A/N: I'm a bit of a commitment-phobe when it comes to my fics, meaning that I've never attempted to write one longer than a threeshot, but I think this one might end up longer than that. It was initially a oneshot, until I discovered exactly how far I could go with this idea. There's a bit of a cliffie, I warn you in advance, and my updates on multi-chap stories tend to be glacial at best, but I won't leave it unfinished. I'm sort of giddy at the thought of writing a long fic - wish me luck!

Disclaimer: I'd like to explicitly state that I don't own Alex Rider. I'm borrowing him for a bit. The title of this fic comes from "The Charge of the Light Brigade," by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I don't own that either. Now that we've made it clear I own absolutely nothing, shall we get on with it?

John knocks softly on the door to the office of the head of MI6, nerves thrumming in his stomach.

A cool voice calls, "Come in!" and John turns the knob, entering the office with footsteps that sound too loud in the room.

"You called for me, Director?" he asks, closing the door behind him.

The woman seated behind the desk nods. "Have a seat, Agent Roberts."

He complies, unobtrusively observing his boss. Dark hair greying at the temples, laugh lines around a stern mouth, dark eyes that show no emotion. The scent of peppermint drifts toward him, sharp but not unpleasant. She turns her gaze on him and John meets her eyes with his, observations forgotten.

"John Roberts." It's not a question, but he nods anyway. "Three years in the army, selected for additional training after a deployment to the Gulf. Two tours, exemplary service, recommended with highest praise. Tell me, John, were you happy in the army?"

"Yes ma'am," John responds, wondering where this is going.

"Then why," the director asks, "did you accept our offer and transfer to MI6?"

John can't tell if it's an honest question or not, but he replies nevertheless. "I don't quite know, ma'am," he says honestly. "I suppose…I joined the army as a means to an end, as a way to help people and to feel like I was doing something. After a while, I felt like I was running in place – that no matter how many tours I did, I'd never make a difference. And then your offer came, and I decided that I might as well take it and try to do whatever I could."

Her expression doesn't change, but her eyebrows raise just a fraction of a centimetre. "I see. And you've been with us for...?"

"Two years now, Director."

"Tell me Agent Roberts, have you been on a mission?"

She's read his file, judging by the information she'd rattled off earlier, so he wonders why she asks. "A few, ma'am. One or two low-profile ones in Europe that weren't too major, mostly rescue ops with senior agents. One bigger op, though, down in Turkey – an undercover protection mission."

She nods. "So you're comfortable with going undercover, then?" she asks, seemingly casual, but John's getting tired of her games.

"Does it really matter if I am? Ma'am," John adds hurriedly, tacking on the honorific. "With all due respect, you could send me anywhere and I wouldn't exactly be able to refuse."

"This mission is different," The director tells him, dark eyes shadowed. "Understand this, John – I cannot guarantee you'll come back."

John blinks, startled by her use of his given name. "Pardon me, ma'am, but isn't that a danger with every mission?"

The corner of her mouth twitches in what he would call amusement, were she not the director of MI6. "Yes, I suppose it is. Nevertheless, this mission is not like any other you've been on – it is dangerous, Agent Roberts, and I wish to give you a chance to turn it down before you say yes."

"I understand, ma'am."

"Very well," Director Jones continues. "The mission will take place abroad, and during the op you will have no way to contact us unless you devise a system of your own. You will, essentially, be going in blind. In addition, the group you will be targeting will not show you any mercy – in fact, they will be more brutal and vicious than any organisation you've encountered before. There is no certainty that you will come back alive, or that you will come back at all – and if you do, you will not be the same."

She's leaning forward over the desk now, eyes intense as she speaks to him. "You have every right to decline the mission – your work will not be affected, and neither will your place in this agency. It will be dangerous," she stressed, and John is bewildered and slightly alarmed.

"Why me, then?" he asks her, puzzled. "Why not one of your senior agents, or someone more qualified?"

She sighs, leaning back. "All valid questions. I chose you because you're used to fighting, and you don't project the appearance of a spy the way most of my senior agents do – you lack the paranoia, the constant wariness, the jadedness. Short of sending a child—" here her mouth twists "—you are the last person they will expect to be a spy in their camp, and that makes you valuable."

"I see." And he does – he's not skilled at espionage the way the senior agents are rumoured to be, not one of those born to this profession. "I'll do it, ma'am." He's not entirely sure why he accepts, really. Maybe it's what she said – that he's the only one unexpected enough to do this job. Maybe it's because he could finally make a difference the way he's been dreaming of his whole life. Maybe it's that he's young and green and expendable the way the senior agents aren't, and he doesn't want her to have to send one of her best home in a body bag. And maybe it's because of the barest hint of desperation and fatigue that slips past her mask to appear in her eyes that tells him he really is her last chance.

"Are you sure?" she asks, in a way that's so uncharacteristic of the head of an intelligence agency that he has to hide his surprise.

"Yes," he tells her. "I'm sure."

"Thank you, Agent Roberts," she says. "I'll brief you on the mission now – unless you have questions?"

John's about to shake his head when a thought occurs to him. "Actually, I have one. Since I've already agreed, would you mind telling me the name of this organisation?"

"Of course." Her mouth tightens and a shadow passes over her eyes as she recalls some distant, horrific memory. "It is focused on four main forms of crime – sabotage, corruption, intelligence, and assassination. It goes by the acronym SCORPIA."

-o-

Several floors below, in the technology division of MI6, Derek Smithers sets down the headset he'd been using to listen in on the head's office, face white. He picks up the telephone beside his desk and dials the number of the only person he knows who can help him. "Alex," he says hoarsely. "Sorry to bother you, but there's something you should know…"

(because of course Smithers listens in on the heads)

I'll definitely continue this, but I'd love some feedback on the first chapter, as well as some possible speculations as to where this fic'll go next...review?