![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fredbassettTitle : Complicated, Part 1 of 8
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex/Yassen, Mrs Jones, Smithers
Word Count: 24,400
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Against his better judgment, Alex agrees to do a job for MI6. A nice, simple job that doesn’t include power-crazed billionaires. Just righting a wrong that affects tens of thousands of teenagers. What could possibly go wrong? Then things get complicated. They always do where Alex is concerned.
Doorbells ringing at 3am were never good news.
Alex Rider held equally strong views on phone calls at 7.30am on a Thursday, or any other day for that matter.
He rolled over in bed, trying to untangle himself from a duvet that had apparently been trying to strangle him in his sleep. Fortunately, he’d long moved on from the phase of his life when death threats from inanimate household objects had been an almost everyday occurrence. Now all he had to contend with was failure to submit an undergraduate essay on time, but with the start of term still nearly two months away, and the chaos caused by the Plague Year, he hadn’t even started thinking about that sort of thing yet.
He didn’t recognise the caller’s number but answered it anyway, just in case. Some old habits died hard. “No, I haven’t had an accident that wasn’t my fault. They’re always my fault, now fuck off.”
“Hello, Alex.” The slight hesitancy in the voice might have meant the speaker was apologetic about the call but it might just as easily have been faked. Alex had learned a long time ago not to underestimate Mrs Jones.
“Hello, Tulip.” He’d never used her first name before, but now seemed as good a time as any to start. If it annoyed her, she’d never let it show, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction.
“Are you by any chance free for a coffee this morning?”
“No, I’m washing my hair.”
“I didn’t realise it had got long enough to take all morning. I’m sure it suits you, though.” She paused for what Alex presumed was intended as suitably dramatic effect then continued before he had chance to terminate the call. “Check the news. I’m sure that a student about to enter their third year in the School of Geographical Sciences at the University of Bristol will take a keen interest in today’s headlines. Text me if you’d like a beverage of your choosing at a place of your choosing, Alex. I’m free until noon.”
To Alex’s mild irritation, Mrs Jones ended the call before he had a chance to cut her off. He clearly needed more practice on a games console against Tom. Determined not to jump to do MI6’s bidding, Alex turned over and went back to sleep for an hour, just because he could. Eventually, rolled out of bed for a shower and by the time he padded naked back into the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, three texts had arrived.
The first was from Tom and just read: Tory fuckers couldnt rite a fuckin algorithm to save their fuckin lives
The second was from Jake, one of his flatmates in Bristol. Bastards. Wont get to zoom u until much later. Clearing’s gonna be dire
The third was from Dani, a friend on his course. Petra’s lost her place at Cardiff. Downgraded from A* to D. BASTARDS! Petra was Dani’s younger sister, who’d been hoping to study medicine at Cardiff.
Alex made his way into the kitchen and turned on the TV while he waited for the kettle to boil. It didn’t take long to work out that there had been a monumental clusterfuck with the A Level results. The pundits had widely predicted it, so had most people working in the education sector, but even so, the sheer scale of the disaster had still caught almost everyone on the hop.
Jake, doing a PhD in chemistry, who Alex had met through the climbing club, was earning a bit of extra cash by helping staff the phone lines for clearing at their uni and wouldn’t be having a good day, if the news was anything to go by. There were going to be a hell of a lot of desperate kids and equally desperate parents out there today.
He perched on a stool at the counter and started to send some texts back.
To Tom: What did you expect? Bloody algrothm’s about as world-beating as their track and sodding trace
To Jake: Best of luck. Let me know when you’re free
To Dani : Fuck! Tell her I’m sorry. Can she appeal?
The fourth text took longer simply because it went against every promise he’d made to himself when he’d finally walked away from his previous life. My usual Costa. 11.30
He drank two strong coffees, threw on a pair of loose shorts, a dilapidated teeshirt, his trainers and went out for a run, carrying nothing more than his phone, his debit card, and an emergency £50 in various notes and coins (some habits died even harder, like a lot of the people Alex had run up against in the past). In deference to his fellow human beings, he wore a triple layered mask decorated with smiling sloths. People didn’t need him potentially panting germs into the air.
He pounded a circuit that took him first south of the river and around Battersea Park and then up to Hyde Park. As he ran. Alex did his best to force out of his head all thoughts of what his life had been like when he’d been at the beck and call of the Special Ops division of MI6 and every other bloody agency who’d wanted to take advantage of his youth and skills. He’d got better at mindfulness over the years, but still found it easier to clear his head if he pushed himself to his physical limits.
