Day 11 of isolation: my internet crashed for two days straight which made it incredibly hard to do my coursework and also happens to be the reason why I'm uploading this chapter at 12:45 on a Sunday rather than 19:00 on a Friday.

This is going well, guys.

Right. Warnings for this chapter: language (c'mon, you should expect this from me by now, I'm terrible) and descriptions of a panic attack. Keep yourselves safe and if you need someone to talk to then I'm here.


THIRTEEN

Disappearing was near impossible in the year 2061. Many had tried and occasionally a few succeeded, slipping under the radar for years on end until they inevitably cropped up in a distant town on a security camera – although there was always the exception of that one woman who'd managed to survive on her own in the wilderness for several decades until she'd accidentally stumbled out onto a main road. So yes, if you wanted to vanish in the modern world, you would genuinely have a better chance of going into space, but when your found-family included Tanusha Kyrano and a certain Hiram Hackenbacker and your brother was John Tracy, it became a little easier. It was only a shame that this particular disappearing act involved public transport, which Alan was fast discovering he hated. No, hate was too weak of a word – detested would be more accurate.

The flight to a remote airport frequented only by private pilots or, every couple of weeks, Air Force cadets in training, was smooth and passed relatively quickly. Alan had always felt more at home in the air than he had on the ground – many of his childhood memories were spent on planes – so when Virgil handed over the controls in order to go and discuss the finer details with Brains, Alan was more than happy to guide the plane over the ocean below. He felt closer to home than he had done in days – even the flecks of sand below marking out islands didn't draw troublesome memories to the surface.

London National Coach Station, however, was another story. For starters, it was filthy and packed past capacity with passengers. Any sense of peace Alan had revelled in back at the controls of the Cessna Citation – and then in the bear hug Virgil had dragged him into at the airfield – was quickly banished in the face of smeared grime and an overpowering stench of body odour and toilets. He was almost swept up in the rushing crowds and pressed himself flush to the closest wall.

"This is gross," he whined and rose onto his toes in order to glimpse over Brains's shoulder at the schedule and bus tickets gathered in the man's hands. "Brains? Can we leave yet?" He yelped as a woman smacked her bag into his leg on her way past, spitting curses as though it had been his fault. "Or at least get on a bus?"

Brains looked even more uncomfortable with their current surroundings than Alan did. For someone who rarely left his lab to eat at the dinner table, let alone head over to the mainland, this was similar to dropping a goldfish in the centre of the Atlantic Ocean. He fumbled to straighten out the edges of the crumpled tickets – they couldn't leave any traces on the internet this close to central London – and peered up at the departures board. "Not quite." He sounded as miserable as he looked. "Boarding doesn't start until seven-thirty."

"What?" Alan's incredulous shout drew the attention of a nearby bundle of blankets that revealed itself to be a tired man clutching a suitcase with as many tags as a tourist shop in downtown New York. "Are you kidding me?" He shot his friend a pleading look. "Brains, tell me you're kidding." Brains shook his head. "That's hours away. We're supposed to hang out here until seven-thirty? I mean," he gestured to a group of young people who appeared to be drunk university students, one of whom was currently vomiting into a waste-bin, "look at this place. We're young and innocent and too pure for this. Personally, I have never consumed alcohol in my life and my fragile mind is being contaminated by these vagabonds."

Brains gave him a non-plussed stare. He looked distinctly unimpressed. "Sometimes," he said softly, but with that scrap of plucky humour that was proof of his friendship with John, "it is v-very easy to tell that Gordon is your brother."

Alan snapped his mouth shut. "Am I being overdramatic?" Brains merely raised a brow at him in response. "Fair enough." He sighed and shifted his backpack higher onto his shoulders. "Well, we don't have to stay in this exact location at least." He pointed through the sliding doors to a Thai restaurant, gleaming green signs and flashes of glitter as the lights caught on wall-mosaics. "Hungry?"

"We have limited funds," Brains protested, but didn't struggle as Alan seized his arm and tugged him out into the relative fresh air of the street. Cars zoomed past at a rate of knots, dust and stray litter dancing in their wake, and Alan made sure to stay at the heels of a larger group when crossing to avoid being wiped out by an overeager taxi driver. Even when he'd been at boarding school in England immediately after the launch of IR, he'd stayed in the countryside far away from the insanity of the most recent additions to the mega-city group, and the noise and blaring lights were slightly more than he'd been expecting.

Luckily the Thai restaurant was mostly empty. There was a large family clustered about a central table, a cloud of birthday balloons dangling above their heads, and a couple of dates scattered here and there, but the table in the far corner, shielded from the street view by a handy divider, stood empty. Alan, with a quick grin at a nearby waiter, made a beeline for it. Brains slid into the seat opposite for him with a surreptitious check for any cameras that may have been lurking in the ceiling.

"All clear?" Alan mouthed, tilting his head to the side to try and hide his words from the approaching waiter.

