Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider. If I did, you wouldn't have had to wait so long for me to post a new story...

Chapter 1: Abduction

The last several months had been months of difficult adjusting, in Alex's opinion. Originally, he had had no desire to return to the UK, to the place where normalcy used to reign supreme. However, when the only other option had been to go stay with the Pleasure's in California… he liked to think that he had taken the lesser of two evils, for all parties concerned. He knew better then to try to pretend that he could ever fit in with a normal, happy family. There were too many scars, too many deep seated issues that he wasn't even close to dealing with—but he only admitted these to himself, in the quiet of his own place. Admitting that to anyone else would only bring down more problems upon his head.

Perhaps one of the factors that irked him the most though, was the fact that the conditions of his return to the UK had been formed and made with very little input from him. It was just more of his life decided for him. Yet, although he was less than pleased with the outcome, he knew that it was his own fault. For the first several weeks following her death—and his mind shied away from thinking about it even now—he had been catatonic. Unresponsive to the world. There had been talk for a while—a very short while—about moving him to a rehabilitative home permanently, if he hadn't snapped out of it.

Therefore, he had no one to blame but himself for his current situation.

Jones, who was a better boss than Blunt by far, had somehow unearthed characteristics that should have been dead and gone considering her official position. Caring, understanding, and he shuddered, just thinking of it, a strange sort of concern. That hadn't stopped her from being the ringleader in the circus he called his life now.

She had presented it as a guardianship arrangement, a rarely used government initiative from several years' back, which provided him with legal backing to his status. Different from emancipation, in that he wasn't recognized as an adult and wasn't required to supply all of his funding, but allowed him to live separately from a designated guardian. Meaning, he was able to live by himself—which was exactly what he wanted. In exchange for this agreement though, Jones had laid down the law. She had placed severe restrictions on his freedom and required him to go back to school.

What he had intended to do instead of school, he wasn't sure, but going back had never seemed like a possibility. He had been pulled so far from the norms that… slipping back into the schoolboy lifestyle was almost incomprehensible. However, Jones had insisted. Thankfully, she had arranged things so he was in a different school. He was repeating a year though. No argument there, unfortunately. He had missed so many months with sporadic attendance in between; there was no way he could have even dreamed of catching up.

It didn't help that his brain didn't want to cooperate with the process of in-school learning anymore. There were too may sounds and distractions around him, for him to focus properly. Jones had gone so far as to get him special testing requirements, because after two months it became clear that he would fail all his classes again, despite knowing the information.

His classmates thought he was weird, his teachers knew there was something funny about him, and just the thought of having someone sitting behind him was enough to send tingles of unease up his spine. That was one that his therapist liked to try to touch on… though how they got their information, he wasn't sure.

Which brought him back to where he was at the moment. In his therapist's office for the third—and hopefully last—time that week. He stared at the wrinkles on his knuckles, ignoring the faint scars on the backs of his hands, and tried not to squirm under the gaze of his MI6 assigned therapist. Jones had determined that no matter what location he chose—though his options by then had been dwindling rapidly—he was going to receive psychological counseling. Everything hinged on it. An individual flat with regular school attendance and therapy—or a spot within a residential living facility where someone would dictate his every move.

That threat was still hanging over his head, if his therapist determined that he wasn't cooperating.

The silence stretched out, until Alex felt like his nerves were about to snap. After changing therapists for the third time, Jones seemed to have finally found someone who was capable of out waiting him. It was unnerving, and with each session, he knew he was getting closer and closer to cracking. To just pouring out anything to fill the silence that came from someone just staring at him.

He wanted to squirm, to move, to do something, anything to get out of the limelight of his therapist's gaze. But he held himself in check, carefully tensing each muscle, surreptitiously categorizing and triaging every sound and rustle of movement for any signs of danger. He knew what he was doing. He knew most would consider it unhealthy. For him, it was just life.

