AN/: Hellooooo! Well! Welcome, I suppose, to my first ever fanfic! NO! NOT my first ever STORY but, well, fanfic. Yes, it's Alex Rider *laughs like a maniac*. I just ADORE Alex Rider books and (the good) fanfics! This will include K-Unit cos I love them, you love them, we ALL love them *champagne bottle uncorked*. The only reason this is T rated is because of the action scenes in later parts of the fic, no coarse language here! Erm...well, I suppose I should give you an idea of what's going to happen, right? *settles down and smiles charmingly* this is going to be a multi chapter fic because I LIKE writing and reading more than one chapter, as I'm sure you, my lovely readers do too! Now, I realise you all like updates (as do I, my friends, as do I) so I'd like to try and say that I'll get at least one chapter out a week? Bearing in mind, of course, that I lead a busy lifestyle, fanfiction does not feed me, do my school work, talk to my friends and send me to sleep. BUT! Wipe away those tears and REMOVE your hand from the back button! I am a great believer in promises and keeping up to date, so I will promise to attempt to get a new chapter out a week. Please. Your applause is too much. So yeah! I LOVE reviews. Seriously. Never had one before, but I'm sure they taste like chicken.

Yum.

But please tell me what you think! I'm giving you more whether you want it or not, but how am I meant to know what you want or don't want if you don't tell me! Anyway, here's the first chapter and a little description of what to expect (kinda) from the story!

Onwards and outwards my fellow soldiers!

"Facts are just another form of a story, Alex. Harder, stricter, but very easy to twist."

When America doesn't work out and only causes more questions, Alex finds himself struggling in the greedy attention of MI6, CIA, a not-so-new enemy and secrets that should've been kept. When dreams collapse like bubbles and stark reality hits you hard in the face, it's up to Alex to try and turn the tables- even if they don't want to be turned.

DISCLAIMER: Yes. I am Anthony Horowitz and I just LOVE writing fanfics of my own novel. I also enjoy listening to my green dog play the piano whilst I eat my grandma's socks. Seriously.

(Just for those weirdo's who think I do have a piano playing purple dog and eat my grandma's socks, I don't (usually). Nor do I own Alex Rider or any of Anthony Horowitz's mentioned characters.)

"Welcome back, Alex."

Mr Blunt peered at Alex, his face blank and eyes emotionless, giving no outward indication to what he was thinking. Mrs Jones, from where she stood to his side cast him a subtle look. Even after all these years of working for him, she still could not seem to be able to see behind that cleverly manufactured mask, something that both irked and fascinated her. It was something she herself was working to perfect.

"Let me go home."

The voice drew Mrs Jones out of her musings, and she turned her own flat gaze onto the holder of the toneless voice. Emotion stirred in her at the sight of him, but she kept it quenched. It wouldn't do to be showing her feelings everywhere- they were a hindrance, a means to be used against her.

But still…

Mrs Jones couldn't help but soften her eyes as the emotion kept rolling and whining inside of her chest. Yes, she saw Mr Blunt glance at her with a tight mouth, yes, she knew it was against protocol and rules and blahdeblahblah. But he just looked so…empty.

She took in the way he sat, his shoulders to tense, those nutty eyes so hard and yet dull- like twin pebbles smoothed through time and hard experiences of the sea. His youthful face was drawn and dull, his expression mimicking Blunt's- secretive, hidden, giving nothing away.

But it wasn't right.

He was fifteen for goodness sake!

"You know that's not possible, Alex." Mr Blunt spoke as if Alex hadn't just asked such a poignant question. As if he wasn't telling a fifteen year old that no, he couldn't go home.

Mrs Blunt shook off the sharp thoughts with a mental shake, smoothing over her expression once again.

She couldn't act blameless. She had taken part in the destruction of this child. Instead, she turned away from the cowering thought, to greater; more important matters at hand. "You are needed here, Alex." She said slickly, rolling the peppermint in her mouth to the side with her tongue.

For a moment, Alex looked so tired.

Not the teenage I've-been-up-all-night-playing-video-games tired, but a bone weary tired- one she had only glimpsed on old war dogs, that tiredness that just begged to be let put to rest.

But they couldn't let him rest.

Mrs Jones steeled her resolve.

He was just too good.