Brains gave a sharp nod and swiftly buried his face in his menu. Alan, ordering a Pepsi for himself and a coffee for Brains – he was taking a wild guess here, but hey, his friend didn't seem to be complaining – referred to his usual method of choosing eating options; he closed his eyes and jabbed his finger at a random spot on the page. He frowned at it and then shrugged.

"Is that h-how you always choose your meals?" Brains sounded strangely judgemental and it was amusing coming from such a placid person.

"Hey, it works." Alan gestured towards his menu. "See? I like Chicken Satay."

"And if it had landed on the P-prawn Curry?"

"I never said it was infallible." Alan gestured to the room around them. "Sometimes you've just gotta trust in the universe."

Brains grimaced. "I prefer more s-scientific methods."

With their orders placed and Brains steadily working through the collection of codes he'd brought with him on a solo holographic projector – safe from the prying eyes of any internet connections that threatened to track them down – Alan slurped another few gulps of his Pepsi from his straw – metal, not plastic; c'mon, save the turtles here people – and took in his surroundings. It was a trick John had taught him years ago when Alan had gone through a creative writing phase – which had quickly been replaced with his long-lasting artistic endeavours, probably one of the only skills he had in common with Virgil – a way of stepping back and looking at the bigger picture before zooming in on the finer details. It was also useful when plotting possible escape routes, which Alan was definitely too used to. Normal teenager anybody? Yeah, no.

The restaurant was relatively large, but was cram-packed with tables and chairs, all neatly decorated with pristine tablecloths and folded napkins rimmed with gold. Blinds, not curtains, formed of a thin wood trapped out the flashing lights of the road outside, casting strange shadows over the carpet. Mosaic sculptures lined the walls, glittering in the glow of the neon bars strung along the far wall. Smaller lamps were set into the corners to illuminate the dining area. A coat rack stood cluttered by the waiting area. Next to it, a waiter was stretched out against the kitchen door, scrolling through his phone with a quickly smothered yawn every now and then.

Alan picked out the thin gleam of an emergency exit sign to his right and noted the door to the toilets next to the window. Good – there were plenty of options – not that he intended to use any of them. He nudged Brains's leg under the table until the scientist looked up. "What'cha doing?"

"Work," Brains replied, and slid his chair out of reach.

Alan gave a muffled whimper of protest and then dropped his head onto his arms, half-sprawled across the table. It was warm and the chatter of background noise was comforting. Basking in the strange safe haven he'd found carved out amongst the chaos, Alan almost drifted off when the scent of spices roused him from his dozing and a series of plates were set down. He didn't remember ordering the bowl of infused rice, but Brains's eyes lit up at the sight, so he didn't question it.

The food was delicious. He'd been picking bits and pieces off hospital rations, so it was a treat to actually enjoy something for once – it was worth noting that eating so much after days of having so little was a terrible idea. His plate was empty too quickly and after the third forkful of noodles he'd stolen from Brains's plate, Brains offered him the bowl of rice. Alan scraped a few spoonful's onto his plate and dug in, which was, of course, his first grave mistake.

Alan had once loved coconut. He was the weirdo who hoovered up all the Bountys from the Celebrations box and had once – surprisingly – been successful in making coconut sorbet. So, despite spending days surviving off coconut alone, he hadn't been expecting his body to react in such a way that it did.

The rice was infused with coconut. Alan had barely taken two mouthfuls of it when everything went to hell. Starting with he wasn't in the now. Gone were the mosaics, replaced by flashes of palm trees and warm blood on his hands and the choking panic of helplessness but he couldn't do anything and all he could taste was the sticky coconut, clogging his lungs. He threw back his chair, not registering the crash and stumbled into the toilets. If he'd been able to focus on anything other than the rising nausea then he'd have been thanking the world for the fact he was alone, but instead all he could do was collapse into the first stall and start heaving over the toilet.

He was shivering, but his skin felt too hot against the cool of the porcelain. Stripping his hoodie off so that he was left in his t-shirt alone, he wrapped his hands so tightly around the edge of the bowl that his fingers stung in protest. He wanted to keep his eyes open, to be able to glimpse the room around him, to believe that he wasn't back there, but rather safe in the heart of England, far away from a painful death on a distant island, but when all he could taste was the sickly tang of coconut in his mouth, it was very hard to distinguish fantasy from reality. His throat was raw when he swallowed and he leant forward to spit, coughing and struggling to draw in a ragged breath.

A soft knock sounded against the cubicle door. "A-Alan?" Brains's voice was tight with concern, and his shoes squeaked against the floor. Alan could just glimpse them out of the corner of his peripheral vision, but then his mind flashed up images of blood against sand and he doubled over the toilet again. "Are you okay?"

