John Crawley slipped into Tulip's office without a sound and settled in the chair on the other side of her desk with the ease of familiarity.

Tulip didn't look up but finished the sentence she was working on, part of a briefing that would find itself on Alan Blunt's desk that afternoon.

- no direct evidence at this time, but circumstantial evidence (appendix 1.A-F) strongly implies local involvement. Based on the current situation, the recommendation is that the operation proceeds.

Tulip stopped typing. Looked up at Crawley. The man slid a thin folder across the desk.

"SCORPIA has been confirmed to be behind the attack on Robert Warren," he said. "We didn't have to look hard for it. They all but put out a press release. Here's the most current intel we have."

Tulip opened the folder. It was only about a page written in Crawley's brief, factual manner and it didn't take her long to read. She almost wished she hadn't.

"Alex Rider," she said softly.

SCORPIA's little Australian strike had been more massacre than operation; the complete annihilation of the target – presumably to prove to everyone watching that the organisation was in no way weakened by the eradication of most of its executive board – and now Tulip had proof of what she had strongly suspected but not wanted to see confirmed.

Alex Rider had been the target of that assassination attempt in Johannesburg. Tulip knew SCORPIA's approach to things well enough that she would have been very surprised if Alex hadn't been the one sent to handle retaliation, too.

How many had killed? Crawley's short briefing only had an estimate. Tulip doubted they would ever know for sure. Not with that sort of … thoroughness.

"Yes, ma'am. They've made no secret of the fact that they're moving him into position as Gregorovich's successor." Even Crawley's voice sounded a little more subdued than usual, tired in a way it normally wasn't.

Tulip didn't blame him. Alex Rider was sixteen years old and already had more blood on his hands than some of MI6's veteran agents. Had Alex even known what that missile would do? She hoped he hadn't but knew just as well that it was a fool's delusion. Gregorovich would have given Alex a thorough education. Maybe the people around him had pushed for that solution, maybe Alex hadn't had a say at all, but SCORPIA obviously wanted to make it clear to everyone that the operation had been Alex Rider's.

She looked back at the single sheet of paper but didn't see the words, lost in thought instead.

Ben Daniels was the only one of their people who had interacted with Alex since he had left with Gregorovich. Daniels had described someone angry and bitter but brutally competent. Tulip supposed they deserved that. Alex Rider had not been treated kindly by MI6. It had been terribly easy to look the other way, to excuse it with necessity and no choice, and now they had to deal with the consequences.

Did Alan regret it? Tulip doubted it. Maybe he regretted the loss of the malleable, convenient weapon Alex had been but even that didn't matter. SCORPIA was still a business above all else. If MI6 ever needed Alex again, it was only a matter of money. Enough money to make Gregorovich relent, enough money to make up for the risk it would be to allow Alex Rider within reach of MI6 again, but that was all. Alex himself would have no more say in it than MI6 had offered him at fourteen.

Tulip didn't doubt Alan was well aware of that possibility. She wanted to tell herself that she would never go along with it, that John's child had suffered enough by their hand, but she couldn't even do that.

In some circumstances even SCORPIA could be the lesser evil.

Tulip looked back up briefly. "Thank you."

Crawley nodded. Left the room as soundlessly as he had arrived.

Tulip Jones stayed where she was for a long time, caught up in the memories of a tired, resigned fourteen-year-old as her eyes rested on the short report.

Alex Rider. It all came back to that. SCORPIA, Gregorovich, a long list of brutal, bloody operations. Alex Rider.

I'm sorry, John.

Something about Smithers' workshop was oddly soothing. Ben liked it. It was messy and chaotic, and god help you if you touched the wrong thing on accident, but he liked it. It was the exact opposite of Blunt and Jones. Bright and colourful against grey and more grey.

Ben liked to show up a bit early before a new mission. For a chance to talk, to pick up on any gossip, and just to look around a little. Satisfy his curiosity.

Anything could be hiding something, that was the fun of it. The guessing game. Was the pencil just a pencil? Was the coffee mug? The phone had to be some sort of highly-sophisticated gadget, and there was really no other reason why Smithers would keep an overflowing make-up purse around, either. Well, Ben didn't think so, anyway.

Or jewellery, for that matter.

