Disturbia n. (dĭi-stûrb'ē-ə)

The feeling of dread or shock that comes with the realization that something that is usually considered normal and safe is, in fact, horribly dangerous or wrong.

I can't say I was exactly surprised at the situation I found myself in. That is, seventeen stories up with a gun jammed against my temple.

The location – Royal and General Bank – was ironic, to say the least. Ironic, yet fitting. It was, metaphorically speaking, the place where I was born; or created at any rate, and it seemed that it would be the place I would die as well.

This prospect didn't exactly bother me. It's not that I welcomed death; no, I had given up on that angsty, teenage, woe-is-me phase a long time ago. It was more of a weary resignation to it. Whichever way the dice rolled, I would accept its outcome and go with it. That is how I survived the last five years of my existence after all. It was a bit off putting that the one who was currently shoving the gun up against my head was no other than my closest friend, Tom Harris.

Tom was never meant to be mixed up in all this. This was my world, and for a while, Tom had felt like the only connection to my past life. Even after everything went to hell, Tom was my rock. Even after Schoolboy Alex had disappeared and Agent Rider took his place, Tom made me think that somehow, even in the screwed up state I called an Existence, somehow I could get back to my Life.

Because let me tell you: living and existing are two very different things. My Life had been fairly normal; at least, as normal as it could be when your uncle is secretly a spy. I was popular at school, I went out with friends on the weekends, and I was planning on being a professional football player when I "grew up". Sure, Ian was rarely home, but when he was, we had the most amazing holidays. We watched movies, we teased Jack, he helped me with homework – we were close. We were friends. And then a volley of bullets ripped its way through his car's metal frame and into his body.

It took a long time for Schoolboy Alex to accept his life was over—once he did, everything became so much easier. I no longer had to think about my morality. I just did what I was told like a good, little spy. Schoolboy Alex was the one who agonized over killing, over differentiation wrong from right. That didn't matter so much to me; I did what needed to be done to finish the job as quickly and efficiently as possible. Sure, I still made certain adjustments to protect innocents, and I didn't go around blasting people left and right – I wasn't that corrupt- but a random guard here or there who got in my way? Someone who knew too much and posed a threat to the mission? Well, it was to be expected. It was my job to finish whatever I started and that's what I did.

I felt the gun jam more forcefully against my head and switched my thoughts back to the more pressing concerns. Tilting my head slightly, I glanced over at my friend. Dear Tom. I felt bad for him. He looked so tired, so worn. His face was hardened and cold, like mine, but now I could see that he just wanted it to be over. We were alike in so many ways now, but still so different. It didn't seem quite fair.

Even now, I could still see the hope in his eyes. It was there, burning bright as ever, thinking that maybe, just maybe there was something better; something reachable. He didn't want to die. I knew that, but he was desperate; desperate and tired. He just couldn't find any other way out. And to be truthful, neither could I.

So, he decided to end it all himself. But he was scared. He didn't want to go alone, so he was taking me with him. Not that I blame him. We had both been pushed past our breaking point too many times, and he hadn't been molded from childhood to survive in this world like I had. Besides, Tom was certain he was doing me a favor as well. And to be honest; I was tired too. I wouldn't mind going to sleep…finally.

My mind wandered again. I somehow found it comforting - in a morbid, grotesque kind of way- that I would die the same death as my father. Sure, the details differed but the circumstances were the same- death brought by the hand of our best friend. I suddenly found myself forgiving Ash. After all, who knows what he was thinking when he planted that bomb. Perhaps he thought he had good reasons as well. Maybe in a few minutes I could ask him myself.

But what did that even matter anymore? They were all dead anyway—Mum, Dad, Ian, Ash, Jack...

Hell, even Blunt was dead.

Funny that. The head of MI6, the mastermind of the whole organization, the person who had single-handedly destroyed my Life (and my Existence), that damned lying bastard, was killed by a trucker; a stinking, drunken trucker as he was driving home.

Aah well, good riddance. He deserved to die in such a humiliating fashion. It was only fitting. I only wish I had been there to see it myself…or maybe been the one to run him down…

"Sorry, Al," Tom's quiet voice broke through my reverie. I looked at him from the corner of my eye and shrugged. My ears started ringing as I suddenly registered the wailing of sirens from below. I could see the red and blue lights flashing across the wall of the building opposite. I was surprised Jones had allowed outside sources on the scene. With the publicity, there was no way she could just take us out silently.

