Rich, Drunk & Dumb

It's over before John really knows it begins.

The woman shrieks at him and the taser rises to point at his chest.

EOS screams for him to move.

A dark shape comes vaulting over the bar and gets between him and the woman, then drops, crashes hard against the side of the bar and falls to the floor.

John's first thought, incongruous, is that he misses his Blues. The flight suits are designed to diffuse and ground up to 500,000 volts. In his Blues, the taser would have been a pleasant tingle.

But Steven wouldn't have known that.

Which means he would still be on the floor, writhing, as every muscle group spasms out of control, as the electrical charge overrides his nervous system. He would still be emitting that low keening.

"John! JOHN!" EOS repeats his name into his ear. "Do something!"

It's Kyrano who does something. He surges across the room and rips the taser from the woman's hand, possibly – probably – breaking a couple of her fingers. He presses her against the bar, drills his gun against her cheek. "Do not make a sound, Madam," he says, in perfect Russian and turns to John. "We need to go."

"We can't leave him."

"He can't move."

"He's right," says Steven. He groans and tries to sit up. His arms wobble, "Fuck a duck, that hurt."

"He saved me."

"And me," EOS whispers.

John feels an icy grip around his heart. He hadn't even given consideration to what would happen if the electrical charge had struck the pacemaker that contained her. He has to fight the urge to begin pulling up papers on the subject. Likely there will be none. It's not as if Fischler had time for in vivo testing.

"Commendable. Also utterly pointless if you are still standing there when they come through the door."

John helps Steven to stand. His movements are drunken and uncoordinated, and he leans heavily against John as he helps him into the booth. "Fuckity fuckbiscuits." Steven wheezes. "He's right. I'll follow if I can." He's breathing hard. "Just need a minute. Catch my breath."

"No."

"Don't be stupid." He hears it in stereo, from Steven and Kyrano simultaneously, Steven aggrieved, Kyrano matter-of-fact.

"You need to go. Now," Steven insists. "You know what happens if they catch…you."

He grips the young man's shoulder. "I said you could trust me." Then he turns and walks to the bar.

Kyrano stlll has his gun to the barkeep's throat. The woman is whispering Coptic prayers. "Let her go."

"No."

"Let her go. Now." It takes that moment to place that voice. It's his command voice. His IR voice. His 'do not fuck with me, I'm Thunderbird Five and if you don't do what I say you're going to fucking die' voice.

Kyrano raises an eyebrow. He lets the woman go.

"Madame Anna," John says in his most formal, courteous Russian, using the name EOS supplies him. Unasked, she begins to plunder the woman's history. "My deepest apologies. My byki is over-zealous. It's true we are Bratva, but it was never our intention to startle or hurt you. Nor would we harm your grandson, Vassily." He sees her stiffen. "He is your favourite is he not? You work here to help him with his gambling debts. Say the word and his debts can be forgotten."

She swears under her breath.

"And your husband is Alexi, yes? I am sorry to hear of his cancer. Such things are very treatable now though. If you help us he will have the finest doctors and the finest hospitals, I swear."

Her eyes fix on him, big and wide and brown like a spaniel's. She is more shocked, more terrified at this then all of Kyrano's violence.

"We are not bad men, Madame," he says. "Please, help us. Help us help you."

Seconds seem to drag by, and then the Madame nods. "For Vassily and for Alexi," she says, "What do you want me to do?"

"Go to the door. Tell them it is jammed. Tell them you've complained to maintenance about this many times."

She walks to the door. "Peter! Peter, is that you?" The trace of the quiver is gone. She is loud and bawdy and annoyed. "The damn door is stuck again. I have told you of this time and again!" And just like that it's true, EOS logging records of her numerous calls to maintenance.

From the other side of the fire door there comes shouting, too faint to make out.

"Thank you, Madame," he says gravely. "Now if you would be so good as to go to the kitchen and cook us another batch of your delicious vareniki.?"

"What are you playing at?" asks Kyrano as Madame Anna stalks past him into the kitchen with a huff worthy of any Grand Duchess.

"They outnumber us. They have – they might have troops swarming over the runway now. We can't get out that way."

"Do you have an alternative plan?"

"Yes. Can you make a White Russian?"

Kyrano considers this for a long moment, then nods. "I can make a Whiskey Sour," Before a moment has passed he has stowed his gun and found an apron behind the counter. He wraps it around his waist.

John walks back to the booth, where Steven is still slumped, trying to right himself.

John fills a shot glass to the brim with vodka.

"Hey," Steven reaches a shaking hand out to try and stop him. "Slow down there. You're going to need a clear head."

"It's not for me." He sticks the shot glass under his nose. "Drink."

Steven goggles. "Are you kidding? Best case scenario, in about five minutes I'm going to have to fly you out of here, complete nav black out, through a sky full of murderous GDF birds."

John shrugs. "You say you're the best pilot I've ever seen? Well the best pilot I've ever seen flew instrument blind, through a class four hurricane after spending the preceding five hours downing sake with the head of a Japanese multinational."

The kid rolls his eyes. "Nobody's that hare-brained."

