DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ALEX RIDER.

Chapter 1

"And so it goes."

Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five

"This makes me look like a Class-A douchebag."

"Don't be stupid, Alan. You look great."

Alan Colt, known to most as either 'genius-boy' or 'kiddo', straightened his bowtie, frowning at his reflection. He looked nothing like himself. His brown hair—was that a bit of blonde poking out from his roots?—was combed neatly and gelled back, giving him a Draco Malfoy kind of appearance. His brown eyes, peeking from behind thick frames, was wide, giving him an innocent, puppy-eyed look.

He took off his glasses, wiping the smudged glass on the hem of his untucked shirt. He didn't need them, of course, but Alan thought it made him look more scholarly, like the smart pre-law student he was.

A grin stretched over his face as he place the glasses back onto his face. Pre-law student? Not in a month—he'd be going to law school in a month. The thought alone was enough to make him squirm childishly.

"Ready?"

Alan turned his grin onto his best friend. Jess was dressed in a floor-length gown, a deep, rich shade of red. She leaned against the doorframe, her eyebrows raised and a smirk on her face.

"I feel like James Bond," Alan complained, tucking his shirt in hastily. His English accent echoed in the bathroom as Jess rolled her eyes.

"Isn't that, like, supposed to be a good thing?" She asked, crossing her arms. Her southern accent twanged as she watched Alan fix his bowtie once more.

Alan didn't reply as he gave himself another critical look before nodding and offering Jess his arm, "Shall we?"

She grinned, putting on a mock English accent, "We shall."

They were going out to 'celebrate' Alan's twenty-first birthday by taking a stroll in an art gallery—one that was posh and lavish. Jess was one of those people that had filthy rich relatives that invited them to things like art galleries and nights at the theatre.

Jess was only a year older than him, but they had met in class, as she was also pre-law. In fact, she was the one to start the campus-wide trend of calling him 'genius-boy', even though he wasn't a genius or a boy. He didn't mind it, though. He was only a year younger than everyone else due to his messed up secondary school years. He didn't really like talking about it, and if anyone asked, Alan gave an evasive answer.

They arrived at the art gallery at a timely fashion and spent the first few minutes walking around aimlessly. Alan inspected each piece of work critically, not saying anything as he did so. Beside him, Jess chattered happily about LSATs and law school. She'd scored a spot at Harvard while Alan was going to Stanford. It was a long, long way away, but Jess wasn't going to get all sad and mushy on him. Alan was friends with her for a reason.

When he got sufficiently fed up with looking at the frankly dull pieces of artwork, Alan resorted to people watching. In the background, Jess chattered cheerfully before breaking away to talk to an elderly man.

Alan's eyes swept over the small crowd. He wasn't sure what he liked so much about people watching, but he did know why he did it. People could be monsters, and even though he was retired (well, kind of), it was still engrained in his mind that he had to help the civilians.

It wasn't hard to pick out the most suspicious people first, but Alan easily discarded the thought of them being potential threats. One was swaying drunkenly on his feet, murmuring something in a woman's ear. His face flushed, and his pupils dilated, it wasn't hard to see what was wrong with him.

Alan turned his gaze away and back onto Jess, who was sauntering over with a glass of wine.

"Isn't this awesome?" She asked, taking a gulp of the stuff.

Alan wrinkled his nose in distaste and crossed his arms, "I'd rather be home."

Jess rolled her eyes and shoved the nearly empty glass of wine into his hands, "Doing what? Studying? Honestly, Al, learn to live a little."

Alan set the glass gingerly onto a nearby table, protesting, "I am living. Besides, all that studying is going to pay off. Law school, remember?"

"Right, right," Jess waved him off, "Whatever, let's go home."

"Wait—" Halfway through their conversation, Alan noticed the drunken man that he had observed earlier straighten abruptly, moving toward the exit. The red flush on his face was slowly draining away, and he moved with a purpose, dabbing the bit of sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. Alan's eyes narrowed in on the device in his hand. What was it? A cell phone?

In the background, soothing jazz music played, the indistinct conversations of the attenders underneath. Jess was tugging at his sleeve, looking concerned.

Alan ignored her, searching once more for the threat. It was somewhere in this room, he knew. His adrenaline—something he hadn't felt for the last few years, at least, not like this—flowed freely. It was intoxicating, dangerous—the exact reason why he wanted to get away from it in the first place. Shallow breaths and steady fingers. Alan swept the room with his gaze once more.

Someone's cellphone rang loudly, and the indistinct conversations halted. Everyone looked around disapprovingly, trying to find the culprit (how dare someone bring a ringing cellphone to a convention like this?) in the mass.

Alan's eyes instantly focused on the woman he'd spotted earlier—the one who had been talking to the fake-drunk man. She was scrambling to find the phone, her face red. She grappled with the phone—a flip phone, was it?—reaching to either accept the call or decline it, Alan didn't know. He just knew he had to stop her before she pressed the button. Before she set off—

"Stop!" A shout was ripped from Alan's throat as he lunged forward. Jess was holding him back, but he easily shoved past her.

Her finger hit the button, and from this angle, Alan could see her thumb pressing the green 'accept call' button. Around them, people stared, muttering amongst themselves. Was he crazy? What did he think he was doing? Stupid youngsters.

Nothing happened for a fraction of a moment. Alan was still lurching forward, but time seemed to slow and it was hard to force himself forward. Had he been wrong? Was he just paranoid?

BOOM.

Alan wasn't close enough to stop it. The woman—who was she, even?—was blown apart. Alan couldn't tell what went first, but she was red mist a second later.

The force of the bomb (oh, Alan had been right) knocked him backwards, and he went flying, straight for a painting depicting a marshmallow.

He was deaf as he sailed backwards. He couldn't hear anyone else's screams, even though he could see their mouths wide open. He couldn't do anything except let the laws of physics take him away, back into the painting, and then into the wall.

Pain. The most pain he had been in since he was seventeen. And then came the sweet release of unconsciousness.

A/N: Hello everyone! As you can tell, I'm starting a new story: The Children's Crusade. The title was inspired by Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five, which I find is a fascinating book. I know that this chapter is short, but I promise the next will be better (hopefully). I'm hoping to experiment a little bit with my writing style here, so please bear with me. I'm not exactly sure where I'm going at the moment. Leave a review if you liked (or if you didn't), and I'll see ya later!

-Alice x