Hey guys. I'm sorry for not updating Blood Bonding. My dad was in a car crash a week ago, and he's…pretty beat up. He broke two bones and sprained his wrist. Nothing too bad though, other than a mild concussion. I'm probably not going to update in a while, and if I do, it's probably going to be short.

Disclaimer: You cold-hearted freak. Why do I need one?

This is just an idea. Please tell me if you like it. I might continue it.

Enjoy. Wish my dad the best of luck.

Alex pointed the gun at the man in the dark mask. The hall was silent. The only sound heard was the heavy panting and whimpers. A man and a boy had come to square off. And an audience that included the whole school was watching them too.

Whoop-de fucking-do.

The man broke the tense silence and spoke calmly through the black mask. "So, dear Alex. Do you want to say it, or should I do the honours?"

No answer.

The man chuckled. Or at least, attempted to. He wheezed a few moments before continuing, turning to the school's staff and students. "I'll take that as a no. Now, then, I guess we should start from your first mission with MI6…Stormbreaker, was it?"

"Shut up." The voice had no emotion. Just cold, hard steel. Quiet but deadly, like a knife. "I'll shoot."

"Ah, but Alex!" The man spun around quickly, a blur of black clothing. "Don't you remember the last time you tried to shoot somebody? Mrs. Jones?" He laughed again; it came out as a cough. "You were off. You miscalculated. Missed your target. We can't afford to make mistakes. And do you know what we do to people who make mistakes in this business?"

He leaned forward, waiting anxiously for the answer.

None.

"Well, Alex. We kill them. Ah, yes, gruesome it may be, but it is indeed most effective!" He raised his voice. "And you, dear Alex, are a failure." The hissed words echoed off the poster-ridden white walls.

Alex gripped the Walther PPK – equipped with an unneeded silencer – tightly. He willed it to not shake in his grasp. If he his hand trembled – even in the slightest – it would show fear, and showing fear was a very bad thing in this deadly game of cat and mouse.

"A failure? I think not. I haven't failed anything, except…" Alex's voice wandered off. "Except being like everyone else…" he whispered.

Memories exploded through his head. He remembered the laughter of joking with his friends, teasing the younger kids in the lower years, daring each other to ask a girl out. He remembered playing football and worrying over pop quizzes and exams. He remembered attending big parties, surfing at the beach. Chatting. Eating lunch. Not doing homework.

The pistol slipped from his grasp. Almost in slow-motion, the short handgun clattered noisily to the floor. Alex's fingers were still locked in place, his eyes glazed over and staring into the distance. He body was still and tense.

The man's voice jeered, "See? Another mistake. My, my, Alex! Slipping now, are we?" He sounded like he was scolding a small child. He turned around and began his long story about Alex Rider.

Alex said nothing, nor did he do anything. He just sat down, arms wrapped around his legs, head bowed. The gun lay discarded on the cold tile floor beside him.

The seemingly tall-tale was surprisingly long. It lasted a little less than half of an hour. Of course, it would be longer with all the little details thrown in.

Silence. Many people were sobbing into each other's shoulders or dripping with silent tears. Many pitied Alex, others hated him. The man had manipulated the story to have it fit his own twisted way.

The damage was done.

"Alex…" Tom called softly. Unshed tears glistened in his eyes. "Alex…" He stepped slowly forward, out of the crowd. The man let him pass. He knew what he was doing. If any problems occurred, he'd shoot. The whole building was under his control.

Tom kneeled next to Alex, who didn't respond. He put his hand on his best friend's back and started to rub his back, looking at him with pleading eyes to detect any flicker response.

Alex lifted his head, not looking at Tom, but at the cloaked man. He just glared and glared, his eyes hard and cold. Eventually he spoke.

"You bastard."

The man didn't do anything, just turned back to look at him. He suddenly sighed, and asked something that surprised them all.

"I know, Alex. I know I am."

The mysterious man proceeded to talk. His voice was raspy, like sandpaper, almost as if he hadn't drank anything for many days. He asked a question.

"Alex, dear boy, do you know who I am?"

Alex shook his head no.

"Do you want to know?"

Alex nodded his head yes.

The man seemed to contemplate the teenager's answer for a moment, and then nodded, as if answering himself. He grabbed the hem of his hood and pulled it over his head.

Alex gasped, eyes widening. The next words his whispered so softly that many people barely heard it.

"Ian Rider."

Cliffhanger. Once again, please tell me what you think, and if I should continue or not.