Alan slid down to land in a crumpled heap on the floor, leaning heavily against the wall. He was still shivering and fumbled for the flush. Brains hadn't moved from the other side of the door. He wasn't sure how to feel about that – thankful he wasn't alone or humiliated because Brains wasn't supposed to see him like this.

"I'm fine," he choked out finally. There was a doubtful silence. Alan didn't blame him – even to his own ears, he sounded rough. He cleared his throat, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and tried again. "I'm fine. Sorry."

Brains's shoes didn't move from the door. "C-can I…is it alright if I come in?"

Alan knocked his forehead against the porcelain. He couldn't bring himself to care about the doubtless innumerable amounts of bacteria covering the surface – it felt too nice and cold against his clammy skin. "Nah," he responded after a pause to ensure he wasn't going to chuck his guts up again. "I'll come out."

Brains merely stepped aside when Alan emerged, waiting silently while Alan fumbled with the taps at the sink. The water was a rush of cold – a combination boiler that hadn't had the chance to heat up yet – raising goose-bumps along his arms and increasing the shivers that racked his body. He yanked down on the plunger of the soap, squeezing a small lake of the gel into his hands and scrubbing until all he could smell was the scent of jasmine flowers. Then, finally, he splashed the water into his face, gasping in the shock of cold. Droplets collected along his damp fringe to drip down his nose and onto the collar of his t-shirt.

Brains rested a hand on his shoulder, unspeaking, but a stable presence to steady him. Alan didn't have the words to tell him how reassuring it was. He took a deep breath and then another, raising his chin to meet the challenging stare of his reflection. His eyes were blood-shot and his skin was damp with sweat in the harsh light, but he'd definitely looked worse…on the island and yeah, no, definitely not going down that train of thought – he'd already had one adventure with the toilet tonight and he was not in the mood for another.

"I'm sorry," Brains said quietly.

"Don't be." Alan combed his fingers through his fringe until it was in a more manageable state and turned to face his friend. "You didn't know."

"I had a r-rough idea. There are only s-so many things you can live off of on an island without a clear way to identify fruit." Brains looked genuinely troubled. "I should have realised it would be a t-trigger."

Alan flinched. "It's not a trigger." He turned back to his reflection. "I'm not traumatised. I just have a few bad memories."

Brains didn't press the matter. He simply gave a nod and patted Alan's shoulder a final time. "I'll go pay."

"Sure." Alan remained in front of the sinks until the door clattered shut, leaving him in the room alone. He held himself together for a moment longer before slumping forwards against the mirror. "Dammit." He tried to focus on anything other than the memories: the mist of his breath across the glass, the drip of the tap into the basin, the distant thrum of music from the dining room. "This is ridiculous. They're fine. Absolutely fine." Except, he wanted so badly to check in; to be certain that everyone was alright; that Scott wasn't bleeding out into the sand and that Gordon wasn't dying from infection, but he couldn't. He couldn't contact anyone without alerting the GDF to his location.

"Shit."

He took a deep breath and then another. His heart – which he hadn't realised was racing up until now – was returning to a more regular pace. As he was psyching himself up to return to the dining room – and then the coach station straight out of a horror movie – his phone – safely set on John's version of airplane mode with a few extra additives to the code so that it could receive data without giving any away – chimed. Alan fished it out of his back pocket and tapped at the screen until a notification blinked into being.

"Oh wow." Suddenly he found himself laughing. "Thanks Gordon," he murmured down at his phone and then, head held high, walked back into the restaurant.


After the restaurant fiasco, Alan was in no hurry to wait around in the coach station, but neither was he willing to stay seated in a dining room which all the other guests had witnessed him sprint from like a madman. Brains agreed with him, so they took a taxi over to the Thames. The air-con was turned far too high, but frankly Alan wasn't too sure that he wouldn't have thrown himself out of the car in the middle of the street if it had been a heating malfunction instead.

It felt strangely like a holiday as they wandered along the riverside. Alan pranced along the wall and tried not to fall off every time he had to duck an overhanging tree branch, and Brains marvelled in pointing out the intriguing architectural designs of the latest additions to the London skyline. A cluster of children on a school trip were being lectured on the history of the city and Alan sat on the wall, feet dangling above the water that rushed past, and listened whilst Brains wandered on ahead. It was a bright day, with scattered clouds and a swift wind that ruffled his hair and carried the scent of sugar from the fairground further downstream. Alan zoned out as the teacher's voice faded into background noise and examined the boats bobbing along. A young boy – presumably on holiday as he was in a yellow duck bus – waved and Alan amused himself with waving back and seeing how long it would take before the kid gave up. At some point Brains returned with a small bag of fresh popcorn dusted in cinnamon and sugar, and they picked at it, sharing the portions roughly equally without talking. It was peaceful. Alan felt like a tourist. Brains's small smile suggested that he did too.

