A limo. Out of all things, Ricard got to travel to and from school in a limousine. Alex didn't know whether to laugh, or scoff in disgust. Rich kids. . . .they were just annoying brats. But he didn't say anything, and quietly stepped into the limo behind Ricard.

"This is great!" Ricard crowed, as soon as the driver started to drive off. "I get a slave to everything for me!"

Alex held back a scowl, and stared out the nearest window. He wasn't enjoying this limo ride at all. "Don't you have servants?"

"Not much," Ricard replied. "Just the cook, and the maid, and butler, and the gardener, and the nanny." He cackled. "You must be pretty stupid to make a bet you can't win, slave."

Alex smiled grimly. Stupid? If only the brat knew. . .

ARAR

A hotel. They left her in a hotel room by herself, while they went out to do whatever it is MI6 agents do. It was frustrating! Jack growled, and flopped onto the bed.

At least it was a nice bed, in a nice hotel room. There even was a basket of fruit on the table if she got hungry. But – how could they expect her to wait quietly in this room while Alex was out there. With Scorpia.

Scorpia was an organization of assassins. People who killed to accomplish some evil goal of theirs. That's what she'd been told by Alan Blunt; that was all she'd been told. That, and the fact that Alex had killed Mrs. Jones.

And they expected her to wait quietly.

"Tsch!" Who were they kidding? There was no way she'd wait! She leaped up from the bed, and grabbed her coat from where it had been slung over the back of a chair. Walking to the door, she passed the table, and paused.

Maybe Alex would be hungry when she found him. She grabbed a Granny Smith apple from the basket, and slipped it inside a pocket. Then she went to the door.

Just as she reached out for the handle, there was a light knock. "Eh?" She pulled back from the door, startled. The knock came again.

Was it the agents? Had they found where Alex was? Jack stepped forward, and hurriedly opened the door, a hopeful smile on her face.

Instead of the familiar MI6 agents stood a very peculiar man. Both tall and thin, he seemed to have more bones than muscle. He gazed at her with intent dark eyes, and blinked.

She stared.

He blinked.

Then hesitantly, she asked, "Who – who are you?"

Not a muscle in his face moved. So it came as a surprise when she heard this voice. It was soft and quiet, and she had no idea where it came from. "Algonthin, the new Deputy Head of MI6. I have found Alex. Please, come."

"Uh. . .you – Deputy Head? Um, can I see some id?"

A mere second later, he was holding a badge under her nose. She gawked – she hadn't even seen him move! Jack looked at the badge. It said MI6. . . .it looked real, and this guy. . .

"Um, okay. I'll go with you."

He blinked. Then stepped back to allow her through the doorway.

ARARARA

A mansion. Ricard lived in a gigantic house that pretty much a mansion. Alex couldn't help but admit that he was impressed. Of course, he'd never say anything to Ricard about that. The brat would just get all the more high and mighty.

As the driver came around to open the door, Alex noticed that Ricard's snotty grin had disappeared. In its place was a serious expression. It piqued his curiosity. Since when did Ricard ever get serious?

Ricard climbed out first, then mumbled halfheartedly, "Come on, slave. We're here."

Huh? Now this was somewhat. . .strange. Alex followed silently, hands buried deep within his pockets. In his right pocket, his hand clenched tightly around the cold metal of a small pistol. It was so tiny it could be hidden with one hand. Of course, since it was so small, it could only hold two rounds, but for this purpose, it would be perfect.

Nile had suggested taking a knife, but Alex just wasn't comfortable with stabbing someone. Not that he was comfortable with shooting someone either, but he had already done it once. If he had done it once, he could do it again, right?

Stop it.

Just like he had killed Mrs. Jones, he could -

Stop it!

-make another neat, little hole, right between the eyes -

STOP IT! Don't think, don't think, don'tthink!

"Hey, slave! Are you going to stand there all day?"

"Huh?" Alex took a deep breath, and forced his mind to blank. Forcing his right hand to release its death grip on the weapon, he took it out of the pocket. He looked up to see a slightly bewildered look on Ricard's face, and realized that he had just been standing there while he. . .blanked out.

"Yeah. . .yeah, I'm coming." He hurried after Ricard, concentrating on having nothing but white space inside his head.

ARARARA

Jack sat rigidly in the passenger seat of the nondescript black car, heart pounding. One hand clenched the armrest tightly, while the other was curled into a worried fist.

"You've found Alex?" She anxiously asked of Mr. Algonthin, who was driving. "Is that where we're going? Where is he? Is he all right? Did he - ?"