Alex seemed to notice the change in her, his eyes flickering up resignedly to her, a hint of (betrayal?) something pained in his eyes before he too blanked it over. "I just want-" he broke off and closed his eyes.

There was pause in conversation, the only sound the sound of the peppermint clacking now and then against Mrs Jones' teeth as she rolled it in her mouth.

Mr Blunt carried on, voice neither comforting nor apologetic. Just, well, blunt. "You can't, Alex. You belong to us now." Finally. The word was missing, but Mrs Jones felt it all the same, and from the look on Alex's face, he did too.

She'd never been good at reading Mr Blunt's emotions, but suddenly she saw something in him.

Greed.

Hunger.

It flashed through his eyes so quickly; the sudden tightness in his hands as he clutched at the pencil in his fist, the rapid tense in his body- and then it was gone. So fast, but so much.

It was unsettling.

"I'll have you put with an agent," he carried on, voice suddenly uninterested. "They'll be looking after you when you're not on missions as you're too young to live by yourself."

Vague bitter amusement flickered onto Alex's usually impermeable expression. "If I'm old enough to take down criminal organisations, then I'm old enough to live by myself."

He carried on as if the teenager hadn't even spoken, eyes not really looking at Alex, more somewhere to the side of him. "The agent's name is Anthony Barkwell. He's a trusted agent, one I expect will look after you and your-" here, he paused critically. "-unusual personality."

"I can live by myself." Alex rephrased, as if Blunt didn't get it.

Again, he was ignored. "I expect you to behave well. Although he hasn't got as much field experience as you he will be-"

"I can live by myself." Louder this time, more urgent.

"-able to protect you from any outside threats that may come your way as various organisations learn of your retrieval. I haven't told him-"

"I don't want to live with some stranger!" Alex leant forward, gripping the armrests of his chair with alarming force.

"-of your mission status, and I expect you to understand that that is classified information. You will be contacted when we believe you have settled down well enough." He finished with a firm close of his mouth, eyes already falling to the files on his desk as he deemed the conversation over.

Alex looked to be straining on whether to keep an expressionless face, or to scowl. "I don't need-"

Knock! Knock! Knock!

"Come in." Mrs Jones called, noting briefly the way Alex's body had reacted to the sound of the fist on the door. It also did not escape her notice in the way his hand snaked towards the waistband of his jeans. She wondered if Mr Blunt had noticed, he was staring at the files on his desk, showing no apparent interest to the happenings around him.

The man stood awkwardly in the doorway, looking from Mr Blunt to Mrs Jones. He knew that Mr Blunt, the head, had called him, but it was obvious that the powerful man was not paying attention to him. Finally, he decided on speaking to the second in charge- Mrs Jones.

"Reporting for duty, ma'am." He said stiffly, looking at the point just above Mrs Jones' head like it had been drilled into him in army S.A.S service.

"Of course, Agent Barkwell." She smiled softly, the expression suddenly meaningless on her face. "You're well on time."

He forced himself not to squirm under the close scrutiny that he was going through- replying only with a gruff little jerk of his head.

"I take it you have read the files?"

"Guardianship mission, undercover as an adopted parent for one Alex Rider- personal data: classified." He rolled off mechanically.

"Wonderful," was the soft reply. Suddenly, she turned her head. "This will be your new guardian, Alex."

Startled, Agent Barkwell turned sharply to look at who she was talking to.

A teenage boy stared expressionlessly back at him, gaze far too assessing for someone of his age. His posture was loose, confident, his hands swinging casually at his sides. How hadn't he noticed the kid in the room?

There was something wrong with this kid.

Unease stirred anxiously in him, his instincts whining like a distressed dog.

Something told him that this mission wasn't going to go just as easy as he had first thought.

"Agent Barkwell." The teen nodded swiftly.

"Rider." He said in a calloused reply.

Mrs Jones, who had been watching, softly clapped her hands together. "And now that you've been introduced-"

Hardly an introduction, Agent Barkwell thought bitterly, glancing at the boy who stood still, eyes still on him warily.

"-this will be our goodbye." Her eyes moved to Agent Barkwell, and hadn't he known the whispers and seen Mrs Jones, he would've mistaken the brief look in her eyes for harsh maternal instinct. But as it was, he did know the whispers and the woman- so it obviously wasn't. "I expect you to protect Alex." She ignored the snort from the teenager. "And I'd like to see you now. Alex, wait outside."