By the time they returned to the coach station it had turned from sunset to dusk, and the city was transformed from a silver and grey chalkboard to a waking club of lights, camera, action. Alan was beginning to truly feel the jetlag, and stuck close to Brains's side as they picked their way through the crowds. If possible, it seemed that the station was even more packed than when they had left, with queues of waiting passengers shimmying their way between luggage holders and over-spilling cafes. Alan left Brains by their gate with the backpacks whilst he went for a snack run. He found the shortest queue for a store and was waiting in line when his attention was caught by the flash of a familiar logo across a TV screen.

There was about half a second when Alan thought he'd imagined it, but then curiosity won out and he ducked under arms and baggage to catch a better view.

"Excuse me, I just need to, don't mind me, sorry, sorry, excuse me, uh, my bad, sorry, thanks." He stumbled into a relatively clear patch of ground and stared up at the screen. The quality wasn't great, and the news reporter's words were inaudible, instead scrawled in inaccurate subtitles along the base of the picture, but Alan would have recognised the photo anyway. Or, rather, the craft within the photo. He turned on his heels and tore through the terminal.

"Brains!"

Brains, startled, looked up, hands flying to protect the backpack on his lap. "What's wrong?"

"They've found Thunderbird Four." Alan took a moment to catch his breath. "She washed up on a beach. Should we let John know?"

"EOS would have a-alerted him," Brains pointed out. His fingers twitched closer to his own IR-issued watch, clearly itching with the urge to take a proper look at the damage the submarine had no doubt suffered. Alan had seen with his own eyes the horrors a strong current could inflict on a craft and hoped for Gordon's sake that his brother hadn't started wondering about Four's predicament. It was a lost cause, and he knew it – if their roles had been reversed, he knew he'd have been worrying over Three just as much.

"Alright," he sighed. "How much longer?"

Brains pointed to the departures screen. "Ten minutes."

"I'll go get that water then."

In the end, he returned with two water bottles, a packet of Walkers crisps and a suspiciously red apple – Virgil's voice was nagging in his head about five a day, keep your vitamin intake high, Alan. Boarding was a straightforward process, especially given John had reserved them seats at the front – Brains got car sick often and being able to look through the windscreen at the horizon was a helpful trick – and it was only a further fifteen minutes before they were out on the road. Their driver was a gruff man with a quick wit about him and the rest of the passengers seemed a cheerful bunch. The lady opposite offered Brains a Malteaser and then promptly asked if his son would like one, which Alan proceeded to make teasing remarks to Brains about for the next hour. Hey, old man, you feeling okay? It was a truly remarkable thing just how far Brains's patience would stretch.

Alan kicked off his trainers and stowed his backpack in the overheard locker next to Brains's after retrieving his blanket and a book he'd borrowed – not stealing, Scott, honest - from the hospital. He stuck his earphones in and scrolled through his phone – the only technology other than his watch that he was allowed on him – until he found his chill playlist. Hitting shuffle, he proceeded to curl up against the window and watch the world fly past.

The sky had deepened to a purple haze, a pink glow creeping about the rim of penthouses and tucking skyscrapers into bed. A thick pall of light pollution covered the stars from sight, but Alan knew that they would soon come out to dance in the darker skies outside the city's boundaries. Other cars sped past, their windscreens speckled with the rain that was steadily approaching from the south. The temperature outside was evidently plummeting as the glass was cold to touch, and a small painting of condensation formed around his window where he was leant against it. It was dark enough that he needed to flick on the light overheard as he made a start on his book. The pages were worn, sometimes pencilled and frequently folded at the corners; marks of age and previous owners. There was something humbling about the idea of so many people having held and read this very copy before him, and Alan wondered about their stories – did they have relatives in hospital? Who was the original owner? Did the readers now remember this novel with a sense of sadness or nostalgia? – as he turned each page.

At some point he must have fallen asleep as he floundered back into awareness to discover the overhead light had been turned off and his blanket had been tucked carefully around his shoulders. The corner of his book was folded over to keep his position, and the novel itself was held in the seat-pocket in front. A glance out of the window revealed that the winding roads of London had been replaced with a thick band of motorway disappearing into the distance, and a sky speckled with a light dusting of clouds and stars. Past raindrops were still visible on the glass, glinting in the light of passing headlamps. Alan yawned, stretched his legs out a little further and mumbled his thanks to Brains, who gave that soft smile of his that he always did when he had done something to prove how much he cared about his family but wasn't quite sure how to translate those feelings into words.

