A/N: God damn these stupid plot bunnies! Anyways, read, enjoy, and please: Don't. Kill. Me.

The Devil's Price

"Those who seek the help of Satan...

must be prepared to pay a price worthy of hell."

[ROYAL_AND_GENERAL_BANK]

October 14, 1500 hours

Slight cricks could be heard from the stretching form of Trevor Sterling, the current head of Spec-Ops for Military Intelligence Six. His back was stiff, as were his neck and legs. He was still atoning to the metaphorical continents of paper-work that came with his new job.

Trevor had first been a Senior Field Agent, effective and among the best in his line of work. Then, due to several "unfortunate events", (the true meaning had been immediately assumed by every worker in the vicinity) he was promoted to second-in-command. A few short months later, the original head had "left the office", (again, the obviousness of the implications was just atrocious) and he had been promoted.

There had been word floating around the Royal and General, whispered discretely within coworkers. The whole thought that cold, emotionless spies were still below gossiping was humorous, but this particular brand of gossip was different.

Rumor had it that the Director and Head position of MI6 was cursed (yes, immaturity and superstition still existed in espionage). No director beyond the point of one Tulip Jones had lived any longer than a year. The intel agency was burning through its supply of Senior Agents.

Trevor had brushed the rumor off as one would a troublesome cobweb. Certainly, it was just the ravings of an agent pushed a bit too far in capture. Off the rocker. Insane. Mental.

The Head and Director was currently, however, thinking that if the curse didn't kill him, all this paperwork would instead. It was mid-day, and there was still a whole stack left to go through. Stack as in at least a foot-and-a-half.

Trevor groaned and looked back at the seemingly innocent pen in his hands. MI6, of course being MI6, had had the pen modified so that it easily flicked out as a knife. Serrated. And diamond-edged. Yeah, they were pretty freakin' serious about the pen (now imagine the furniture).

Of course, Trevor was now using the actually functioning option of the pen, as a knife was pretty useless at the moment, to sign papers. He just barely skimmed the lines, noting certain parts with underlines and stars, and signed wherever necessary.

He heard the soft click, click, click of cliché dress shoes on the marble halls, and the barely audible creak of the old door being opened.

"Mr. Sterling?" A flat, impassive voice called out. Trevor calmly set down his pen and looked up at his deputy head. The man's name was Cory, Cory Young, and he had been among the slowly depleting ranks of the senior field agents when Trevor had been promoted.

Cory could be passed off as wiry at first glance, but closer examination would reveal a lithe build of muscles. He had dark brown hair, much like Trevor's, and dull green eyes. The deputy was a master of disguise and close combat, among other things. Most of all, he was good at his job.

"There has been a report of utmost importance from one of our agents." Cory pronounced. "I have it right here."

He set the papers carefully of Trevor's desk, taking care not to disturb anything else on the neat mahogany surface. As the door closed, the soft click, click, click could be heard back down the hall.

Trevor glanced down at the addition to his paper-pile and began to read as the last clicks receded.

...Terrorism... New base revealed... Northern Ireland...

There was nothing special at first (such an occupation assured that not much seemed important anymore), but Trevor kept reading. Suddenly, his eyes caught on one word. One dreaded word.

...SCORPIA...

Immediately, his mind started racing, although none of the hurry appeared through his gray facade. SCORPIA. Sabotage, Corruption, Intelligence and Assasination. Their name was legendary, their members were lethal, and their plots were every intelligence agency's nightmare.

And a base in Ireland? This was something one shouldn't overlook. That base needed to go down.

Right now.

Trevor shook his head. Such a job could only be put in the hands of one agent. He obeyed a secret drawer and withdrew a manilla folder with a huge, red "CLASSIFIED" stamped on top.

Agent Devil, retired, the best.

[ROYAL_AND_GENERAL_BANK]

October 15, 0800 hours

"No." The simple and forceful refusal had flown out of the agent's mouth as soon as the door had slammed open.

Trevor cocked an eyebrow at Devil. "But you haven't even -"

"No."

The head of MI6 was slightly disgruntled at the interruption, but wrestled with his own annoyance to maintain the blank indifference on his face.

Agent Devil was young, currently 23, with blond hair and solemn chocolate eyes. He was thin, flexible, and bulky in a somewhat impossible combination that somehow fit perfectly with his shadowed face.

The file said that Devil had been recruited at age fourteen, as atrocious as that sounded, and had a perfect track-record with 21 missions. Apparently, several of his assignments had been against SCORPIA, against whom he had a personal vendetta.

Plus, Devil was the world's leading expert on all things related to the infamous terrorist association.

"Agent Devil." He sighed. "Do listen to what I have to say before doing anything rash."

"I don't have to listen to anything." He growled, arms crossed. "I know what you want. Guess what, I'm retired. R-E-T-I-R-E-D."

Trevor let an amused smile pull at the corners of his lips before he spoke again.

"The 'arrogant teenager' act doesn't fit you anymore, Devil. You're not that young." He stated, and the previous scowl dropped off the agent's face, replaced by a scarily blank boredom. "Although, you could pass off as one if no one looked too closely."

The agent shrugged."That's not the point, Trevor." The head shuddered at the dead note in his voice. "The point is that I'm not going back to this business. I have a perfectly good position in the SAS."

Trevor chuckled. "And why are you not concerned about revealing blackmail material? That job of yours seems mighty important..."

"'Cuz, chances are, you probably already knew about it."

And indeed he did.

"Well then, you must know what comes next, hmm?" Trevor stated nonchalantly.

Devil stuck out his tongue childishly, but the resentment shone clear through his act. The head of MI6 knew he had complete control over the situation. He would get what he wanted.

"Fine, I accept." The agent reverted back to a cold tone. "But I am giving you one last chance. Are you sure you want to force me to do this?"

"Yes." Trevor replied smugly.

Devil nodded sadly.

"I thought as much."

Soft footfalls.

Barely audible breathing.

At the doorway, Devil glanced back with a feral smirk at his lips.

"Just know that those who seek help from Satan, must be prepared to pay a price worthy of hell."

~x-X-x~

The next morning, an old office building in Northern Ireland burned down in a blaze of glory. Nobody knew how it happened. The locals stated that it just spontaneously combusted.

Also, on the same day, a man with dark brown hair was found floating in the Thames, face-down, a knife sticking out of his suit. Officials confirmed that he was dead, but nobody could find who offed him.

That same afternoon, a woman in gray walked into the office of Cory Young, a grim smile on her face.

"The former head has been unable to resume office. Please come with me so that we can sign some promotion papers."

Cory gulped.

A/N: Sorry if the last stretch of the Trevor/Devil conversation seemed rushed. We all know who Devil is, and if someone doesn't, I'm smacking them upside the head for stupidity. :P

Jk, anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed! And um... I'm sorta starved for a good read. So instead of a review, a nice Alex Rider revelation fic would do just as well!

Ciao!

P.S. If MT happens to be reading this, WHY WEREN'T YOU AT THE ROLLER SKATING FUNDRAISER?! RAWRS!