"I don't know what you expect me to do Alex." The therapist let out a soft sigh, finally breaking the silence. His muscles relaxed imperceptibly, the session was almost over. "I don't want to threaten you, but Mrs. Jones made it clear that you are rapidly reaching your last chance. If you don't start showing signs of improvement, or at least something, this isn't going to work."

Silence again…

It wasn't silent in his head though. Those words were the ones that haunted him from session to session. The thought that one person could have so much power over his life. One wrong move—or lack of move—and Mrs. Jones would take all the paltry freedoms she allowed him. It wasn't his fault though. He had never wanted anything to do with the therapists. They would just try to tell him that things really weren't that bad. That he couldn't be so traumatized, because he was here, right? If he just tried, things could be normal again.

That nothing had ever happened.

He knew it was all lies though. His ghosts— either in person or in his mind, would always haunt him. His nightmares were enough evidence of that. And a small part of his brain suggested that he deserved the nightmares. He had killed people. It was the least amount of penance he could offer for his destruction and selfishness. That was what it boiled down to, after all. She never would have died if he had turned them down in the beginning. If he hadn't been selfish in the beginning.

The therapists, vultures that they were, had all immediately latched onto the fact that he had nightmares, was paranoid about anyone sneaking up on him, and could only somewhat function within general society. They said that that was all evidence that he needed to change things. They claimed that he had the power to change things.

What they didn't understand was that everything was for a reason. The nightmares were penance. The paranoia was the only thing keeping him alive since people still wanted him dead. And general society was overrated, because no one could ever relate to what he had been forced through.

The children at school—because such naïve students might as well have been decades younger than him—were wary of him. Everyone stayed away from 'that creepy Rider kid,' perhaps because they knew instinctively that he was more dangerous than the thugs behind the shops were. Everyone around him got hurt or killed.

No one except the most cold-hearted of war veterans would ever understand—and even then, he was only a kid.

It made him different.

Unique.

Isolated.

A clock behind him chimed out the hour, startling him, but the flinch was smothered under his tense muscles. It didn't matter though. The therapist always knew. Even after nearly two months, he had yet to get used to it. It startled him every time, and he knew if he glanced up at just the right moment he would see the pitying expression on the therapist's face. There was always one.

The only good thing about the clock was that it told him precisely when his session was over. He grabbed his backpack from beside the chair, and stood up to stalk out of the room. He was halfway out the door, before the therapist's voice called after him.

"Try not to be so late next week, Alex. Mrs. Jones is paying attention."

Alex scowled and left without any sign that he had heard. The meddling busybody could go stick her nose somewhere where it actually mattered. The indignity of the situation only served to send his mood even lower. He was essentially a prisoner that was allowed to roam the streets—while letting his wardens know exactly where he would be at all times.

Muttering indignant curses under his breath, he pressed the button on his mobile that informed his watchdogs that he was returning to the only place that he cared a whit about. His flat.

The problem with repeating a year—one that included such sporadic attendance—meant that there were things he remembered very clearly and things that… he had long since forgotten. While he had once been at the top of his maths class, now, he was nearing the bottom. Between his in-class concentration being nearly nonexistent and his teacher using an abnormal amount of Greek letters in the lessons, teaching himself was a struggle—and only partially accomplished thanks to more than a dozen online tutoring sites. Perhaps the most annoying part of it all was that he remembered learning bits and pieces of it at one point, but not enough to put all together coherently.

The latest batch of returned homework, full of red marks, included a note that told him he needed extra tutoring and that a conversation with his guardian was likely in the future. With a resigned sigh—he didn't want to know where a conversation like that would get him—he decided that it was pointless to beat his head with something he was never going to learn anyway.

A long time ago, he had assumed that as soon as he was away from the spying world, everything would go back to normal. Classes would pick up like usual. Homework would fall into line, unquestioning. Friends would make sure that his life wasn't only studying all the time. That was, of course, complete baloney. He knew better now than to expect a normal, and knew that there would never be.

For now, he had to get through and make it work. Somehow.