Alan was no stranger to the type of sleep that jetlag brought with it – the kind of thick, confusing sleep that made time inconsequential and left you with brief periods of lucidity when you couldn't quite tell if you were dreaming or not. He flitted between snatches of slumber and blinks of consciousness – the bus was in darkness with the exception of the blue aisle lights and the glowing dashboard, then he was slumped over Brains's shoulder and Brains was letting him, rain was pattering against the window, suddenly he was full-on using his friend as a pillow and Brains was still letting him, half-asleep himself with his glasses dropped onto his chest. Time was stretched and lost all at once. Alan accidentally kicked the seat in front but then he was asleep again before he could register any pain. Someone was lifting a blanket over him, there was a muffled screech of brakes, a child was singing, and a mother was hushing her. Alan rolled onto his back and flung his arms out to try and ease the ache in his back. A hand guided his wrists away from the aisle where he was in danger of tripping someone. He was warm, and it was safe, and there was someone's hand resting on his shoulder, their pulse steady against his skin, through his t-shirt and then, and then, and then…

He was knee-deep in the sand.

Alan whipped around, but all that could be seen was blue sky and a scorching sun.

The beach was burning, his arms blistering in front of his eyes.

"Hello?"

Someone screamed. Alan flung out his arms and clawed and scratched at the sand, frantically digging, but as quickly as he moved, the beach refilled. A wave rushed in, flooding higher and higher and then it was receding, but when he glanced down the water was scarlet, as pure red as blood. His mouth tasted of copper. There was a body slumped across the beach a few metres away, and suddenly Alan was free, sprinting across the beach and collapsing to his knees because he already knew, he already knew.

"Scott." Everything was red. "Scott!" He couldn't breathe. He couldn't anything. His hands were right there, smothered in blood and Scott wasn't moving, wasn't breathing and oh god, no, no, no, no. "Scott! No, no, no, this isn't real… this…" But the baking heat was the same, the palm fronds were wavering, and the sky was that familiar poisonous blue and everything was dripping, drenched in scarlet. "Please, please, please." And he couldn't cry, he couldn't breathe, but the tide was coming in but,

"Alan!"

He was alone on the beach. The sand was gold, the sea was blue and so was the sky above. The only crimson in the world was dripping from his hands and he clutched his fists to his chest with a strangled sob. Someone was screaming, but it wasn't him, he wasn't alone, he wasn't, he wasn't…here. The wind was wild, keening and thrashing with a wild desire for life, but the cliff edge was mere metres away.

"Allie?"

Alan blinked. The sky was thick with cloud, dark and foreboding. His face was wet with tears, stinging in the force of the gale.

"Hey."

He took a wavering step forward. "Gordon?"

"Where are you?"

"What do you…I'm right here." Alan stared at his brother. He reached out with quivering hands and the ground was quaking beneath his feet. "Gordon, I'm right here."

"No." Gordon was backing away, shaking his head. "No, you're not. You left us to die."

Alan stumbled after him, but his feet were weighed down like lead. Someone was distantly shouting, screaming, shrieking his name, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Scott was gone and Gordon was right there, and Gordon was…

"I'm here," he repeated, again and again until he could no longer hear his voice. Gordon was staring at him and Alan wasn't sure which of them was begging for help, but his gaze travelled down to his brother's chest where an awful stain was spreading, black blood and infection and he flung himself forwards but Gordon took a step backwards and fell. Alan lunged after him, reaching out, seizing Gordon's wrist, but they were falling, falling and then he was drowning in the sand again and everything was red, black and dying and…

"Alan!"

Alan bolted upright, panting for air. He couldn't get enough into his lungs and a frantic wheezing sound escaped from his throat. Brains's hands were clasped on his shoulders and at Alan's panicked whine, the scientist's eyes widened with understanding.

"Stop. Hold your breath for one c-count." Alan screwed his eyes shut and shook his head frantically, but that made him feel dizzy even in the cover of darkness. Brains's voice was level, drawing him back to the present; back to sweaty blankets and passing car lights. "That's good. Now take a breath."

Alan took in a merciful gulp of oxygen. His heart was pounding like a hummingbird against his ribs and his hair felt damp with sweat. He could feel his t-shirt was plastered to his back like a second skin and rolled his shoulders, grimacing as it unpeeled.

"Well," he chuckled humourlessly, "that sucked."

Brains wordlessly pulled him in for a hug. Alan buried his face in his friend's shoulder and focussed on the feeling of Brains's breathing against his chest and everything that was tangible – the hard plastic of his glasses digging into Alan's shoulder, the soft glow of the portable Micro-MAX drive attached to his wrist and the sound of his heartbeat. The bus was rolling beneath them, carrying them faithfully northwards.

Brains let Alan pull away first. For someone who avoided physical contact, this was a pretty big sign of trust and an important gesture, and Alan recognised this.

"Sorry."

Brains didn't say he didn't have to apologise, like his brothers would have done – seriously, Scott had once gone into a full-on lecture about never apologise for expressing emotions, it's an incredibly toxic mindset – rather he simply nodded – he knew that sometimes the words just had to be said, even if their meaning was not vital. He didn't mention the nightmare either. Alan shivered in the blast of aircon from above. Being sat in the full force of the cold when he was soaked in sweat was not a fun experience.

"We're five minutes out from a service station," Brains told him. "We're stopping for about an hour."