At home in London pushing himself hard mainly consisted of running. In Bristol, he now had a range of activities open to him, including climbing, diving and caving, something he’d never even considered until he’d found himself signing up at the Welcome Fair on the Downs, sucked in by promises of something totally different – as well as mud and beer. Lots of mud and prodigious amounts of beer. He hadn’t been disappointed on any count. It was nice to be able to get pissed occasionally and not to have to worry that it might impair his performance in combat.
He ran on autopilot, keeping to the quieter areas where possible, checking for threats, which now consisted of nothing more than the need to stay more than two metres away from pedestrians whilst avoiding cars and their inattentive drivers and making sure that he didn’t dehydrate in the unusually hot weather. Occasionally, he wondered if the current climate change crisis was part of some mad scientist’s equally mad plan, then he’d dismissed the idea as someone else’s problem and simply avoided the activists in Trafalgar Square, even though he’d been tempted to point out the amount of plastic waste some of them had been carelessly discarding. All he wanted to do now was get a degree in a subject he enjoyed and then find work that didn’t involve guns, knives, explosives and death, sudden or premeditated.
At 11.30, he arrived outside his usual Costa, unsurprised to find that Mrs Jones was already settled at the table furthest from the door with the best view of the whole café. She was wearing a plain navy mask, but he would have recognised her anywhere, and not just from the faint scent of peppermints that clung to her like perfume. The tables were spaced out at intervals of more than two metres but even so, there were only two other people sitting inside, and they were well out of the way by the front window. Customers weren’t exactly flocking back to coffee shops.
Alex sauntered in, sweating like a pig in muck, but with a steady pulse and breathing as slowly as a professional assassin. He flopped down in an armchair opposite Mrs Jones, noting that she had more lines on her face than he remembered and that she had started colouring her hair. “Iced skinny latte, please.”
“Your hair looks nice,” she said, before walking to the counter and placing the order.
When the coffee arrived, Alex pulled his sloth mask off. “What have the A Level results got to do with me?”
“We need someone who can pass for an 18-year-old.”
“I’m 21. You didn’t send me a birthday card, but I’m sure you have the date on file somewhere.”
“You can still pass for 18.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m retired.”
“Doesn’t righting a wrong that will otherwise blight the lives of a very large number of students hold any appeal?”
Alex sighed theatrically. “Tell me what you want. Then I’ll say no.”
“So you’ll at least think about it?”
“Did I say that? Don’t push your luck, Tulip.”
“Only my friends call me that.”
Alex grinned. “Trying to put me in my place won’t work. You’re better than that – or you always used to be. And don’t tempt me to say that you haven’t got any friends, that’d be rude and I’m a nicely brought up boy.”
“The government’s much-vaunted algorithm is a spectacular failure. The man behind it has a massive chip on his shoulder about failing to get onto the course of his choice at the university he’d set his heart on and has been planning his revenge for years. Covid-19 and the cancellation of exams provided the perfect opportunity.”
“So deal with him.”
“Not as easy as it sounds. The PM won’t hear a word against him.”
“So plant some evidence and discredit him.”
“We don’t need to do anything so crude. He thinks he’s invulnerable. There will be more than enough evidence on his computer to damn him. Even the PM won’t be able to ignore that, especially if he’s told the press are already onto the story.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “God, you people are so bloody predictable. What’s it got to do with M16 anyway? This is a domestic matter.”
Mrs Jones waved a hand dismissively. “Internal politics. If this fiasco continues, the PM will lose the student vote. I’ve been instructed to assist.”
“What makes you think I voted Conservative?”
“I know you didn’t. You despise them and everything they stand for, but you have friends who have been affected by this, and you have principles. That has always been your weakness, Alex.”
“So BoJo the Clown changes his mind. That’s all he has to do. What’s the big deal?”
“The PM can’t be seen to bow to pressure.”
“The PM has the intellectual capacity of a single cell organism and the morals of a rabid ferret.”
