Disclaimer: Alex Rider belongs to Anthony Horowitz

'The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart'

(Yann Martel, 'Life of Pi')

Alex was startled from his contemplation of the newest psychopath he'd encountered by the opening of the door. Alex glanced up from his seat, deliberately averting his eyes from the dead body on the floor. A plainly dressed man with a subtle scar searing through his eyebrow entered, a gun held casually in his hand. His expression was blank and his posture screamed confidence and grace. He held the door open with one foot and fixed Alex with his gaze. Alex raised an eyebrow, determined not to be intimidated.

"Get up," the man barked with a faint Italian accent and Alex cocked his head to the side. A fake accent, just as Mener's had been, or was he truly foreign? His looks gave him no clue either way; his face was lightly tanned, his hair a soft brown. His only distinguishing feature was the scar on his forehead, and Alex gave up the puzzle as hopeless. No doubt the normality was deliberate.

Alex heaved a sigh, wanting to express reluctance in following the order whilst keeping an eye on the gun. He was certain these men would not pause at the thought of hurting him, no matter how old he was. He pulled himself to his feet, standing about two metres from the man and not moving an inch.

The man's face slid into a brief scowl before he moved swiftly next to Alex, allowing the door to shut behind him. The gun came up until it was pointed directly at his chest and Alex inwardly rolled his eyes, sighing at the unoriginality.

"Walk," the man snapped, and Alex did as he said, beginning to turn to avoid the pool of blood seeping from Trigger, lying inert and frozen on the floor. Instead, the man took insane delight in shoving him forward unexpectedly, causing Alex to stumble directly into the sticky, ruby red blood. The substance splashed up slightly and flecks of blood appeared on his clothes. Alex looked down once but his head shot up again, sickened. He walked with as much dignity and poise as he could out of the puddle of blood, but knew the liquid was printed on the soles of his shoes. The image of the blood scarred the back of his eyes and he swallowed, nauseous but unwilling to show it. To a man who held the gun as if it was an extension of his hand, any reaction to blood would be considered weak – and Alex would not allow himself to be thought of as that.

The man behind him walked around the blood, the gun never once wavering in its target. He grabbed onto Alex from behind and the young spy knew it would be stupid to resist when he would only end up in the same position as Trigger. There was a faint smile on the man's face when Alex twisted around to glare at him.

"You're disgusting," Alex spat, unable to see what the man's purpose had been in pushing him into the blood. Humiliation and power, he supposed.

The man responded by digging the gun into the base of his spine and ordering him to walk. There was a hint of laughter in the voice, and the nausea Alex felt deepened.

"Open it," the man demanded when they reached the door. Alex did as he said with some difficulty considering the handcuffs, discreetly examining the lock as he did so. It looked simple enough, but it undoubtedly wasn't.

Alex was marched back to his cell in complete silence. He had nothing to say to the man and wasn't going to risk injury by insulting him with no purpose. Every word he'd spoken to Trigger or the others had been to gain information of some sort, but this man seemed to be nothing more than a type of grunt, following orders instead of issuing. Nothing useful could be gained, especially when he seemed so sadistic.

The quiet was not broken until Alex was shoved back into his cell, his handcuffs removed at gunpoint, and the man about to shut the door. Alex threw himself forward, catching the heavy metal with a hand and praying the man wouldn't shoot him.

"I need food, water," he hissed, a tone of desperation in his voice that he tried hard to hide. He hadn't had anything for two days, and he knew he would weaken fast. Already, his throat was parched and swallowing was difficult.

The man looked at him, no expression of his face at all. It was unnervingly like looking at a robot, and Alex knew appealing to the man's good nature wouldn't do him any good. He tried another tactic.

"Menarc wants me alive," he said quickly, taking advantage of the man's silence. "I can't survive without food or water for long, and Menarc will be pissed off if I die."

"A man can live around five days without water, you have a while," the man said, watching him with calm eyes. "Besides, you have a litre bottle of water in there."

Alex supposed that was true; Trigger had brought it with Watch that day, along with the food. That was the only reason Alex wasn't collapsed from dehydration, but it wasn't enough for several days.