Alan scrubbed the last remnants of the nightmare from his face and sat up. "How long have we been driving?"

"Five hours, g-give or take."

He did the mental calculations. They should be arriving at their final destination at around mid-morning and from what little he could recall from geography classes – he rarely took rescues that brought him to far-reaches of Scotland – it was going to be really cold. Cold was good. Cold forced him into the present, reminding him that this was real.

Surviving was easier, if he really thought long and hard about it. Survival was a matter of going back to basics, taking things step by step – it was based around logic and you could rely on facts. Things could go wrong, certainly, but it was a matter of perspective and working out solutions based on reality – the subconscious world was much trickier. For starters, there was nothing set in stone that you could use to prove whether what you were seeing was fact or fiction. Alan had to rely on trust alone – he had to force himself to believe that what his senses were telling him was the truth. On the island, he had fallen into a religious pattern of care, hope and survival – now, without the constant worry for his brothers' lives keeping him sharp and in control of his own thoughts, his mind was creating a maze full of mines – each haunting memory a new path riddled with its own dangers. He couldn't be sure what would trigger a repressed thought from the island – what would draw the panic he'd repressed when first spotting that gaping wound on Scott's chest back to the surface.

Having said that, he had a pretty good idea that it was the taillights from the disappearing car that drove past as he stepped out of the bus that sent him into his next spiral.

The air was brisk, biting at any snatches of exposed skin. Next to him, Brains tucked his scarf closer around his neck and shivered, teeth faintly chattering. The sounds of the motorway were distant – there was little traffic on the road at this time of night – and the lights from the service station blared warm and welcoming like a beacon in a stormy sea. Alan nearly tripped down the steps, stumbling over his undone laces and wind-milling his arms in order to catch his balance. Other passengers side-stepped, shooting him dirty looks as they neatly filed through the opened doors.

"I'm g-going to get s-something to eat," Brains said, visibly shivering. Alan didn't think it was that cold, but then again Brains rarely left Tracy Island, so the higher temperatures that weren't present in hospital wards or super-powered rockets were his normal.

"Sure." He waved his friend onwards. "I'll catch you later."

Brains directed a stern look at him. "Don't try contacting anyone."

"What, d'you think I'm stupid?" Brains didn't pointedly pause or anything, but there was a definite hesitation there. Alan sighed. "Yeah, I know. I won't."

With Brains vanished – presumably scouting out the best cafes and restaurants still serving full meals at this time of the night – Alan remained in the carpark for a moment or two longer. The driver gave a little dip of the head in acknowledgement as he locked the bus up and headed after his passengers, and Alan offered a relaxed smile in return. Leaning back against the side of the bus, he tilted his head back to stare at the glimmers of stars through the scattered clouds. A satellite skimmed past, distant and cold – Alan knew it wasn't Five – Five wasn't due to pass over here for another hour or so. He collected himself up from his slump and paused for a car that was heading out – the taillights smeared his hands in a red glow and for a second Alan forgot how to breathe. His hands were drenched in blood again, but no. It was merely a trick of the light.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. "Dammit," he hissed through clenched teeth. His breath steamed in the air. With every step, he imagined he could still feel the grains of sand scraping and chipping away at his skin. He needed a shower – pronto.

He was greeted with a wave of heat when he stepped into the station. A couple of the cafes were jam-packed with passengers from the night coach and a few drivers who obviously frequented this establishment regularly were laughing and slapping each other on the back with wide grins and dark-circled eyes. Alan imagined that they resembled a pack of lemurs reunited after days of travelling.

A few other unsavoury characters were dotted about. There was a middle-aged man with a thick beard and a five-day-old newspaper clutched to his beer-splattered shirt who kept leering at people who walked past. A woman with streaked pink hair and smeared mascara sat nursing a glass of whisky at the bar. In a store, a teenager was asleep on the check-out desk. Alan didn't want to interrupt the drivers, but unfortunately these were the only other people who would know the place well enough to answer his question, so he picked the least dodgy-looking of the lot – a thirty-something woman with a massive backpack and glare to spoil fresh milk – and hesitantly tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned – slowly, like an ancient clockwork doll triggered into life after years of collecting dust – and raised her sunglasses. Her pupils were massive so that the grey of her irises was barely visible. "What?" She snapped.

Alan gulped. "Um…I was…uh…I was wondering if you could tell me where the showers are. Please. Thank you. Sorry. Um, yeah."

Her face softened. She twisted her sunglasses into her tangled hair and shrugged her backpack off, leaving it in a corner. "Come on ducky, I'll show you."

Following a stranger with questionable motives – Alan was pretty sure he was failing every single stranger-danger class out there. Also, ducky? He glanced down to double-check he wasn't wearing his Donald-the-Duck socks that Grandma had bought him as a joke present last Christmas, but no, he was definitely not clad in any bird-related merchandise. Random nicknames it was then.

