I own nothing. I would claim otherwise but, well, I'd have to run for the embassy. This work of fanfiction is heavily inspired by The Book Thief. I mean it. Heavily. If you have a problem with that, don't read the story. You don't have to read The Book Thief to get it. Though if you haven't already, you should. I really do stress the point though. A lot of stuff borrowed from The Book Thief. Not the plot though. That's mine.

Also, if you don't like Yassen, there's nothing here for you. Nothing. I mean it.

So, in conclusion, just enjoy and stuff, okay? Please drop me a review too 'cause I'm new to this whole fanfiction thing. Would like to hear what you think.

Just, about the whole Book Thief thing. Don't be put off by it. I have been heavy handed. I've taken sections and stripped them down, tinkered with them, then put them back together for this story. If this bothers you, just tell me I'm an ass, flame me to kingdom come and I'll delete it.

DISCLAIMER: The Alex Rider Series and all relevant characters are property of Anthony Horowitz. The Book Thief is property of Markus Zusak. Not mine. You hear that guys? Do not belong to me.

Silence is the loudest noise of all. Silence deafens and consumes. It is an ever hungry creature, devouring all. It is a monster. Words are the swords that pierce and wound. And we find, too late, that the monster is something that dwells within.

You can make of this what you will.

It is not fact. It is not false. It simply is.

"Where did you find them?"

Words invaded the silence. They were spoken gently. Awkwardly. They had sat in their speaker's mouth all night. They had driven many miles, dragged out of their bed by a phone call. Now they sat clumsily at their speaker's feet. Silence eyed them curiously.

Not the start you expected? Where are my manners? A beginning is what we need. A real one. An introduction.

You will know me already. I am a part of every life. Of every culture. Of the rich tapestry, entwined with darkness, that is your history.

But not just yours. I belong to every one. And you'll have to share me.

I'm sure that, at some stage, I've taken someone you know and love into my arms. Well, their soul anyway. And someday, maybe soon, it will be you I've come for.

But please, don't take it personally. I'm death. It's just my job.

You could say that Yassen Gregorovich and I saw a lot of each other over the years. You would be correct. I saw Yassen a total of five times. I know what you're thinking. 'Only five times?' Yes, Yassen did keep me rather busy with his job. But he was so good at it, I never saw him, even once, killing someone. I simply cleared up the messes he left behind. We were like workers on opposite shifts. But still, I remember each encounter very clearly.

The first was black.

The night sky had imploded on itself. All the stars had disappeared into the murky darkness. I wandered slowly into the dim little bedroom. The candle spluttered violently. I eased the soul from her body and flung it over my shoulder. I remember thinking how beautiful she was.

A tragic waste.

You humans are good at tragedy. Despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, you are very odd creatures. Full of wants and needs and thoughts and dreams. Everytime I manage to label you, someone comes along and confounds my worst expectations.

I was about to leave, but I turned back at the door. I was compelled. I turned my gaze on the one pathetic survivor. It was a boy.

I know what you're thinking to yourself. Yassen Gregorovich as a child. Yes, it was. I know what you're thinking now. Spawn of Satan and so on. But no. I didn't learn that it was Yassen until much later. Because he was behaving most un-Yasssen-like.

The Definition Of Un-Yassen-Like:

Sobbing into her hair with one hand stroking her cheek.

He was a sliver of a boy when I saw him. A filthy mess of white blond hair. A little parcel wrapped in brown paper was at his feet. He clung to a teddy bear with no eyes.

Everything about him spelt undernourished. Legs like wire hangars. Arms with very pointy elbows. Fingers like chicken bones. Snot and tears ran down his face and mixed. I had no idea I would see more of the boy.

In Yassen's own words 'This was my first taste of death. It tasted empty and rubbery. Like a balloon. Like the park after the carnival is over'.

The second was green.

Gas shrouded the air. A curtain of poison was drawn around the small port. I threw their souls over my shoulder. I piled them on my back. I pulled the scientists along in my hands. They were dragged along the ground.

I don't like scientists. And these ones were worse than most.

That was when I made a mistake.

I rushed. I arrived too early. The man and woman were still alive. Just barely. Their minds were slowing, no longer racing with fear. The colours they saw dulled. The world was dark for them. Again I noticed. Once again I was compelled.

A boy was hunched in the corner. He wore an over-sized gas mask that covered his face from his eyes down. Tufty blond hair flopped messily on top of his head. It was no longer as pale a brand of blond. No longer white.

His eyes were very serious. So serious I did a double take.

