Summary continued: Alex is nineteen and MI6 is not the only thing he has put behind him. What happens when a female assassin fails to do her job and faces Alex with not only the prospect of returning to MI6 but also secrets of his past?

Hello, I'm Valentine and this is the re-write to Kill Me/Kiss me. Yes there is supposed to be a slash in the middle but it's formatted out on this site.

I really hope I can finally finish this story and do it some justice.

By the way, Hera is pronounced Here-ah. Also yes Alex Rider does not have blue eyes, I got him confused with Alex from Alpha Force but I didn't have the heart to change it given its importance in this story.

Forget Him/ Forget Her

-8.05 AM, Mumbai, India-

The sun was rising over the city to signal the start of a new day but already the inhabitants were awake. Already beginning a days work of enervating what scarce resources the city had to offer them and even though the sun was still lazily hanging on the horizon, the heat it generated, the sounds they grunted as sweat poured from their foreheads, the shrieks from the cattle in the middle of the roads merely encapsulated the city in its own world. No one stopped, nothing stopped, everyone kept going, kept working, hoping that someday something might actually save them. In this city, a skyscraper imposed itself among the forgotten greenery and served as a sanctuary to those who used to remember, or wished to remember, the former glory of India. For instance, one room, high up in the building, had tapestries depicting women by rivers, seducing men of royal blood. But the colours were faded, the blood reds no longer alive, the purple robes no longer vibrant and the women's faces no longer seductive. The bed, draped in white curtains and red silk covers was untouched; perfect to every detail was the carved wooden headboard with markings only the carpenter would know the meaning of. The dressing table was made entirely of glass but it was chipped and no longer shimmered in the golden light that shone past the hanging clothes on a line outside, in the balcony. The table had nothing on it either, although on closer inspection you could see the rushed removal of bloodstains from the glass. In fact, the clothes on the balcony were the only indication that someone was staying in this room. The clothes, and the suitcase of poison hidden under the bed.

A sound issued from the balcony, for outside the inhabitant of this particular room had, unlike the rest of Mumbai, finished another night's work. With the sound of a flutter of a butterfly's wing they landed softly on the floor of the balcony and lowered their head. Dark waves of hair fell forwards, covering their face and a slight breeze swayed the locks of hair and cooled the guest's forehead gently. They knelt, in white trousers, a white vest and a pale brown shirt hung loosely off of their shoulders. The clothes clung tightly to her body and after a nights work they were of course stained and torn, telling secrets of the struggle and chase she had been involved in. She stood slowly, breathing heavily and between the dark hair that flowed gently in front of her face, blue eyes peered into the room. Her caramel coloured skin glistened with sweat and as she reached out a hand a cut on her wrist oozed blood, she grabbed a cloth from the line above her head and wiping the back of her neck with it.

Before it had even rung, she turned her head to the telephone in her room. Slowly, like a tiger in the wilderness of the forest beyond Mumbai, she walked into her room with great caution. Once she was sure nothing had been touched she looked to the phone again; at least a minute had past and it was still ringing? Someone sure was determined to speak with her. She stared at it a moment longer before walking forwards quickly and snatching the phone from its holder, she held it to her ear.

"Hera?" It was Mrs Jones. She remained silent. "Hera, stop bloody fooling around and get back to London, immediately." She wiped her neck again and removed her shirt, listening to the rant of the woman; "do you understand your position will be terminated if anyone hears what's been going on with you?!" She heard Mrs Jones take a moment to calm down, "Hera, please answer me-"

"I killed him." She said bluntly and Mrs Jones stopped speaking suddenly.

"Who?"

"Craft." Her voice was different, Mrs Jones always noticed, after she had worked a night; it was rough, defensive almost, as though trying to prove she didn't give a damn.

"Hera, we're coming to get you."

"Don't bother. I'm coming home." She put the phone down and sat on her bed after flinging her shirt across the room. She lay there, thinking about what she'd done that night, she'd even impressed herself; it had taken at least two hours less than she predicted would be necessary. The door creaked open.

"Miss Hera?" Came a cheery, Indian voice from the doorway. She sat up in the bed and looked around to the little old lady at her door with a smile.

"Good morning Nandini." She said brightly before standing up and making her way to the bathroom. She stopped at the door for she saw a look of horror cross Nandini's face. "What is it?"

"Have you been out hunting?" Nandini smiled as she pointed to all the blood stains on Hera's clothes. She looked to her arms which had bruises forming and shrugged.

"Just seen a bit of backstreet India." She shrugged and walked into the bathroom. There she performed the usual routine of washing the blood from every part of the body she could before washing her face to hide the fact she let some tears escape her eyes. Walking back into the room she saw Nandini pick up her shirt from the floor and inspect it.