Backpack-Woman led him to a dodgy looking corridor lined with strip lighting which flickered whenever the music in the bar next door blared too loud. There was a lopsided sign reading toilets with arrow pointing to the end of the corridor, which was also promising.

"Down there," Backpack-Woman explained when he didn't move. "It's a bit dark but it's clean, I promise ya." She hesitated, then added, "come and see me when you're done if you're hungry or somethin'. I know Jimmy and he'll give me a good deal on the tacos."

"Why?" Alan was genuinely curious. "Why help me?"

She chuckled. "I dunno. You seem like a good 'un ducky, that's all." She patted him on the shoulder and retreated back to her backpack. Alan took a minute to wonder at the marvel that was people – how appearances could be so deceiving and that many of the best people in life were like diamonds in the rough – covered with a rocky, unappealing exterior – built up for their own protection - but beautiful on the inside. It was a philosophy that Virgil had always stood by; maybe there truly was something to it.

The bathrooms were shabby but clean. There was a peeling notice on the door of the shower cubicle warning Alan that the water was 'cool' as the boiler was still under repair, but he was too eager to get rid of the sweat clinging to his skin to care. There was no one else around other than a young university student that Alan remembered from the bus, who emerged from a toilet and headed back to the main complex.

"Yo, dude," he called over his shoulder, hovering by the door. "You know we've only got like forty-five minutes left, right?"

Alan forced a smile. "Yeah, it's all good. I've got time."

"Alright. Just thought I'd give you a heads up. See you back at the bus."

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Alan slid the lock shut and tore off his sweaty clothes. Twisting the shower on with one hand, he tossed the bundle of clothing into the corner and fumbled to retrieve the travel bottle of shower gel from his backpack. The water wasn't hot – he couldn't cook himself like a lobster as he did at home – but it was more than warm enough for him not to leap out screeching like a banshee. If anything, it was refreshing and he stepped into the full force of the spray until all he could hear was the roar of the water. It drowned out his thoughts and when he closed his eyes, he could breathe without that same nagging paranoia of someone dying on his watch.

He could still feel fragments of sand clinging to his skin. Even with the water rushing down around him, it took scrubbing until his arms and legs were flushed an angry red for him to finally be rid of the phantom sensation. Staring at his skin with a morbid fascination, the thunder of the shower was suddenly too much and he needed it quiet. The water shut off and all that was left was the faint splashes from the showerhead and his own heavy breathing.

"Okay." He let out a long breath and imagined the tension leaking out of his shoulders like the water trickling down his back from his hair. "It's okay." He scrubbed a hand through his wet hair and fought back a sneeze as he finally realised how cold he was. "I'm okay." His own reflection stared back doubtfully from the mirror on the door. "I will be okay," he corrected himself, examining freckles stark against pale skin and bloodshot eyes from nightmares and setting about replacing it with an image vaguely more human.

He'd grabbed a hospital-issued towel, but it was relatively soft and warm from where the backpack had kept it dry. It was easy enough to clamber into a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved thermal top under his old band-tee, but he was forced to scrub his hair with the remaining dry part of the towel until it was simply damp as opposed to wet. He ran his hands through it a couple of times, but it remained stubbornly messy and the faint curls that always came when it was damp were beginning to rear their heads. He examined his reflection again as he stuffed his old things back into the rucksack; his hair was almost brown, dark with water, making him appear paler than usual, but in his clean clothes he felt more normal than he had in a while – normal enough to loop his backpack around his shoulder and head out to find Backpack-Woman.

"Feeling better now, ducky?" She queried as her 'old pal Jimmy' set about creating their platter of tacos for them, on the house. "You seemed kinda wound up when you walked in 'ere." She made a crude gesture with her hands and Jimmy spluttered with laughter from the kitchen.

Alan grinned despite himself. "Yeah, thanks."

"Running from someone?"

"Kinda."

She hummed and inclined her head to one side. Her hair fell in waves, revealing an array of silver and black necklaces. "Relatable. Family?"

Alan snorted. "The opposite. I'd like to get back to my family." He sunk down on his bar stool until his chin hit the wood. "That's not happening for a while yet though."

"Wrong side of the law?" She had a twinkle in her eye. "Because let me tell ya, it ain't gonna bother me. I've done my fair time sprinting from the authorities."

Somehow this really didn't surprise Alan.

Their tacos arrived on a slate platter, piled high with still-hot shells and thick sauces with a heap of chunky chips with salt on the side. Alan hadn't realised how hungry he was until the smell hit him, and then he was wolfing it down, Backpack-Woman – god, he really needed to ask her name – matching his pace. Jimmy watched them with pride.

"Told you," he smirked, jerking his head towards the sign on the wall, "best tacos in the UK."

