June Bugs 2009
By Simply Shelby
Sarcasm
Sarcasm is, Alan Blunt has always believed, the poor man's wit.
He rarely uses it himself and scorns those who use it against him. Those people he regards with disdain before getting rid of them completely. That is, until, he comes across the sarcasm-ridden young teenager named Alex Rider. The boy's attitude strikes him as curiously bold. Not very many people turn down MI6 and live to tell the tale, after all.
Still, the boy is young and with youth comes foolishness. And Alan Blunt has always gotten what he wanted. The boy gives in, like Alan knew he would, but not without a steady stream of sarcasm. Never has victory come with such a grating price. After several meetings, Alan Blunt is almost convinced that the only reason the boy is so sarcastic is because he knows it bothers the head of MI6. Which, of course, is all but impossible.
Yet, Alan Blunt has learned, impossible means very little to the Rider boy.
As the boy grows up, the sarcasm becomes worse until Alan Blunt thinks that it might, perhaps, be some sort of disease. Like a growing cancer. And, all of a sudden, it seems as though all of his well-trained agents have taken a liking to the swift, torturous technique. Of course, all his men are fools. But, in comparison to smart-alecky teenage boys, he would have hoped they were somewhat less foolish.
The boy is in his office again, after some mission that has likely save millions of people without anyone knowing it, and it is as though every cheeky word out of his mouth is deliberately sarcastic. Alan Blunt has had enough.
"Your input," he tells the boy slowly, "is greatly appreciated. Your comments will be taken into consideration. Now get the hell out."
Alan Blunt can hardly believe the words. Alex Rider seems more surprised than he. He, Alan Blunt, being sarcastic.
But sarcasm is also, as Fyodor Dostoevsky truthfully put it, 'the last refuge of... people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded.'
So, he thinks, Alex Rider has every right to use it.
Heaven
One of the most perfect days Alex can remember is the day Mrs Jones made good on her promise.
It had been an ordinary day, as ordinary as a day in the Rider house can get, when he'd been asked to come to Liverpool Street HQ. That in itself had been an anomaly, but soon after it was to become a regular occurence. He'd arrived and Mrs Jones had sat him down in a large conference room and proceeded to tell him everything she could remember about his father.
He'd gaped at her, drinking in the information, and when she'd finished talking he began asking questions. What did his voice sound like? Was he funny? Did he follow orders? How did he meet my mother? And when he began asking questions she couldn't answer, she'd pressed the intercom and more people had appeared.
John's fellow spies from MI6 had been first--first in order to recount stories that were supposed to have been classified, but Mrs Jones had made an exception--and they said brilliant and idiot and good man. They talked of a man who was quick-minded and good at improvisation and who would do anything not to fail. A man who took orders well but never went against his better judgement. Then, they admitted softly: a lot like you, Alex.
Several of John's buddies from his days in the Paras followed and they told him brave and patriot and loyal. There were stories of a hero who disregarded his own life for the good of others, stories of a great leader whose presence inspired men, stories of a man who lived his life. Proud of you they murmured in agreement.
He'd been surprised when a group of women filed in--friends of his mum's he was told. Loved your dad like nothing else, he remembers them saying, overjoyed when she realised you were coming along. He supposed that was when he'd started crying. Bold, they described, but gentle all the same. And then, something that echoed in his ears: lived to help people.
At the end of the day, it had been him and Mrs Jones. Alex's eyes were burning with tears, but the smile on his face was bright. It seemed as though some lost part of his soul had finally settled itself deep within his chest. He felt whole.
"Thank you," he whispered reverently.
Metal
Most people thought Tom Harris wasn't so bright.
And, to be honest, he wasn't exactly a genius--at least not on paper. But Tom Harris understands things very few people grasp. They aren't complicated things or things that are difficult to work out, but they are simple things that people normally don't take the time to notice. They are the things like the sound of wind whistling past his ears as he sprints and the weight of a football between his feet and the feeling of dread filling his stomach seconds before his parents erupt into arguments. They are things most people usually ignore, but Tom notices.
Because Tom Harris is one of those people who takes the time to smell the fucking roses.
Which was probably why Tom knew his best friend wasn't sick, had never really been sick, and probably wouldn't be sick in the future--dead uncle or no dead uncle. It was why he had seen the mottled bruises and puffy scars across his friend's skin when Alex quickly stripped and re-dressed in gym, but didn't think abuse. And it was why Tom had caught that look--desperate, defeated, determined--in Alex's eyes when he thought no one was looking.
Everyone knew that there was something going on with Alex Rider, but no one knew what it was.
Unlike everyone else, though, Tom knew what it wasn't.
And finally, unlike everyone else, Alex had told Tom what it really was. Tom had been prepared to laugh in his friends face when he heard the fanciful story of spies and assassins and saving the whole goddamn world. But, even though Tom couldn't solve quadratic equations or write meaningful haikus, he understood some things. And in that moment he understood that Alex was telling the truth and desperately needed someone to believe him.
Tom knew Alex was like steel, unyielding and formidable.
But there was something Tom Harris understood.
Steel always needed reinforcing.
Fleeting
For the first time in a very long time, Alex Rider wished his father was still alive.
It was something he'd wished every once in awhile growing up. Like the times where Ian had to work and Alex had a football match to play. Or when he'd gotten into a fight at school and Ian didn't punish him. Or when he'd thought he'd fallen in love for the first time and Ian just smiled.
It wasn't that Ian didn't love him or he didn't love Ian. It was simply that Ian wasn't his father and Alex wasn't Ian's son. People say that you can never miss what you never knew, but Alex knows differently. Because he never knew his parents, the empty feeling in his sould is compounded.
Alex tried his best over the years to ignore the yearning to know more. After the first few years of his life he realised that asking Ian was probably not a good idea. Whenever a question popped up, he stored it deep in his heart rather than asking. That is, until he'd come across the box of photographs hidden in his uncle's bottom desk drawer.
At that point, the emotions he buried came vomiting up and Ian was left muddling through the swamp of questions. And, still, Alex received no answers.
Then, he'd been faced with MI6 and SCORPIA and Julia Rothman and more answers than he wanted. Right when he thought he was beginning to understand who his father was--assassin, criminal, betrayer--Mrs Jones had told him the truth. And he finally understood everything. He realised that understanding didn't change the way he felt.
Alex still wished his father were here. Simply so Alex can ask him, "Was it worth it?" He has a feeling his father wouldn't say no. Alex looks down at his son in his arms and prays because his parents have taught him just how fleeting life is and that is one thing he never wants his son to understand.
For the first time, Alex thinks he understands why his father gave everything up for Alex. And why Ian never did.
AN: As you can probably see, I muddled through this set of prompts. I hope you enjoy them, nonetheless.