"That won't last," he argued, staring at the man with a hard gaze. "I don't know what Menarc wants to do with me, but I bet your boss won't be impressed if I'm unconscious for their plans. I need food and water."

The man tilted his head, his face twisting into a faint snarl. "I don't have to bring you anything," he spat, resentment transparent in his voice. Another ex-Scorpia member? Or simply someone who was fed up with being ordered around?

Alex opened his mouth to reply but was taken by surprise as the man aimed a hard kick at his shin. He drew his leg back instinctively and the man took the opportunity to slam the door shut. There was the sound of the lock being shut on the other side and he heard the man walk away, his footsteps heavy and unrushed.

Alex spun on the spot, growling under his breath. He'd achieved nothing by begging, he was still just as hungry and thirsty as before. He looked longingly at the bottle of water on the floor, wishing it would magically refill itself so that there was more than a quarter left. He'd had the sense to preserve some of it, but he hadn't known – and still didn't know – how long it would be before more water was gifted to him. Food he could live without, although he was getting weaker by the day.

He slumped on the bed, frustration filling his thoughts. He had been here for days and he was still no closer to understanding what they wanted from him. Menarc seemed to believe they could miraculously break him and force him into spilling government secrets, when they hadn't managed before. The more they tortured him, the more determined he'd been never to talk. What had changed now? A new torture instrument? New torturer?

(-"you'll always remember me, Rider, won't you?"-)

He flinched, trying and failing to catch the movement before it occurred as the memory flashed before his eyes. He glanced up into the corners of the room, attempting to spot the hidden cameras that Mener had admitted were there. But the room was dingy and the corners shadowed. He was unable to pinpoint any disturbance in the white walls that would indicate the presence of a camera.

He got up slowly, and wandered around the room, trailing a hand along the wall as he did so. He looked carefully at the walls, wondering if there may be a camera at his height too, but he found nothing. He sighed loudly, the air catching in his throat as annoyance coursed through him. He hated this ignorance. He wanted to scream at the world, yell out his frustration to everyone who was watching, but he didn't dare. He had the overwhelming desire to throw something or punch the wall or do something - anything – to express these boiling emotions that were threatening to drown him. And underneath it all, ever present but never allowed to rise to the surface, was fear, bubbling away quietly. He knew well that it would erupt one day, if he didn't prevent it. It was like a volcano, biding its time: dormant, but never truly forgotten about.

He slid into a jog smoothly, hunger pains jolting him every few strides as he circled the room, but at least he was active. His emotions were kept at bay when adrenaline and endorphins flooded through him, even if he knew burning more calories was stupid when he had received so little food.

He wondered how ridiculous he must look to Menarc, and how desperate. He couldn't avoid the comparison to a hamster spinning on its wheel, round and round, never actually moving anywhere. He hated this – detested being trapped alone more than anything else – but he wouldn't allow his mind to destroy itself, and that meant keeping active.

He collapsed on the floor, leaning against the wall as he panted, after only a few short laps. He was exhausted now, his muscles shaky and weak and he cursed himself for his foolishness. Who knew how many days he'd knocked off his life-span by that wasting of energy? But at the same time, he couldn't afford to be unfit and unable to fight if he did manage to escape.

He heard footsteps outside the door and jumped to his feet, wishing with all his might that it was someone bringing food. His heart tightened as the door swung open, and the same man as earlier appeared. His face was set in a scowl and he threw in a Tupperware of food and a fresh bottle of water – a smaller five hundred millilitres one this time.

"Thanks," Alex said quietly, cursing that he felt gratitude towards the man who wouldn't question orders to injure or kill him, but wanting to express the feeling regardless.

The man nodded shortly, his face unchanging, and Alex wondered if he'd lost some respect from the man. He would appreciate fighting, but giving in and thanking someone? That would surely be a sign of weakness in his eyes.

"I'll be back for you tomorrow," he warned, danger lurking in his voice.

