Virgil: Waiting

His father called him first.

Jefferson Tracy, the ex-astronaut, philanthropist, and CEO of Tracy Industries, was in London finalizing a business deal when his secretary called him, grey in the face and probably not paid enough for the message she had been tasked with passing on. So, his father had called him first because Denver was mere hours away from San Francisco, and he needed someone there.

"Wha – Dad? I don't understand. Is he…?" At the thought of losing his brother, air escapes but doesn't seem to come back in.

"I-I don't know. It's not good. I need to call your brothers still, and - Hey, Virgil, take a breath for me, son." Virgil chokes on his brother's name, as his father talks him through the panic flooding them both. "Just get there, son. Can you do that for us?"

"FAB," he breathes. The corner of Jeff's grim frown twitches at the affirmative phrase they had recently coined for 'the project' before it falls just as quickly.

"Good man."

And just like that the video call ended, followed by a flight he doesn't remember making. John called once from Houston but would be a few hours more due to the layover in Ohio where he was picking up Alan first. And Scott, well, they wouldn't be getting word to Scott for a while most likely.

It was just him. Him and Gordon somewhere deep in the labyrinth.

"Wellington?" Nearby there's a shuffle as two young women – clearly related from their features – rise to address the doctor. Waiting room furniture was not meant for long term rest, and Virgil has spread to three of the seats, his back against an arm despite how it digs in, but it lets him rest his head to the side against the back of the chair and extend his legs. His bag is untouched at his feet.

There are a few TVs in the lobby, all on silent, but subtitled. A headline draws his attention, has him scrambling up from his position to get closer: American Olympian Critically Injured in WASP Tragedy, 7 dead.

Desperate for information of any sort, he doesn't have the heart to be pissed at the breach of privacy. He will later, and Scott will be livid if he finds out. For the next few seconds, the broadcasters are showing old footage of Gordon's win two years ago, then it switches abruptly to a journalist on site, where divers are still investigating the cause of the crash. And then –

Oh.

Oh, God. There's actual footage.

It's unmistakable – and the first thing he thinks is WASP is going to have a fit, their disaster captured so clearly by an amateur filmmaker's overhead drone. The hydrofoil is beautiful, sleek as she moves through the water, picks up speed.

There are figures moving about the hydrofoil, not close enough for him to see everyone, but enough to eyeball that it's somewhere between 8 and 10. Gordon, where is Gordon? He looks for blond. On the screen there's sudden movement as the figures scramble. They knew then, they had time to –

The fire and shrapnel tackle him through the television screen.

KAAABOOOOOOOOOOOM!

It rings in his ears. There's no actual sound of course, but he feels the power of the explosion reverberate through his joints and he falls backwards to the floor all the same.

The screen goes black, and he finds himself on his bottom, in the middle of the emergency room waiting area, hands over his ears to block the shrill sound that only he can hear. He must've made a sound at some point because he's definitely drawn attention to himself. Hands reach for him, guide his head between his legs, but it's too late as his stomach churns, the acid rises up in his throat, and luckily, someone has brought over a vomit bag.

"M-my brother," he rasps.

"Who put the news on!" Someone is shouting.

"Bring a wet cloth over," commands another.

So much seems to be happening around him as the sounds flood back.

"Careful now, honey, let's get you off this floor." This voice is female, older, and it reminds him a bit of his grandmother. He lets himself be led back to his trio of seats.

Ellen, the older woman, is here for her husband, whose blood sugar dropped suddenly earlier this evening. Her daughter, Julie, is there too, and Virgil is thankful for the damp cloth she'd requested for him. Between the two of them, they get him a toothbrush and toothpaste, some chocolate from the vending machine, as well as water and Gatorade. When he is feeling better, he digs out a $20 from his wallet, but they refuse. They are called back before Virgil has any news, sparing him a concerned glance before striding out of his life as quickly as they briefly stepped in. He recognized in them the signs of the long evening they've all had, the hunched shoulders and tension, the dark eyes. He hopes the world receives his positive thoughts for Ellen's husband. Peter, he remembers them telling him.

The clock ticks. He digs through his bag for his headphones, sliding an earbud in his right ear (keeping his left open for news), and reclining back into waiting position. A classmate has sent him a recording of a lecture he missed yesterday (today maybe, what is time?).

Beneath the drone of his professor's voice, the ringing continues to irritate his eardrums.

There, alone, Virgil waits.