Heart of the Puppet

by

Quill-and-Parchment

Why did he fight for them?

It was a question he'd asked himself over and over again. MI6 – the organization that had used him like they would an efficient tool to clean up whatever messes other crazy, insane, cruel criminals had stirred up. They did not seem – no, they did not care how many times he'd come inches close to death, so close he always wondered how and why he'd live, and whether or not he regretted it.

He wasn't Alex Rider, a teenage boy who was unfortunately paired with skills befitting a pro spy at an age too young. To them, he was Agent Alex Rider, nephew of Ian Rider, secret weapon, and a key to almost any problem they happen to run into. Tools get dented after so much usage, of course, but they always fixed him right up before he could become too broken.

Tools don't deserve the truth, so they fed him lie after lie, telling him so many things that turned out to be double-crossing and then triple-crossing and then so many crossings that he just couldn't bring himself to completely believe whatever coming out of their mouths anymore. It was just that. A life of a spy. Lie. Cheat. Kill. Lie again. Cheat again. Kill. Kill. Kill some more, and then die a painful death.

Sometimes he wondered how his uncle managed to withstand all this. All the lies, all the dangers, all the pressure, the pain, the betrayals…and then the pain of being the traitor. But then, Ian was no child. Alex was. Alex still was. Sixteen. The age where he was supposed to be worrying about getting a license, not driving a motorcycle down the free lane at neck-breaking speed to avoid getting his head blown off by a bunch of pissed-off criminals.

Would Ian Rider be proud of what he'd become now? Sixteen, not troubled with drugs or with gangs, but with fatal poisons and with dangerous, shadowy organizations that control from one to two-thirds of the world?

By God, he sure hopes not.

They did all this to him – and they will do worse. So why did he not turn on them? Why did he respond to their calls and see their missions through? It wasn't because he was a happy little puppy eagerly running errands for his charming master, that was for sure. His treats are trips to hospitals, broken bones, torment (both physically and psychologically), bruises and about every other thing that no kid would even think to ask Santa Claus.

He didn't have the choice. That's why. They blackmailed him. They cornered him and offered him the devil's deal which he had no choice but to sign. And then pop, he was out on the field with some fancy covers, creeping under the enemy's radar to find out as much as he could before being discovered – which, rest assured, was guaranteed. It might as well be the Promises of God to mankind.

But back then, back with SCORPIA, he had been given a choice. He had the gun pointed at Mrs. Jones', the Head Deputy's, head. He could've pulled the trigger. The glass wasn't bullet-proof. Her life would be decided by him; one slight movement of his trigger finger and it would all end.

He didn't. He couldn't.

And yet again, he was manipulated. They lied to him about his own father. It wasn't surprising. It would be a shock had they not. After the sniper, when he had those weeks in the hospital, he realized he didn't actually hate them. Not like that. Not like how those assassins-in-training and all those others had hated him for blowing their plans had. It was just simple tiredness. Tired of all the super-spy things. Tired of the attention. Tired of the simple, adamant truth that every time MI6 called, he was going to go through hell…all over again.

But he still served them. Still picked up the phone. Still responded. Still listened as they briefed him on another suicide adventure. Still went to said suicide mission. Why? What had they ever done to him that was so good?

He could think of nothing.

But it wasn't them. It wasn't them he was doing this for. It wasn't even for Britain. He did it because he wanted to. He did it through with Herod Sayle for his uncle. Point Blanc because there are innocent children involved (ha! Children! They are the same age as him; yet they might as well be babies). Skeleton Key, Eagle Strike, SCORPIA – well, that one had been a mistake, the biggest in his life yet, but Alex was glad he didn't pull the trigger on Mrs. Jones. He didn't want to think about the consequences murder would have on him at that age. And then Ark Angel, because Drevin is an insane man who shot his own son.

Alex could think for himself. The missions might have been given to him by heartless masterminds, but the choices he made in the course of the missions, the one that mattered, he made it himself. For some reason, he felt slightly happy at the prospect that his life wasn't so controlled.

No, Alex Rider could think. He did it because he had the skills and the means to save people. He did it because somebody had to, and why not him? No matter what, after he had actually gotten into a mission, it was impossible to back out, by choice or not.

He was a tool, a puppet to be used. That is all.

But this puppet has his own mind, and maybe, just maybe, someday he would have enough power and intellect to surpass his own puppetmasters.

After all, with Alex Rider, you can never quite tell.

I fell in love with the Alex Rider books. This, ladies and gentlemen, is truly the most perfect mix of a teenager and the world of spy. So hurrah for Alex and his crazy, stupid stunts - this is for him.

Reviews are nice.