The waves tumbled over one another like kittens in a basket, sunlight sparking glittering eyefuls. They beckoned to the onlookers, the hordes of people on the beach watching the sunset. The sunlight was reflecting off the water, forming a golden pillar below the departing sun.

Alex looked out over the sea. It was his first time ever seeing it.

"How is it?" Ian asked. Alex stared at him blankly.

"Do you like the water?" Ian tried again. Alex raised his eyebrows in understanding. He smiled and nodded.

"I don't know if you'll like water so much in the future, Alex. Who knows what your future holds." Seeing his nephew's uncomprehending stare, Ian rephrased his statement. "Good job, Alex."

Alex smiled in return.

Ian wondered if taking his nephew with him was such a good idea after all. Undercover for a year in France, he'd not only forced Alex into a land where he couldn't comprehend anything, but he'd done it to Alex at the age of five. And he'd specifically instructed Alex not to speak a word of English.

Ian knew how much Alex wanted his approval, his praise.

He felt dirty.

When Ian had been five, he had definitely not been learning French. And he most certainly didn't speak Spanish or German. But Alex wasn't him. Alex was John's son.

Alex needed to be able to go anywhere, do anything. Ian didn't know the details, but he knew that John had been involved with a very large, serious, dangerous company – or at least, the plain-clothes agents patrolling their home in London would seem to say so. John would have wanted his son to be protected.

That meant preparing Alex for anything.

"We went now?" Alex asked, unsure in the foreign tongue. A bystander chuckled on his way.

"Can we go now?" Ian automatically corrected. He paused, then answered, "No, I'll go alone. You should go back to our flat and wait for me. Got it?" Alex bit his lip. Ian sighed. At least Alex understood he wanted a confirmation.

"I go there. You go there. You go to the apartment. You wait. I come later. Okay?" Alex nodded this time and opened his mouth as if to say something. His eyebrows knitted, however, and he closed his mouth.

"What is it?"

Alex shook his head. "I don't know how to say it."

"Try. The worst that can happen is that I won't understand."

"I want to know you go there?"

Ian sighed. He had a matter of business to attend to. He couldn't tell Alex that. "You want to say, 'Where are you going?' I'll tell you later." He never would.

Slowly, Alex nodded. They parted ways.

"He's definitely not our man," the woman in the shadows commented. She had overheard the entire exchange.

"Oh?" a man asked. "And why's that?" He had been an 'innocent' bystander passing by Alex and Ian's conversation. He'd dropped a small microphone on the ground.

The woman stared at him, disbelievingly. "What sane agent would bring a child with them? Especially one clearly related to them? The British government doesn't employ child agents. That boy is obviously French, though probably retarded."

The man conceded. "We'll have to search the other people on that flight."

A few days later, Ian showed Alex the ocean for the first time from the French coastline.

Several months later, Alex was just about fluent.

"Ian?" Alex asked. "Why don't I have a mom or a dad? The other kids do." Ian had gotten MI6 to give him an apartment with a bunch of other families. Alex often played with the other children his age.

Ian sighed, and very gently replied, "Your parents are dead, Alex." Alex blinked. Ian could tell that he didn't understand.

"Dead? What's that?"

Ian crouched and met his nephew at the same eye-level. How does one explain to a five-year-old what it means to be 'dead'?

"Dead means that your parents have left you, Alex. They're not coming back. Ever."

Five-year-old eyes bugged out. "My parents didn't want me?"

"No, no! It's not like that." Ian massaged his temples, thinking fast. Distraction: a useful tool for babysitters. "Would you like to talk about this over a dinner? My treat."

Alex pursed his lips and nodded.

"And that, Alex, is what it means to die." Ian had been very carefully watching his nephew the entire time, but the boy was terribly hard to read. He still had the same expression he'd started with, chewing slowly as if thinking about what the food tasted like.

"But I want to see them. I don't care if they're dead." Alex creased his eyebrows. "Don't I get to see them?"

Ian reached out over the table and took Alex's small hand in his, halting the meal altogether. "Alex, I already told you. They're not coming back. It's okay if you're sad - many people are when they find out their relatives are dead." Ian had no idea how to break it gently to the boy, but he also didn't know how to deal with tears.

Alex's lips were trembling, and he was definitely tearing up.

"Alex..." A brainwave hit Ian. "They're not coming back, but it's said that people who die see dead loved ones. Maybe you'll see John and Helen when you die."

Ian could already tell Alex was getting the wrong idea. A very wrong idea.

Damn kids.

"So... if I make myself die – or stop my heart, like you said –, then I can see my parents?" A woman in a lime-green dress at a nearby table stared in shock at Alex. She'd just sat down, and she hurriedly departed.

"No! No, Alex. You have a long life ahead of you. Your parents would want to hear lots of stories when you see them – not a tale about how you killed yourself. Promise me, Alex. Promise me you will never, ever give up on life, no matter how dire the situation or how hopeless things seem."

Alex looked down at the table, thinking. Alex was twirling his fork with his free hand, and he clenched the hand in Ian's grip. Ian didn't know what he'd do if Alex refused.

A very, very long silence between them took hold.

Ian swallowed. He had no idea what Alex was thinking. "Alex?"

The boy stopped spinning the fork to look at Ian directly. He looked so young, so innocent. So troubled.

"I promise." Ian sighed, relieved. He covered the hand he held with his other hand and was about to thank Alex when the boy interrupted him. "But only if you promise to tell me everything about my father."

That was easy and difficult. Ian tried to avoid thinking about the sore spot known as the hole his brother left. Alex was filling it, slowly, but Ian knew vestiges of that wound would remain even after he long forgot his brother's face. But Ian needed Alex to promise him.

"Of course. When do you want to know?"

"Now." Ah, ever the five-year-old.

Ian sighed deeply. He squeezed Alex's hand tightly. "Well then..."

Just as Ian was ready to reluctantly embark on a long recollection of his brother, his phone rang. He checked the caller ID. It was important.

"I'm sorry, Alex. I have to take this call."

"But Ian-"

"No. I'm sorry. Just give me a minute."

Alex stuck out his lower lip and looked down. Ian sighed, ruffled his hair, and walked out the door to take the call in the alleyway beside the restaurant.

"Hello?" Ian answered in English.

"Agent Rider? We've got a situation." Ian swallowed. He hoped it was far from his nephew.

"What's up?"

The voice on the other end of the line paused. Ian knew whoever it was was only relaying information. "We've got a witness on the female head. She's red-headed, about five feet two inches tall, slim, and with a nose 'like the beak of a raven', as the witness said. We have reason to believe she's in your vicinity."

"Thanks. Anything else? Clothes?"

"Lime-green dress, turquoise purse. Flat shoes. That was early this morning, though."

Ian recalled the woman who'd left the restaurant. "I just saw a woman in a lime-green dress, but she left the Le Carré restaurant a few minutes ago."

"Can you catch up to her? Follow her?"

"No - she's probably long gone."

"Do you remember her face?"

"No." Ian paused, but the other end of the line was silent. "Any news on her male accomplice?"

"None. He's still just a shadow."

Ian sighed. "Right. Thanks for the update."

Ian knew he was not to hang up until the other side did. It was customary. He waited for what felt like an eternity. "Well?"

"Hang on, I'm still reading the new orders," the person on the other side replied. After another moment, the person continued. "If you see the woman, try to place the tracker Smithers gave you on her."

About a week before, Smithers had given him several rice-grain-sized tracking devices that would stick to cotton and withstand gastric juices for up to three weeks. Ian was doubtful about how useful they would be, considering they were fairly easy to spot and difficult to attach or force down someone's throat. But he'd resignedly accepted anyway.

Ian had tested it out on Alex, giving it to him for breakfast when he first got them. True to Smithers' word, the cellphone would display the map with a small dot indicating the color of the tracking device. Alex had swallowed the red tracker. It was John's favorite color.

"Signal HQ that your tracker is on her if you get it on her. Give them the code for that tracker and follow her. Do not initiate contact. We want the location, not the person."

"Yes, sir." Ian heard him loud and clear.

"Rider?"

"Yes?"

"Good luck."

Ian listened, and sure enough, there was a small click on the other end. He snapped the phone shut and went back into the restaurant.

Alex watched sadly as Ian walked out the door. He'd learned a while ago not to argue too much about Ian's inopportune calls; he'd been grounded the first time for making Ian miss it. Alex had missed a film during that time.