He was crying again.

But not the snotty weeping he'd done as a child. Tears trickled silently down his face and dripped off his chin. He was so very quiet. So very still.

He still had that underfed look, even if he was marginally cleaner. But still, he looked like a stick man. A hungry stick man with tooth pick arms and legs. I felt a pang of sadness. You see? Even I feel sadness for a kid who has nothing. No-one.

He was wearing slightly better clothes than last time. An old, but neatly stitched, shirt and navy, nicely patched trousers. They were the smallest bit on the large side but I don't think he cared. A small girl sheltered under one arm.

I picked up the man's soul. And the woman's. I was waiting for the girl.

He stroked her ash blond hair and whispered nonsense to her. He spoke of apple trees and double beds. Horses and Sister Egorov and painting. Puppies and sheep skin rugs. Hot water and snowmen and ice skating and kisses. He told her she would be fine.

He was lying.

I knew it.

She knew it.

Deep down he knew it as well.

I listened closely then. And in the room that smelt faintly of damp, a room half lit by moonshine strolling through the broken window, I observed. They spoke softly to each other. I strained my ears but could not hear. Many years later, I learned what was said.

One Last Conversation Before Death:

"I'm going to die Yassen, amn't I?"

"No. You won't. I won't let death take you"

"He's here. I can see him. I can smell him. He took mama and papa. I'll tell him to leave you alone"

"I can't lose you Yeva. We lost her. Now we've lost Olga and Pavel. I can't lose you. Not now"

"What was the song mama used to sing for us, Yassen?"

"I'm so scared Yeva. I- You can't die"

"How did it go? Sing it for me"

His voice cracks and he sobs quietly. Both the girl and I waited with bated breath to hear thie song. I have done it again. I've become caught up in the story of Yassen. It was the only part of the conversation I heard at that stage. The boy confessing his fear. The girl asking for a song.

"I can't. I don't remember. I don't remember".

Slowly the girl's soul slips from her body. I scoop her into my arms. A forgotten tune is caught in my mind.

Again my knowledge of the situation was fractured. I had no idea she was blind. I learned that too, many years later, through Yassen's words. It may be a small comfort to you. She loved him as much as any younger sister could. He did not die unloved.

The third time was blue.

As I descended down into the winding city streets, I paused for a moment. The Moskva river was winding its way steadily along below me. I don't know if you've seen it before. It's grey. And filthy. What else is there to tell?

I know that by this stage, you have heard many of my mistakes. Many of them. You must think I'm rather careless. But now I have a truth for you. I was intriqued by Yassen Gregorovich. Very much so. It's in my nature to root for the underdog. And in a struggle between the world and a fourteen year old boy, it's clear who the underdog is.

Anytime I was called to Russia, I raced. I went that little bit faster. Because I was sure a boy like Yassen would be surrounded by death. I was sure of it. Sooner or later he would surface. It did not take too long.

I drifted down to the river like a leaf caught in the breeze. A group of boys stood by the river.

I watched with interest, allowing myself to plug into the situation. Letting myself forget the fact that one of these boys would die soon. I just stood and watched.

From what I could gather, they were arguing about something. A dare. A prank. One of those things teenage boys find an amusing pass time. I scanned each face hungrily for a boy with pale blue, serious eyes. And yes. Right there. Once again, Yassen Gregorovich was before my very eyes.

He was taller now. A beanpole of a boy, lean and borderline skinny. But a lot stronger looking than some of the other boys there. And better kept. His hair was shaggy and stuck up untidily like twigs now. His skin was still as pale as ever. But his eyes. If they'd started off as serious, they had only grown more so over the years. Even at the age of fifteen he had that cold air. I think the other boys recognized he had something none of them had.

It was an air of something. Maybe it was an omen about his future. A prediction, perhaps.

I moved back slightly, to take in the entire scene. I played a little game. I tried to guess who it would be. I could feel the tension raise. And then, all of a sudden, a fight broke out. One of the boys swung for another boy. The boy under attack was a head taller than Yassen. He fought back as best he could. But the other boy was stronger. More skillful. Two jabs in the face. A right hook to the ribs.

The taller boy backed off towards the river. I saw it on his face. A silent plea. To Yassen. And to his credit, Yassen did step in. He grabbed the shorter boy by his shirt and pulled him back. I was sure he'd just saved a life. Yassen slapped the shorter boy across the face. Twice. The boy's shoulders slumped. It looked like everything would be fine. Yassen turned to move away.

