Snow Blind

By Lenle.G and Phoenix_Sparrow

Chapter One

The first thing Scott becomes conscious of, or really conscious to, is a steady, unnerving drip-drip-dripping noise. It's soft and repetitive: accompanied by a gradually increasing awareness of a sharp, lancing pain burrowing deep into the side of his skull, as if someone has set at the bone there with a drill.

"Nnrgh…"

Scott lets out an involuntary groan as he tries to bring his fingers - and in the process discovers that his hands have apparently been bound in front of him - up to where the hot agony is shooting right through his head. His fingertips, cold and bare, just brush at where the stabbing sensation blooms out from a point slightly into his front left hairline. He can't help the reflexive hiss of breath that comes out from between his teeth at the painful contact.

The throbbing wound makes his return to actual awareness groggy, his thoughts unfocused and Scott struggles to raise his head from where it's settled against his chest. The pain, and the dripping for that matter, don't quite fit into his jumbled, mismatched memories of the past few hours.

What the hell had happened?

He remembers the call, the 'we have a situation' and John's pale, serious hologram filling them in on the details. There'd been communications from the family of a skier who'd been reported missing up in the Alps. From the resort at Courchevel, on the border between France and Italy in Les Trois Vallées with its grand summits some 8,983 feet above sea level.

The missing man had apparently strayed from the trails alone and not returned, even though a blizzard was well on its way and the resort visitors had all been encouraged by staff to make their way inside. Temperatures were very firmly in the sub-zero range, making the urgency of the situation such that International Rescue were probably now this man's only hope, with local rescue teams concerned about the safety of their own men and women should they launch a rescue attempt with very little idea of where to even look in these conditions.

Scott remembers the flight out there, the sharp gleam of whiteness reflecting off the snow, foreign compared to their sub-tropical Island home, but still familiar to him. Familiarity borne of a family holiday a long time ago. So familiar that he could all but taste the sensation like a snowflake on his tongue.

John had stayed on the line with him; a gentle, constant reassurance, unwilling to let him go into this alone, even if Virgil's behemoth wasn't far behind. This is how their mother went, after all, breath stolen from her body in a flurry of ice and snow, and Scott had sworn long ago that no child would ever have to lose their parents like this if International Rescue could do something to prevent it.

He'll get those kids their father back no matter what. He knows the pain of the alternative a little too well.

He remembers landing Thunderbird One to scope out the ground. He thinks of John talking to him softly, relaying information from the ground team and the encouraging noises his brother makes as he finds a heat signature amongst the snowy, crackling whiteness on his screens. Virgil is nearly there with the extraction gear, but his suit has thermal technology that copes fine with the cold and so Scott obviously doesn't want to wait while he could be helping.

He knows he clambered down from One's cockpit into a savage world of swirling whiteness. The cold, thin air at this altitude had stolen the breath from his lungs, making him wish he'd had the foresight to grab his helmet. Snowflakes danced mockingly in the air, settling in his hair and on his lashes and bleeding warmth from his skin. His voice was whipped away by the wind as he called out and, equally, the sounds from John from his sash didn't reach him.

He remembers the shadowy figure, blurred by snowfall, trudging toward the high intensity floodlights of Thunderbird One. He remembers relief at finding the lost skier so quickly. He remembers it being a little odd that the figure doesn't seem to have any skis...

The swirling whiteness of snow swallows the little figure, vanishing them back into the static until...

Scott remembers now, most clearly of all, like the memory is flashing before him like a video playback, the swooping motion of something solid plunging down out of the white blurriness, and the sensation of whatever it was cracking him hard across the side of the head, plummeting all his senses down into that swirling, blank, cold whiteness that's all around. He remembers hands on his shoulders, rolling him over, and then very painfully little after that.

Wherever he is now, it sure is dark.

Scott twists his fingers to feel at the thickness of the ropes at his wrists, chafing against his skin; stripped of gloves, of his sash and comm unit, in a way that tells him he's been here, unaware, for far longer than he'd like. And it's not just his wrists and belt either; thick ropes snake their way around his torso, binding him hard against the chair it feels like he's been placed in. Almost posed. They're sturdy enough that he knows he's not going to be getting out of them any time soon.

There's no wind in here, not a breath and it's almost deathly quiet, his ears straining for the slightest noise, save for that irritating drip-drip-dripping that's been going on constantly. He's cold, but not overly, letting him know that wherever he is, wherever this dark room might be, at least his attacker has not left him out in the snow to die.

Scott's not sure if that's a blessing or not. On one hand, had he still been face down in the snow, Virgil had not been far behind. On the other he's not freezing to death - though it's still anything but warm in here - but the cords around his wrists are definitely not what could be called friendly.

Tugging against them has proved pretty futile so far.

The pilot's breathing is loud and harsh to his own ears, his other senses overcompensating for his lack of vision. There's a sharp, metallic smell of blood and that corresponds concerningly with that now-familiar drip-drip-dripping sound, and he can feel something hot and sticky seeping down the side of his face from the gash at this temple. Blood plashing onto the floor far below from off his jaw.