It was Mrs Jones’ turn to sigh. “Call me if you change your mind, Alex. You’re the best person for the job. In fact, you’re the only person for the job. There’ll be a demonstration outside Number 10 tomorrow at 12 noon. The PM will be advised to meet the organisers. If you’re willing to help, we’ll need you at the office for a briefing by 6am. If you’re not interested, enjoy your nice life. Others won’t have the opportunities you’ve had, but of course that’s not your problem. I’ll set a diary reminder to send you a birthday card in future.”
Mrs Jones smiled her blandest smile and left Alex alone to drink his iced latte.
****
Alex stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.
The face that stared back at him looked like its owner wanted to punch something or someone very hard.
He was doing this. He was really fucking doing this. Walking back into the sodding lions’ den, but at least this time he was going to do it on his own terms, and if Mrs Tulip Jones didn’t like it, he’d tell her exactly where to stick her job. He wasn’t a kid any more. He knew perfectly well what they’d done to him, and he was still living with the scars. He’d be living with the scars for the rest of his fucking life. And sometimes they were hard to explain away, particularly the bullet wounds and whip scars.
Sun bleached blond hair was now dark brown and instead of brushing his shoulders in best beach bum fashion, it was now short and spikey. That was something else he’d hold against MI6. He was satisfied that the make-up he’d applied to make his face look fatter wasn’t obvious, but to draw attention away from his cheeks he’d added just a hint of guy-liner under his dyed eyelashes. He’d gone into missions looking like himself way too often. That wasn’t a mistake he was going to make this time. There was nothing he could do to change the shape of his narrow lips, but if he smiled more, he could at least make the hardness less noticeable and he intended to stay masked as much as possible. He had two in his pocket. One with brightly coloured skulls on a black background, the other sporting a grinning raccoon’s mouth that went rather well with the hint of eyeliner. He’d been vaguely tempted to go for the full goth look but had dialled it back.
The ripped black jeans, looser than the ones he usually wore, had plenty of pockets and were comfortable enough for him to run in. An equally loose-fitting Uriah Heap teeshirt completed the student look he’d been aiming for. Ian hadn’t liked the group, but Alex had found several of their CDs amongst his collection, and this teeshirt stuffed at the back of Ian’s wardrobe so he’d often wondered if his father had been the one to like them. He’d never know now. Anyone who might have been able to tell him was dead.
The Special Ops division of MI6 had moved offices since Alex’s day, but it hadn’t been hard to find their new premises. The place looked dingy as hell, nowhere near as flash as their original place in the bank building. Things must have gone downhill after Blunt retired. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell to ring, so Alex took a run at the wall, grabbed the top of the brickwork, swung one leg up and vaulted over the razor wire to land lightly on his feet in the yard, waving cheerfully at the CCTV camera.
Mrs Jones was waiting for him in front of an unmarked door. “An hour early, Alex. You’re keen.”
“You’ll need to change the photos on the fake legend you’ve knocked up. I thought I’d make things easy for you and turn up early. You’ve been here all night anyway.”
The slight flash of irritation in her eyes was quickly suppressed and replaced by a tired smile. “What are the chances of peace breaking out between us?”
“I’ll tell you when this is over.”
“Alex!”
“Hello, Smithers.” Alex waved at him instead of a handshake. The quartermaster had been the person Alex had always liked the best. His gadgets had kept him alive on numerous occasions. “I thought you’d told this lot where to go?”
“I did, but then Mrs Jones told me you’d agreed to do them a favour, dear boy. The new look suits you,” Smithers added, a broad smile on his face. “Come on, let’s get the photos sorted. I didn’t bother setting up anything in advance. Your legend’s simple enough and we can adapt it to suit your new look.”
“Boy’s toys?”
“Have I ever let you down?” Smithers smirked, then added, “Probably best if you don’t answer that.”
An hour later, Alex was in possession of a PASS-accredited photo ID card in the name of Jason Bainbridge. He quickly memorised his new date of birth. A debit card, credit card, several store cards, card receipts and other miscellaneous bits of crap packed a dilapidated fabric wallet. They took longer to lodge in his brain, but it seemed that his old skills hadn’t deserted him. Alex didn’t bother to disguise a grin of satisfaction.
While he’d been working, Smithers had been laying out a series of items on the table. Alex recognised the lead lined pencil case designed to fool a scanner into thinking that it only held a few harmless pens and pencils. Instead, it contained a USB stick that would bypass any computer security and download a hard drive in under 60 seconds, a fake library card that could cheat its way past any internal electronic locks, and a set of ultra-hard plastic lock picks hidden inside what looked like a black marker pen. And one of Alex’s favourites. The calculator that could knock out any CCTV cameras within 50 metres.
