'Kay guys, this is the 3rd and final slice of my 3 shot story Cold Grey Eyes. Thanks for reading and don't forget to review in the pretty little box below!

His first thought was how surprised he was by the amount of people who had bothered to attend the funeral. For such a bitter, poisonous man, there sure was a hell of a lot of people who wanted to show respect. That or they'd been paid to go, because he couldn't see how else the man had gathered such a crowd in his death. And there'd be more later, no doubt. Later when there would be a memorial parade performed by the armed forces, including the SAS, to show respect to the man. Like he deserved that much.

It was warm in a church for February. As a vicar droned on about the sacrifices and victories of a young Alan Blunt, Alex was disgusted. 'Sacrificed so much for the benefit of the people, to save the lives of the helpless and defenceless. Of the children.' Pah. Bull.

Alex couldn't bear to sit on the hard wooden pew, in between Ben Daniels and Mrs Jones, the new head of MI6, and listen to an old man who had never met Blunt talk about how brave he was; it was garbage to his ears.

Whatever he had done in his twenties and thirties seemed nothing to Alex. He had achieved much more at the age of 14 than Blunt had done himself in a lifetime. Sitting behind a desk and ordering people to their deaths was hardly something to be applauded about, especially when the man used children, like him. Sure, he'd put his life on the line at one point, but what was that worth when 30 years later endangering a teenager was his best achievement?

If anyone were to ask what Alex was doing there, the only child at the funeral, he had been ordered to say that he was Blunt's nephew. Like hell was he going to say that. He'd rather just reveal who the man was to the world. Maybe he should stand up and tell them of the late man treacheries.

But could he? Only a few seats away a woman sat crying, the arms of who he supposed was her husband around her. Her eyes were a pallid grey. She could be one of two things; his sister or his daughter. Either way, could he really be an Alan Blunt and hide the truth? But at the same time, could he be the one to kill their pictures of their loved one, at his own funeral? Really?

After all that had been murdered in cold blood, why should it even be a decision? This man they loved had shredded his life and laughed as it burnt to embers.

The answer was clear as day, through the murk of his own consciousness.

It was because his eyes were brown. Soft and warm and safe. They weren't the bitter grey of Alan Blunts. Now this man was dead there may be possibilities. He was free.

Because he wasn't the cold, bitter man with the cold, grey eyes. He was Alex Rider.

And he was free.