Scott isn't sure if calling out is a good idea or not, what with the way his comms have been taken and his wrists crudely bound together, but the eldest Tracy figures he's not going to get many answers any other way.

"Hello?" Scott calls into the darkness, almost jumping at the volume of his own rough voice, "Is anyone there?"

There's a creak of a heavy sounding door at his vocalism, though the corridor beyond must also be dark because it didn't produce the eye searing brightness he'd been expecting, assuming the sound corresponded to a door opening.

It's getting a little unsettling, just how dark it is. Scott shifts uneasily in his seat, listening to the approaching footsteps belonging to someone he can't see, but seem to be precise enough that they know, deeply unnervingly, exactly where he is. His head is pounding.

"So, you're finally awake, are you? Took you long enough." Someone sneers in the darkness, and Scott all but chokes on the breath he was busy taking in shock. No, no it can't be.. But he would know that voice anywhere. Oh hell no. Twisting against his bonds, Scott renews his attempts to get up, to get into some sort of defensive position, as his eyes scan the darkness fruitlessly for the speaker. "I was beginning to think I had hit you a little too hard," the Hood says, sounding far more pleased at the idea than any sane person has a right to. "But nevermind that…"

Scott strains his eyes to try and pick out the shape of the man in the darkness, pupils darting sightlessly from side to side with wide eyes and a furrow in his brow.

"Oh." The Hood's voice has gone dangerously soft, like a bottle of honey placed out to lure flies to their deaths. "Oh, but perhaps the goods are a little damaged after all." Thin, cold fingers meet Scott's jawline, sweeping along his skin and smearing the blood there. As he flinches away, trying to pull back, the fingers grab Scott's face hard, the grip painful as the man forcibly turns his head from side to side, as if getting a good look. "Why, Mr Tracy," the Hood says with a voice like an oil slick, obviously delighted. "It appears you can't see me."

Scott's stomach plummets as if in free fall and it's no small wonder he doesn't throw up on the man, there and then.

"W-what?!"

The laugh that follows is enough to raise goosebumps over his skin, a deep and terrifyingly delighted laugh at the predicament he is in.

"It would seem I've managed to hit you in just the right place to deprive you of your sight," he explains, the vice-like grip on his chin rotating his head again and Scott pictures him examining the wound on his head, knowing, even without seeing it, that his expression will be akin to a cat that has found a mouse to play with. "What a… pity." Though it doesn't sound like he thinks it a pity at all.

Scott attempts to pull away from him, his head throbbing again at the movement. The idea that this injury has robbed him of vision scares him and to be in the company of this man at the same time… Well, it's little wonder his hands are shaking slightly. He clenches his fists to try and disguise it.

"You have me here," Scott says, quietly pleased that his voice, though fatigued, isn't shaking as much as his fingers are. "What do you want with me?"

"A very good question, Mr Tracy." The man all but sounds amused and, even though he can't see it, Scott can picture the shark-like grin that's likely happening on his face. The fingers fall away from his jaw and there's the sensation of something being wiped, damp and slimy, on his shoulder. Scott realises, a touch belatedly, that the man is cleaning his fingers, smearing the blood they'd swiped from his face into the light blue fibres of his uniform like he's performing some kind of victorious ritual. "I must admit, I wasn't expecting my little trap to work half as well as it did." The Hood twists his fingers sharply into the hard muscle of his foe's shoulder, provoking a cry of pain before taking a triumphant step back, leaving Scott straining to work out what's happening in the darkness he's been thrown into.

There's a fear bubbling up in the back of the pilot's throat. A fear that he'd almost rather die than show this man. Scott has no idea what's happened to make him… well, blind, and no idea if it's even in any way fixable. Throwing up on the Hood's feet is looking better and better every passing second.

"It seems prudent to make the best of the situation, does it not?" the man looming in the darkness continues, as if to make sure Scott knows he hasn't left, that he's still watching. "After all, I'm sure your delightful brothers will come after you. The middle one, Virgil is it? I believe he is already on his way. Why settle for one member of your blasted International Rescue when I could… make a collection."

"You bastard!" the eldest Tracy grits out from behind his teeth. Coldness that has nothing to do with the temperature is creeping up Scott's chest, icy fingers chilling his bloodstream from the inside out. His little brothers are his everything and his bare fingers scratch rabidly at his own palms as he tries to loosen the ropes there, twisting viciously in his seat in his struggles to free himself. "Don't you dare touch Virgil. Don't you dare!"

Despite the intense fear bubbling in his gut, the idea that the Hood might lay even a finger on any of his brothers is something he will not stand for. Though, that terror increases when he realises that, without sight, what can he do to stop it? He has no comms, no idea where he is and he can't even see the man right in front of him.

He feels his shoulders sag of their own volition, the realisation that there is literally nothing he can do to prevent any of this crushing him like an anvil. "Do what you want with me, just leave Virgil alone," he says, quiet and hoarse. Scott Tracy would take any punishment in less than a heartbeat if it meant protecting his brothers.

A dry chuckle from the Hood makes Scott shudder.

"I don't think you're in any position to make demands of me, Mr Tracy," the man says, his voice slippery as silk.

