Alex accepts a leading role in a movie in an attempt to make himself too well-known for undercover missions. It (sort of) backfires.

His poor poor costars.

"Look, kid," his coworker told him between bouts of makeup. "There's a thing called method acting- you know what that is, right?"

Alex didn't have the confidence to lie in the face of a seasoned actor. "No, uh, not really."

His coworker rolled his eyes, cursing something quietly. The makeup staff smacked him lightly with the end of their brushes, now turning to what looked like an air gun.

"Okay kid," he said with a sick. Frederickson was a good guy, twenty years older than Alex although his face synthetically looked older under all the foundation. "I don't know where the hell Brasi found you-."

"I uh, applied," Alex said. Brasi, the director, seemed near in tears when Alex awkwardly auditioned. "I guess Mr. Brasi really liked me."

Frederickson looked to the sky in a silent prayer before he breathed slowly. "Mr. Brasi. Jesus- no. Okay look, kid, you walk out there and you're you. There's none of…" Frederickson's nose wrinkled and he gazed all across Alex before he mumbled, "...of that. You're you, and you work."

That was incredibly unhelpful advice, but Alex hadn't really expected his co-star to give him anything useful. They had been stuck going over concerningly thin scripts, talking with costume design and set production for a week now. Frederickson was as helpful as comb for a hairless cat.

"Thanks," Alex said blandly. His hair artist clicked her tongue to disguise her chuckle. At least someone here in this hell hole liked him.

"Can't believe I have to work with a brat," Fredrickson muttered angrily. They already had been dressed up and fawned over by wardrobe, which wasn't that much different from what Alex normally wore. Maybe the jacket was a bit nicer, but he had petitioned to keep his favorite trainers. They were broken in and he didn't want to deal with blisters as well as Fredrickson's ego. They warned Alex that this would be the last time they'd meet, apparently 'official trailer' would only help now. After this, it would be up to Alex. He didn't think the reminder to shower daily was necessary though.

"Can't believe your ego is bigger than your paycheck," Alex sighed. He wondered how long it would take before Fredrickson tried to kill him.

"Okay, kid," Colt said from her lazy sprawl on the couch. She was Alex's favorite so far, only a handful of years older than him (or he thought). She tended to be crude, wicked dark when the time struck her. "You know your lines?"

"What lines?" Alex said as dry as he could. Their scripts were bare. Of course, he saw the various instructions for set changes and lighting shifting- when the microphones for one person would be higher tuned than the others. But, for actual words…

Colt lifted one eyebrow, trying to mask an ugly snort with a cough. For a scant second, she choked and keeled on the couch desperate to live. Vindictebly, Alex laughed as Colt struggled to breathe through the accidental spit inhalation.

"Oh, bastard," she wheezed. "I didn't live through six months of yoga for this shit."

"Yoga?" Alex blinked at the new revelation. "I didn't hear anything about yoga."

"Of course not you're loose like a goddamn ho-," Colt switched quickly. "I'm two years away from a facelift. You don't need yoga, but thank god I'm not like Wesley who had to drop twenty pounds for this shit. Bastard went vegan, the poor shit."

Alex didn't know how to respond.

"Anyways," Colt explained. "This is an organic movie. We've been chucked into this shit storm for months now. I never used to smoke and now I'm a goddamn junky for the shit. We're all about ambiance."

Alex, who had true to her words seen Colt smoke near religiously since he'd known her, gaped. She chuckled, flipping him off in good humor.

"We run this show, bitch," she laughed. "Don't let any bastard tell you off. See that director? Forget him, you're the goddamn director. You hear me, kid? We run this show natural, we do what we want. You're goddamn whole-grain bread ready to show up a fucking Subway sandwich."

"Colt," said Alex. "I have no bloody clue what you're saying."

"I love that you're British," she said delighted. "It makes this so fun. I love improv, it makes the best sort of shit. We're going full medals, we're getting all the trophies, bitch."

Alex nodded slowly. "I still have no clue what is going on."

