothing. He bit the inside of his cheek, hoping Mick was ignoring Dr. Hess. Mick was raised by the Code and Alex knew how hard it was to buck something that was part of your entire life.

"No," Mick said, voice steady. "The Code is what makes a young boy kill his best friend. Alex?"

Alex shook his head and walked back to Mick's side, gun aimed at the Elder. He didn't find anything.

Dr. Hess grinned. "I thought you might come back for those bribes for your pet project, Mick. I've hidden them, you won't find them without me. You need me."

Mick pulled the trigger and the shot echoed like a blast in the small metal room. Alex jerked away instinctively. Dr. Hess slid down the wall, bullet hole between her eyes, painting a red trail on the white, eyes staring, face locked in shock.

"Mick!" Alex exclaimed. They still didn't know where the papers were.

Mick shook his head, calmly stepping towards her body. He felt around her pink blazer and eventually pulled out two files, one marked J. Starbright and another marked Lucifer.

"She only had time to hide them on her person. Come on," the Man said, face grim. "We've got to get out before they blow the compound."

Back at the bunker, Mick handed off the Lucifer file to a stone faced Sam.

They lost a few hunters in the raid. Sam clung to Eileen while Dean, Mary, and the sheriff huddled around the war room table, talking. Ketch and Lady Bevell's dead bodies had greeted the raiding party when they returned to the bunker. And Mary was back to normal, back to the hunter who had given Alex her jacket when he'd been in shock. He was glad.

"So what will you do now?" Sam said to Mick. "You can't go back to Britain while the British Men of Letters have it on supernatural lockdown."

"I know," Mick sighed. "I don't know what I'll do. Hunt, maybe. I'm not good for much else."

Dean joined them. "You're not good for that, either."

Mick watched the hunter, who gazed impassively back. The former Man slumped under the statement. "You're right. I suppose you've seen my hunting first hand. Not exactly top shelf."

"You can stay with us," Dean replied. "You're a pencil pusher, a researcher, right? We need that when we hunt, and so do other hunters. You can help us."

Mick raised his eyebrows. "Really? You would allow that? Someone else in your bunker? Me?"

"Eileen is staying too," Sam butt in. "After all this, she doesn't feel safe in Europe anymore."

"Yes, but," Mick pursed his lips. It went unsaid, but everyone could hear it. He had worked for their enemies.

"You saved our butts," Dean said. "I think we can give you a chance to read books for us."

"Then, yes," Mick said, excitement in his eyes. "I would like that. A former British Man of Letters and three legacies? It's practically the new American chapterhouse."

Eileen appeared at Sam's side, equally enchanted by the idea. "We need a different name though, too sexist." She made a few signs with her hands. "People of Letters?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Dean mumbled, but he was smiling.

Sam turned to Alex, face open and inviting. "And you're welcome too, Alex."

Alex allowed a soft grin. "Thanks, but I have people waiting for me in London."

The Kansas international airport was dead at this time of the night. Alex had tickets to the soonest direct flight to London. Mick escorted him in their stolen truck and waited with him at the gate, making small talk.

"And, ah, here's this." Mick handed him a packet of papers. Alex took a few out. They were immigration authorizations and permanent visas made out to one Jack Starbright.

Alex clicked his jaw closed. "Thanks, Mick."

"I'm sorry I just gave them to you," Mick said. "I was saving them for a special occasion, I should have realized how urgent the situation was. They're a hundred percent legal so you should have no issues with them whatsoever."

Alex didn't say all was forgiven but he did nod to acknowledge the apology. This would make things so much easier for Jack, and maybe even get MI6 off his back.

Mick took a slow step forward, then lowered himself to give Alex a hug. Alex smiled at his hesitance and returned the hug.

"You'll do just find here, Mick."

"I should be the one reassuring you," the Man huffed. "You're going back to the British Men of Letters' territory and whatever organization it is that you worked for before, all at the fresh age of fourteen. If I were you, I'd be terrified."

Alex squeezed the strap of his backpack and gave Mick a strained smile. "Believe me, I'm scared. But I don't let that stop me."

"And that, Alex, is what makes you the hero of this story."

They shared another smile and Alex left as they called his plane to board. In hours, he'd be back in London with Jack and K-Unit. The smile stayed on his face.

He wasn't a hero, he was just doing his best for the ones he loved.

A man in a black suit held up a sign proclaiming "Rider" at the London airport. Alex watched him as the passengers cleared out until they were the only ones left at the gate.

"Can I help you?"

The man lowered the sign. "Royal and General Bank requires your presence. If you'll come with me."

Alex clutched his backpack, loaded with all of his earthly possessions from the American Operation and Jack's new citizenship papers. "Why should I?"

In an eerie bird-like motion, the man cocked his head. "It's a simple debriefing. I've been told to reassure you that you are still on vacation."

Slowly, Alex went to the man. A debriefing he could do. Blunt probably wanted to know where he'd been the past few months. Maybe if he told them the truth, he'd be deemed mentally unfit for service and MI6 would finally leave him alone.

A heavier part of his heart told him he'd always come back to this. MI6 was inevitable. There was a reason his father and father's brother were in the business. It was in his blood.

He noticed one of the British Men of Letters' sigils disguised in the designs on the floors and smirked as he walked over it. Whatever awaited him on Liverpool Street, he was at least assured that there was another world out there. Sam and Dean and Mick, child soldiers saving the world out of Kansas. Somewhere where someone understood.