AN: Sequel to Divergence, but it can be read without it. I would suggest reading Divergence if you're interested in knowing just how this happened. Enjoy!

For his first, second, third and fourth birthdays, Alex Rider was given toys that he played with and soon forgot about.

For his fifth birthday, Alex Rider was given a white gi, a full-time martial arts tutor, and several tutors in more ordinary subjects.

For his sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth birthdays, Alex Rider was given vacations to exotic destinations around the globe—Buenos Aires, Shanghai, Geneva. He learned to scuba dive, snowboard and rock climb, among other things.

For his tenth birthday, Alex Rider was given a .40 caliber semi-automatic Walther PPS pistol.

Alex pulled at his tie and glowered. The dining hall was all done up for the occasion—deep crimson cloths covered every available space, from the tables to the banisters. Alex thought it made it look as if the room was bleeding. Then again, he thought darkly, that was probably the intention. Each place setting was dotted with small crystals. The light from the elaborate overhead chandeliers reflected off of them, making the room sparkle.

A band played quick jazz in one of the corners, and beautiful men and women smiled and danced in the open space that had been cleared. They were calling it his birthday party, and all of the guests had brought gifts—a shining silver watch, with a red scorpion flickering in the background; a really cool Japanese katana with rubies in the hilt—but Alex knew that the occasion wasn't really for him.

Julia Rothman was not far from where Alex sat and scowled. She held a champagne flute, and sipped lightly at it as he watched. Her dress, the same color as her drink, seemed to glitter. She caught him looking and turned to him, offering a wave. Alex forced his lips upward and waved back. Her companion—a man with a scruffy black beard and a mouth that seemed somehow too wide—waved as well. No one wanted to risk offending Alex, the son of perhaps the deadliest woman in the world.

Alex stood and almost kicked his chair in frustration. This was so boring. He really only wanted to go and play football, or maybe practice with his new sword, but he knew he wouldn't be allowed to leave for hours more.

He sidled up to the bar, barely able to see above it. "Gin and tonic. On the rocks."

The barman raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, instead turning to pour Alex the drink. He knew better than to question Julia Rothman's son. The boy sat on the barstool. His feet hung in the air. A few stools down, a disgustingly affectionate couple was snogging. Alex wrinkled his nose. The barman turned back to him, sliding a pale brown drink over the dark wood bar.

Alex felt a hand on his shoulder. "A little young to start that kind of habit, eh, Alex?"

He jumped. "Ash! You're back!"

Ash grinned and clapped him on the back. He reached for the drink, taking a swig. He pursed his lips in disgust. "Ugh. If you're going to drink, do it well."

Alex laughed, drink forgotten, as he watched his godfather wince as he sat on the barstool next to Alex. "How was it?" he asked eagerly. "Did you get him? How long can you stay this time?"

Ash raised a finger for the barman, and placed an order for a scotch before he turned back to his godson. "Of course I did." He ignored Alex's other question. "What about you? Have you been practicing?"

Alex nodded eagerly. "I beat Holliston the other day in training. Stupid idiot didn't even see my feint."

Ash's smile was wide. He shook his head. "Tut, tut, Holliston! Getting beat by a nine-year-old!"

"Ten. This is my birthday party, remember?"

Ash's smile seemed to falter. His scarred jaw twitched. When he spoke, his voice was wobbly. Alex frowned. "Right. Ten." He reached into his pocket. "Speaking of your birthday, lad, I have a present."

He pulled out a watch. It wasn't even close to the quality of the one he'd been given earlier in the day, but Alex watched it dangle from Ash's fingers with something close to fascination.

"It was your father's."

Alex started and looked up at Ash. "Really?"

The older man nodded. "It will probably be too big for a while, but I thought it was time for you to have it. He loved this watch."

He offered it to Alex, who couldn't take his eyes off of it. The screen was dotted with scratches, and the platinum band was indeed too large. Alex pushed the button on the side and turned the hands. He could feel Ash's eyes on his hands, watching as he pulled the gift onto his wrist.

