AN: Welcome back! This next chapter is in Alex's POV. I decided to write in in third person to keep the Horowitz's story consistent. It might be weird, having Ella in first person, alternating with Alex in third person, but what the hell is fanfiction if not experimental.

Disclaimer: If only Alex were mine...at least I have Ella, though.

Chapter 2: From Torture Comes Sarcasm

Alex:

Alex Rider awoke, slowly and painfully. His eyes felt sticky, and as he opened them, he realized that he was unable to move. Where the hell am I? Alex thought as memories of torture and terror from the night before came flooding back. As he became increasingly more conscious, Alex began to feel as though he had been hit by a train, both physically and emotionally. Tied to a table by his arms and legs, Alex remembered where he was.

South America. Paraguay. Deep in the Jungle. Tied to a shoddy operating table, tortured for information I am unwilling to divulge.

The mission went to hell yesterday when Alex was caught as a mole for a drug lord named Armando Gutierrez. Gutierrez produces a dangerous drug, known as scopolamine. While many drugs are dangerous, scopolamine is considered one of the most. When under the influence, users are totally under the control of others. Wearing gloves, people will blow some into a civilian's face, and will often have the innocent person give them money, secrets, or worse. MI6 wants to shut down Gutierrez's operation as a matter of public safety. Alex was sent undercover to be one of Gutierrez's security guards and was told to look for a way to destroy the drug syndicate. However, he was caught snooping around and asking a few too many questions and was interrogated for hours last night…

God! Alex realized, My captors promised to return this morning with Scopolamine to get the truth out.

With a sudden sense of urgency, Alex took in his surroundings. It was a small, square room with the operating table he was tied to in the middle. Next to him was a table containing a tray full of scalpels. Alex winced at the sight of them, remembering the deep cuts across his legs. No other humans were in the room, thankfully.

Now, just to escape before they return with their creepy truth serum drug. If only I could just reach a scalpel. However, they were too far away for Alex to grab with his mouth. He lied back, catching his breath. Alex's face throbbed. The spy was hit and punched repeatedly, in an attempt to get him to tell the truth about his identity. He cataloged his other injuries. Swollen face, cut-up legs, a sore stomach from being punched, bruises on his wrists and ankles where he's being tied up, and three broken fingers on his left hand. The fingers were broken in an attempt for Alex to give away his identity. After they broke three fingers by repeatedly smashing them with the butt of a gun and Alex still wasn't speaking, he was rewarded with the promise of them returning tomorrow with Scopolamine, and a brick thrown at his head, effectively knocking him out.

Alex lay here, the next morning, with a pounding headache, impending doom, and no obvious way to escape it.

The room was windowless, so he had no idea what time it was. It could be three a.m., it could be eleven a.m. All Alex knew was that he needed to get out of this hellhole, and fast.

The spy's hands and feet were tied under the table with ropes, and he had no idea how to escape them.

In the end, because the table was merely resting on top of the ground rather than bolted to it, Alex decided to tip it over by thrashing and rocking his body. He landed, painfully, onto the wooden floor on his left knee, adding another bruise to his ever-growing collection.

Luckily for Alex, the table legs were collapsible, and the legs on the front of the table, nearest his arms, collapsed during his fall. He managed to slide his arms out from under the table. At this point, Alex was awkwardly balancing on his left leg. His arms were against his back, still tied together. The spy's ankles, however, were still tied behind the table. The edges of the table weren't padded like a typical operating table. Rather, it was just a wooden plank, so Alex rubbed the rope that tied his wrists together against the side until it eventually fell away.

With free hands and newfound strength, Alex was able to grab a scalpel with his right hand and cut away the rope that tied his ankles together. The spy winced as he accidentally nicked his ankle in the process. Free at last, Alex stood up quickly. Bad idea, he quickly realized. Alex lost a lot of blood and felt lightheaded. He sat back down, trying to fully regain his consciousness.

Sitting on the cold concrete floor and short of breath, Alex decided to leave a message for the fuckers that tortured him. Using the scalpel, he carves something obscene into the wood of the table.

Alex doesn't care that he's left a trail. With any luck, he'll be far away before he's even discovered missing.