"Oh, easy," Colt said. "You're my kid now- well not my kid because damn I don't age well. I stole you, so you're mine now."

"Right," he said a tad quickly once she stared at him pointedly. "I'm uh, your kid."

"Yep. You're my kid and some asshole is going to break in the door. I'll chat, and you look cute and hugable in the corner but punch him if he pisses you off."

Colt plucked a cigarette, fished around in the crease of the couch before she fumbled with a long stove lighter. She looked absolutely stupid, which Alex didn't hesitate to tell her.

"Shut up brat," she scowled, ignoring the director's shout that apparently this was the real deal now. "You think you're hot shit now with a fancy haircut-."

"You legit had hair that's like, a foot longer than me."

"Oh I'll show you a foot you bastard," she threatened, hiking one knee-high so she could wiggle her toes threateningly. Alex squared as she flopped towards him, trying to bash his nose.

Of course, the side window exploded and Alex screamed and flipped over the couch on reflex. Colt shouted something over the crackling of glass, half of which were swears. Alex scrambled under the couch because what the bloody-.

"Freddie!" Colt cheered, slinging her arms around Fredrickson's shoulders like she didn't have a burning cigarette dangerously close to his neck. Alex gaped, wondering distantly how long it would take for medics to run in and save their precious actor. Given, that Alex hadn't...actually seen a camera. Everything was so subtle.

'Is this what acting is like?' Alex wondered, feeling a bit dizzy with how fast everything was moving.

"Oi! Brat!" Colt said, dragging him out with all her upper body strength and his right ankle. "Come say hi! This is Freddie! He's-."

"Fredrickson," said man introduced himself flatly like he hadn't broke through the window without care.

"What the-..." Alex gaped. The window outside wasn't a green screen, it was a real window. "How the- aren't the police going to be freaking out? A man just broke through the window."

"It wasn't a strong window."

Alex blinked before shaking his head instantly. "Aren't we like, a kilometer up-."

"He's British?" Fredrickson asked Colt, completely ignoring Alex entirely.

Alex glared, already peeved at the man. Sure he was old enough to be Alex's dad, but he had the personality of a punching bag.

'Act natural!' Colt told him. 'I can do that.'

Alex climbed onto the couch, gained the higher ground while Fredrickson and Colt talked about something, and shouted: "Oi! Don't talk to me like I'm not here!"

Fredrickson sighed bodily like Alex was an annoyance. "I don't have time for children. What do you want, a hug? Candy?"

"Here's a sucker," Alex deadpanned and punched the bastard in the face.

"Colt, Colt what the hell?" Alex whispered, feeling very confused and freaked. Yes, he had read in the script that they would be in a warehouse with the threat of bodily harm. No, he did not realize that the 'threat of bodily harm' meant rat's with tampons tied to their tails, dipped in lighter fluid, set on fire in a warehouse full of gasoline.

"Look," Colt argued sounding a bit stressed. "I didn't know that Freddie-."

"Fredrickson is an arse," Alex hissed, wriggling desperately. "He just looks like a bastard-."

"Because you punched him in the face."

"Look he deserves it since we're going to burn alive."

"Yeah, no shit!" Colt roared, wriggling aggressively. The warehouse doors burst open and in swarmed two men in all black leather and grizzled faces.

"Who the fuck are you!" Colt shouted. "Alex! You recognize these fuckheads?"

"I don't know I'm facing the other direction!"

"Oh," the newcomer on the left said with the barest traces of surprise. "He's British."

When Alex next saw the director, he lunged over the table in the cafeteria and grabbed the man by his tie.

"If you ever," Alex snarled between a sore bit lip and minor burns near his cheek, "try that again, I'm going to shove you full of vodka tampons and set you on fire."

The director laughed, chuckling a delighted wheeze even as security rushed to drag Alex off of him.

"You're perfect," the director said with tears of pride. "Gosh, Alex you're doing great!"

"Choke on a shoe!" Alex spat.

The director, Brasi beamed and told his producer, "that boy is going to get us an oscar."