"Yes," came his soft voice. Once again, she marveled at how he was able to speak without even twitching a facial muscle. It was kind of creepy. Maybe he had been a ventriloquist before he became an agent – but that didn't matter now. "He is attending the Rockshire school, and staying with a Scorpia agent in small apartment. They are posing as mother and son, while his job is to assassinate a certain vice president, Gerald Stronson."

"What?!" Jack exclaimed. "But that's – Alex wouldn't do that! He wouldn't kill - !"

"Alex has already killed Mrs. Jones."

Jack deflated, slumping against her seat. "But he – that's not the Alex I know! He would never hurt someone else."

"That may be. However, that was before Scorpia found him."

"Scorpia," she whispered. It was them who had done this to dear Alex. They, who had lied and manipulated and twisted the poor boy's mind until they had driven him to kill. "Please, get me there quickly."

Algonthin blinked.

ARARARA

The inside of the mansion was exactly as Alex could've imagined – cherry wood paneling and ornate wallpaper for the walls, luxurious hardwood and expensive carpet for the floors, and glistening chandeliers dangling from the ceilings. Not to mention that everything shined and sparkled without a speck of dust to be seen.

"Nice place, huh?" Ricard grinned at Alex, seemingly back to his normal self. Alex nodded in reply, his face a carefully schooled mask.

"Listen up, slave," Ricard went on, his chubby self trying to appear threatening. It didn't work. "While you're here, if my father asks, you're just spending the night as a friend, all right? But that doesn't mean you're not my slave, because you are! You lost the bet, all right?"

Alex shrugged. "Whatever you say, Master." Didn't matter to him. He was only here for one reason, so whatever he had to do to accomplish his mission, he'd -

Don't think.

"So," Alex began, "Where is your dad?"

Just. . .don't think.

"Here," Ricard threw both his school bag and jacket at Alex, who barely managed to catch them. "Put those somewhere." With a sigh, Alex looked around, and spotted a coat rack by the door. He hung up Ricard's jacket, and set the school bag under it.

When he turned around, Ricard was nowhere in sight. Alex shrugged, then walked though the nearest doorway. It was a living room, complete with a huge fireplace, and comfy chairs. A older lady was busy dusting the coffee table.

Must be the maid. Alex turned to leave, but she chose that moment to look up, and noticed him. "Oh!" Her hands flew up in surprise. "Who – who are you?"

"Ah, I'm sorry," Alex said. "I'm a friend of Ricard's. He said I could come over and stay the night."

"A friend?" She sounded shocked.

"Yes."

"A-and he brought you home? To stay the night?" Her eyes were wide.

"Yes. . ." Alex nodded. Ricard must not have very many friends, judging by the way she was looking at him.

"Oh, oh my! I must go tell Reginald to cook for one more person!" She set down her duster, and rushed off through another doorway. Alex watched her go.

Then he turned, and headed out the door he came in, only to bump into Ricard. The chubby boy wore a scowl. "Where'd you go? Don't go wandering off in my house."

"Sorry," Alex put on a sheepish smile. "You disappeared, and it's such a big house. . ."

"Yeah, yeah, just follow me. Father wants to meet you."

Father. . .

Gerald Stronson. Alex's heart froze. The man he was supposed to kill. Suddenly, the small pistol in his pocket seemed so heavy and huge. It felt like a hot flame that would burn right through the pocket and drop heavily to the floor, in plain view of everyone.

No. Calm down. Alex swallowed, and wiped away the sweat that was starting to form on his forehead. Then he went to meet the man he was going to kill.

ARARARAR

Algonthin's cellphone started to ring as he was driving. Keeping one hand on the wheel he slipped the other inside his suit jacket, and pulled it out. He flipped it open, and held it up to his ear without saying anything.

"What is it?" Jack asked. She watched as he held the phone to his ear, and listen silently to whatever was being said on the other side. After a long moment, he flipped his phone shut, and put it away.

"Mr. Algonthin?"

"Alex went home with Stronson's son," he softly said.

Jack frowned. "What do you mean?" Then her eyes grew wide. "Stronson's son? You mean - ?!"

"Yes." Algonthin changed lanes, and took the next exit off the freeway. His expression was the same blank mask as ever, but Jack could swear that his dark eyes had taken on a strange gleam. She swallowed nervously.

"Alex. . ." What are you thinking?

ARARARARA

The meal was splendid. It was very similar to the other meals Alex had been served in the past – extravagant meals that he once eaten when he was a spy on a mission. Meals that had been served by the enemy.

This time, however, Alex couldn't taste anything. Every bit of food that he forced down his throat tasted like sawdust. Maybe it was because he just wasn't hungry. Or maybe it was because he was sitting right across from Gerald Stronson.

The man, who looked like any other working father in the world, was smiling pleasantly at him. When Alex had been introduced to him, he had practically beamed, obviously happy that his son had finally found a friend.