Luckily for Alex, his idiot captors didn't bother locking the door, so he slipped out easily. By the looks of the sun, it was about 7 in the morning. Alex scaled a fence, painfully, as three of his fingers were bent out of shape and shattered. He made his way back to the guards' living quarters and climbed up the side of the building into his room. Alex locked the window and turned on the light, silently praying that his MI6 communications device hadn't been confiscated.

Thankfully, it hadn't. It was similar to the watch that Smithers had given him in Thailand, but this time, Smithers had made the device solar charged, rather than battery-operated after the Ash clusterfuck in Australia. Alex contacted his employers and began assessing his injuries.

Most of the cuts on his legs were superficial and would heal on their own. His fingers, however, were a bloody mess. On his left hand, the pinkie, ring, and middle fingers were purple, bruised, and bent in a way that fingers should not be bent. Alex's head was throbbing from the brick, and his face hurt from the constant beating. Alex wanted to leave his room to meet MI6, but feared being seen and recaptured. Scopolamine was the absolute last thing that Alex Rider needed.

For once, MI6 is true to their words. A few SAS teams were sent in, and Gutierrez and his lackeys were captured. The scopolamine was collected by the agency. The compound was set on fire. Alex, however, witnessed none of this, as he was fast asleep against his bedroom door.

Eventually, Alex is woken up by a loud knock.

"Agent Rider! Open up! It's Ben Daniels." Alex recognized the voice as his MI6 colleague and opened the door. "How the hell did you sleep through that bloody battle? Jesus, Alex, you look like you've fallen out of a plane."

"Well, I feel just perfect." The spy retorted. He was in a very sarcastic mood after being tortured all night.

"Well, come on then, Alex, there's a helicopter on the roof."

"Where are we going?"

"London," He said as if Alex were stupid.

Because he was in such a deadpan mood, Alex held his messed-up fingers up in front of Ben's face. "How about a hospital?"

Ben groans. "How the hell? Nevermind. Hospital it is."

7 hours, 48 stitches, three set-fingers, an arm cast, and one concussion later, Alex Rider was released from Central Hospital in Asunción, Paraguay, and boarded a private plane back to London with Ben.

"Christ, Alex, how did you manage to do this to yourself?" Ben questioned.

The younger agent ignored him, not wanting to explain himself. "If I'd wanted to be interrogated, I'd have stayed here, Agent Daniels," Alex said, feeling oddly formal. He decided to ignore Ben for the rest of the 16-hour flight and both fuel stops to catch up on some much-needed sleep.

When they arrived at Heathrow, a car took Ben and Alex to the latter's favorite place in London: Liverpool Street.

The two agents walked inside the Royal and General Bank, only to be greeted by the ever-lovely face of the Head of MI6 Special Operations in her office.

"Mrs. Jones," Ben said politely.

"Tulip," Alex greeted her, desperately not wanting to be there. He was pissed at her for sending him to that sweaty jungle hellhole.

"How was Paraguay, Alex?" She asked, ignoring the agent's rudeness.

"It was amazing. If you like being shot at, tortured, and threatened with some creepy mind-controlling drug," He replied bitterly, "And don't get me started on the mosquitoes. Why did you send me anyway? Couldn't you have just sent in the local law enforcement?"

"In Paraguay, Armando Gutierrez was local law enforcement," she shrugged, "Besides, you know exactly why I sent you. You were being destructive and had to learn a lesson." Alex's mind flicked back to an incident involving gasoline, a pile of Ben's paperwork, and a light match.

"It was Ben who suggested it!" The younger agent protested, calling his colleague out on his bullshit.

"That may well be true, but who came back reeking of gasoline and singed hair?" She questioned. Alex's hand instinctively goes to feel his bangs, which have yet to grow back fully. Mrs. Jones sighed. "Dismissed, agents. I expect a full written report on my desk in three days."

"But Mrs. Jones," Alex protested, "My fingers are broken. How can I possibly type out a report?"

She just rolled her eyes at the protesting spy. "You are Alex Rider. You once managed to escape from Point Blanc Academy at the top of the Alps with nothing but a ski suit and an ironing board. You can do anything." Ben's eyes widened, remembering this story from Wolf, his unit-mate.