Ben paused and looked again. That was definitely a necklace under one of Smithers' work lights, and it looked expensive, too. Silver, black stones of some sort, and lots of thin, delicate strands. What Ben knew about jewellery wasn't exactly impressive.

Smithers himself appeared from one of the storage rooms with the standard set of phone, pen, and watch and paused as he noticed where Ben's attention had drifted. Then he smiled, a little fond and wistful.

"Lovely thing, isn't it?" he asked and continued without waiting for an answer. "A gift, you know. Not a gadget but quite the lovely bit of work. You would be hard pressed to hide something within it but with some fine work and ingenuity – why, I managed to fit a gadget into an ear stud! I think, with a little creativity, this should make quite the challenging personal project."

Ben took his word for it. He couldn't even begin to imagine where the man would fit any sort of electronics into that thing, much less how to do it and not leave any sign of it.

"From a friend or something?" he asked instead, honestly curious. Was there an entire little closed community of gadgeteers and inventors out there, hidden from outsiders? He had never considered it but he kind of hoped so, now that he'd had the thought. Smithers' workshop was a nice place but it seemed like a lonely job with long hours. The sort where you never really left work behind.

Then again, he supposed the same could be said of an MI6 field agent.

There was something in Smithers' expression that made Ben pay attention. A little fond and a little amused, like a private little joke shared with no one else. Maybe there actually was a gadgeteer community that met up sometimes and blew things up together. The same sort of relentless curiosity that had seen him recruited by MI6 in the first place made him want to ask. Experience made him hold his tongue. The entire agency was a maze of secrets, few of them good. This was the innocent sort of thing, the harmless, geeky kind of secret that Ben kind of wished he saw a little more of. Not state secrets or terrorist plots or criminals that could get away with almost anything if they happened to be rich and well-connected enough.

"An unorthodox one of the kind," Smithers agreed. "A most unorthodox one of the kind."

He handed over the standard set of equipment. Ben accepted the items and looked them over. Different brands and different look than last time, but his cover would be very different, too.

"They have the usual features, of course," Smithers said. "Do come back in a couple of days, and I'll see if we can't whip up a few more surprises for you."

Surprises. Ben smiled. Surprises from Smithers' workshop were the best kind, so long as you weren't the target of them. "Thanks."

His attention drifted back to the necklace. "So what are you going to do with it afterwards?"

If it had been a gift, he couldn't imagine the man would send it out into the field with someone where it would probably be ruined. As it turned out, he was right.

Smithers smiled. There was an impish glint in his eyes that Ben hadn't seen before, the delight of playing a joke on someone, and Ben wasn't even sure he was the target.

"Why, my lad, I do believe I'll send it back."

Tom Harris had never given much thought to graduation. Brookland had seemed like an endless thing; one day after the other of lessons and hobbies and homework until they blurred together into one homogeneous blob.

Homogeneous. He blamed that word on Saint Verena. He'd definitely never used that one in Brookland.

He'd never paid much attention to graduation, mostly because he had no idea of what to do afterwards. Follow in Jerry's footsteps? Learn a trade? Try for some sort of semi-professional football career? It wasn't like his academic records offered great options for a future career and he knew it.

Tom didn't want to go to university, he knew that much. Saint Verena had pulled his grades from barely-passable to decent but that had been hard work and he was sick of school already. Up ahead graduation loomed as a hazy, ominous cloud of uncertainty and he had no idea of what to do about it.

He wanted … he wasn't sure what he wanted, and the cup of coffee in his hands offered no answer.

"Maybe I should join the army," he told it. The coffee stayed as it was, pitch-black and rapidly cooling. Tom wondered if that counted as agreement.

"Only if you have developed a sudden fondness of pointless orders and superiors screaming at you," Jean said.

Tom had wanted the Sunday off to go do – something. Angst about the future, maybe. Drink deep, dark, meaningful coffee and lament the dark depths of his despair. Jean was his company for the day, probably because he was entirely immune to Tom's teenage fits.

Tom stared at the cup again. "… Yeah."

The seconds ticked on. The coffee cup stayed the way it was: mostly full and rapidly approaching tepid. Deep, dark, meaningful coffee, black like the depths of his dark despair, Tom had found, tasted like crap.