He had no illusion that MI6's influence on his life would just disappear when he reached the age of majority. If anything, it would just get worse from there on out. They had created him, so he was their problem. If his mental status wasn't acceptable by that point, he highly doubted that they would let him loose on the population. Too high of a security risk. So, they would just give him a home with even higher security—and not a single person would miss him.

The whistling of his kettle alerted him to the fact that he had been staring at the kitchen tiles for far too long again, once again wasting precious time on pointless introspection. Of course, if his therapist knew about it, they would probably say that it was a good thing he was even thinking about the future. Desire for anything was always good in their eyes. Though… the hopeless tense to his thoughts probably wouldn't be considered a positive sign.

He grabbed a mug off the counter, cutting off his thoughts mid train, and poured a cup of tea, before returning to the table that had all of his coursework for the weekend laid out. Six months in, and it felt as if he were still playing the catch-up game. It shouldn't have taken up all of his time, but his inability to concentrate well in class, made it so that he had to reteach himself nearly everything.

A small mocking part of his brain wondered what else he would have to do if it weren't for the coursework. It wasn't as if he had any friends at the school. There were no wild parties to attend—probably not even any he could crash. Definitely no girls that he would take out to dinner... He suspected that if it weren't for the coursework, he would spend all the time with his mind in an endless loop of self-incrimination.

Not. Going. Down. That. Road…

With an annoyed scowl at the veer in his thoughts, he turned to the only coursework that he somewhat enjoyed and found useful. Spanish.

Of course, it was dreadfully easy, but that didn't matter. At least he could do it.

It was well past midnight when he resurfaced from his studying long enough to find something to eat. As long as he went to bed by two, he would get about five hours to sleep—provided the nightmares weren't too bad. One therapist had tried telling him that sleeping more would help his concentration in class, but he doubted it. It wasn't a lack of sleep that distracted him; it was every little creak in the room. Every time another student twitched or fidgeting, drummed their fingers on their desk, or did something immensely distracting. In a class full of unruly fifteen year old's—children—there were far too many opportunities for distraction.

Like the sound of a door opening.

Alex's head snapped up, taking in the slight shift in atmosphere. If there was one thing he knew, it was the sound of his own flat. It was in an area where the neighbors were old enough that they didn't bother him and he didn't bother them. No one asked questions, and since most went to bed long before nine, any out of place sound was a cause for alarm. Especially late at night.

Supper forgotten, he cautiously inched away from the counter and hall. It wasn't a loud sound, but rather, something that had penetrated the stillness that he was used to having. There were no unnecessary sounds within his flat, so he knew when something was out of place.

The door brushed against something. Or maybe something brushed against the door…?

He inched away, placing his feet carefully, but without thought. He knew exactly where the creaks were in the flooring. He had put them there himself. Paranoia certainly had its benefits at times. Like when someone chose the wrong flat to break into…

He held his breath as he grabbed the combat knife off the table, where he had left it after cleaning it earlier in the evening. It was the only weapon that MI6 allowed him to have, claiming that guns were too dangerous. Though he wished dearly for a gun—after all, in a knife and gun fight, knives tended to lose—he was grateful for the little they allowed him to have. With his one form of protection, he backed carefully toward his bedroom, keeping his eyes and ears open for any more irregular sounds.

The slightest click told him that the door had latched again—so there was someone somewhere—but he had no way of knowing if anyone had actually come in, or how many. He swallowed hard, and kept inching his way to the safety of the bedroom. They would have to trigger one of his warning signals. Then he could escape. They wouldn't know what was coming.

The slightest whisper of sound was the only warning he had that anyone was nearby, and the inexplicable tripping of his own feet quickly followed it, as he tried to locate the sound. He fell with a hard thud and only had seconds to realize that someone was behind him. Right behind him.

He tried to scramble away, but wasn't fast enough. Something hit him between the shoulder blades, knocking him back to the ground, and he felt the world around him go distinctly gray.