"Don't bother." He said coolly. "If all you're going to do is talk about me, you may as well do it in my company." So saying, he dropped down into the chair and folded his arms resolutely, gazing simply at Mrs Jones. "Well, go on." He flapped a rude hand at her.

"This doesn't require your opinion, Alex." She said; voice brittle.

"Neither does this, Mrs Jones." He said quietly.

Agent Barkwell swallowed, wondering if he needed to use his new 'guardianship' now. "We won't be long, Alex." He tried, keeping his voice as gentle as it could go- it wasn't much. It just made him sound slightly strangled and stiff.

Those cold eyes swept onto him, and he had to actually force himself not to shiver under the deadness of the stare. His throat bobbed nervously, and unconsciously, he took a tiny step back, frustration growing when he saw the small twitch of the teenager's lips as he spotted the action.

"Alex, this is an order- stand outside." Her voice had switched from lightly open to metallic. The tone offered no chance for disagreement.

Alex stood up sharply, stalking towards the door. "There's not much you need to know." He said as he went, eyes fixed on Agent Barkwell. "Don't expect me to play nice- because I don't want to be here. Don't expect me to play happy families- because I don't need one, and don't expect me to believe that you care about me- because you don't!" he was by the door now, voice still steady and controlled, but growing more and more concentrated as he went.

"We'll contact you later, Alex." Mrs Jones said, silencing Agent Barkwell's obvious want to retaliate with something snarky.

Turning, the teen made to pull the door open.

"And, Alex?" Mr Blunt was finally speaking, Agent Barkwell standing even more to attention.

He paused by the doorway.

"Leave your gun."

Gun? What on earth-? Agent Barwell watched in confusion as the kid tightened his jaw minutely before he roughly drew out a gun from the waistband of his jeans and threw it on the floor, shutting the door behind him.

Dazedly, Agent Barkwell stared at the gleaming weapon on the floor.

His eyes tore from it at the sound of a dry chuckle.

Mr Blunt…had he just …laughed?

Those stone grey eyes swivelled onto him, pinning him much like a cat would a mouse. "An amusing child, I'm sure." Suddenly, that wrong emotion drained from his eyes. "I expect you to be able to handle him." His assessment of his agent was slow and methodical, showing Anthony quite clearly that he could hide nothing from this man.

"Of course, sir."

But Mr Blunt wasn't listening anymore; he had gone back to checking over the files on his desk- acting as if the man wasn't even there.

"Very good, Agent." Mrs Jones applauded instead. It was disconcerting; the sudden changes in conversation, and Lewis Barkwell began to wonder whether it was designed to throw the poor victims off track. "We will, of course, be expecting regular updates on his status, and to call us as soon as you notice anything…off about the boy."

He swallowed, eyes moving down quickly to look at those dark eyes of hers. "Is there anything I should be aware of? The file didn't say much…" he trailed off- scared to go on lest it sounded like he was complaining about the scantiness of the folder holding the mission directives he'd been issued with. The pause before the word '"off"' had also worried him quite a bit. What was that supposed to mean?

She smiled secretively, as if she knew what was worrying him. She probably did, he reasoned uncomfortably. "We realise that. There isn't anything else you should know. Though be careful; he has been known to make escape attempts at times. We need him to stay with you to protect him from the people who could hurt him- but he doesn't seem to realise that." She mused. "He also has quite a dislike for being 'babysat', so be careful in how you treat him. We'll be expecting to see him soon, so make sure he stays out of as much trouble as possible before then. Do you have any more questions?"

Yes! He cried inside, struggling to absorb all of what he'd been told. Why am I looking after him? Where are his parents? What do you mean '"be careful"'? What's wrong with him, anyway? What am I protecting him from? This isn't indefinite, right? "No, ma'am." He said stiffly.

She nodded, satisfied. "Good. There are to be no promises of secrecy. If he tells you something- then we want to know- promised silence or not." She looked at him stonily. "There are no such as promises in this business."

Of course he knew that. He didn't need to be reminded. And yet, the words still made him feel agitated. This was a child. What could he possibly know that would make them so antsy? "Of course, ma'am."

"Then you are dismissed." Again, disconcertingly, Blunt spoke, looking up from his folder. "You know where you'll be living from now on."