As the man shut the door behind him, Alex fell forwards onto the food and water, ravenous and parched. He was so occupied with the food that the words of the man didn't filter through until much later, when he was lying, fairly content, on the bed. He shut his eyes, and slept. He wouldn't dwell on it.

He couldn't.

There was no difference between morning and evening in Alex's room, and so when he woke up he pondered what had awakened him. He felt like it had been only minutes since he'd been asleep, and closed his eyes again.

The sound of the lock startled him into swinging out of the bed a moment later, and he realised he must have heard footsteps in his sleep. The door was pushed open and the man – whom he really ought to make up a nickname for, 'the man' sounded stupid even in his head – entered.

Alex straightened up, running a hand through his hair to try and smooth down the ruffled bed-head. He glared at the man – or Scarred, as he would call him, he decided quickly. It was easy, simple, and effective at describing the man. If he ever escaped, he'd need some way of remembering the people he'd met and detailing their image to MI6.

"Come on," the man ordered, wearing his familiar blank face. Alex obeyed, eyeing the gun out of the corner of his eye. It had changed from yesterday; Scarred was now carrying a smaller pistol – a Beretta by the looks of it.

He was marched through the corridors at gunpoint until he was once again shoved into the same room as the day before, and handcuffed. Alex was almost relieved to note that Trigger's body had been moved and the blood cleaned up, although it was disturbing how easy it was to forget that such a violent crime had even happened.

Scarred pushed his forcefully down in a chair and walked out of the room, slamming and locking the door behind him. Alex was once again left alone in the room, wondering when captivity had become ninety five percent waiting.

He didn't have long to ponder this time though before Mener breezed in, no gun in his hand today although Alex suspected he had one hidden on his person. He was followed, strangely, by a woman.

She was wearing no make-up, her light brown hair left loose around her face. She was pretty, he supposed, in an unconventional way. Her body was slender and she was dressed in casual bright leggings and a flowing top. It was an odd combination – not that Alex knew much about fashion, he admitted to himself – but it suited her. He could see defined muscles on her arms and legs, however, and had no doubt she was capable of defending herself if needs be. The handgun she held loosely in her right hand put the finishing touches on the weird outfit. She had an ethereal look, her eyes gazed off as if she wasn't really present, and she seemed more like an artist or writer than a terrorist. Still, he knew all too well that appearances could be misleading.

"Good morning," Mener greeted him cheerfully, sitting gracefully in a chair opposite him. The man reached across and flicked a switch on the wall, and the projector jolted into life, a blank screen appearing.

"Mr Rider," the woman said, nodding, extracting a laptop from her bag which he hadn't noticed before. Her voice was low for a woman's. She took the chair next to Mener and powered up the laptop. Her position opposite him meant he couldn't see what she was doing.

"May I introduce Malin?" Mener said, gesturing towards the woman. She nodded, and Alex guessed they had already worked out a code name for her.

"Fan of French, aren't you?" Alex replied. "Lead and Smart, very inventive."

"It's a beautiful language," Mener retorted, shrugging.

"And not yours in origin," Alex sighed, figuring Mener would never be so obvious as to give away his home country like that.

Mener smiled. "We have more important things to discuss, today," he said, changing the subject.

"You have been very hard to break before, Mr Rider," Malin remarked absently, her attention still on the computer screen. Alex was getting more and more curious as to what she was doing, and what in hell it had to do with him.

"That'll change," Mener commented, and his expression held a touch of malice.

Alex shook his head, laughing a little. "Why are you so confident?"

"Oh, physical torture won't break you," Mener agreed, and Alex frowned. "We will simply have to try other methods."

Alex didn't fall into the trap of asking.

"Now, I feel you're owed a little explanation of the situation, just so that you understand our . . . motivation later on," Mener said, an easy smile playing around his lips. Malin didn't look up. "I told you before that Britain is not the most popular country at times, and one man in particular has found himself with a grudge against you lot. He's a powerful man to piss off, too; not the most sensible thing this country's ever done."

"What has this got to do with me?" Alex asked, eyes narrowing. Somehow he didn't think this was the traditional boasting of the mad man's plan. There was something else going on here.