"There are alternatives," Jean eventually said. He'd drunk his coffee, Tom noted. Probably a lack of taste buds.

Something about the way he said that, entirely too casual, made Tom pause. "Yeah?" he asked, just as casual.

"Most of SCORPIA's private contractors come from military backgrounds but not all. We do train a number of our people ourselves."

Tom paused. "What, terrorist school like Alex?"

He wasn't sure what he felt about that. Well, that was a lie. He knew it was a terrible idea, he just wasn't sure if it was the 'killing people for money' or 'terrorist' thing he objected more to.

"I like to think you're smarter than that."

Tom was almost sure Jean looked amused for a second. Almost. He ignored the coffee to focus on Jean instead.

"Yeah?"

"SCORPIA doesn't just train assassins or mercenaries," Jean pointed out. "You've been under SCORPIA security for the past two years."

… Huh.

Good point. He must've looked interested because Jean continued.

"Orion's current primary security is a combat team he has worked with since one of his first assignments for SCORPIA. His primary bodyguard is thirty. Sooner or later, he will need to replace that security."

"What, you want me as a bodyguard?"

"I want you to consider it."

Tom paused. "For Mr Trouble Magnet himself?"

"Well," Jean pointed out, quite reasonable, "you wouldn't be bored."

Tom supposed he had a point. Him and Alex against the world. Almost like the old days. Like Brookland. And maybe he would be working for a terrorist organisation but no one asked him to kill people, and -

Consider it.

- It wasn't like it was a stranger idea than running off to teach English in Italy and do extreme sports on the weekends, was it? For Tom and Jerry Harris, that sort of career would be practically mundane.

Joe Byrne got a card for his retirement party. To be fair, he got a lot of them – he was a social man and skilled networker in a position of power – but only one of them had a blue, glittery, cartoon scorpion on it.

The text on the inside was a cheerful, printed Happy Birthday, Scorpio Boy! that had been scratched out in favour of a scrawled Happy retirement!

There were two coupons for canned prunes taped to the other side of the card – still valid, Joe noted with some amusement – and no signature. Not that he needed one. There weren't all that many people who would sent him something like that.

There was, in fact, pretty much just one.

Alex Rider was still a source of nagging guilt in Joe's mind sometimes; the thought of what could have been if someone had looked beyond the usefulness of a fourteen-year-old spy and actually done something to help him. They had met occasionally over the years since, usually on business, and Joe had watched the kid grow from blackmailed fourteen-year-old spy to nineteen-year-old heir to SCORPIA.

"Boss?" Martino had drifted over, probably caught by the thoughtful look on Joe's face.

"Well, not as of two hours ago," Joe said. It felt – weird. Not having to get up in the morning any more. He had a vacation planned with his wife; a three month round the world cruise to make absolutely sure no one would call him back to work in a moment of helplessness. He hoped that would help him get used to normal life again, too.

Martino shrugged. Old habits, he didn't say. Joe had spent six years shaping the man into a suitable successor. It would probably take a while to completely lose the 'boss' that his closest people had normally used.

"Anything interesting?" Martino asked instead.

Joe smiled. In any other case, he might have been worried about a card from SCORPIA. As it was, everything had been checked out by security already and he knew the kid. If SCORPIA really wanted him dead, there were plenty of other ways to target him.

"Just someone with a sense of humour." On a whim Joe peeled the coupons from the card and slipped them into Martino's suit pocket, then patted it. "There. You might need that next time you have to deal with some constipated old windbag of a politician that doesn't take 'it's impossible' for an answer."

Forty years in intelligence service meant that Joe had somehow managed to make himself scarce in the brief time it took Martino to get the coupons out to identify them.

Youth and skill really was no match for old age and treachery. Maybe he'd send Rider something back. The kid would turn twenty soon. Perfect chance for a little payback and encourage him to keep that sense of humour.

Joe whistled to himself. Then he went in search of the bacon-wrapped little cocktail weenies from cholesterol hell before his wife could stop him.

Alex Rider was used to paperwork. Like any large business, SCORPIA ran on paperwork. Like the sensibly paranoid bastards they were, the most important of said paperwork was kept on actual paper until it could be transferred to a properly secured served somewhere.