"Of course, sir." He answered quickly, as if he was being tested.

He stood a while, realised that that was actually his dismissal, and quickly gave his thanks and left, ears burning in embarrassment.

Shutting the door as softly as he could behind him, he let out a relieved sigh once in the safety of the softly lit corridor.

"Find out much?"

Calming his suddenly fast heartbeat, he forced himself to turn causally to the teen, who stood leaning against the wall, eyes trained on his face.

"Not really." He shrugged. "But that's what it's like in this business." He said, keeping his voice light and unthreatening. But how did he do that? Just disappear from his senses? It was frustrating and unnerving. He was a highly trained spy! Kids shouldn't be able to startle him!

The kid hummed in vague agreement and straightened up. "So?"

The agent pulled out his new keys and rattled them. "Home."

Alex twitched.

Home.

" Ian? Where are you?" Empty halls, childish voices echoing. Another game of hide and seek?

"Oh, Alex…what have they done to you this time?" soft and warm, tickling red hair and steady arms.

"You will answer 'sir' when I speak to you, boy! Do you understand?" harsh, loud.

"Your father would be proud to see you now." A velvet voice, pressing metal into his hand. "Do you understand?"

"Alex, why are you standing in the doorway? Come in before someone thinks you're doing something shifty!" laughing eyes, dark hair.

"Alex?"

Blinking, he gazed blankly at Agent Barkwell who was staring at him in slight unease. "I'm fine." He said mechanically.

Doubtfully, he rocked back onto his heels, fingers flicking at his sides in restless movement. "Well…Ok, then. Let's go."

When the agent had turned to lead the way through the corridors that Alex knew too well, but supposed he should act like he didn't, he took a deep breath, hardening his emotions, mentally burying them just like Scorpia had told him to all those months ago. Or was it years? Or decades? Shaking his head, he followed the man- his new guardian.

Ha. Yeah right.

"Well, here we are." Awkwardly, Anthony swept one arm around him, gesturing the house with a hesitant theatrical. "Your new home."

Alex stood in the hallway, his eyes sweeping over the space easily, lingering on places like the windows or doors- scanning for escape routes or weaknesses in the defences of the house. That window looked decidedly easy to open…

Anthony shifted to get the boys attention, struggling to hide a flinch as the gaze suddenly snapped onto him. Feeling the odd need to raise his hands passively, he tried for a relaxing smile, though, seeing the narrow of those acorn brown eyes, he knew it hadn't worked. "Your room's upstairs on the far left." He hesitated, unsure how to go about this. Consider it a mission, play-acting as a father and child. His expression changed, eyes losing their tension. This he could deal with. A mission. Not looking after some mysterious, bratty teen. "Would you like something to eat?"

"I'm not hungry." Was the brusque reply. "I think I'll just go to bed." He stooped down to pick up the two bags, Anthony missing the way his fingers tugged at the material of his sleeves to hold down as he did so.

"OK, then. Get a good sleep." He smiled at him 'kindly'.

Coldly, Alex glared at him. "You don't need to pretend." He sounded quietly angry. "I don't want to be here, you don't want to be here, and that suits me fine."

The smile strained. "Good night, Alex."

It wasn't storming- from the miniscule amount of time Anthony had spent with the child, he knew that Alex did just not 'storm'. It was a more panther like movement- swift, brutal and obviously displeased. Anthony waited until he heard the upstairs door not-slam shut. Alex didn't slam doors. He just shut them with enough power to show his anger, but too little to even relate to him having a tantrum.

It was just weird.

Tired, he flung himself down into the barstool by his- no, he corrected firmly, their, new kitchen diner. Absently, he pulled a finger across the glossy black table top. It was a nice house, he thought, glancing around the room. It looked cosy, warm and all in all inviting.

Except, of course, it was fake.

All designed to disarm and to confuse.

Opening up the cupboards to see it already filled up with food, he spotted a glass and some beer in the fridge after investigating, and poured himself a good one- never one to drink straight from the bottle. Raising the glass with no little amount of dry humour, he cheered alone to his new happy family.

He took a swig.

Funny.

Upstairs, Alex had kicked his bag under his bed, not needing much as he had been promised the rest of his things at a later date.

He wasn't going to stay around long enough for that.