"Yeah, who's fault is that?" he challenged, bitterly, "If only you'd have sent back up…"

"Three days, Agent Rider," She said, dismissively, "And do stay away from any gasoline."

Alex rolled his eyes as he quickly and quietly left the room. All he wanted was dinner, a nap, and a long, hot shower.

Alex returned to Jack, his housekeeper-turned-friend sleeping on the couch, resting her head on a man's lap, in front of the TV, which was showing one of her favorite romances.

"Who in the fuck are you?" Alex was instantly in "spy mode." His eyes quickly scanned the living room of the Chelsea house that once belonged to his late uncle for any threats. He gracefully stalked over to the couch, feet not making a sound, and gently moved his housekeeper off of the man's leg, and felt for her pulse, never taking his eyes off of the stranger.

He released a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, feeling relieved that Jack was alive. In a second, he had the man pinned against the wall in a chokehold. "I said who are you?" Alex challenged, his voice as cold and smooth as ice.

The man looked terrified. He began to yelp, struggling to get free. This only made Alex increase the strength of his vice-like grip.

The struggle woke up a very confused Jack. "Alex? You're back? What the hell are you doing to Noah?" She demanded, finally putting a name on Alex's hostage's face.

"Who is Noah? Why is he here? In our house?" He growled.

"Jesus, Alex. Not everyone is a damn threat. The man you currently have pinned to our living room wall is Noah Pinkman, my new boyfriend!"

"Boyfriend!?" Alex exclaimed, increasing his grip on Noah's neck. Looking the man in the eyes, he demanded "What are your intentions with my guardian?"

"Not to be strangled by her ward?" Noah choked out.

Alex scoffed and rolled his eyes, unamused. "Jack. A word," he said, turning to his housekeeper, still holding the man against the wall by his neck.

"Wow, Alex, I'm so sorry that I want some freaking company while you're traveling for your work in the Peace Corps." Jack deadpanned. Alex is impressed by her newfound ability to lie.

Guess she learned from the best, he thought and allowed himself a small smile. Only Jack noticed the slight change in his usual cold and emotionless demeanor. She decided to capitalize on the drop of his guard.

"Alex, please, let him go. I really like him," she pleaded, "Besides, he's so much cuter than the last one." She stage-whispered the last part, jokingly.

Laughing, Alex let the man go, and immediately after his release, he crumpled to the floor.

"I'm sorry about that, Noah, Alex is always on guard, due to his Peace Corps missions, which are usually in dangerous places," Jack said, lying through her teeth.

"Yeah, sorry, man," Alex muttered, unapologetically. His features quickly turned to stone as he looked the man straight in the eyes. "If you ever hurt Jack, I will castrate you with a pair of scissors." He growled.

Noah nodded. "Yes, sir." Jack tried unsuccessfully to hide the smile threatening her lips, partly because it was funny seeing Alex this protective of her, partly because of Noah's terrified reaction, and partly because of the relief that she would never be on the wrong side of Alex's protective/assassin side.

"Right then. I'm going to bed. The uh, Peace Corps mission was exhausting. See you around, mate?" Alex addressed Noah.

He responded with a nod.

Jack followed Alex to his room, wanting to speak with him before he went to sleep. His bedroom door was half-open, and she caught him without a shirt on. "What the hell happened to you, Alex?"

"The Peace Corps mission was pure torture," Alex said, quite obviously hinting at the reason behind his many cuts and broken fingers.

"Oh my god. Are you okay?"

"Fine," he winced as his shirt got caught on a stitch. "You should go back to Noah. I have a report to write for Tulip." He spat out the name of his "employer."

Knowing Alex won't talk while Noah is here, Jack sighed and began walking out of the spy's bedroom.

"Wait, Jack," Alex's housekeeper stopped in her tracks, "Noah doesn't know anything, does he?"

"Of course not," Jack assured him, "I would never tell anyone without your consent."

Alex nodded, accepting this. He hugged Jack goodnight and got into bed.

Alex was unable to sleep. Visions of demons, torture, evil boyfriends, and scopolamine cloud his head. It was going to be a long night.

AN: We *love* protective Alex