As a result, Alex was not surprised when Yassen placed another slim stack of paper in front of him that morning. He already had a towering pile in his inbox from their most recent operation. What did a few more pages matter? It wasn't like he had planned to sleep that night, anyway.

Yassen didn't go away. Alex sighed and picked it up without looking at it, his attention on Yassen instead.

"Rush order?"

Yassen looked faintly amused. "Hardly."

Something about that made Alex look down and actually pay attention to the papers. He recognised the layout immediately; the standard Malagosto contract that he had seen plenty of over the years. It took a second longer to spot the source of Yassen's amusement.

- SCORPIA ('the employer') and Alexander John Rider ('the operative') -

Alex glanced at his calender. He knew the date but it wasn't until then it really registered.

March 3rd.

"Five years ago," Yassen said, "you signed the standard contract of any Malagosto graduate. Congratulations, Alex. Your life is your own."

Alex hadn't thought about that contract in – in a long time. It had been a constant awareness those first many months, but after Yassen took over, after Alex started his training as his successor on the board, the idea of it had become … distant. Unimportant. It wasn't like it mattered any more, not the way it did with a normal operative.

It didn't matter. It shouldn't matter. Alex was in this for good, and the contact hadn't had anything to say about that for a long, long time.

As Alex felt more than heard Yassen leave again, as he kept his eyes on the contract, as he felt something in his chest, slight but ever-present finally ease …

Your life is your own.

… He supposed it had mattered after all.

Jack Starbright didn't want to visit Russia. It was bitterly cold, there was snow everywhere, the drive to the base would take forever, and she didn't understand the language.

Of course, the fact that the one and only time she had been to Russia before had been six years prior didn't help. Kurst and her kidnapping and -

- Alex.

She still had those nightmares sometimes. Based on Alex's reaction to her trip, she suspected he did, too. He was halfway across the world but that hadn't stopped him. Jack had known she would travel with security. She always did these days. She hadn't expected just how far Alex would take it.

"You know I don't actually need this much security."

"The boss disagrees," Adams said and sounded unnaturally cheerful for someone heading to Vladivostok in January, "and the boss pays our salary. And our bonuses."

Jack supposed the best thing she could say was that at least Alex had kept Tom with him along with his secondary security team. At least he had someone there she trusted to keep him out of trouble.

She was also familiar enough with SCORPIA politics to spot the magic word in Adams' reply.

"… Bonuses," Jack repeated dryly. "Just how much are we talking about here?"

"Triple hazard pay if we get you back home with nothing worse than a hangnail. A small hangnail. Tiny."

Which, Jack suspected, meant she would be lucky if someone didn't put a wig on and follow her into the ladies' room as well, just to make absolutely sure no rogue toilet brush tried to attack her.

"Seriously?" And she knew the answer to that already, she really did, but seriously?

"Seriously. Hazard pay is great," Adams said sagely, "but triple hazard pay is better. And you're a lot easier to keep out of trouble than the boss is."

Which didn't really say much, because Alex Rider. Jack sighed but didn't comment. And while she would never say it, and she definitely preferred to keep Sagitta with Alex so he was a little less likely to end up in trouble, something in her also felt much better for their company.

"Just wait," Jack said. "I've seen the weather forecast. I'll get a cold. Or pneumonia. Or slip and break my leg."

"Don't worry, we got you one of those toddler snowsuits for adults. The big, warm, cushy ones."

"With the flap for easy diaper change?"

"Less risk you'll slip and fall in the bathroom," Adams agreed. "Coffee? We've got some nice, tepid stuff ready, no risk of burns or anything. We can whip up some great lukewarm tea, too."

Jack sighed. "I hate you. You know that, right?"

"Triple hazard pay," Adams repeated. "The best words in the English language."

It was Russia in winter, it was cold and dark and miserable and brought back memories she had done her best to never, ever think about again, but she wasn't alone and that would make a world of difference.

And if Alex took the chance to do something stupid while Sagitta was in Russia, well, Jack would make sure to return the favour. With interest. That was the least she could do.

It was a disappointing postmortem. A disappointing postmortem to match a disappointing clinical trial. Three had expected it. That did not make the result any more welcome to see.

The drug had done exactly what it had been supposed to and turned the test subject into an obedient puppet, it had gained Three some measure of intel to make up for the time and effort … and then the subject had died. Like every other test subject had done, one after the other over the course of months and years.