"Patience," Mener growled. "Now, the man in question is a very wealthy owner of an oil company, and has the added desire to get the British troops out of Afghanistan, so a plan was hatched."

"Tolo," Alex deduced, remembering the message MI6 had received from their spy mentioning the oil company.

"Yes!" Mener exclaimed, surprise in his voice. "MI6 has impressed me with their information, I have to say."

"So the owner of Tolo hates Britain and wants British troops out of Afghanistan, presumably because it's disturbing his company there," Alex concluded.

"Well done," Mener said, leaning over to whisper something in Malin's ear as she continued typing on the laptop.

"Tell me what you're planning, then," Alex demanded. It would be nothing good; he knew that. "What's the link with Iraq?"

"Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?" Mener said, cocking his head to the side. "Just be assured that the consequences will be . . . catastrophic."

Alex sat up straight, glaring at the man. "What's the point to this?" he hissed, knowing as he spoke the futility of the question. Madmen don't think logically or morally.

Mener laughed, and even Malin smiled a little, but neither were pleasant. "Money, of course," Mener answered

"This is going to kill people, isn't it?" Alex asked, dread settling in his stomach.

"Thousands," Mener confirmed, a sadistic grin on his face. "And you'll get to witness it."

"What do you want with me?" Alex questioned. He thought he already knew the answer.

"We want information," Malin interrupted, glancing up from the laptop. "You know many government secrets, Mr Rider, and that would be useful to us."

"And this is linked to Afghanistan because . . .?"

"You have the power to save lives," Mener said. A lead weight appeared in Alex's chest as his fears were realised. "Give us information on MI6, SAS, the CIA, and the British government, and we will minimise the damage."

"But not stop it?" Alex asked, wishing he could curl in on himself and pretend it wasn't happening. How could he make that choice? Protecting government secrets that could result in many deaths later on if he confessed, or saving the people who would surely die by Menarc's hand. It was an impossible decision.

Mener shook his head. "We have to follow our client's wishes," he told Alex, "but we could reduce the deaths if you cooperated."

"How can I trust you?" Alex said desperately, knowing the answer in his heart.

Mener grinned.

"Have we ever given you a reason not to?" he replied, and Alex wanted to scream. "We'll give you a moment alone while we put the finishing touches on the plan," Mener said. Malin gathered up her laptop and they both stood.

Alex watched in silence as they left the room, locking the door behind them, wondering what on earth he was going to do.

Five minutes later, Alex was no closer to a decision. His mind was warring with itself; MI6 and his country versus the lives of strangers, being declared a traitor to his country or watching as thousands died. It didn't help that he knew many people would perish in whatever plan the terrorist organisation had cooked up, whatever choice he made.

Mener and Malin would be coming back soon, he knew, and he had to act. He would never forgive himself if he didn't even try to stop them. He had to get out, escape, warn MI6 . . . warn them of what? What did he know, really? Menarc were planning a strike of some sort against Britain and the head of Tolo was behind it? He didn't even know where in the country he was – if he still was in England at all.

But he had to do something.

When the door opened and Mener stepped through first, as Alex had suspected he would, Alex was ready. It was a foolhardy plan, a desperate one dreamt up in the short time he had to formulate a course of action. If he was truly honest with himself, it wasn't really a plan at all, just the idea to sort of . . . wing it?

He jumped out from his hiding place on the other side of the door, trying to ignore the small voice that whispered the likeness to hide and seek, and kicked Mener rapidly in the spleen and groin. He was counting on the man being too surprised to take out his gun, and it worked. The man dropped quickly, but he wasn't unconscious. The rapid crunch of the chair hitting the back of his head soon achieved the desired affect, and Alex moved out to Malin, who had brought up her gun. The fight with Mener had taken only a few seconds, and the man had not been able to fight back.