The two men, partners in crime who stormed in with scars on their arms (Alex couldn't tell if they were makeup or not) introduced themselves in blunt words and a strange sort of charisma that made Alex twitch. Familiar but distinctly wrong, even when everything played out eerily like what he ran from.

"We're going code names," the main man said. Brown fluffy hair, smelling like a recent shower and too much soap. Alex still couldn't find any cameras, barely understood the monster of this filming recording amalgamation, and was wishing that he at least had drafted a will at some point.

"Oh sweet, love that shit," Colt agreed delighted. "You can call me anything you want so long as we make Freddie hurt."

She paused before shuddering and quickly corrected the awkward sexual undertones to her threat. Alex wanted to bang his head on the wall.

"I'm the leader of this little operation," he growled. "Call me Boss or-."

"No way," Alex argued. "I'm not calling you boss. You have any idea how weird that sounds? If I walk down a street and call you that we're going to get the police chasing you down for being a child predator-."

"He's right you know," the other man agreed easily. Colt cackled wildly from her chair, tilting back so far she nearly fell.

"You are a chatty little kid aren't you?" their commander mused. "You're Cypher."

Alex jolted. He had said Cypher, but the pronunciation sounded a tad too similar to Rider to be anything of a coincidence. "I beg your pardon?"

"Colt, you know the target so you'll remain with that name. Ripley, you're our communications guy. You get us in and out. From now on, you three will refer to me as Slate-."

"Why?" Alex bit out sourly. "Because you have the emotional expression of a rock and crack under pressure?"

"Shut up!" Colt warned.

Slate frowned, taking a few steps around the table to look at Alex a little closer. Scanning up and down, lingering on the smaller scrapes and bruises. There was an itchy scab on Alex's neck, courtesy of Fredrickson breaking through a window without warning.

"You're a good kid, Alex," Slate said softly. "Don't get wrapped up in this. You'll get tangled in and it isn't easy to leave."

Alex laughed. Bright and sharp, he jerked forward to grip his chair like a feral child. "Oh trust me, Slate. I already know that. I'm not your little soldier. I'm in this on my own, you start a pissing match I'll knock your bloody teeth out."

Slate smiled bemused. "You've got spunk. Where you from again?'

"Chelsea," Alex said without thinking. "What badger hole you get dragged out of?"

Slate smiled at him, a bit too bemused, before moving on smoothly to address the matter at hand. "We're going to slide in, nice and easy, and take back what we need."

"Which is?" Colt asked a tad bored already. She looked ready to be anywhere else.

"Fredrickson took something that could be very dangerous in the wrong hands," Slate said solemnly. "Very dangerous information."

"Wow," Alex said. "Like I've never heard that before."

Sometimes Alex forgot he was technically under contract. It wasn't his fault. He legitimately wasn't used to being paid for risking his life by leaping out a window and barely grabbing a fire escape.

"Jesus Christ!" Colt screamed, sounding painfully American as from somewhere, the explosive sounds of a gun going off rang around the room. "Alex! Alex get back in here!"

"There's a gun!" Alex shouted back, already feeling his nerves buzzing on high alarm. Where would a sniper be mounted? America had far too many buildings with too many windows. "Get back inside, it isn't safe-."

"Screw that!" Colt snapped at him. She struggled through the window, catching he seam on her blouse on the frame before she took shaky steps on the fire escape. Alex helpfully swung it down, letting her climb as his ears stayed alert for any sign of movement.

"We can take the roofs," he offered anxiously. "They'll be able to spot us, the ground would be better-."

"How would we get there? Think with your brain a second-," she argued. Already Alex had tuned her out, she was just another civilian he had to work with. Who was firing at him? Who had found him? Wasn't having his name on a contract and his face on television supposed to prevent this?

"There," Alex pointed out the nearest roof, a few floors below him and diagonal of their position. "I'll draw their eye. Crawl down the ladder until you find an open window, then sneak inside and get to the ground."

"What?" Colt squawked, her face turning ashen in the city night skylights. "Don't- don't be stupid, kid. That's- you could fall-."