It could have been because he was so hungry, but Alan was more than happy to agree with him. As they were finishing up, he caught sight of Brains heading over, looking vaguely concerned at the sight of Backpack-Woman. She followed his line of sight and laughed.

"Friend of yours?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." She dragged him into a swift but tight hug. "Take care ducky. Remember," she tapped her nose secretively, "the nightmares don't last forever."


Gordon woke with a start to someone shaking his shoulder. He would have instinctively lashed out but the hands on him were soft, barely gripping him at all, and when he opened his eyes he was met with an exhausted blond blur.

"Meh," he whined, in place of hi John.

John, with a crazed glint in his eyes, released him. "Good, you're up." He clambered to his feet and swung into his chair, one leg still slung over the side as though it didn't belong to him. "Come have a look at this. I want a second opinion."

Gordon was sorely tempted to roll over and go back to sleep, but the urgency in his brother's voice suggested this would not be the best course of action, however tempting it seemed. Besides, John was an evil genius in his right mind and sleep deprivation could do funny things to a guy – ahem, Scott, 2052, that one time in Philadelphia. With a groan, he crawled out of his nest and limped until he was able to perch on the edge of the table and peer over John's shoulder.

"What's up?" He asked through an ear-splitting yawn. John wordlessly turned the laptop to face him and he stared blearily at the screen, rubbing his eyes and squinting until it came into focus. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

John jabbed a finger at one of the lines of code strung across the screen. "That."

"What about it?"

"Is it different to the others?"

"Um…" Gordon palmed his eyes, yawned again, and took a closer look. The numbers appeared the same, but there was something slightly off about them, as though they'd been twisted. It was barely distinguishable, but yes, there was a digit swapped and a slight misalignment. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "It's been altered, right?"

John grinned maniacally. "Exactly!"

"Ugh." Gordon rubbed his temples, silently begging his headache to go away. "Is that a good thing?" He listed sideways to rest his weight fully on the table. "Tell me it's a good thing."

"It's a great thing." John's hands were flying while he spoke, quicker and quicker until they were a blur in Gordon's tired vision. "This, right here, is buried deep within the internal security logs within our emergency systems and…" He trailed off, brow twisted with concern. "Are you alright?"

"I'm tired, hungry, my leg hurts and I've got the headache from hell."

"Oh." John lifted a heap of paper, tossed an empty coffee carton into the trash and retrieved a rather squashed looking sandwich packet. "I've only eaten one. Want the other?"

"Type?"

"No-one, preferably."

"John, for fuck's sake. What's in the sandwich?"

"BLT."

"Ah." Gordon made grabby hands. "The superior filling. Gimme."

John continued in his unnecessarily complicated explanation while Gordon sat and munched on the sandwich – sometimes his brother definitely forgot that not everyone was a super-genius with a degree in advanced programming that they didn't even need but took for fun anyway.

"So," Gordon concluded, licking ketchup from his fingers. "This is the proof you needed to clear Brains's name?"

John was watching him with disgust. "Can't you use a napkin like a normal person?"

"Who calls it a napkin instead of a tissue? That's so English. Penny would be proud. Also," Gordon flicked a stray slither of lettuce at his brother and cackled at the way John flinched away, "au contraire mon frère, I think you'll find that this is the normal way." He scrunched his nose. "Who wastes ketchup?"

"People with table manners," John shot back.

Gordon gave a dramatic gasp. "Excuse me. I have excellent manners." He shook his head and instantly regretted it. John slid a strip of painkillers across and he dry-popped them. "Ah, my sweet drugs, how I have missed you."

"I think I preferred you when you were asleep."

"Shut it, alien. I think I preferred you when you were off-planet."

You see this? This right here? This was how Gordon knew he and John were okay. Their banter was often barbed to a point close to sheer cruelty, digging into weak spots but with enough skill to know where not to hit and when to stop. John had that dark sense of humour mixed with the quick wit to match Gordon's jabs and as such their friendship worked. Gordon knew when John was joking and when he was being serious, which was a useful skill to have given some people often just perceived his brother as being rude – which he wasn't, he just didn't like people very much and yes, they were all aware of the fantastic irony of this given John's role.

"What now?" Gordon asked, attempting to throw the packet to the bin.

John stole it from his hands and landed it on the first attempt. "Now, I submit this to Colonel Casey, and we head down to meet up with Brains and Alan. We'll stay in Scotland for a day longer until we hear from the GDF that we've got the all-clear, then we'll all go home. Scott and Virgil will meet us as soon as the hospital are satisfied that his body's taken to the immune-mods well enough for him to finish healing under our watch."

Gordon was still stuck on the words go home. His brain had short-circuited after that. It had seemed such a foreign concept that he hadn't dared allow himself to hope, but now it was within reach he just…couldn't. "Cool," he said brightly, and sniffed into his sleeve. "Cool, cool, cool."

"Stop saying cool."

"Yep, my bad."


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Stay safe everyone :)

Kat x