A/N: This is my response for SpyFest Revival's May Prompt (mayday and/or May Day). I've gone with the first definition, but I do love the second - I've seen one May Day celebration and I loved it :) That said, I think this needs a little explanation, so here goes: I had a really hard time coming up with a response for this prompt. This is actually my fifth attempt at writing for the prompt - I started with a funny fic, then went to drama, and then finally to angst/hurt-comfort. My ideas eventually turned into a single coherent thought - that I would write about a 'mayday' situation, in which one or more of our characters reach their lowest point. I was also experimenting with new formats at the time, so I chose something I've never done before - tell me if it works!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Alex Rider characters, more's the pity. Sigh. Time to drown my sorrows...in water. And/or orange juice. This fic is also mostly not proofread, so if my style changes halfway through or I've screwed up somewhere, forgive me. I'm currently trying to deal with ten hours of jet lag.

1. Eagle is the first to sit at the worn wooden counter with a glass of whiskey before him. He should be celebrating this winter evening, drinking with his army buddies and flirting outrageously with girls, but instead he finds himself in a small pub in a downtrodden corner of London, nerves sizzling in his gut. He has just been accepted into the SAS – an honor by anyone's standards (anyone that is, except for his parents). Eagle's not sure why he's nervous – because the SAS is notoriously difficult? Because he'll have nowhere to go if he doesn't pass basic training? He can't quite put his finger on it, but he's pretty much frightened out of his wits (the alcohol helps, somewhat).

2. Wolf is the second to enter the ironically titled Soldier's Courage, hands clenched into fists (so that no one sees them shaking). He collapses onto a barstool and orders a tumbler of single-malt Scotch, neat. In some corner of his mind, he's cursing himself for even thinking of getting drunk on this night – he and his unit are set to depart for Iraq the next day, and having a hangover in a warzone is not actually his idea of a good time. His inner diatribe, however, doesn't stop him from draining the glass and ordering another because hang it all, there's a huge chance he'll die the next day and get the entirety of his unit killed. It's his first combat tour as a captain, as a unit leader and he's deathly afraid of killing the men he is so privileged to know.

3. Snake is third in this list, weariness evident in every line of his body. He doesn't bother with a stool, merely leaning, exhausted, against the bar. His brandy sloshes around in his shuddering hand, and he sets it down on the counter, covering his face with his hands. The medic can't stop thinking, remembering the face of the soldier he had tried so desperately to save (codenamed Cougar) as the man begged for his life. Cougar is the first soldier Snake has ever lost on his 'operating table' (read: warzone) and though Snake knows he certainly won't be the last, he still rages at himself (you could have saved him, he didn't have to die, it's your fault).

4. Ben (not Fox, anymore) is next to stumble in and drink, eyes haunted by what he's witnessed. His arm is in a sling and throbs steadily, but Ben ignores the pain in favor of remembering the (other, senior) spy he was tasked with protecting (he failed miserably). He remembers shooting the man that lay on the floor, the shock and hatred and grief in Alex's eyes when the man died, the steely determination as the younger man prevented a nuclear holocaust like he saved the world on a regular basis (Ben doesn't want to think about what that means). He swallows the alcohol in his glass (he doesn't even remember what it is, now, only that it's strong and burns on the way down), relishing the buzz that appears in his head and the way it clouds his memories. He doesn't want to remember the Thai boxing match or Major Yu or Royal Blue or anything involving a certain teenaged spy because he'd like to hang on to the thought that his employers are the good guys (then he remembers that he's not SAS anymore, and that notion goes out the window on the wings of another glass).

5. Alex is last to drink at this pub that's seen so many of his comrades, and for good reason – he's seventeen, and he's been in his job for over three years (three years too many). He's most certainly too young to legally drink anywhere in the UK, and yet the bartender takes one look at his ancient eyes and the way he cradles his left arm and complies instantly when he croaks for a bottle of vodka. The liquor is clear and strong and sharp and Alex is inexplicably reminded of a blond Russian assassin who died for him (and was said to have been romantically involved with his father – Alex doesn't like to think about that). The spy knows how dangerous it is for one of his profession to turn to alcohol and drown his sorrows – when he's drunk, his senses are too dulled, his gaze not alert enough to maintain his preferred state (alive). And Alex is always careful – always wary of the fact that he could become addicted so easily (too easily), that he could come to enjoy the sensation of dullness just a little too much (just enough to get him killed). His wariness, however, doesn't stop him from staring into the depths of his glass every time he completes a mission and repenting all the sins he's committed in his abhorrent line of work (all the killing, maiming, and destruction). It is his unique form of penance, the way he alone can atone for his sins – he absolves himself of his guilt by giving up his control, the one thing he desperately needs. He is alone in this – or so he thinks until he sees four familiar faces doing the same thing, a few months later.

And 1. Eagle is despairing. His younger brother, cherished and loved and protected had joined the army five months ago. On his first tour to the Middle East, he caught a stray bullet to the neck. Dead.

Wolf is raging. His fists are clenched – he is so bloody angry at the world and the politicians and the governments who decide that wars are necessary evils because he has seen firsthand the death and terror that being shot at by a group of insurgents brings.

Snake is hurting. He has seen the horrors of war, but far more profound were the sights in the field hospitals and makeshift tents in which he worked, the pain-filled and desperate screams, the quiet whimpers. He is battle-scarred and miserable and he wants to do nothing other than curl into a ball and forget.

Ben is collapsing. He is tired, so exhausted of fighting this never-ending war that they all fight. The world seems to rest on the shoulders of a few (and he is so privileged to be one of them, isn't he?). He has just returned from a mission, barely been out of the field for a few hours and yet in another week he will be sent back into it. Such is the life of a spy, but this life is wearing him down and there is a only a tiny thread preventing him from falling into the abyss.