Dwale didn't interrupt Three's thoughts but quietly cleaned the table and tools with the efficiency born from years of practice. Scans, photos, notes, everything done to Three's exact specifications. Old age, Three had found, could make his hobby unfortunately difficult to practice but a well-trained assistant made up for that.

This was the one puzzle he still struggled with, the one challenge that stubbornly kept eluding his grasp, and Three wasn't entirely sure if he was pleased with this or annoyed enough to do something permanent about it.

He remembered every single person who had somehow outwitted him during his time on SCORPIA's board. It was a short list. Being tricked by someone's machinations had potentially lethal consequences and he had not survived through luck alone.

Still, Three had the unpleasant suspicion he would have to add another name to that list. The only consolation was that the man was long since dead.

Iohannes Graff had very carefully never promised anything he would not be able to deliver. In retrospect, SCORPIA's belief that the drug could be improved had been arrogance, nothing more. The same belief that a number of other clients had likely shared.

Graff had promised a drug that would subvert wills, turn subjects into mindless puppets, and kill them from exposure.

That was what SCORPIA had reclaimed from the ashes of the operation and that was what Three still had. The time before the lethal stage had been extended somewhat, but the subjects ended up no less dead. No less useless in the end.

Always the same symptoms. Always the same outcome. Always the same, slight signs in the postmortem.

Samantha Graff had known, Three had no doubts about that. She had distanced herself, made contingency plans, and when her husband's plans fell apart, she had erased any evidence of her own involvement. Had she planned to do the same even if those plans had not encountered difficulties? Three suspected as much. Let her husband run his bidding war and sell his creation, wait a suitable amount of time – half a year, perhaps – and dispose of him in an unfortunate accident. By the time any client might have become disgruntled that the drug proved impossible to adapt further, he would be long dead and his widow and children vanished.

There was the fleeting thought of hunting her down, the annoyance of being outwitted by mere children in the game, but it was a brief one. SCORPIA would acquiesce but Three supposed there was little point in wasting such resources for his own wounded pride.

And … perhaps something decent might still come of it. Three had still managed to improve the drug somewhat and he had all of SCORPIA's vast resources to help improve it further.

Perhaps a puzzle like that was just the thing to keep his mind sharp.

The Fer de Lance drifted lazily well off of the coast of Odessa. She was not alone. Drifting a little more cautiously and at a respectful distance, the Bucephalus kept pace with her like a wary suitor.

Even from the deck of the Fer de Lance, the yacht was huge. Far larger and more powerful than her temporary companion, the Bucephalus could serve as a floating command centre for SCORPIA. She was an eye-wateringly expensive piece of technology commissioned by Yassen Gregorovich, paid for by SCORPIA, and given to SCORPIA's youngest ever chief executive on his twenty-fifth birthday.

Half a year later, Alex still wasn't used to the fact that she was his. He still wasn't used to a lot of things. He'd had a lot of responsibility since Dr Three's retirement, and even more of it the last year before Yassen stepped down, but this was still – different.

There was no one else, that was probably the biggest change. Sure, he had lots of people around him he could ask for advice and help but Yassen had always been there above everything else. Someone he could go to if absolutely nothing else worked.

Now there wasn't. SCORPIA had a new chief executive, his name was Alex Rider, but some days Alex still expected Yassen to drop some mission file or another on his desk with the implied order to handle it. Still expected Yassen to be just an email away. And he still was but – not like that. SCORPIA was Alex's now, and Yassen …

Alex looked over at the man in question, leaning against the rail with a drink in his hand and looking like he had somehow managed to grow five years younger since Alex had last seen him …

… Retirement agreed with Yassen.

"You think too loudly."

"Some of us have to work for a living," Alex snarked back. "How was bingo night?"

There was a slight twitch of Yassen's lips, the ghost of humour Alex hadn't seen too often in the past few years, but he didn't comment. Wait, did that mean Yassen actually went to bingo nights? Alex doubted it but he wasn't going to ask. He wasn't quite that suicidal.