A pair of dilapidated black trainers contained a variety of items that would mainly come into play if Alex was daft enough to get himself caught. In his experience, in any other circumstances taking your trainers off was rarely an option.
“Anything else you’d like?”
“Glock 17 and three spare mags?”
“No can do. But your friend Wolf and K Unit happen to be on standby in in Regent’s Park.”
Alex grinned. “I’d pay good money to see Wolf storm Number 10. Can’t you just send him instead?”
“The Powers That Be thought that approach lacked subtlety.” Smithers took a box off a cluttered shelf and handed Alex a brand-new iPhone. “All the numbers you’re likely to need are under your contacts, as well as a lot of others. They’ll all be monitored. There’s a full text and WhatsApp history, as well as a well-stocked photo gallery. If you take a few selfies, the phone will automatically shuffle them back into the photo history, adding a few filters and different backgrounds.”
“Neat.” Alex had always liked Smithers’ gadgets. They’d saved his life far more often than anyone else in MI6 had ever done. “I’ll try to bring them all back in one piece.”
On the walk to the bus stop, Alex snapped a few selfies, amusing himself with a variety of daft faces, sticking his tongue out at MI6 and giving them the finger. He was carrying a placard that said: STUFF YOUR ALGORITHM! in roughly painted red letters. He’d been told that the placard would be recognised and that he’d be one of the students invited inside to talk to the PM.
The demonstration outside Downing Street was a milling mass of students waving placards and banners. Most were masked, and the few that weren’t drew disapproving looks. Alex worked his way through the crowd, holding his own placard up and waving it around. There was an undercurrent of anger but no violence. The protestors were mostly in their late teens, but a few had come with parents who shouted as loudly as their offspring and considerably more vehemently.
After three hours, there was still no sign of anyone from Downing Street coming out to engage with the protestors, despite what Mrs Jones had promised. A rumour was spreading through the crowd that the PM and his pet advisor weren’t even in the building.
Half an hour later, Alex took a selfie, with his tongue sticking out again, and WhatsApeed it to one of the numbers in his contacts list with the message: bored now.
The smiley face he got in return did nothing for his irritation.
After another 15 minutes of pointless placard waving, Alex tossed his to a kid in immaculate Goth get up who had been hoping to study astrophysics at Oxford. He wished her luck and wandered off.
He needed to work on Plan B.
A series of tube and bus rides took him to a relentlessly suburban street in north London lined with tall London plane trees busily shedding their silver-grey bark. Alex found the right house with no difficulty and walked confidently up the front path, mostly shielded from the footpath by a tall hedge. The calculator knocked out the CCTV and Smithers’ lock picks made short work of the not overly impressive door locks, enabling Alex to step into a tall ceilinged spacious hall.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He found the PM’s advisor unconscious on the kitchen floor, his hands cable tied behind his back, his ankles equally securely fastened with the two sets of ties connected together by a longer one, bending the man’s body back in a painful arc. A strip of grey duct tape ensured that even when he woke up, calling for help wouldn’t be an option.
The thick carpet in the hall and stairs ensured Alex was able to make his way silently to the first floor. The job had suddenly got more complicated. He should have known better than to accept any assurances from MI6 at face value.
At the top of the stairs, the door to a shelf-lined study was wide open and Alex could see a laptop open on a surprisingly tidy antique wooden desk. The main question was whether whoever had knocked out and tied up its owner was still in the house.
The answer came in the form of lightning-fast strike at Alex’s head as he stepped cautiously into the room. He ducked to one side, blocking the blow while pivoting on one leg and striking for his opponent’s knee.
Slow. Too fucking slow and he knew it immediately.
His opponent twisted away in one fluid movement.
Alex hadn’t been expecting bloody close quarter combat.
He should have fucking known better than to get involved with MI6 again.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Alex Rider
Rating : 15
Characters : Alex/Yassen, Mrs Jones, Smithers
Word Count: 24,400
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Summary : Against his better judgment, Alex agrees to do a job for MI6. A nice, simple job that doesn’t include power-crazed billionaires. Just righting a wrong that affects tens of thousands of teenagers. What could possibly go wrong? Then things get complicated. They always do where Alex is concerned.
