Reformat
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
The is a single chill that scurries down his spine. It starts in his between the shoulder blades, T2 vertebrae, same place he always feels it, and it leaves behind this cold, static crawl, like freezing needles that all want to take a turn sticking him. He doesn't dare think about all of the needles.
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
And there's a question, looming in the air somewhere. He knows better than to leave one of her questions unanswered, and yet he can't quite manage a sound. There's too much. There's too many people. Sometimes he wonders if she just carries an army in her back pocket because she knows that he can't handle it. "Who are these men?"
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
John Tracy. October 8th, 2040. Scott Tracy April 4th, just one year prior. Scott puts an obscene amount of milk in his cereal and sometimes John can't fall asleep, so he'll just stay up and watch old documentaries. When they were in high school, John supposedly followed Scott around like a wounded puppy, but the truth is that Scott would have hovered whether John wanted him to or not. Scott's had his pilot's license since the day he turned sixteen. John was published in Scientific American at age nine. 566-84-9922. 566-73-4953. Carpenter. Glenn. Silver and Gold. Dead. Missing. Gone. "They're—"
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
Scott's always been easy to read—easy as Alan, some days. Especially when he get's all wound up like this, he's got this feeling about him. Like a coil waiting to spring. Sometimes it's exhausting just to be around him. This, perhaps, is Gordon's—Gerad's—his final confirming factor for all of his uncertainties. SPECTRUM can make the crippled walk again, but they cannot match the feeling of Scott Tracy when he needs togo.
"Agent Jonquil," barks Chalk, and he feels himself slip into the name. He's in a perfectly cut suit, wearing the latest technology, standing on his own two feet. Gordon couldn't do this. Gordon was weak. "I will not ask again."
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
It's as if Scott taps on his eardrums themselves, popping and clicking, each strike a shock that sends Gerad's heart racing. Or maybe it's Gordon's heart, but Gordon is dead.
Thing is, John's dead too. Except he's not. Perhaps his is not the only resurrection.
"Jonquil," snaps Chalk.
I feel nothing.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Nothing can hurt me.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
I feel nothing.
Nothing can hurt me.
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
F-A-B
And before he's entirely sure what's happened, Chalk is pinned to the wall, she can't breathe, and three armed guards are about cold on the floor around him. His memories are black, but his temper is a bright, blazing red, because that's the thing about Agent Gerad C. Jonquil. He's got nothing on Gordon Tracy. "You think he's gone?" Gordon hisses. "You think you killed him? You think you can just erase my hard drive? Reimage me—start over? Well guess what, Chalk. You didn't kill Gordon, nuh-uh. He's been in there, waiting, fighting. Jonquil didn't replace him. Jonquil's been strutting around while Gordon fought longer, harder to get himself back on his feet—and d'you know what, Agent Chalk? He's stronger."
She struggles, but the fact of the matter is that she's only prepared to take on Jonquil. "Do you know what the difference is between me and him?" he asks, and he laughs. Doesn't wait for an answer. Her face is turning veiny and purple. "I feel everything, Chalk, and nothing can hurt me. Not even you. So d'you really wanna know who these guys are?"
Short, short, long, short. Short, long. Long, short, short, short.
Dot, dot, dash, dot. Dot, dash, dash. Dash, dot, dot, dot.
He lands a knee to her stomach, watches her crumble to the ground. The morse code is still in his ears and he ticks his head, strains, shakes himself free. "They're my goddamn brothers."
It's another jerk of his head, this time towards the door, and one, two, three members of his party dart out into the hallway. He follows close behind, knows that holy shit is he going to pay hell for this. He considers, briefly, whether or not they really are in his own universe, or dimension, or whatever, but of course they are. They're watching his Alan, running away from his SPECTRUM, with his face in their records. He wishes that one of the other two would be left to stay behind, but he knows that's now how it works. He's read enough of John's shitty sci-fi to know that not everyone gets to leave.
"Which way?" Scott's voice is frantic. Gordon can't remember the last time he's heard a frantic Scott. Maybe Scott will stay with him, at least.
He shakes the thought away, pulls a map up on his lenses. The model renders and moves with him and he calls out the word, "Left!"
