AN: This fanfic starts towards the end of the Russian Roulette book (spoilers alert!), which is all about Yassen and how he came about, but we'll be diverging from the book immediately. Yay!

For those of you who haven't read Russian Roulette (again, spoilers alert!), I shall have sympathy and offer context. At this point in the book, Hunter (ie John) has convinced Yassen that he isn't cut out to become an assassin, and that he should instead run away to Russia, where he can use his native knowledge and new assassin skillset to hide from Scorpia and start afresh.

While they're waiting for their separate flights, Hunter tells Yassen he wants to get a coffee and asks him to keep an eye on his stuff. Hunter's bag is partially open, and by pure chance Yassen spots a particular brand of battery. He remembers a Malagosto class on secret service gadgets, and realises the battery is really a concealed radio transmitter that can be used to summon British intelligence. Yassen goes to the cafe, sees Hunter is indeed not getting coffee, and makes it back just in time to slip the incriminating battery back into Hunter's bag. He correctly assumes Hunter is a double agent for MI6, feels betrayed and doesn't run away to Russia, apparently going on to become the best assassin in the world just to prove Hunter wrong.

If Hunter had returned a mere handful of minutes earlier, he would have caught Yassen leaving their luggage unsupervised to eye up the café's queue, the battery still clutched in his hand.

Disclaimer: The Alex Rider series, Russian Roulette book and all associated characters belong to Anthony Horowitz and not me. Sad soup.

Yassen stood perfectly still and forced himself to scan the half empty cafe again. Still no sign of Hunter. Certainly no long queue of customers. Yassen's head felt like a hot air balloon. Warm, and expanding fast enough to make him dizzy. Hunter was a deep cover agent for British Intelligence. It made terrible sense. The young French police officer he hadn't shot. His insistence from the beginning that Yassen should abandon Scorpia. If his mouth hadn't been dry earlier, it was now. He could see, with sudden, hard clarity that Hunter had been setting him up for failure right from the start. He could have killed Vosque when the man opened the door, but instead he'd bound him to a chair and waited for him to wake. He'd referred to Vosque by name. And then he'd given Yassen that pathetic, horrible little knife.

Yassen remembered the conversation they'd had that first night, at the restaurant near Arsenale. Hunter didn't just know he'd been unable to kill Kathryn Davis in new York, he'd actually been there, jogging past. If Yassen couldn't shoot a woman in the back in the dark, it would hardly have been a huge leap of faith to assume he wouldn't butcher Vosque in cold blood with a blade the size of a postage stamp. Come to think of it, there was every reason to believe Vosque was still alive and well. What proof did Yassen have that Hunter had killed the man after Yassen himself was out of the room?

And then there was that last night on Malagosto. Hunter said he'd followed Yassen into Sefton Nye's office, but Yassen could clearly remember the door already being open. The truth should have been obvious. Yassen swallowed harshly. After the relatively short time they'd spent together, he would have done anything for Hunter. After everything he'd been through, from that terrifying day in Estrov to his crazy escape from Vladimir Sharkovsky, some small and weather beaten part of Yassen had mistaken Hunter for a friend. How ridiculous. How incredibly foolish. Another memory drifted forward to taunt him, one of him and Hunter sparring in the training room on Malagosto for the first time. Hunter had bowed to start the fight, and when Yassen followed suit he'd immediately found himself sprawled on the floor, tasting blood, Hunter leaning over him. 'That's your first mistake, Cossack. You shouldn't trust me. You shouldn't trust anyone.'

From day one Hunter had suggested Yassen didn't have it in him to be the assassin Scorpia demanded. He'd planted doubts in Yassen's mind, and then he'd made damn sure that Yassen would fail. It was obvious now that Yassen had no chance of a fresh start in Russia. Scorpia would hunt him down and kill him. A fresh wave of dismay rocked Yassen onto his heels. The flight to Berlin had been Hunter's suggestion. Even now he was probably ratting him out to Scorpia, warning them that their latest ungrateful investment was absconding. Yassen had a perfectly clear vision of himself stepping into a German taxi, never to be seen again. At the end of the day he was nothing to Hunter. Scorpia had spent time and money on him, and he was merely another asset that could be sabotaged, much like a Swiss bank account or a shipment of hand grenades.

Yassen felt numb and prickly all over, like a bottle of coca cola shaken around a car boot. If he was going to live, he needed to focus. He took a deep breath with his mouth, held it for a count of one, and exhaled through his nose. Okay. Hunter wasn't at the cafe, so where was he? Yassen spun in a slow circle, scanning the foodcourt and nearby departure areas. No sign of him. How long ago had he left Yassen sitting with the luggage? How long had Yassen been standing here? Hunter had left him in charge of the luggage. If he wasn't there it would look suspicious. With a feeling of dread, Yassen realised he was still holding the Power Plus battery. He'd been gripping it so tightly in his left hand that there were matching white lines where the ends had dug into his palm.

Slipping it into his pocket, Yassen stepped into the flow of people. He walked quickly but was conscious not to break the pattern of the crowd and slowed as he reached the corner around which the luggage would be waiting, to concentrate on loosening his expression and posture. Hunter wouldn't have survived this long undercover in an organisation like Scorpia if he couldn't read people like holiday brochures.

Stepping clear into view, Yassen squashed the urge to turn and flee. There was the luggage, Hunter's holdall on the seat where Yassen had left it. And there was Hunter, standing next to the seat, casually hunched over the magazine Yassen had been reading earlier. Walking across the open space, Yassen felt as if he must look incredibly bizarre. He pictured himself red with panic, knees angled inwards and feet firing off in different directions, arms held stiff by his sides like rifles and then breaking into ungodly see-saws when he tried to swing them naturally. He had the strong feeling of a lamb walking to slaughter but also was convinced that Hunter would know if he turned back.

And there you have it! *dramatic music*

Anyhoo, I hope that was fun, and I can't wait to get started on chapter twooooo. Do let me know what you think. Also please shower me with love and admiration because I am a lonely quarantined writer. See yhas!