Alex is enduring. He is much the way he has always been, rolling with the numerous punches inexplicably thrown his way and presenting a smirking, slightly sarcastic exterior to the world (no one knows the pain he feels and the way he rages when the blows beat him down and he thinks he can't get up). Emotions seethe within him, but he was truly born for the life he leads - it is far, far too easy to keep them in check.

Alex, this time, is first, walking into the Soldier's Courage with the air of one who bears an immense pain within him (which, of course, he does). It has been two years since his initial encounter with the tavern, and he has become something of an irregular regular (aren't they all?) meaning that he comes to the bar at irregular intervals, but has come so often that he's more of a regular. He chooses a seat in a dark corner of the establishment, hiding in the shadows as he is wont to do (it's safer that way). The bartender places a full bottle of vodka before Alex, the same drink the spy has drunk since he started drinking, and Alex is fully prepared to engage in his routine of drinking until he felt sufficiently drunk, dropping a few notes on the table, and leaving - and then he sees Ben. The other spy is not walking so much as trudging as though the world rests on his shoulders, steps still lighter than those of an ordinary man (Alex is fleetingly proud of this, as he was the one to teach the spy stealth). Ben accepts tequila from the bartender and makes his way - much to Alex's slight horror - into Alex's dark corner. The glass is set down with a little too much force and then nearly knocked over altogether as its owner catches sight of and recognizes the other person seated at his table.

"Bloody hell, Alex?" Ben hisses the words, his voice barely loud enough for Alex to hear.

Said teenage spy shrugs noncommittally, unsure as to how he feels. "In the flesh."

"Jesus," Ben says, still slightly disbelieving. "I heard you died - actually, I've heard so many different stories about what's happened to you in the last five years that I don't know what to believe. Jesus," he says again, "I'm glad you're alive."

Alex offers a 'thank you,' and the two men sit in a silence that would quickly have become awkward had both not seen a third man entering the pub.

"Military training," Ben tells Alex, jerking his head toward the man.

Alex nods in agreement, analyzing the man's appearance. It is only when he sees the rough and gentle hands (doctor's hands), the red hair, and the Scottish accent that lilts the man's words as he orders a brandy that he puts the pieces together.

"Snake," he says, elbowing his companion. And then before Alex can stop him, Ben is out of his seat and directing the field medic to their corner where the spies' drinks sit, still virtually untouched.

The red-haired man sits down, just as uncomfortable as Ben looks and Alex feels, and the three shake hands somewhat stiffly, making the usual pleasantries and lapsing into silence.

Then a fourth man appears, not from the door but from beside and Alex has a knife out and pressed to his throat before he registers the olive-toned and angry face just inches from him.

"What the hell?" the man grinds out, and Alex releases him, the knife disappearing away to some hidden sheath on his body.

"Nice to see you too, Wolf," he returns, sitting once more. "What is this, some sort of bloody K-Unit reunion?"

Ben snorts. "We're missing - "

"Me?" Eagle smiles wanly at the rest of the table, his eyes noticeably red. He sits at the table without asking (not that any of the others did, anyhow), glass in hand.

Snake, always the caring medic, growls at his unit mate. "Tell."

Eagle doesn't bother to ask what, or why. He simply glances at Alex for a long moment, as though, sizing him up, and then begins his story, as though he has found Alex sufficiently qualified to hear his tale. The soldier confesses his anguish over the death of his brother and his subsequent distance from his remaining family, and the other four express sympathy and gulp their drinks in silence until Snake speaks up again.

"I can't save them all," he says softly, and he can see by the looks on the others' faces that they understand. He takes a fortifying draught of his brandy and continues, describing the horrors he faced in the medical tents of the Middle East, where the constant thunder of guns and bombs was punctuated by the screams of dying men.

Ben is next to spill his troubles, directing his words to the spy seated beside him. "I'm not sure how much longer I can take this."

And the soldiers nod and grimace and pat his back but it is Alex's words he is waiting for, Alex's response because the other spy has continued on thus far -

"There are others," Alex says softly. "The world does not rest on your shoulders, at least not the entirety of it - " these words are said with the slightest twist of the lips, expressing so much and yet so little - "you aren't alone."

The other three are somewhat surprised by Alex's sentiments, but by this point, all five of them have drunk too much to think about anything besides drowning their sorrows.

Wolf tells of his anger, how each death, instead of spawning grief, brings a stab of hate to his heart - hate, directed not at the enemy that shoots at him but rather the enemy that encourages him to shoot back.

And this Alex understands, so much so that he releases the smallest amount of his emotions to express his own anger, the pain that he silently bears. And, to his concealed surprise, the other four listen and commiserate (although how much of their emotions are caused by the alcohol and how much by true understanding, he really couldn't say).

Five people - five men - all as different from each other as day is from night. Three soldiers and two spies (although it's more like three soldiers, an ex-soldier/spy, and a soldier/spy/assassin/whatever-the-hell-he-is/whatever-his-boss-wants-him-to-be); a brother, a leader, a doctor, a protector, and a champion. Each is at his lowest point, his every sense screaming 'mayday' and 'abandon ship' and still they somehow find the strength in each other to carry on. Their meeting is unplanned, but so fortuitous that it can only be an act of kismet. Each of them has reached his darkest place, his nadir, and yet in the presence of others he realizes that there is nowhere to go but up.

A/N: Small note about the title here. I was looking for a few words to describe the sort of fellowship/understanding that the five of them have (even if it's a bit OOC, which I blame on the alcohol), and I found this nifty French phrase. It means something along the lines of 'feelings of loyalty/friendship to a group' as far as I can tell (I don't speak French). Let me know what you think through a review!

hugs,

-nrynmrth