"Bastard," Malin hissed as her previously ethereal expression twisted into anger. The gun fired and Alex ducked, knowing as he did that he would be too slow to make a difference. But the bullet only clipped his upper arm and he noticed that Mener had roused already – or more likely had not been unconscious at all – and had flung out his arm to grab onto the nearest thing. In this case, it was Malin's leg. She had swiftly shaken him off, but the momentary distraction had resulted in the swerve of the bullet.

Alex gasped at the pain nonetheless, noting quickly it hadn't hit anything vital and was only bleeding sluggishly. He'd been lucky. He moved faster than ever before, knowing that he only had a brief moment before Malin fired again. A powerful roundhouse kick hit her in the solar plexus and she gasped, breathless, and doubled over for a fraction of a second. At the same time, he whacked the gun out of her hand, and it spun across the floor, skidding to a stop a metre or so away.

Malin growled, recovering herself, and the fight began properly. Alex was fighting with difficulty due to the handcuffs, but he used them as a heavy weapon every so often. He relied far more on spinning out of her way and kicking. Both of them were unarmed, although they each shot glances to the gun every few seconds, calculating the length of time needed to grab it. Neither took the risk, instead concentrating on the hand-to-hand (or leg) combat taking place. His initial assessment of Malin had been correct – she had well-developed and strong muscles, regardless of her appearance. She was powerful and well-trained, and he was having a hard time fending her off. It had been a long time since he had fought, and the weakness was beginning to show. More and more of her hits were landing, and Alex felt sore all over. It was all he could do to keep moving.

Bang!

Mener had gathered his wits about him and grabbed hold of his gun, hidden in a holster under his t-shirt. The shot missed both of them; they were moving too fast for Mener to aim accurately, compounded by his head injury.

Alex knew that wouldn't last long. Soon enough one of those bullets would hit him, whether it was deliberately aimed so or not. Of course, chances were one would hit Malin too, but he couldn't take the risk. He delivered one last attack to Malin and took a deep breath.

He ran for the door, praying to hell Mener hadn't regained enough sense to shoot accurately and Malin wouldn't retrieve the gun until after he had left. He was tense, waiting for that fatal shot, but he cleared the door, turning left into the corridor. He didn't know where he was going, but he had to bloody well try.

He had gone no more than three steps when he heard a rushing of heavy footsteps. He looked around, desperate. He couldn't go back in the direction of Malin and Mener, but neither did he want to go towards these men, whoever they were. He was stuck.

A group of about five heavily armed men rounded the corner and charged at him. He eyed their hefty guns now pointing directly at him and resigned himself to failure. He slowly raised his handcuffed hands in the universal symbol for surrender. The men surrounded him, their guns never wavering.

Damn, was his main thought – or a variation thereof.

"Have you got him secured?" came Malin's voice, ringing clearly through the corridor. Alex didn't relax his stiff posture, but dropped his hands, despite knowing that there was absolutely no way he could escape now without being shot.

"Yes, Ma'am," one of the men said, nodding his head as Malin strode up to them. Her face was red and there were several marks that would develop into bruises. Alex was strangely pleased that he'd managed to hurt her in some way. The men parted for Malin to walk through and stand next to Alex. The gun was once again back in her hand, and Alex gave up his position, taking a step back and standing up straight, holding his head proudly. He'd done well, in his opinion. Not well enough, whispered a voice, and he knew it spoke the truth.

"That was foolish," Malin told him quietly, looking at him carefully. She seemed far more like a fighter now, and less like some sort of artist. She didn't have the same aura of power that Mener had, but she was strong in another way. She was mentally capable, always together and always thinking logically.

Alex shrugged in response to her words. "It was worth a try," he said, the desperation creeping back into his mind. He had failed, and failure meant that thousands of people would die. What did he do to deserve this sort of decision?

"You just ended up getting hurt," Malin retorted, but her voice was strangely gentle. She reached out to touch his upper arm. He flinched away, the pain from the bullet slice only just registering again. The adrenaline coursing through his system had masked the throbbing. It wasn't bleeding too badly, and the slice wasn't too deep. He wouldn't bleed to death, but he'd need to be careful it didn't get infected.

"So did you," Alex pointed out, a hint of a smirk on his face. Handcuffed, weak, and defenceless, and he'd still managed to get away from two armed terrorists.