His eyes hardened, staring at his loosely and scarred hands in his lap. If they thought that he was going to sit around like an obedient puppy, waiting for MI6 to call him, then they were wrong. "Keep fighting, right, Jack?" he whispered, voice too loud in the darkness. It didn't sound like it belonged to him.

Jack would've wanted him to keep resisting.

Jack would've wanted him to never give in.

Jack would've wanted-

Jack would've wanted-

He closed his eyes tight.

He shouldn't be doing this. Jack was dead. Gone. A burst of flames, screaming, fire so much fire- where was she? Where- where's Jack? Was she- was she-

Gasping, he tore himself from the thoughts, standing up sharply; eye's scanning the room with a wild intensity.

Silence stared back.

Forcing himself to relax, to let go, he loosened his taut muscles, and softened his tight expression into one an unsuspecting teen should wear. Sitting down on his bed with forced carelessness, he set to planning how he was going to get away from this place.

He could hear the agent moving about downstairs, heard the fridge door opening and closing, heard the clink of a glass. He's drinking. Alex thought, eyes half closed. Beer. Doesn't seem the type of person to go for anything too heavy like Vodka or any other strong spirits. Won't be wine, wine's not kept in the fridge. He stored that information away. All information is important information, his uncle Ian used to say.

Except he didn't want to think about Ian.

But it always comes back to him, doesn't it? It's always about Ian, isn't it? Just like what happened in America. Even that was to do with Ian, wasn't it? That little voice in his voice whispered, laughing at him- a constant reminder of things he didn't want to hear.

Ignoring the voice, he ran a hand through his blond hair, thinking furiously on how he was going to escape.

Shaking his head angrily, he moved to change into his pyjamas. He needed sleep; he was still jetlagged from his flight back from America, and that nasty run in with that group…

His eyes grew sharp at the thought of it.

How had they known where he was going anyway?

The shirt dropped back down over his torso.

It was meant to be a new start, a new him.

America- the land of dreams.

How had they stepped into his new world?

Why wouldn't they just leave him alone?

Gritting his teeth, he clawed at his chest- just above where the bullet scar was. It ached.

Blood. So much blood.

Was he breathing?

Yes, was breathing.

And there she was, screaming, sobbing; dark hair stuck to her wet face, body heaving with each anguished cry. Why? Why? Why why whywhywhy?

And it was his fault all his fault and she was telling him so, she was attacking him, snot on her face, eyes blurred with tears, ragged screeches tearing from her lungs and she looked so- wild.

And he had made her that way.

"Stop it." He snapped forcefully into the darkness.

The thoughts silenced.

Sighing, dragging a hand over his face, he closed his eyes wearily, resigning himself to sleep, not bothering to change or brush his teeth- that could wait.

He was just so tired.

Too much had happened in the last few days.

Too many things he needed to sort out.

MI6 owned him.

The thought made him boil-livid.

But they couldn't own him. They wouldn't. People had tried. They had tried to own him. General Sarov, Scorpia, MI6, even the Pleasure's to a degree. But they didn't. None of them did. And now this Agent Barkwell thought he could own him. Fine. Let him believe that. Alex smiled in the comforting darkness of his room, aware that the two words clashed, but at the moment doing nothing to adjust that awkward view. He would leave soon. His fingers clenched around the mattress, pulling himself into bed. He had to leave soon. They couldn't have him, but they couldn't find him, too.

His eyes closed with none of the restfulness that sleep should bring.

The memories of the last few days kept him awake, that, and the usual but unwelcome fear that he'd be sent on a mission soon. Blunt's eyes had said it all. They wanted him. They were going to ship him off somewhere soon, somewhere where he'd have to fight against mad men or women, escape, be tortured, watch people die, make people die. Eyes staring into the darkness he held back a shudder. Well, that just meant he had to escape faster.

MI6 didn't know all of what had happened in America. He hadn't told them everything, just like Ian had told him not to, some childish voice whispered hopefully in him. So he was certain that the Intelligence agency didn't fully know what they were dealing with.

Hell, even he didn't know what he was dealing with.

And it terrified him.

Shifting in the sheets, he buried his face in the crook of his heavily scarred arm.

Tomorrow, everything would begin. No one could hold him down.

No, he wasn't scared.

He was just…ready.

Ready to fight.

AN- Reviews, anyone? Constructive criticism is welcome (-: