Chapter Text
The day had come, the world knew about him and all that MI6 did to him. Well, not all, but enough that he was sat in an international court room at the age of 20 being asked questions about the crimes committed against him.
He wasn’t sure how it started. One day he was in Italy ensuring SCORPIA’s Malagosto really was shut down after a rumour of recent activity reached his ears. And the next he was being rushed to a safehouse in an undisclosed location with a bag over his head due to a security breach. A security breach that released records onto WikiLeaks. A security breach that somehow put him as the number one suspect, despite him being on mission during the event.
Alex had spent a week in a dark cell being interrogated about the leak. He hadn’t known what exactly was released, or how (considering he was NOT part of it, thank you very much), but he knew that it was bad. Bad enough to lock one of their best agents in an interrogation room under suspicion kind of bad.
After that week had ended, Alex found himself in custody of some people who were NOT MI6. One moment he was in the safehouse, the next he was in a secure hospital room being talked to by lawyers and doctors and psychologists all wanting to know if he was okay.
No matter how many times he asked what was happening or who they were he got no answers. It was only through gaining the trust of some nurses did he get any answers. The WikiLeaks had focused on older missions, missions he had worked while underage, while blackmailed. And it seemed the international community was outraged, not at him (like usual), but FOR him.
It was strange. He hadn’t had anyone worry over him since Jack. After Jacks death, Alex had thought he had escaped by going to live with the Pleasants’, but it was too good to be true. As soon as he landed, CIA had taken him into custody and next thing he knew he was in an MI6 black site for ‘special training’ and had spent the rest of his years as a ghost. No Sabina. No Tom. No one but himself and a hand full of trusted rotating agents to ensure no one got attached to him. On the day of his 18th birthday they started to let him disappear alone, trusting him enough to return – for good reason he supposed, since he always did.
One day in the hospital (after he had decided that disappearing would be useless since his face seemed to be fucking famous now and at least here food and board was free) Alex sat next to a child psychologist distastefully.
“Why a child psychologist? I’m an adult now, you know.” Alex snarked as he poked around his jello cup.
The woman just smiled kindly, “20, quite a big achievement. Especially for you I imagine.”
A jellyfish reaching for him. Being strapped to a mad scientist’s table. A nuclear bomb ticking. Snake blood in his mouth. A bullet through his chest. Free-floating in space. An organ harvesting den. Paralyzed in a wheelchair. His face staring back at him, a bullet in his head.
Alex stayed silent out of spite. A few minutes past in silence. The psychologist tapped her pen silently on her clipboard.
“Are we done now?” Alex snarled, his jello cup empty.
“No, Alex. No, we are not.”
Weeks passed with Alex and the psychologist playing cat and mouse. Her trying to get Alex to open up, and Alex trying to get her to shut the fuck up.
It had been a month, with Alex now moved to an international safe house as the case against MI6 began moving. The psychologist was sitting across from him, on one of the armchairs in the living room. “Alex,” she stated.
“Sally,” Alex mimicked.
“They’ve set up a date for the trial.”
“Yeah?” Alex hummed, folding a paper airplane to throw at her later.
“You’re expected to speak at the trial.”
Alex momentarily stops before continuing his folding. “Who will be there?”
“Tulip Jones and Alan Blunt.”
Suddenly Alex couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, god he couldn’t breathe. The world was spinning off its axis and the world was unfocused. Alan Blunt. Blunt. The Gray Man. He was coming. He was here. He would have to see him. Blunt. He would have to see Alan Blunt. The man who ruined his life.
Distantly he could hear snapping and then there was a hand on his shoulder. He moved on instinct, his arms coming up and pushing the person away, he jumped over the back of the couch, eyes wild and breathing rapid. “-lex. Alex. Can you hear me?” His eyes focused on the woman in front of him, crouched low and unthreatening, hands empty. “What are five things you can see?”
His heart was in his throat. “You- uh,” he took another step away from her, closer to the door. “The letter opener on the fireplace mantle. The bathroom door behind you. The light switch to my left. The cup of hot tea on the ottoman. And my running shoes to my right.”
She smiled calmly, “Four things you can feel.”
This one was easier. “M-my heart… the hair in my eyes,” he needed a haircut soon, impaired vision is a liability. “The wind from the vent. And my fuzzy socks.”
“Good job. Three things you can hear.”
“The clock, my heartbeat… The guards outside the room.” There were three of them, they were pacing, they knew he wasn’t okay but weren’t coming in, he was guessing that the Dr had yelled at them everything was okay.
She slowly nodded and hummed, “Two things you can smell.”
“A cigarette.” The guard outside had a nicotine addiction, Alex knew by the pattern of his breaks that he was trying and failing to quit. “And rubbing alcohol.” Under the sink in the next room over. He had spilled a bunch earlier while trying to clean out a cut he had received on his earlier mission.
She began to slowly stand and Alex made his way back to sit on the couch again. “Great, Alex. One last thing. What’s one thing you can taste.”
That question was the easiest one yet. It’s been the same since his first mission. “Blood.” Alex took a deep breath and looked at her. He was silent for another moment. He closed his eyes and imagined flipping a switch. He had no room for emotions, not anymore. When he reopened them and stared at her, he was stock still and emotionless. “Alan Blunt… And the odds of him being convicted?”
“Better if you testified.”
He didn’t need to think about his answer. “No.”
“Alex.” Her voice was so quiet, so compassionate, so pitying.
“Don’t look at me like that, I don’t want pity. I don’t need your pity.” Alex narrowed his eyes, only allowing one emotion through: anger. Anger was safe, anger was bitter, anger was motivating, anger was useful.
She picked up her pen and wrote a line on her paper. “Then do something about it.”
Two weeks later Alex found himself in a courthouse. His suit was itchy and his tie was too tight. He was surrounded by six guards, each from a different country and agency to ensure that no one would succeed in making him disappear before he had a chance to testify.
The media was crazy. Flashing cameras and shouting journalists surrounded him. A shark frenzy and he was the bait.
“Alex-”
“Agent Rider-”
“Can you confirm-”
“-describe your missions-”
“-lying-”
“-accusations against the government-”
Alex’s guards ushered him through the journalists quickly until he was surrounded by the silent muttering of the court room itself.
Alex stood fidgeting in the back, zoning out and trying not to completely shut down when he saw Blunt and Jones walk into the room, eyeing him coldly. He closed his eyes and flipped the switch, all fear and weariness slipped away leaving nothing but rage and calm solitude. Just in time it seemed because next thing he knew he was being called to the stand.
He sat down and stared at the faces surrounding him. Journalists fighting for the best view. Strangers on the jury interested in his story. The faces of the two people who helped ruin his life.
Alex took a deep breath then opened his mouth: “It all started with a car crash¬–”