"Saved eight lives." It had been in their first year of operation. Dad had nearly disowned Scott, put IR out of commission for three months, recalled John from space and put all five of them back through basic training.

"I don't believe you," says Steven, but he drinks the shot.

John looks around. "Hey," he calls to Kyrano, "He's been drinking again. He's going to need another of your little yellow pills."

Steven glowers, as understanding dawns. "You're a rat bastard, you know that? I practically took a bullet for you just now."

"Yeah, thanks," says John, filling the other shot glass. "Good job. Have another." EOS giggles.

Steven half spills this glass because by the time it's on the way to his lips John is already jostling his elbow, trying to pull at his tacky red sweater. "Hey, what the hell?"

"Strip." John's already removing his immaculately tailored, 600 dollar jacket. "Put this on."

They're alike enough in size that it fits Steven like it was made for him. It's an improvement, definitely. Hopefully, no one will notice the jeans.

John tries to twist his hair – what little of it there is – into a mini quiff. Steven bats him away. "Dude! Personal space. Respect!" The alcohol has already taken effect, enough to make him bright eyed and fidgety.

"Just sit there." He hands Kyrano's yellow troche to Steven. "Put this under your tongue but don't swallow it yet. You're rich and drunk and dumb, understand?"

There's a flash of a grin across Steven's face, there and gone like a lightning strike. "Hah."

"By dumb I mean, you don't talk." John snatches off Steven's earpiece, then his own. "Follow my lead."

When the airport security brings its battering ram to take down the door minutes later, they find that it has mysteriously swung open. They swarm inside, securing the corners and are greeted by two exceptionally drunk Americans giggling and yelling in one of the booths.

The redheaded one with the ridiculous piercings lurches to his feet when the agents enter. "Comrades, nostrovia!" He salutes them, and spills more of his glass than he drinks. The other one is in a sort of mumbling stupor and only moans when his friend kicks him awake. "Stevo, wake up."

"Took you long enough," The dapper little man behind the bar looks up from peeling a ribbon of orange skin. "My wife called security 20 minutes ago. She's furious. Please eject these two."

The security agents secure the two drunks. A moment later, a very tall, very beautiful woman with ice blonde hair caught up in a severe chignon enters. She wears a GDF uniform and a sergeant's stripes. She's flanked by three servicemen. "IDs," she barks.

John makes a point of taking a long time to locate his, kicks Steven awake. "Stevo. STEVO!" Finally he hands the two passports over. They're scrutinised and then run through the scanner.

"Joseph Trenton?"

"That's me, officer."

"And your brother, Steven Trenton."

"Guilty as charged."

"Where are you two coming from?"

John channels every unpleasant rich boy he's ever had to eat brunch with. "Tokyo. We spent a week at the Ritz," John gives her his most bilious smile. "We hover-skied down the side of Mount Fuji. Ate waingu beef and pufferfish. Sampled the local wildlife."

"Going to?"

"Daddy's penthouse in L.A. For the clubbing."

"You boys been drinking?"

"Just a little, officer. Stevo's a nervous flyer. Aren't you, Stevo? Care to join us? Are we?" he hiccups a laugh, "Are we in trouble? Hey Stevo, they think we're in trouble."

The sergeant's lips curl and she turns to her men, who are searching their belongings.

John's distracted by Steven's leg bumping against his own. At first he thinks it's just a delayed spasm from the taser, but then it happens again.

Short. Short. Short. Long. Long. Long. Short. Short. Short.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dash. Dash. Dash. Dot. Dot. Dot,

S-O-S

Steven's eyes flick quickly left, looking while pretending not to look. Careful, John follows suit.

A young man has stepped into the room in the sergeant's shadow. He is compact, not much taller than Kyrano, and trim, age about 25. His golden curls are somewhat cherubic, but his suit is impeccably tailored, three piece, a midnight blue so deep it could be black. A purple pocket square, adorned by bright yellow daffodils lies against his breast and he has a daffodil tie pin. He wears a pair of tortoiseshell horn-rimmed glasses, which – John feels suddenly certain – contain HUDs. He surveys the room through them with mild interest.

John doesn't know why his stomach drops, but it does.

EOS tries a search, but the only result she returns is:

Jonquil, G.

CLASSIFIED

She tries again and gets the same result.

CLASSIFIED. CLASSIFIED. CLASSIFIED

It's classifieds all the way down.

John gives Steven a hard kick beneath the table.

Steven doesn't react, but slowly begins to tap out another message on John's leg

S-P-E-C-T-

The Sergeant rounds on them again. "I think you boys better come to security for a little while just –"

That's when Steven begins to vomit again.

John makes no effort to hide his laughter. "Oh, Stevo! I'm so sorry, officer. It must have been the waingu beef. Ha. Ha-ha."

Steven braces himself against his knees and the sergeant has to jump back to avoid getting splashed on her shiny, regulation boots.

"Just go," she says, "Get him some help. Get him out of my sight."

"Come on, Stevo. Mummy would be so embarrassed." He pulls Steven to his feet and drags him towards the stairs. At the foot of the steps, Steven retches again. "Just a little further. Good man." Somehow, miraculously, they're almost clear.

"Just one moment," says a cool voice.