Yassen had ruled SCORPIA with an iron first since Dr Three's retirement and he had handed a sharp, efficient operation over to Alex, but he hadn't enjoyed it. It had been work, nothing more and nothing less, an unfortunate necessity to ensure a safe, comfortable retirement, and that was it. Dr Three had enjoyed the politics and the easy, convenient chance to practice his hobbies, and Alex never forgot that he would be able to make an actual difference in the world with the full resources of SCORPIA behind him, but Yassen had wanted neither of that.

He had just … done his job, just like he had since SCORPIA first took an interest in him.

Twenty-five years in SCORPIA's service, first as an assassin, then as a board member. Alex couldn't even imagine it. The ten years of his own felt endless, and he was painfully aware that in another five years, he would have spent more than half his life with SCORPIA.

Just like Yassen had, Alex was reminded as well, with that same, sharp sting. Yassen had been … nineteen? Twenty? Not that much older than Alex had. He had spent his entire adult life with a terrorist organisation as well and unlike Alex, he hadn't had a protector on the executive board to watch out for him for most of that time.

If Yassen wanted to spend the next twenty-five years just drifting with the wind and waves on the Fer de Lance, Alex would arrange for whatever it would take to make that happen. Beyond just the security detail and the promise of hellfire if anyone got any stupid ideas.

Alex's eyes drifted back to the massive yacht. He still wasn't used to the fact that she was his but he got a little closer every day. She didn't feel like home yet, not the way the Fer de Lance still did, but every day he spent aboard made her a little more familiar. A little more like his.

Alex felt Yassen's gaze on him before it flickered to the yacht as well.

"She will serve you well," he murmured.

"She's incredible." Alex's response was honest and with a bit of the awe that something that large and expensive was his now. Jack had a cabin there for whenever she came to visit. Tom had claimed the one next to Alex's – for security reasons, of course, that had nothing to do with the fact that it was almost as big as Alex's own cabin.

She had the best defence capabilities available, enough weapons stocked away to handle anything up to an all-out military assault and her crew were all SCORPIA's own people, several of them trained, experienced operatives who had wanted to retire from field work but not from SCORPIA – and not one of them came from Malagosto. She was a target, sure, but anywhere Alex settled would be a target, but she was also freedom and adventure and -

- She was his.

She was his.

It hadn't actually sunk in until now, standing on the deck of the Fer de Lance and watching her gleam in the sunlight.

She was his.

Was this what Yassen had felt like the first time he had set foot on the Fer de Lance? That sudden sense of hope, of freedom, of an escape from that claustrophobic feeling that had been the politics of old SCORPIA?

Alex hoped so. He suspected he was right, too. Yassen enjoyed flying and expected Alex would, too, so he had paid for Alex's training. The Fer de Lance was probably the closest thing to a home Yassen had had since he was a teenager, and Alex had enjoyed the time he had spent there, too … so Yassen had commissioned the Bucephalus to give Alex at least one place where he could breathe and be just Alex. Somewhere to call home.

"… She's perfect," he said quietly. "Thank you."

Yassen didn't answer and didn't need to.

Silence settled. Sunlight caught the waves and danced along the water. The breeze was pleasantly cool against the summer heat. To one side, Odessa was a hazy mirage. To the other, the Black Sea seemed to go on forever until it became one with the horizon.

Tomorrow, Alex would deal with operations and clients and subordinates and politics and plans. Tomorrow.

For now, Alex had the Fer de Lance and the Bucephalus and the endless sea around them, and that was good enough for him.

And that's it. There's an additional chapter posted on AO3 under the same username with the timeline and a few, short bits of Yassen POV that didn't manage to fit into an interlude, but that's it. I've got no plans for any sequel or one-shots and at well past half a million words, I don't really feel like it, either.

Thank you for sticking with this beast of a story and thank you so much to everyone who reviewed – I suspect the fic would have been much shorter without you.

And if you've got a minute or two to spare, please leave a review and let me know what you think. Thank you! :)

Guest: ASIS has more or less claimed anything that even looks like SCORPIA as their jurisdiction and it has absolutely nothing to do with their Uluru-sized grudge against Brendan Chase. Jokes aside, SCORPIA at the beginning was more of a mildly worrying rogue intelligence agency than the terrorist mega-corporation it later became. ASIS claimed jurisdiction since they had the experience and skills within that kind of area and they never let go again, even when SCORPIA plainly started to fall within other agencies instead.