Malin snarled slightly. She turned to the men. "Escort him back to the main projector room, if you would," she ordered them, before storming off in the direction from which she came. Presumably, she'd be sorting out Mener and getting him coherent again.

Ten minutes later, all three of them were sitting back in the exact same positions in the projector room, as Malin had called it. Alex was clutching his upper arm as best as he could with handcuffs on, trying to stop the last of the bleeding. When back in his room, he'd bind some sort of cloth around it to keep it clean, but he had nothing at hand at the moment. Malin and Mener were opposite him; Malin bruising up in a few places, but Mener holding an ice pack to his head. Both of them looked somewhat the worst for wear. Alex knew he looked worse – Malin had hit him far more than he had her, mainly because she had the use of both hands. He could feel his face blacking up, and he'd look awful in the morning.

The projector rumbled behind them and a blank screen appeared on the wall again. Malin had once more powered up her laptop and was furiously clicking through it. Mener was glaring at him in pure anger. Alex stared right back. He wasn't giving in.

"I had thought you were more intelligent than that," Mener said at last, his normal jokey tone replaced by something hard and unforgiving. "There will be consequences for your actions, of course."

Alex shuddered so lightly the others couldn't see. Consequences never meant anything good, and he wished for the hundredth of a time that he'd gone the other way down the corridor. He may have escaped the men entirely – although it was apparent Malin had managed to call for them, perhaps with an alarm, so he would have probably been captured anyway.

"It's ready," Malin muttered to Mener before Alex could reply. She typed a couple more sentences out and the image on the screen rapidly flickered over to what looked like a city.

"This is Birmingham," Mener informed him, his eyes cold. "Do you know its population, Rider?"

Well, the man must be pissed off; he'd dropped the mister. But at the same time as he joked to himself, Alex's heart was sinking fast. Whatever they were going to do, it was going to be catastrophic, and he was going to have to watch. Fire? Bomb? Some sort of plague, almost like invisible sword? How was it linked to Afghanistan and Iraq?

"I don't know," Alex answered finally, his voice quiet but steely.

"There are over 900,000 people living in the city," Mener told him. "Men, women, children . . . People just like you, Rider, and you're going to watch their deaths."

"What are you going to do?" he demanded, eyeing the laptop and calculating his chances.

Malin saw him and laughed briskly. "Don't think we're stupid, Mr Rider," she said. "It's not controlled from here; we're just streaming it for your enjoyment."

Alex shook his head, disgusted.

"Switch to the other view," Mener requested, and the screen changed. An innocuous building appeared, but it most certainly wasn't in England. The area around it was dry and dusty, the heat visible in waves.

"Iraq," Alex murmured, some of the plan coming together in his mind.

"That's right," Mener confirmed. "This building is positioned in the desert wasteland of southern Iraq, and most is hidden underground. Normal looking, isn't it?"

"What does it do?" Alex questioned, already suspecting the answer. Malin smirked at him, zooming in on the picture. There was nothing unusual about the building he could see, but as he watched, part of the roof began to open. The little seed of an idea planted in his head began to grow. He knew what was going on here.

"This is a missile silo, Rider," Mener explained, a touch of glee appearing for the first time. His earlier fury seemed almost forgotten. "From here, we can launch missiles that would destroy the world, if we wanted it to. In fact, I think your country has been investigating this area for a while. Of course, they would have found nothing but Al Qaeda operatives. Useful, and I expect the place will be raided in a few days to kill them off, but by that time we will have finished our job."

"If it's owned by Al Qaeda . . ." Alex began, frowning as he tried to think.

"I'm sure MI6 told you what we used to do – supply weapons, right?" Mener waited for his nod. "Well, of course, we gave them their weapons, powerful ones, so we know where their bases are. Then we slipped people in to the silo, killed off a few, and now, today, our people have seized full control."

"But it's coming from a known Al Qaeda base," Alex deduced. "Al Qaeda will take the blame."

"Exactly," Mener smiled. "And what will the British government do?"