Doorbells ringing at 3am were never good news.
Alex Rider held equally strong views on phone calls at 7.30am on a Thursday, or any other day for that matter.
He rolled over in bed, trying to untangle himself from a duvet that had apparently been trying to strangle him in his sleep. Fortunately, he’d long moved on from the phase of his life when death threats from inanimate household objects had been an almost everyday occurrence. Now all he had to contend with was failure to submit an undergraduate essay on time, but with the start of term still nearly two months away, and the chaos caused by the Plague Year, he hadn’t even started thinking about that sort of thing yet.
He didn’t recognise the caller’s number but answered it anyway, just in case. Some old habits died hard. “No, I haven’t had an accident that wasn’t my fault. They’re always my fault, now fuck off.”
“Hello, Alex.” The slight hesitancy in the voice might have meant the speaker was apologetic about the call but it might just as easily have been faked. Alex had learned a long time ago not to underestimate Mrs Jones.
“Hello, Tulip.” He’d never used her first name before, but now seemed as good a time as any to start. If it annoyed her, she’d never let it show, but it gave him a sense of satisfaction.
“Are you by any chance free for a coffee this morning?”
“No, I’m washing my hair.”
“I didn’t realise it had got long enough to take all morning. I’m sure it suits you, though.” She paused for what Alex presumed was intended as suitably dramatic effect then continued before he had chance to terminate the call. “Check the news. I’m sure that a student about to enter their third year in the School of Geographical Sciences at the University of Bristol will take a keen interest in today’s headlines. Text me if you’d like a beverage of your choosing at a place of your choosing, Alex. I’m free until noon.”
To Alex’s mild irritation, Mrs Jones ended the call before he had a chance to cut her off. He clearly needed more practice on a games console against Tom. Determined not to jump to do MI6’s bidding, Alex turned over and went back to sleep for an hour, just because he could. Eventually, rolled out of bed for a shower and by the time he padded naked back into the bedroom, rubbing a towel over his wet hair, three texts had arrived.
The first was from Tom and just read: Tory fuckers couldnt rite a fuckin algorithm to save their fuckin lives
The second was from Jake, one of his flatmates in Bristol. Bastards. Wont get to zoom u until much later. Clearing’s gonna be dire
The third was from Dani, a friend on his course. Petra’s lost her place at Cardiff. Downgraded from A* to D. BASTARDS! Petra was Dani’s younger sister, who’d been hoping to study medicine at Cardiff.
Alex made his way into the kitchen and turned on the TV while he waited for the kettle to boil. It didn’t take long to work out that there had been a monumental clusterfuck with the A Level results. The pundits had widely predicted it, so had most people working in the education sector, but even so, the sheer scale of the disaster had still caught almost everyone on the hop.
Jake, doing a PhD in chemistry, who Alex had met through the climbing club, was earning a bit of extra cash by helping staff the phone lines for clearing at their uni and wouldn’t be having a good day, if the news was anything to go by. There were going to be a hell of a lot of desperate kids and equally desperate parents out there today.
He perched on a stool at the counter and started to send some texts back.
To Tom: What did you expect? Bloody algrothm’s about as world-beating as their track and sodding trace
To Jake: Best of luck. Let me know when you’re free
To Dani : Fuck! Tell her I’m sorry. Can she appeal?
The fourth text took longer simply because it went against every promise he’d made to himself when he’d finally walked away from his previous life. My usual Costa. 11.30
He drank two strong coffees, threw on a pair of loose shorts, a dilapidated teeshirt, his trainers and went out for a run, carrying nothing more than his phone, his debit card, and an emergency £50 in various notes and coins (some habits died even harder, like a lot of the people Alex had run up against in the past). In deference to his fellow human beings, he wore a triple layered mask decorated with smiling sloths. People didn’t need him potentially panting germs into the air.
He pounded a circuit that took him first south of the river and around Battersea Park and then up to Hyde Park. As he ran. Alex did his best to force out of his head all thoughts of what his life had been like when he’d been at the beck and call of the Special Ops division of MI6 and every other bloody agency who’d wanted to take advantage of his youth and skills. He’d got better at mindfulness over the years, but still found it easier to clear his head if he pushed himself to his physical limits.