Then I remembered she wouldn't have to worry about that.

After all, this would be entirely easier to cover up. Tom would have to hurry up and get it over with.

I suppose that anyone else would find the noise of the sirens welcome, a hope that perhaps they might be saved. Me? I just found them annoying. Hell, maybe I would pull the trigger myself just to get the ringing out of my brain. I saw a news van racing down the street. They sure were making a big deal about this. For all they knew, we were just a couple of teenagers who decided they couldn't hack it anymore. Well, Tom was. I suppose I was his best mate that slept with his girlfriend, or betrayed him in some fashion or other, and he wanted revenge before he went.

That's how they would portray him. That's how the world would remember him. Tom Harris – the murderer. In that moment, I wanted to reverse our roles. Me be the one holding a gun to his head. Tom wasn't a murderer. He was a good person. He was just that goofy kid who had always been by my side no matter what, after everyone had turned their backs on me, after they had turned their backs on him just for being my friend. I didn't want him to be remembered badly.

I brought my gaze back over to my friend and saw him staring at me. He looked like he was about to cry, but desperately holding back, trying to appear brave. He was brave. Tom is the bravest person I know.

Something changed in his eyes then, and I knew he wouldn't do it. He had thought that he could pull the trigger, kill me, do me a favor. But he couldn't. I knew that. He knew that. And he pulled the gun away from my head.

We stared at each other in silence for a moment, and then he turned away. He knelt and placed the gun very carefully on the ground and stood back up. I knew what he was saying with that gesture. He was inviting me to come with him on my own accord. He would jump; and then I could blow my brains out myself.

I watched as Tom took a few steps forward, his toes hanging over the edge of the building. By now someone was shouting through a megaphone at us. I couldn't make out what they were saying: I didn't even listen. Whatever it was, it wasn't important.

"Do you think…" Tom spoke softly to me, his eyes downcast towards the people milling below. "Do you think there's something after this, Alex? Something more…something better?"

I was silent, watching my childhood friend. I was suddenly very aware of how precariously he was balanced over the street below. Tom looked back at me over his shoulder. His eyes were glassy and I could hear the desperation bordering on hysteria layering his voice. "Do you?"

I thought about it seriously for a few moments, bringing my gaze to the dark sky above. Did I believe that there was something waiting for us after all this?

"I don't know, Tom." I replied honestly, shaking my head very slowly back and forth. I glanced down, unable to hold his stare. My eyes rested on the pistol at my feet. I knelt down and took the gun in my hand, the metal cold in my palm. I stood up slowly, staring at the black object held loosely in my grip. The cold spread from my hand and moved across my body. I suddenly realized how very cold I actually was. It was a freezing night and all I wore was jeans and a t-shirt.

It was funny; everything seemed to be snapping into place, one piece at a time - each part making up the whole, bringing it all into focus. I felt like I had been in shock, and slowly, slowly I was coming out of it; realizing exactly what was happening here on this cold, dark night. Realizing exactly why we were standing here atop this building, looking down.

I pulled my eyes away from the gun and looked back up to Tom. The events that led to this moment all crashed over me, threatening to overwhelm my senses. I held eye contact, willing myself to find some of that hope he so desperately clung to, willing myself to believe in it.

"Do you really want to find out just yet?"

A/N: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed :3

If anyone read the author's note I posted in the old version of this story, will know this is basically me restarting it after several years.

So. Plans.

I'm a very character driven person. I like to write characters. I like to throw them into awful situations and do horrible things to them. What I usually lack is the connection from one awful situation to the next awful sitation, you know, the whole STORY part of it. So, that's something I'm working on as a writer.

Basically what I'm saying, is that I'm treating this all as an exercise (- I tried writing that word at least ten times before admitting defeat to autocorrect. It happens EVERY TIME. I cannot spell that word), and so if it turns out terrible or if the "plot" (or lack thereof) is all over the place, I apologize. I do have plans for this story though, and hopefully they're much better than anything I would have come up with when I was fifteen.

But what I do want, is honest reviews. I've been writing since I was about ten, but aside from writing class teachers or a few friends, I generally don't show my work to people (because I like it to be finished first and I never finish things) and of course those friends are biased or don't want to hurt my feelings. You, my good people, should have no such qualms. I really want to improve my writing, and also provide you all with the best story that I can, so let me know EXACTLY what you think.

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