"I can wash this for you-"

"No need," Hera walked to the cupboard and opened it, "I'm leaving today…" her voice trailed away as the phone began to ring again. Mrs Jones was really pushing her luck if she though Hera was going to answer, but Nandini was in the room so she figured she had to. She jumped onto the bed, rolled over, sat up and reached across for the phone. "Hello?"

"Hera?" Damn. It was Blunt.

"Yes?"

"This is Alan Blunt-"

"I know." She heard him cough pointedly. What the hell did he want?

She knew she was in trouble but a phone call from Blunt was hardly an official protocol.

"Mumbai?" He almost said it in a mocking tone, "you really didn't think we'd find you?" He sneered and she smiled at Nandini who was taking down the clothes from the line outside.

"I wasn't hiding." She ran a hand through her hair warily and tried to keep her eyes open; Blunt's monotone voice often put her to sleep.

"Right. I have news for you."

"Oh?"

"It's about Alex." Hera almost dropped the phone, her eyes went blank and her bottom lip quivered as though trying to think of something to say and slowly memories she'd repressed were bubbling to the surface again. Her pause was misinterpreted for confusion by Blunt: "Do you remember Alex Rider?" Remember him? It was difficult, almost painful, to forget. "Hera?" The sharp sound brought her back to reality.

"I do." She tried to speak with no trace of emotion but the second word seemed to get caught in her throat, "what do you want with him?" And so she listened, trying to think straight and on task but images of her time spent with the blonde haired, blue eyed boy were running through her mind. She hadn't heard of him or from him for a few years now, she wondered if he'd changed much but somehow she doubted it. There had always been something adult about him anyway, you could see from his eyes that he'd known too much of the horrors of life so there was no room for growing up. Both of them had been forced to grow up very quickly. His face swam into her head, a blur, just an outline of the boy she once knew. Blunt finished speaking, "I'll be in London this evening." She said and put the phone down, still slightly shocked by the revelation that she'd be seeing Alex again so soon.

-London-

Alex woke up. He looked around wildly for some light, something to show him where he was but then he felt the slow breathing of another person against his chest and could feel her entangled in his embrace; he knew where he was. He had to crane his neck to get a look at the time; 2.05 AM. He let out a deep shuddering breath and let her slip out of his arms. Flinging his legs over the side of the bed he rubbed his eyes; trying to remember where this feeling of guilt and sadness was coming from. He shook his head as he realised it had been the same dream; the same terrible memory of his last mission. The vision of a girl with caramel skin and full, rose-petal lips was fading from his mind as sleep left him.

He tried not to think about it as he stood and walked out of the room, a sensor lit the light before him so he could see into the hallway. Before leaving he took one last glance at the sleeping figure in the bed, holding onto the duvet with a vice-like grip as though it were him. Her soft brown hair fell in waves over her delicate face. Her freckles were more prominent now in the Summer sun and he smiled at the memory of the day they had spent together. He had to almost drill it back into his head that this was all real, that Sabina was there, for him, more than anyone had ever been.

A few minutes later he was stood by the kitchen sink, a cold glass of water in his hand, staring out into the darkness of the streets beyond the window. Since leaving Hera behind he had not been able to predict that his life would be plagued by this 2AM loneliness. It seemed to engulf him sometimes. He missed her.

"Ah," he tried to shock himself out of those thoughts by inhaling sharply and throwing the remaining water in his glass into the sink. He could not miss her. He had to get a grip, to stop wanting her to stop craving her. His therapist recommended he re-frame the desire. Alex was not in want of her, rather he was in need of someone who had experienced the same things as him, who could relate to him, share his nightmares with, his hopes for a future where all the misery of MI6 could finally be put to rest.

Did she still wake up at 2:05AM? Did she still get nightmares like he did?

"Fuck off," Alex mumbled and rubbed his eyes in exasperation. Since leaving MI6 it seemed his greatest nemesis was his own brain. He didn't need to think about her. She wasn't the girl he met all those years ago. She was a killer. Cold, ruthless, relentless…just an angel of death. Besides, they had parted ways, hadn't seen one another for a couple of years, unlikely to see one another again.

He took another deep breath as though it would anchor him into reality and rid him of thoughts of her. When he was satisfied that he would not dream of her again, he returned to bed. Alex rider was blissfully unaware that the very same, forgotten girl who haunted his dreams, was on her way to him.

Reviews appreciated!

Shall we leave this story lemon-less? Or do you think a little zest would do it some good? Let me know!