At home in London pushing himself hard mainly consisted of running. In Bristol, he now had a range of activities open to him, including climbing, diving and caving, something he’d never even considered until he’d found himself signing up at the Welcome Fair on the Downs, sucked in by promises of something totally different – as well as mud and beer. Lots of mud and prodigious amounts of beer. He hadn’t been disappointed on any count. It was nice to be able to get pissed occasionally and not to have to worry that it might impair his performance in combat.
He ran on autopilot, keeping to the quieter areas where possible, checking for threats, which now consisted of nothing more than the need to stay more than two metres away from pedestrians whilst avoiding cars and their inattentive drivers and making sure that he didn’t dehydrate in the unusually hot weather. Occasionally, he wondered if the current climate change crisis was part of some mad scientist’s equally mad plan, then he’d dismissed the idea as someone else’s problem and simply avoided the activists in Trafalgar Square, even though he’d been tempted to point out the amount of plastic waste some of them had been carelessly discarding. All he wanted to do now was get a degree in a subject he enjoyed and then find work that didn’t involve guns, knives, explosives and death, sudden or premeditated.
At 11.30, he arrived outside his usual Costa, unsurprised to find that Mrs Jones was already settled at the table furthest from the door with the best view of the whole café. She was wearing a plain navy mask, but he would have recognised her anywhere, and not just from the faint scent of peppermints that clung to her like perfume. The tables were spaced out at intervals of more than two metres but even so, there were only two other people sitting inside, and they were well out of the way by the front window. Customers weren’t exactly flocking back to coffee shops.
Alex sauntered in, sweating like a pig in muck, but with a steady pulse and breathing as slowly as a professional assassin. He flopped down in an armchair opposite Mrs Jones, noting that she had more lines on her face than he remembered and that she had started colouring her hair. “Iced skinny latte, please.”
“Your hair looks nice,” she said, before walking to the counter and placing the order.
When the coffee arrived, Alex pulled his sloth mask off. “What have the A Level results got to do with me?”
“We need someone who can pass for an 18-year-old.”
“I’m 21. You didn’t send me a birthday card, but I’m sure you have the date on file somewhere.”
“You can still pass for 18.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m retired.”
“Doesn’t righting a wrong that will otherwise blight the lives of a very large number of students hold any appeal?”
Alex sighed theatrically. “Tell me what you want. Then I’ll say no.”
“So you’ll at least think about it?”
“Did I say that? Don’t push your luck, Tulip.”
“Only my friends call me that.”
Alex grinned. “Trying to put me in my place won’t work. You’re better than that – or you always used to be. And don’t tempt me to say that you haven’t got any friends, that’d be rude and I’m a nicely brought up boy.”
“The government’s much-vaunted algorithm is a spectacular failure. The man behind it has a massive chip on his shoulder about failing to get onto the course of his choice at the university he’d set his heart on and has been planning his revenge for years. Covid-19 and the cancellation of exams provided the perfect opportunity.”
“So deal with him.”
“Not as easy as it sounds. The PM won’t hear a word against him.”
“So plant some evidence and discredit him.”
“We don’t need to do anything so crude. He thinks he’s invulnerable. There will be more than enough evidence on his computer to damn him. Even the PM won’t be able to ignore that, especially if he’s told the press are already onto the story.”
Alex rolled his eyes. “God, you people are so bloody predictable. What’s it got to do with M16 anyway? This is a domestic matter.”
Mrs Jones waved a hand dismissively. “Internal politics. If this fiasco continues, the PM will lose the student vote. I’ve been instructed to assist.”
“What makes you think I voted Conservative?”
“I know you didn’t. You despise them and everything they stand for, but you have friends who have been affected by this, and you have principles. That has always been your weakness, Alex.”
“So BoJo the Clown changes his mind. That’s all he has to do. What’s the big deal?”
“The PM can’t be seen to bow to pressure.”
“The PM has the intellectual capacity of a single cell organism and the morals of a rabid ferret.”
It was Mrs Jones’ turn to sigh. “Call me if you change your mind, Alex. You’re the best person for the job. In fact, you’re the only person for the job. There’ll be a demonstration outside Number 10 tomorrow at 12 noon. The PM will be advised to meet the organisers. If you’re willing to help, we’ll need you at the office for a briefing by 6am. If you’re not interested, enjoy your nice life. Others won’t have the opportunities you’ve had, but of course that’s not your problem. I’ll set a diary reminder to send you a birthday card in future.”
