Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider.

Warning: I was upset as I wrote this. You may be upset as you read this.

A/N: Hello, old friends. Sorry I've been MIA for a while—tons of college visits and whatnot. I just wanted to pop in to post this. It's dedicated to the victims in Orlando, to Christina Grimmie, and to Anton Yelchin. There is nothing I can say to truly convey what I feel, nor is there anything I can say to comfort those who are hurting. Life is really suckish and unfair, and we can't do anything about it except to love one another and live life like it's our last day. Don't be blinded by hate. Generalizations and assumptions against a race or culture will get us nowhere. Let's be united in love, not hate. Let's set aside our differences for just one moment, can't we? Though it may be easy to give into our emotions, often times, the easy thing isn't the right thing.

Love is Love

Mrs. Jones' idea of laying low was much different than Alex's. He expected to be sent to a safe house, only allowed outside once or twice a day, but Mrs. Jones had other plans. Alex was now working as an intern in the bank portion of the Royal and General Bank. Honestly, it was extremely boring, and he didn't have a clue about what he was doing. He mostly plugged numbers into an excel worksheet. Sometimes, when he had a break, he would hang around in the lobby. He liked to people-watch, and he was there now, sitting in one of the squishy chairs in the corner.

A young woman passed by, headphones in her ears, humming along to her song. She carried a black briefcase, and Alex deduced that she worked at the bank too.

A mother shushed her young daughter, who was crying for a lollipop. Alex watched as the toddler stomped her feet, and the clever inventions on her feet lit up. The mother looked around helplessly before dragging her along.

An elderly man helped his wife up the first step of the bank. They loved each other, even after all those years. They knew each other like the back of their hands, and they seemed to be able to read each other's minds. Alex smiled at that.

The fidgety young man by the front desk, obviously trying to withdraw money from an account that was already running low on cash. He looked desperate, and Alex could see the shaking of his hands as he struggled to keep his tears in check. His unkempt appearance made him look like a mess—perhaps he needed money for drugs?—but his creased suit told another story. Someone he knew was sick—Alex frowned at that—probably in the hospital. He vowed to help as soon as he could.

The lobby was a grand place. The bank was for upper class citizens with an extraordinary amount of money. Alex expected many snobby men and women to enter the bank, and so far, he hadn't been disappointed. They were nice sometimes, but he was glad that he didn't work with them. Some could be downright vicious.

"Shouldn't you be working?"

Alex turned his head to see a familiar female face. She was smiling goofily, like she always was, and she was tugging along a seven-year-old boy. Her name was Jane, and Alex had met her after she had moved into his neighborhood. She was like the fussy mother that he never had, barring Jack, though Alex considered Jack as an older sister. Well, when she was alive.

"I'm taking a break," he smiled back easily. "I'm people-watching for now."

Jane's son, George, clambered over to Alex and began to babble about his new action figure.

"Hey, hey! Georgie!" Jane scolded, but she stopped when Alex grinned and began an animated discussion with the kid. When George finally stopped, though his excitement was clearly far from being over, Jane tugged the boy away after throwing a quick 'goodbye!' over her shoulder. Alex was left to his people-watching once more.

It was then that Alex's eyes settled on a suspicious figure in the center of the lobby. He was wearing a lumpy coat, even though it was in the middle of the summer. His pale face was unblemished, but as Alex scrutinized his form, he recognized the familiar look of determination plastered to his face. The man in the center of the lobber couldn't have been older than Alex—perhaps in his early twenties.

Even as Alex stood up, ready to act on instinct, the man produced a gun from under his lumpy jacket, shooting a steady spray upwards, shouting, "EVERYBODY FREEZE!"

No one listened, of course, and the few that could, ran through the double doors, their phones out to call the authorities. The man turned his gun on the retreating people, pausing only a second to change his magazine.

Alex was moving too, but not towards the doors, like most people were. His every instinct was telling him to move away—he was going to be shot if he continued. Alex ignored all those impulses as he darted forward. Jane and George were there somewhere, not to mention the elderly couple, the mum and her daughter, and all those other people who were now huddling behind the front desk.

"Don't bother pretending!" the man spun around in a furious circle, aiming for one of the men. Alex couldn't do anything to stop the bullet that was headed to the guy's abdomen. "Tell me where to get the information!"

Alex's blood turned cold. Was he trying to find the MI6 headquarters? How did he find them? The covert MI6 headquarters was supposed to be exactly that: covert.

"Print the damn thing!" the man snarled as he stalked over to a woman, cowered behind a computer, "Everyone's account information, personal information—whatever. And someone, open the vaults for me!"

Alex relaxed minutely. Of course the guy didn't know this was the MI6 headquarters. He quickly looked around, hoping to see a familiar face among his coworkers on the other side of the bank. No such luck. Were they going to send in some help? A sick feeling rose in Alex's stomach. If they didn't, Alex wouldn't be surprised. It wasn't their first time not responding to a cry for help, and it wasn't their first time leaving innocents to die. Alex had to assume he was alone in this.