"Hello, little boy." A woman in a lime-green dress broke Alex out of his thoughts. Alex stared at her for a moment.

"Hello?" Alex replied uncertainly. "Who are you?" Then Alex remembered Ian had also told him not to talk to strangers. Oops.

The woman smiled sweetly at Alex. Her mouth and nose formed an anchor-shape, with her nose so sharp. This time, however, she spoke in French. "I'm a good friend of your father's - Joyce."

Alex brightened immediately. After all, he was only five and his uncle had just walked out before telling Alex anything about his father.

"Really? Can you tell me about him?"

Joyce frowned when Alex asked. Alex had no idea that she thought he was testing her. "Ah, it's okay. I don't want to make you sad."

"Sad? Why would I be sad?"

Alex shrugged. This woman was rather strange, he thought. But she knew his father, so he wanted to get to know her. "Ian said sometimes people are sad when people they know die."

"Your father's dead?" Joyce asked, incredulous. Her eyes widened. "When did he die?"

"Not long after I was born, in a plane accident." Alex figured Joyce probably hadn't seen his dad in several years. She did live in France, after all. He did wonder how she knew he was his father's son, though. "Sorry you had to find out this way."

The woman seemed to be switching gears. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry I missed the funeral."

She looked about ready to cry, so Alex swallowed his question about how she knew Alex's face. "It's okay." He offered a sheepish smile. "What's a 'funeral'?"

Joyce blinked at him, then smiled wistfully. "It's a sort of celebration to send the deceased person on to the next life. So, who was that man you were with?"

Alex, relieved that tears were averted, answered without thinking. "He's Ian. He's like a father to me."

Joyce was shocked. Her partner had been right. MI6 did employ children - orphaned ones - and placed them with agents. When Alex had been asking about dying, she realized Alex's previous 'retarded-ness' was due to his inexperience with French. She would never have guessed the developed country would sink to such measures.

Joyce studied the small boy in front of her. "What's your name?"

"Alex." Alex looked confused. "Wait - you knew my face, but not my name? But not that my dad was dead?"

Joyce scrabbled for an answer. She remembered a male name from Alex and Ian's conversation: John. That whole conversation about dying must have been about Alex's father, though she'd only caught the tail-end and recognized the pair by chance. "I saw such a strong resemblance that I thought you must be John's son."

Alex admired her with something like awe. She'd guessed his father's name correctly. "Wow, you're really smart." Then he smiled widely. "You knew who I was even when I was with Ian!"

Joyce cursed in her head. She'd been caught in her own lies.

Then she realized the boy was completely sincere.

Joyce blushed and acted sheepish. "Well, I do have a degree in anthropology," she lied.

"That's so cool!" Alex gushed. "What's anthropology?"

"It's the study of humans - people. Would you like to come over to my house?"

Alex grinned. Joyce had him completely fooled. "Sure!" Then his smiled dropped, and Joyce felt worry rise up in her stomach. Had he caught on? "Um, I know you might be sad, but can you tell my about my father?"

"Of course I can." This boy would be easy to lure, now. She just had to be careful to match up her story with what the boy knew. "What do you know about him?"

"Ian was about to tell me, but he had to take a phone call. So, nothing."

Joyce had no doubt this trustful young boy was telling the truth. This was going to be even easier than she'd planned.

Ian frowned as he reentered the restaurant. His table was empty. The criminal in the lime-green dress had been there not long ago.

Had the woman kidnapped Alex?

"And he was also very handsome." Alex beamed. He hoped his father had been cool, and Joyce was backing up that theory.

They were in a taxi, riding to Joyce's apartment. Alex suddenly remembered that Ian didn't know where he was.

"Um, Joyce?" She hummed questioningly. "Do you have a phone I can borrow? I forgot to tell Ian where I'm going."

The woman smiled serenely. "No, you'll have to wait until we get to my apartment."

Alex grinned. "Okay."

AN: If people like this, I'll put up the next chapter. It is hot-off-the-press, so my apologies for any mistakes.

I do have a condition, though - someone MUST tell me what the release date for Scorpia Rising is in the USA. Guess who's lazy? ;-)

Thanks y'all for reading.