Not… going to…

He shook his head, trying to break free of the momentary fog, and reached blindly for anything, anyone. He grabbed the leg of his attacker and pulled him down to his own level, fumbling for the upper hand. It was with pure desperation that he struck out with the knife. As soon as a gun came into play, he had no hope. But for now…

It was almost too easy. The knife sunk in flesh and Alex got his momentary reprise.

"What the hell do you want?" He was attempting to cover up the fact that he had been completely blindsided by this attack. He knew he had to get out, but he wanted answers.

"All they've ever wanted, Rider. You belong to them. You're theirs." The man was surprisingly coherent for someone who just had a knife shoved into his stomach. Though he didn't appear to be attempting to come closer. "You can run, but you can't hide. SCORPIA will have you on their side."

SCORPIA.

Alex blanched. It had only been several months. Jones had promised.

This was why he didn't trust anyone. They couldn't even pretend to keep him safe.

Alex bolted. No more questions needed answered. He was weaponless and without any reliable way to contact MI6. His only hope was that they paid attention to the alarms strung up around his flat. He took nothing, just raced to the bedroom and the only window in the flat. He forcefully jammed it up all the way to the top, hoping it would be enough to trigger all the sensors they had placed.

His only hope of refuge before help arrived—if help arrived—would be in the woods that butted up against the backside of the flat complex. Of course, that meant getting down from his third story flat… but he had a plan for that.

Paranoia had its advantages, in that he had planned for a plethora of doomsday scenarios. However, hadn't the entire purpose of this exercise been to teach him that there wasn't anything to fear in the world anymore? Hadn't that been what Jones wanted with him essentially playing house?

He shook the thoughts off and hardly thought twice as he leapt out of the window and onto the roof below. It was only an eight-foot drop. He could almost manage that in his sleep.

Of course, nothing could go as planned. That would be too easy. He grumbled at his luck as he hit the roof at a particularly wrong angle. Not only did it send a twinge of pain up his ankle, but also alerted anyone in the vicinity that something strange was happening. And if that man had backup…

After a cursory glance, to be sure that it was nothing more than a sprain—oh, it wasn't going to be fun to run, but at least it wasn't broken—he rolled over the edge of the last floor and caught the lattice framework that the owners thought made the building look pretty. It provided him with a simple escape route though, so he wasn't complaining.

He reached the bottom without any more problems, and paused to take in his surroundings. It was a dark night—starless, moonless, and with a burnt out street lamp to add to the ambiance. The prefect night for an ambush. Taking in a careful breath, he crept across the empty grass, heading for the safety of the forest. It wasn't the first time he had put his escape plan into action—but the other times it had just been a test. There hadn't actually been anyone in the forest after him.

Now there was.

He was halfway across when he heard the crunch of leaves that told him he wasn't alone anymore. Alex bolted, ignoring the pain of annoyance in his ankle, concentrating on getting away. If he just made it to the forest… he had no doubt in his ability to evade once within that protection. There he would have size and familiarity on his side.

But he was too slow.

Someone grabbed him around the neck with an iron grip, and despite his fighting, kicking, and struggling; he was no match for the sheer strength. His panic kicked into a higher notch, starting to send any reason and strategy out of his mind.

He wanted the hands gone.

He had nothing.

Struggling and clawing at the hands only served to tighten the grip. The air was gone. He could only last so long.

No air…

He grabbed at anything he could get under his fingertips, but the efforts were quickly becoming too much.

"We've got you Rider."

The grip on his neck was replaced with a sudden sharp prick, but he couldn't fight as his body struggled to pull in the air once again. And the drugs were already pulling him down.

Waking up is going to suck…

A/N: Hello… Back again… *offers new story as peace offering* It's been a while, but I'm back for a while now! This will be another long one, so please, read and review, then let me know what you think. Fair warning, there may be up to two weeks between chapter updates, as I am still a student and am still working out the kinks in this story. But, it will be FINISHED. Promise.

Until next time!

S.B.L.

*As far as I know, the guardianship arrangement is a completely made up term and has no actual status in real life.