It hung loosely, but Alex's eyes were solemn with pride when he looked up. "Thanks, Ash. That was the best present I've gotten all day."

Ash laughed and stood, trying to hide a wince. Whatever had been bothering him before had apparently been forgotten. "You're welcome."

Patting Alex on the shoulder as he passed, he said, "Just be careful about letting your mum see it, all right? It might make her…emotional."

For his fourteenth birthday, Alex Rider was given an opportunity.

"Calm down, won't you?" Nile's voice was almost too low to be heard.

Alex stopped the twitching of his fingers on his knee. "Sorry." He said nothing else, but instead took a deep breath. Drumming on his legs like that was a nervous habit, and one he needed to correct. You couldn't let yourself be nervous. Not before, not during, not after. Nervousness was a weakness.

It was dark, but not dark enough for the two of them to disappear completely. The moon was a tiny sliver, the stars bright enough to illuminate the rolling hills on which they were hidden. Alex's face was painted black, but his blonde hair—getting too long, Mum would insist on a trim soon—peeked out from underneath his ski cap. Nile needed much less face paint than Alex. Only enough to cover the parts of him that were becoming discolored, the parts that would have glowed on a night like this.

Polizer Pharmaceuticals was an enormous facility, made of ugly white cinderblock. It sat low, but was extremely long and narrow. It was settled in front a hill, facing a flat expanse of grass. Bright lights shone from every corner of the building, making the place glow like a beacon. No one looking out from the facility would be able to see them with the lights in their eyes. But it wasn't as if they had to worry. Other than the barbed wire fence, not much effort had been put toward security.

An infinite amount of time seemed to pass before Nile stirred. "Get ready," he breathed.

Alex nodded and scooted up to his rifle, a L96A1, British-designed. It had the ability to fire five rounds, but Alex knew he wouldn't need that many. Just one would do. As he gazed through the sights, his nervousness seemed to float away. There was nothing but the area shown by the scope; nothing but the area where the target would emerge. In this light, what he saw had a slight green tinge. Alex knew that this wouldn't throw him off. He had trained his entire life for this moment.

The target—a fat, balding man carrying a large briefcase—waddled purposefully out of the front doors. Another moment, and he was through the front gates. They swung shut automatically behind him. Alex switched off the safety and aimed. A feather-light touch of the trigger, and the gun recoiled. Alex saw the man fall, but he was already busy moving.

Nile was gone, racing down their hill and toward the squat buildings with the speed and grace of a leopard. Alex disassembled the rifle, shoving it into a duffel bag. His veins were pumping with adrenaline. He needed to move. He lifted the duffel to his side and stopped. A flicker of gold caught his eye.

The shell. Alex grinned, pocketing it. And then he sprinted to follow Nile. The older man was responsible for disabling the cameras. Alex was responsible for obtaining the briefcase. As he got closer, Alex could smell the burning flesh of the bullet wound. That had been something they'd described in classes, using a pig as an example. Bullets went so fast, and were so hot, that they often cauterized the skin as they passed through. But pork hadn't smelled quite so disgusting as this did.

Alex swelled up with pride as he approached the target. There was a hole almost exactly in the center of the fat man's forehead, still gushing blood. Alex bent down and picked up the briefcase, ignoring how the man's thick, sausage fingers were still warm. Once he had a firm hold on it, he backed away. Nile was waiting for him.

Alex didn't notice the gold bullet shell fall out of his pocket. Nor was he aware of the one camera that stubbornly remained functional, pointed right at him from the safety of a crooked tree.

Five hours later, in an office hundreds of miles away, a young agent delivered this security tape to the desk of Alan Blunt. With his deputy head, Mrs Jones, crouched next to him by the small screen, Blunt fast-forwarded to the image that had caught the attention of Special Operations. It was grainy, and very dark. Mark Sanders' killer was hunched over his victim's body, pulling away the man's briefcase. The assassin turned. Blunt paused the frame. There was a moment of still silence.

"Who are you?" he wondered aloud.

The boy on the screen—obviously young, blond and deadly—didn't answer.