Mrs Jones smiled her blandest smile and left Alex alone to drink his iced latte.
****
Alex stared at himself in the bathroom mirror.
The face that stared back at him looked like its owner wanted to punch something or someone very hard.
He was doing this. He was really fucking doing this. Walking back into the sodding lions’ den, but at least this time he was going to do it on his own terms, and if Mrs Tulip Jones didn’t like it, he’d tell her exactly where to stick her job. He wasn’t a kid any more. He knew perfectly well what they’d done to him, and he was still living with the scars. He’d be living with the scars for the rest of his fucking life. And sometimes they were hard to explain away, particularly the bullet wounds and whip scars.
Sun bleached blond hair was now dark brown and instead of brushing his shoulders in best beach bum fashion, it was now short and spikey. That was something else he’d hold against MI6. He was satisfied that the make-up he’d applied to make his face look fatter wasn’t obvious, but to draw attention away from his cheeks he’d added just a hint of guy-liner under his dyed eyelashes. He’d gone into missions looking like himself way too often. That wasn’t a mistake he was going to make this time. There was nothing he could do to change the shape of his narrow lips, but if he smiled more, he could at least make the hardness less noticeable and he intended to stay masked as much as possible. He had two in his pocket. One with brightly coloured skulls on a black background, the other sporting a grinning raccoon’s mouth that went rather well with the hint of eyeliner. He’d been vaguely tempted to go for the full goth look but had dialled it back.
The ripped black jeans, looser than the ones he usually wore, had plenty of pockets and were comfortable enough for him to run in. An equally loose-fitting Uriah Heap teeshirt completed the student look he’d been aiming for. Ian hadn’t liked the group, but Alex had found several of their CDs amongst his collection, and this teeshirt stuffed at the back of Ian’s wardrobe so he’d often wondered if his father had been the one to like them. He’d never know now. Anyone who might have been able to tell him was dead.
The Special Ops division of MI6 had moved offices since Alex’s day, but it hadn’t been hard to find their new premises. The place looked dingy as hell, nowhere near as flash as their original place in the bank building. Things must have gone downhill after Blunt retired. There didn’t seem to be a doorbell to ring, so Alex took a run at the wall, grabbed the top of the brickwork, swung one leg up and vaulted over the razor wire to land lightly on his feet in the yard, waving cheerfully at the CCTV camera.
Mrs Jones was waiting for him in front of an unmarked door. “An hour early, Alex. You’re keen.”
“You’ll need to change the photos on the fake legend you’ve knocked up. I thought I’d make things easy for you and turn up early. You’ve been here all night anyway.”
The slight flash of irritation in her eyes was quickly suppressed and replaced by a tired smile. “What are the chances of peace breaking out between us?”
“I’ll tell you when this is over.”
“Alex!”
“Hello, Smithers.” Alex waved at him instead of a handshake. The quartermaster had been the person Alex had always liked the best. His gadgets had kept him alive on numerous occasions. “I thought you’d told this lot where to go?”
“I did, but then Mrs Jones told me you’d agreed to do them a favour, dear boy. The new look suits you,” Smithers added, a broad smile on his face. “Come on, let’s get the photos sorted. I didn’t bother setting up anything in advance. Your legend’s simple enough and we can adapt it to suit your new look.”
“Boy’s toys?”
“Have I ever let you down?” Smithers smirked, then added, “Probably best if you don’t answer that.”
An hour later, Alex was in possession of a PASS-accredited photo ID card in the name of Jason Bainbridge. He quickly memorised his new date of birth. A debit card, credit card, several store cards, card receipts and other miscellaneous bits of crap packed a dilapidated fabric wallet. They took longer to lodge in his brain, but it seemed that his old skills hadn’t deserted him. Alex didn’t bother to disguise a grin of satisfaction.
While he’d been working, Smithers had been laying out a series of items on the table. Alex recognised the lead lined pencil case designed to fool a scanner into thinking that it only held a few harmless pens and pencils. Instead, it contained a USB stick that would bypass any computer security and download a hard drive in under 60 seconds, a fake library card that could cheat its way past any internal electronic locks, and a set of ultra-hard plastic lock picks hidden inside what looked like a black marker pen. And one of Alex’s favourites. The calculator that could knock out any CCTV cameras within 50 metres.