As soon as he turned his back, disaster struck.

The shorter boy feinted at the taller boy. He flinched backwards. And almost in slow motion he fell over the side of the bank and into the water.

Yassen dived in. But I could tell it was too late. These were Russian street urchins. They couldn't swim. Yassen could manage a half decent dog paddle. The boy was dead before he hit the water.

I lifted him gently from his sinking body and pulled him onto my back. But I had to stick around. Because another death was approaching fast.

Half an hour later, Yassen emerged from the water, clothes soaking wet. Straight away he grabbed the short boy and started beating him. I mean it when I tell you it shocked me. It was savage. I've seen so many brutal things. But this. This was indescribable. Yassen pinned him to the floor and punched his head from side to side. The boy was bleeding and struggling and yelling. The other boys. They stood. And watched.

It was almost mesmerising. Yassen was screaming all sorts of unwritable things. And over and over he was repeating one word. The drowned boy's name. Just as I was ready to pull the short boy's soul from his body, Yassen stopped. The other boy lay whimpering by the river. Yassen had stopped beating the boy just as the life was ebbing from him.

I left quickly, pondering what I'd seen.

I can tell you now, the boy's name was Mikhail Ivanovich. He didn't die that day.

The Death Of Mikhail

A cold November morning. The young man lies wrapped up in cardboard inside the door of the shop. The cold bites at his fingers. I ease him from his body. It takes two weeks for anyone to notice he's missing. Another week and they find he's dead.

You humans are capable of great and awful things.

The fourth was red.

This time I was late. Much too late to see the brunt of the action. By the time I'd picked up Travis, Caxero and three others I had to hurry. I reached the opera house in time to see Yassen. He was older again. And that little bit colder. Too cold to be natural. He had his gun on the man's neck. I had a suspicion I would be carrying the dark haired man on my shoulders before the night was over.

"You should have stayed at home".

Yassen ran.

But I had time to study him. He had been doing a lot of training. A lot of running. He was still pale. But his hair was shaved shorter now. And his eyes. They were so cold. Just like him.

He'd left his knife in the darker man, who collapsed to the ground. He was thrashing in pain, making it worse. There was blood everywhere. I almost took pity on him enough to take his soul there and then. But I couldn't. I just couldn't. The sea of blood pooling on the floor was too much.

I left then. I left. Like a coward. I failed to do my duty because I couldn't. Later I would learn that Yassen cried that night. Cried. The beast had a heart.

The fifth and last was white.

The world had shrugged on a jumper of snow. It blanketed the entire countryside. I made my way delicately across it, leaving no footprints. The sky smirked down at me. I smirked back. I was cold. So very cold.

I made my way gently through the trees to the small cabin. I let myself in. And the smirk slipped from my face. A man stood on a stool, a length of rope tied around his neck. Two bottles of Russian vodka lay scattered on the floor. A used syringe beside them.

The Thing On The Stool:

A Yassen

He could barely stand up. He was swaying. Tears streamed down his cheeks. They'd been beaten out of him by life.

I'll admit it. I felt let down. Disappointed. For Yassen to end his life. It shocked me really. He'd struggled through so much. And that was just in the five glimpses I'd seen. I felt bitter, truth be told.

Yassen jumped from the stool as if it was a cliff. He struggled on the end of the rope. I could have relieved him of his pain there and then. Scooped out his soul. But no. I let him squirm. I was mad. I wanted him to feel the choking anger I felt.

He slowly stopped struggling.

I reached out to take his soul. And I was fought back. The audacious bastard had nerve to attempt suicide then fight death back.

He swung wildly and pulled another knife from the waist band of his trousers. He slashed the rope and fell to the floor, gasping for air. He clawed at the rope biting into his neck and then fell into a deep unconsciousness. I nodded to myself.

That was when I noticed a small black leather book beside him. An envelope stuck out of the inside cover. On impulse, I picked it up. I tucked it in my pocket. And between my five sightings and the small black book, I managed to piece together exactly what happened.

I have followed Yassen Gregorovich's story from the highs to the lows. I have shared in his triumphs. I have wept with his words. And now, I give you his story. The Word Eater. Which is about, among other things:

-An up and coming assassin

-The silence monster

-A mute mobster

-Some irate policemen

-A teenage bullshit artist

-And quite a lot of Death

Here it is. One of a small number.

The Word Eater.

Is you feel like it, come with me. I will tell you a story.

I'll paint you a picture.


Next chapter coming sometime soon. More blatant thieving from The Book Thief to come.