"Pull troops out of Afghanistan and fly them to Iraq to fight off Al Qaeda." Alex scowled. The plan was frightening, catastrophic, but clever. Why would Britain suspect any other terrorist involvement than the obvious? Al Qaeda had been doing similar attacks for years; they wouldn't investigate further. The head of Tolo would have struck a blow to Britain, gotten the troops out of Afghanistan, and potentially gotten rid of competition in Iraq. Genius, but mad.

Mener laughed, and nodded. "Isn't it fantastic? We get our money, and our client gets what he desires."

"It's starting," Malin interrupted, her eyes aglow.

"You're mad," Alex said desperately, watching as the hole in the roof stopped growing. There was a storm of fire, like a rocket blasting, and the missile flew up into the air. "That'll kill millions!"

"Oh, not millions," Malin told him. "See, that there, was an intercontinental ballistic missile, capable of flying to Britain and hitting Birmingham in under an hour. No one will suspect it; the country isn't prepared to defend itself. It'll hit the city, and many will die, surely, but not as many as you might think. It's not a nuclear warhead on that missile."

Alex felt it was odd to sigh with relief, but if something did have to hit a British city, at least it wasn't nuclear. The results of that would spread nationwide, and cause more devastation than he could imagine. There was a reason a nuclear bomb hadn't been used since 1945 – the resulting war could kill off the entire world.

"No," Malin continued, "we managed to fit it with a conventional warhead. Powerful and damaging, but not as bad as nuclear. Menarc doesn't want a nuclear war any more than you do – where's the money in mutually assured destruction?"

"Why hit Birmingham?" Alex asked, questioning his sanity as he sat and discussed the details of the missile that would cause hundreds, thousands, of deaths, and that would hit Britain in a short space of time.

Mener shrugged, jumping back into the conversation. He had previously been watching the screen with delight. "We wanted the British government left alone. The purpose of this wasn't just to cause chaos, although we enjoy that too. We want the government to respond and move into Iraq, so we went for the next biggest city."

"I can't believe you're doing this," Alex said numbly, the reality starting to seep in. "The RAF or someone will notice – a missile entering airspace won't go unnoticed!"

"There's a convenient RAF training exercise on at the moment, with all the monitors acting as if there's been a catastrophe. Most don't know what is planned for the exercise, so initially they will react as if it's part of the training. By the time they realise it's real, it'll be too late."

"You've infiltrated the RAF?" Alex repeated in disbelief. They must be lying, surely. Neither Menarc nor Scorpia were that powerful.

"We're everywhere," Mener smirked. "And in half an hour the world will see exactly how widespread our influence is."

"This is insane!" Alex exclaimed, wishing beyond everything that they were merely delusional.

"I'll take you back to your room," Mener said, standing up at ordering him to walk.

"How do I know you've actually done it?" Alex demanded. "If you won't show me the impact, I won't believe you."

"Believe what you like," Mener shrugged. "Just remember, if you don't cooperate, more will die tomorrow. Don't think that's the only missile we have."

"You can't do this," he said in desperation as Mener walked him down the corridor at gunpoint.

"Oh trust me," Mener replied, shoving him inside the cell, his face feral, "we can, and we have. We'll show you the masterpiece tomorrow and see what your decision is."

Mener slammed the door shut, leaving Alex staring, open mouthed and white with shock, at the metal door. What could he possibly do?

A/N: Some of you have already heard about my laptop issues - it has died and been sent off to laptop hospital in Germany to (hopefully) be repaired. Therefore I'm sorry this update was later than I would have liked, but it has taken me a while to organise some way of gaining access to a computer. I have dug out an old - very slow - one, so I will be able to update again despite not having my own laptop, though I will apologise now if there is a long gap between chapters.

In other news, this fic will have a maximum of 25 chapters, in my opinion (at the moment). We are nearing the end! There is some action in here for the people who requested it, and even a woman (thanks to a very good idea of someone's).

If anyone is confused, PM me or write it in a review - I do try and reply if you sign in. Please do offer me your opinion!

Dreams x