A pair of dilapidated black trainers contained a variety of items that would mainly come into play if Alex was daft enough to get himself caught. In his experience, in any other circumstances taking your trainers off was rarely an option.
“Anything else you’d like?”
“Glock 17 and three spare mags?”
“No can do. But your friend Wolf and K Unit happen to be on standby in in Regent’s Park.”
Alex grinned. “I’d pay good money to see Wolf storm Number 10. Can’t you just send him instead?”
“The Powers That Be thought that approach lacked subtlety.” Smithers took a box off a cluttered shelf and handed Alex a brand-new iPhone. “All the numbers you’re likely to need are under your contacts, as well as a lot of others. They’ll all be monitored. There’s a full text and WhatsApp history, as well as a well-stocked photo gallery. If you take a few selfies, the phone will automatically shuffle them back into the photo history, adding a few filters and different backgrounds.”
“Neat.” Alex had always liked Smithers’ gadgets. They’d saved his life far more often than anyone else in MI6 had ever done. “I’ll try to bring them all back in one piece.”
On the walk to the bus stop, Alex snapped a few selfies, amusing himself with a variety of daft faces, sticking his tongue out at MI6 and giving them the finger. He was carrying a placard that said: STUFF YOUR ALGORITHM! in roughly painted red letters. He’d been told that the placard would be recognised and that he’d be one of the students invited inside to talk to the PM.
The demonstration outside Downing Street was a milling mass of students waving placards and banners. Most were masked, and the few that weren’t drew disapproving looks. Alex worked his way through the crowd, holding his own placard up and waving it around. There was an undercurrent of anger but no violence. The protestors were mostly in their late teens, but a few had come with parents who shouted as loudly as their offspring and considerably more vehemently.
After three hours, there was still no sign of anyone from Downing Street coming out to engage with the protestors, despite what Mrs Jones had promised. A rumour was spreading through the crowd that the PM and his pet advisor weren’t even in the building.
Half an hour later, Alex took a selfie, with his tongue sticking out again, and WhatsApeed it to one of the numbers in his contacts list with the message: bored now.
The smiley face he got in return did nothing for his irritation.
After another 15 minutes of pointless placard waving, Alex tossed his to a kid in immaculate Goth get up who had been hoping to study astrophysics at Oxford. He wished her luck and wandered off.
He needed to work on Plan B.
A series of tube and bus rides took him to a relentlessly suburban street in north London lined with tall London plane trees busily shedding their silver-grey bark. Alex found the right house with no difficulty and walked confidently up the front path, mostly shielded from the footpath by a tall hedge. The calculator knocked out the CCTV and Smithers’ lock picks made short work of the not overly impressive door locks, enabling Alex to step into a tall ceilinged spacious hall.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He found the PM’s advisor unconscious on the kitchen floor, his hands cable tied behind his back, his ankles equally securely fastened with the two sets of ties connected together by a longer one, bending the man’s body back in a painful arc. A strip of grey duct tape ensured that even when he woke up, calling for help wouldn’t be an option.
The thick carpet in the hall and stairs ensured Alex was able to make his way silently to the first floor. The job had suddenly got more complicated. He should have known better than to accept any assurances from MI6 at face value.
At the top of the stairs, the door to a shelf-lined study was wide open and Alex could see a laptop open on a surprisingly tidy antique wooden desk. The main question was whether whoever had knocked out and tied up its owner was still in the house.
The answer came in the form of lightning-fast strike at Alex’s head as he stepped cautiously into the room. He ducked to one side, blocking the blow while pivoting on one leg and striking for his opponent’s knee.
Slow. Too fucking slow and he knew it immediately.
His opponent twisted away in one fluid movement.
Alex hadn’t been expecting bloody close quarter combat.
He should have fucking known better than to get involved with MI6 again.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2021-01-28 07:50 am (UTC)Grown up Alex is perfect! And the setting is awesome!
When's the next part up?
no subject
Date: 2021-01-28 12:05 pm (UTC)Glad you like it! I started it during the A level fiasco, and it's been going ever since.
I'll post every other day. So next one tomorrow.
no subject
Date: 2021-01-31 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-31 08:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-31 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-02-05 10:48 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-02-03 07:22 am (UTC)My god, I was looking forward to reading this, but I had no idea you could make such a brilliant setting!!! Awesome :) Tulip, lol. Go Alex! Loving it...
no subject
Date: 2021-02-03 11:58 am (UTC)