Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

No Signs of Weakness

Happy bloody Christmas to me, he thought darkly, licking his dry lips. They were cracked and bloody at this point. He hadn't had water in over a day, and the air was desert dry.

It made sense, considering he was in a desert.

There was a piece of hair that kept falling into his eye. No matter how many times he shook his head, it always fell right back to where it had left. He would have flattened it to his head had his arms not been chained to the wall. But, as things were, he had to tolerate the dark and dirty strand of hair tickling his eye every few minutes. It wasn't going well. With nothing else to focus on, it was almost driving him crazy.

Giving up, he glanced around his cell, though he'd memorized its layout ten times over in the past week. A rusty chair over in the corner, his own blood staining the legs. What he thought might be a human skeleton over to his left. A rat hole in the opposite wall. There was a window high up to his left, but it wasn't big enough for him to squeeze through. He would know. He had tried on his first night, wasting the last piece of Smithers' exploding gum. His only reward had been a new set of chains and water deprivation.

The walls themselves were colored with dust and blood. There was a stain that looked suspiciously like the Mona Lisa on the wall opposite him. The floor was sandy. Nothing too exciting there.

He licked his lips again and glanced toward the door, wondering when they would be back with his water. They didn't seem to be on a schedule, so he could go just a few hours without water, or almost two days, his current record. He suspected it was just another one of their torture methods, so he refused to give them any satisfaction and gulp at it when it did come. He drank it slowly, making sure not to let any spill.

The door opened. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, Alex thought grimly. His muscles had clenched involuntarily and he made them loosen—no signs of weakness, he reminded himself. Still, he had to clench his jaw to avoid saying anything stupid.

"It's seems that Mr. Rider has learned his lesson," the man all but purred to his imaginary audience. "No sardonic comments, Mr. Rider? I may just break you yet."

Alex bit his tongue so he could reply calmly. A visit from the head honcho. Interesting. He wondered what was going on in the outside world—if their plan was proceeding well. "You wish, Volta."

"That is among my dearest wishes, yes," the man conceded with a slight nod. "You have turned out to be such a fascinating little spy. I suspect I will be disappointed when you die."

Alex didn't respond. Volta and his men took every opportunity to torture him—speaking 'out of turn' had led to painful nights more than once.

Volta turned on his heel and for the slightest second Alex dared to hope that he might be leaving. But no. He dragged the chair, the metal legs scraping against the ground, until it was a few feet in front of where Alex sat. He took a seat and put his elbows on his knees, examining Alex intently. Alex stared right back, though the man's piercing green eyes were more than a little bit unnerving.

"It's Christmas," he said, suddenly, startling Alex.

"Whoop-de-doo," Alex muttered under his breath. "That's great," he said, more loudly. "Did you get me anything?"

Volta didn't laugh. "What would you be doing now?" he asked Alex, still not taking his eyes off of him. "If you were still in London?"

Alex clenched his jaw shut tighter. Volta wasn't in here to chat, he saw now. He was trying to break him, but psychologically this time. Alex allowed himself a small smile to himself when he realized that. That meant that they thought the physical methods weren't working.

"Will I have to…force the answers out of you, Mr. Rider?" he asked, when Alex didn't answer. "We both know I will not hesitate to do so." As if to prove his point, he pulled a coiled whip out from behind him. Alex stiffened involuntarily. His back was already raw with whip marks.

"I see you recognize my old friend," Volta purred, stroking the leather whip. "I told my associates to use it well. I'm glad they followed my advice."

There was a pause. The scabbing wounds on Alex's back seemed to throb in earnest, though he'd been ignoring them pretty successfully for a few days now. He tried to take a deep breath discreetly, but he knew Volta would see it—and recognize it—anyway. No signs of weakness.

"Now, Mr. Rider," he said, looking at Alex. "This will not be necessary if you just tell me some simple information. No one will die based on what you tell us. I simply want to know how you would be spending your holiday."

Alex glared, but opened his mouth. There was no harm in talking about Christmas. He already knew they couldn't get to Jack—she was in protective custody right about now.

"Jack and I eat take away Chinese food on Christmas Eve," he said, finally. His voice seemed gravelly. It was probably from all of the screaming he had been doing. "Since they're the only places open. I'm allowed to open one present on Christmas Eve—that's Jack's tradition. I usually pick the one present that has socks in it. She laughs at me, and we drink cocoa. Then I go to bed. She wakes me up early—usually before eight—on Christmas morning and we eat cinnamon rolls as we open presents. Then we laze around for the rest of the day." He stopped, out of breath. His throat hurt. "Good enough?"

"Certainly," Volta said, though he was still fingering the whip. "You care for this Jack very much, don't you?"

Alex felt his insides growing cold. "What did you do?" he asked, dread filling every part of him. Not Jack. It couldn't be Jack.

He laughed—the bastard laughed. "Oh, nothing yet. We thought we would have you watch."

Alex was suddenly standing, pulling at the chains with all of his might. He kicked wildly, but Volta had placed himself strategically out of Alex's reach. He didn't even get up, but remained calmly seated, still watching Alex.

Alex tugged at the chains until he thought his arms would fall out of his sockets. His wrists were raw where the cuffs dug into them, and his blood leaked warmly down his arms. But once his rational mind had control again, he made the frenzied beating of his heart slow. No signs of weakness, he reminded himself. No signs of weakness.

A moment after he stopped trying to beat Volta into the next century without the use of his hands or feet, two men came into the room, wheeling a television. Alex's vision seemed to go blurry at the edges—Volta wasn't kidding. They were going to make him watch Jack die.

One of the men pressed a button on the front of the television and the screen flickered to life. Alex's heart seemed to stop. That was Jack, no doubt about it. She was sitting in the middle of a dark room, tied to a chair. Her bright red hair was scarlet with blood that was leaking down onto her face. But her head was held high, in typical Jack fashion. She was wearing a jumper with a reindeer on it.

"Jack!" he yelled, though in all likelihoods she couldn't hear him. "Jack!"

"I will spare her life if you tell me where the detonator is," Volta said softly, watching one of his men circle Jack predatorily.

Alex could have cried—could have, but didn't. No signs of weakness. "How many times do I have to tell you?!" he exclaimed, tugging at his chains again as if being closer to the television would help him. "I don't know where the detonator is!"

Volta shrugged and looked at him. "I don't believe you," he said, after a moment of looking into Alex's eyes.

He lifted a radio to his mouth—Alex didn't know how he'd missed it before, the thing was huge—and said only two words.

"Shoot her."

Alex's heart faltered. Nothing happened on the television—maybe they were just bluffing, that wasn't Jack, they weren't going to kill her, they just wanted to scare him...

A shot rang out. There was no sound, but Alex heard it as if the gun had been right next to his ear. He saw the red blossoming on her chest, but didn't want to believe. She looked down at it for a moment before looking up into the camera. Her mouth moved slightly, but Alex couldn't make it out from where he was.

And then she died.

Alex screamed, unable to control it. No signs of weakness, he thought, but it was no use. He didn't even notice when one of the men who had wheeled the television in punched him in the face until he hit the ground, his nose bleeding profusely. His head was spinning.

He saw Volta walk up to him and crouch. He wished his hands were free. He would kill this man, damn the consequences.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. Rider."