But Alex wasn't a friend.

Ricard had been embarrassed, and strangely quiet. As Alex had watched, he had noticed that Ricard seemed to bask in his father's happiness and praise on bringing a friend home. It was kind of pitiful. Ricard turned out to be another of those rich kids who did anything to earn their parents attention. And when they got it, they were the happiest beings alive.

"So Alex," Stronson exclaimed after a bite of veal, "I haven't seen you around the school. Are you new?"

Alex opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Ricard broke in. "He's a transfer student, Father. From France."

"Oh, really? You are French, then?"

"Yes," Alex answered. He swallowed another mouthful of sawdust, and tried to smile.

"You don't even have an accent! Marvelous! Ricard," Stronson looked over at his son, "you picked a very smart boy to be your friend."

Ricard grinned. It wasn't a snobbish grin, but a happy grin. Alex looked away. The whole scene was twisting a knife into his gut.

Thankfully, the ringing of a phone interrupted their meal. Shortly after, an immaculately dressed butler came up to the table, carrying a cordless phone. He bowed. "Excuse me, Master Stronson. But you have a phone call from. . .Mr. Smith."

"Ah! Thank you, Charles. I'll take it." Stronson rose from his chair, placing his napkin down beside his plate.

"Father!" Ricard protested. "You promised to spend the evening with me!"

Stronson smiled at his son. "I'm sorry, Ricard. But this is an important call that I cannot miss. Play with your friend instead, all right?"

Ricard slumped, a dejected expression on his face. Alex watched as Mr. Stronson left the room. Mr. Smith? That was an obviously fake name. Who could be calling that was important enough to make the Vice-Principal of a school forgo an evening with his only child?

Something was odd. Either Stronson really didn't care much for his child – which was totally out of the question, since Alex could tell that the man cared for Ricard – or the man was in some strange business. Was this why Scorpia wanted the man killed?

Alex suddenly felt sick. He couldn't do this. He couldn't kill Ricard's father.

But you have to. It's your mission.

He stood up. "Where's your washroom?"

"Down the hall, second door to the left," Ricard muttered moodily.

"Thanks." Alex hurried, hoping to make it before his stomach emptied itself.

ARARARARA

Please, Jack prayed. Please let us get there before he does something stupid. Please. . .

"Hurry!" She practically yelled at Algonthin. "Drive faster! We have to get there so I can stop him!"

Algonthin merely blinked, and increased the speed. The black car roared down the road, passing cars left, right and center. It didn't matter that they were breaking the speed limit by 50 miles per hour. The new Deputy Head somehow seemed to understand Jack's urgency, and would get them to the Stronson House as quickly as possible.

ARARARARARA

It is my mission.

I am an assassin. I must complete my mission.

My father was an assassin. He killed for Scorpia, and was killed by MI6. So in turn, I must be an assassin. I must kill for Scorpia.

I still my trembling hand, calm my churning stomach. There is nothing left to bring up, anyway. My stomach is empty. My head also is empty, save for my mission.

I hold my weapon in my hand, and I leave. I will complete my mission now.

The maid is hesitant to tell me where the target is, but she caves under my fake smile. To her, I am just an innocent boy, the one who dared to befriend the rich brat.

I find the study easily. After all, it isn't hard for an assassin to hunt down its prey.

I will complete my mission.

I knock on the door. The target lets me in, obviously done with his phone call. He wants to know why I have come to see him. He says he is happy that I am friends with his son. He says that his work is very demanding, and that he has little time for his son. He says that ever since his wife died, his son hasn't had anyone to properly look after him.

Why is he telling me this?

I – I must complete my mission. I am a killer. A murderer. And I will finish my mission!

I raise my hand from where I have hidden it from behind my back. And he stops dead, confused. Then he tries to smile, and asks what kind of joke is this.

My hand tries to shake, but I force it to still. My finger curls around the trigger, and I struggle to freeze my pounding heart.

Father? Ricard's voice! No! He cannot -

Alex? What are you do -

No! He cannot -

DON"T MOVE!

Please, none of you move.

You can't -

I can't -

Mission.

I . . . I need to complete my mission.

Why? Why are you doing this?

Why am I doing this? Because.

Because I am an assassin. I will complete my mission – I must!

My arm moves slowly, aiming. Aiming the weapon at the right spot, right between those eyes. There, it will create a perfect hit, killing him instantly, making a neat hole -

My hand shakes, as images flash before my mind. Her eyes, her blood -

Stop. . .Stop it!

They killed my father! My FATHER! And I am only following in his footsteps now. I have killed once. I can't go back, not anymore. It's too late. I must kill. . .for Scorpia. For my father.

So I tighten my finger, and close my eyes.

The gunshot shatters the silence, and someone screams.