"Someone show me the fucking vaults!" the man screamed, letting loose a spray of bullets. One whizzed by Alex's head, centimeters away. Someone screamed in pain. Everyone was sobbing and sobbing and sobbing. Another was praying out loud, but everyone was silenced when the man shouted again, "Shut your damn mouths! Show me the vaults!"

No one moved, and Alex took the opportunity, "I'll show them to you."

Alex's gaze caught Jane's. She shook her head frantically, holding George behind her. She was bleeding, he noticed, but she was keeping pressure on her wound.

The man gestured with his gun, a victorious grin on his face.

"But you have to promise not to hurt anyone else," Alex was standing, his stance confident. "Let them go."

It was the wrong thing to say. The man turned an ugly shade of purple, and he snarled, "I'll do whatever I damn well please!" He cocked his gun, "You"—he aimed for the elderly couple, who clutched each other, tears sparkling on their wrinkled cheeks—"are an example of what will happen."

Bang! Bang!

Alex's heart leaped into his throat as screams began to start up again. His hands balled into fists, and he shouted, "Okay! Okay, fine, you win!"

The man's face twisted into a grin, and Alex fought back a wave of nausea. On his missions for MI6, he never had to worry about citizens being in the way. He only had himself to worry about. This time was different.

Alex threw Jane a significant look, hoping that she would understand. They had to get the hell out of there—leave Alex. He could take the dude on when he was alone, he thought.

"No funny business," the man snapped as Alex stepped forward to lead the way. The muzzle of the gun prodded Alex's back. It was hot against his thin shirt from being fired so many times already. Alex wondered how many bullets the man had left.

The people were apparently thinking along the same lines as Alex was. They were desperate, and they made too much noise as they tried to escape. Even the nearing police sirens couldn't drown it out. The man heard it, obviously, and his temper seemed to flare. He turned back and began shooting wildly.

Alex took advantage of the turned back. He tackled the man, not bothering to think of the consequences. A bullet slammed into the floor before them. The man's grip didn't loosen on his gun, and Alex thanked the Lord that the gun wasn't an automatic rifle.

Unfortunately, the man wasn't going to go down quickly. He twisted around, trying to aim his gun at Alex, but the spy quickly knocked the man's arm away. The bullet hit something behind them. Alex didn't turn around to find out what.

He grabbed the man's wrist, trying to dislodge the tight grip on the gun. The man tried to fire again, but the bullet spun harmlessly upwards.

CRACK!

Alex didn't bat an eye when he felt the bone beneath his hands twist and snap. The man writhed and screamed below him, the hand holding the gun going slack. The gun hit the ground, and Alex kicked it away. Without any mercy, he slammed the man's head on the ground, knocking him unconscious.

The world around him was ringing—probably because he'd been so close to the gun without wearing any ear protection. His hands were trembling, though from afar, it looked like he was just as steady as an emotionless boulder.

Alex's eyes darted around to the carnage around him. Dead bodies–at least ten—littered the floor around him. The elderly couple, loyal to the last moment, were slumped next to each other, holding each other in their last embrace. Behind him, Alex saw what the bullet had hit: a woman, holding her phone, which was still on. She'd been trying to call someone.

Alex searched for Jane. She was on the opposite side of the lobby, still. Her eyes were closed, and the hand on her wound was slack. There wasn't much outward bleeding, but if she was gone, there must have been significant internal bleeding. He reached forward to take her pulse. She was still warm, but there was no indication of her beating heart.

"'Lex?"

Alex's eyes, which had blurred with tears sometime during the walk across the lobby, let loose its tears. He wiped them away, reaching forward to the little boy.

"Come here, Georgie," he scooped the boy up. They were both crying.

Alex looked around the lobby. They were alone besides the corpses and the unconscious man. Everyone else had enough sense to get out.

"What about my mummy?" the boy whimpered. Alex couldn't look at him. He didn't speak as they exited the bank, into the arms of the awaiting police.

Mrs. Jones was there, looking completely normal, as if Alex hadn't just witnessed countless murders and delivered a now motherless boy from the carnage. She looked disapproving, even.

"Alex," she started, moving forward.

"Fuck right off!" Alex snarled, the grip on George tightening. He moved away from the authoritative MI6 head, heading for one of the many first responders.

"Listen, George," Alex sat the little boy down on the edge of a gurney. "That bad guy in there? He had a real gun. You know what real guns do, right?"

George seemed to already know the answer. He nodded, sniffing, tears and snot running down his face, "Mummy has my new toy."

Alex rose from his kneeling position, "I can go get it for you."

A little hand stopped him from leaving.

George was trying to be brave. He was holding back his sobs, but fat tears rolled down his face, "N-no. No. Please don't leave me…"

George clung onto Alex with force that Alex didn't know the little boy had.

"Don't worry Georgie," he whispered, running a grimy, bloody hand through the boy's hair. "I won't leave you."

"Promise?" the voice was cracked and caked with emotion. Alex wished he didn't have to hear that from an innocent kid like George.

"I promise."

A/N: So maybe this wasn't my best written fic, but I wrote with all the emotions that I first had when I heard about these deaths. I wanted to convey that as a tribute. I'm sorry, but I couldn't write anything more lighthearted.

-Alice x