Alex ignored her and scanned his route. There were enough broad windowsills courtesy of American architecture to land him a half dozen secure footholds before he'd have to leap and make it. He'd had worse odds.

Alex steadied himself and jumped.

Colt treated him differently after that. She had contacted the movie director who (Alex assumed) contacted the authorities and got the American government involved. Likely the CIA again. Alex really didn't want to have to explain what he was doing leaping off buildings.

Slate treated him differently as well. He kept double-checking Alex, positioning himself differently. Alex wondered if the man had kids at home, maybe he was worried for Alex since someone already made pot-shots at him.

Ripley, their communications guy and apparent tech wizard (who was painfully inadequate compared to Smithers) didn't treat him any differently. Although he did frown when Alex explained how the ear radios he supplied were absolute shit, as the Americans liked to say.

"It's not like we're running on a billionaires penny, kid," Ripley defended himself, ruffling Alex's hair while he was at it.

"Oh come on, how is that fair?" Alex defended. "Lunatics all get the rich arses but we can't even get tax money? What are you Americans doing with it? Not spending it on healthcare, I can tell you that."

Maybe Alex should take up strong words with Byrne. After this of course, and once he could get one of those street hot-dogs he had heard so much about. Although he was missing chips dearly.

"I love this kid!" Ripley shouted with a grin, "we're getting all decked out, right?"

"The kid does not get a gun!" Slate instantly argued. "No guns for him!"

"Well duh," Alex said. "I never get guns."

"You're terrifying," Colt said with a scary amount of easy considering the gun she slid into her thigh holster. "What's your normal weapon of choice then, our baby James Bond?"

Alex didn't hesitate. "Uh, my ability to piss people off. And that one snowmobile."

"What did you do with the snowmobile?" Slate asked.

Alex blinked twice. "I gunned it off a ski ramp. It hit a helicopter and well, saved the world. You know how it is."

Slate paused, sighed through his nose and restated unnecessarily: "No guns."

Colt spun her gun and fired off her revolver shots loudly, flinching only slightly at the piercing slam of detonation. Bam! Bam!

Alex had to give her respect, he'd seen lesser man cower.

They were holed up in the warehouse since Fredrickson stuck true to classic megalomaniac protocol and suited up an entire building like a scene from a horror film. A wonderful assortment of power saws, swinging knives, and one snowblower with a taped accelerator that threatened to take out their legs. Colt was taking a few shots from the doorway, cursing under her breath as the metallic ringing of gears made Alex's head spin.

"How are you calm!" She shouted, looking a bit frazzled. She did not look good under all the anxious sweating. "This is- there are literal saws!"

Alex blinked confused. "Yes? There's always something. I'm glad it's not a jellyfish this time. Look, I'm going to find the snowblower and like, ride it."

"Ride it?"

"Well, yeah?" he asked. "I mean, it'll take out any of those saws, or knives. I bet it could eat a Roomba with a sword. Who knew Canadians made such a savage little beast."

Colt gaped, Alex brushed past her, and saw his neon orange angry machine zipping around on nitroglycerine laced gasoline.

"Showtime!" Alex whooped, jumping and snagging it. He didn't bother fighting it, instead, he accepted that he was the rag doll. Fredrickson could only be one direction (the direction with the shouting and a dramatic monologue).

When Alex slammed through the door, his snowblower groaning in agony as it shut off from the cruel treatment, he let momentum carry him forward. It also let his fist fly forward with equal force, and bash cleanly into the side of Fredrickson's face to knock him out cold. The tall man hit the ground like a lump of potatoes spilling out of a woman's shopping cart, and Alex once again saved the day.

"I don't understand," Alex said in a small voice. "Why...am I getting a...bonus?"

"Kid," the director wheezed. When had he gotten so many grey hairs? "You're going places. This took less than a month. A month! We didn't need to bring in stunt doubles, action crews, pyro techs or string mechanics. Hell, you already rewrote the entire plot! God, your improv skills are better than the Oscars already-."

"What?" Alex asked. "What do you mean improv skills?"