Scott's sightless eyes screw shut as he lowers his head toward his chest, resting his chin against his collarbone to try and take some of the pressure away. He's said too much, given away too much. The pain feels like it's really reaching a crescendo now, the intensity pulsing sharply behind his temples and eyes. In some ways, he feels almost glad he can't see because he's pretty certain that the world would be spinning and he'd feel even more nauseous than he already does, if he could.

Scott shivers slightly, also a little bit glad he can't see the look on the Hood's face: he doesn't want to witness the satisfaction spread there at having the great Scott Tracy at his definitive lack of mercy.

A particularly painful throb if his head causes Scott to let out an involuntary groan, his chin sinks further onto his chest. He considers passing out again as a viable option to just not be here anymore.

"You would do well to pay. Attention. To me," the man hisses softly in the darkness, low and dangerous. It takes Scott longer than he'd have liked to process the fact the Hood had, in fact, still been talking to him this whole time.

Raising his head from his chest seems like too much effort. Perhaps it would be better if the Hood thinks he simply has passed out again…

But cruel, thin fingers don't let him get away with the ruse as they seize his jaw again, pressing bruisingly hard against bone, forcing him to face him. Scott takes a moment to lament, bitterly, that nothing can ever be simple.

"Tracy." He can feel the man's breath, hot and damp against his skin as the Hood leans in, close and intimidating. The pool of nausea in Scott's stomach swirls unpleasantly at the sensation. "I asked you a question." The words are a low, threatening exhale - not much more than a black, wet whisper of warning. "It would, perhaps, even benefit those precious brothers of yours to answer me. Hmm?"

Scott makes a weak noise of protest, something that may have even been words before they got filtered out as garbage through his larynx.

The younger man's lack of coherent response elicits a growl of annoyance from the elder. The fingers dig cruelly into the softer skin of Scott's cheeks, cutting nail-shaped crescents there. He has a fleeting moment of hope that he doesn't contract anything nasty from whatever germs are lurking under the Hood's dirty fingernails before there's a violent pressure in his spine as his head is twisted sharply to the side so that the man can hiss directly into his ear.

"You would do well to remember that without you spilling the secrets of your Thunderbirds, you are of very little use to me." Could he have seen it, the look The Hood was giving him would have chilled Scott to the marrow in his bones.

"You…" There's a dizzying moment as Scott struggles to find the oxygen to string words together. "H'v gotta be k... kidding," he gasps. "I'm not telling… Y-you any-th..thing about the…" The sharp crack of a fist meeting his jaw breaks him off, giving him the sensation of the world spinning, but it does little to affect his resolve.

He knows the Hood could do God knows what with the power of their crafts, with the vehicles designed by their father, at his disposal. The world needs the Thunderbirds, with or without him, and Scott just has to trust that Virgil can look after himself for the time being.

He knows though, in his sinking heart, that the moment his brother realises he's in danger, he'll come running. John's probably already got him tracked down. In his mind's eye, Scott can practically see those deft, long fingers flying over his holograms, pulling up coordinates…

Scott doesn't know if the thought is comforting or not.

Hell though, John. The eldest of the brothers doesn't even want to think about what destruction the Hood could wreak with control of Thunderbird Five. About what he could do to John, trapped up there all alone with nothing but a deadly vacuum all arou...

A snarling interrupts his thoughts and then, suddenly, there are fists wound tight in his uniform, wrenching him upward - chair and all - into the air like he weighs no more than a child. It's a frightening display of sheer raw power and Scott is so taken aback by it that he's entirely unprepared for the swoop of momentum as he gets tossed aside like a puppet with its strings cut.

He hits hard, unable to twist his bound hands in any way that would catch his weight and Scott finds himself with a mouthful of grit as his head bounces off the ground, chin first so that his teeth snap painfully together, reverberating agony through his skull. Stars burst, like one of John's fractal galaxies, across his vision and it's the only thing he's seen in what feels like hours so the searing pain that comes with the frittering, disjointed brightness is almost worth it.

When he comes back to himself, Scott's on his side, gasping for air. Dizzy and disorientated, he distantly notices that he can feel fresh blood slipping down the side of his face and into the dirt and, he realises with horror, that his head wound must have scraped delightfully through the filth on the floor following his impact with concrete.

A head wound full of grit, Scott grimaces, spitting crunchy sand out of his mouth, just what I always wanted.

There are footsteps storming furiously away from him, echoing something awful on the hard floor. The sound reverberates through his skull, the slam of a door going through him like a death knell, promising only solitude and pain.

Scott doesn't like how cold he's beginning to feel, knowing it could be the blood loss affecting him as much as it could be the not-exactly-island temperatures. He's aware, of course, that head wounds always tend to bleed an awful lot and look worse than they are, but in this case, he's pretty sure he's losing blood too quickly.

Or… is he? It's not like he can see how much has run down the side of his face, he can't base his analysis on a visual check like he would a person he was rescuing. He knows it's been dripping down onto the floor but without seeing the pool, he has no idea how severe the loss is.

How much of this, then, could be psychological? He hangs onto the possibility, hoping his mind is making it out to be worse than it is.

Though… the ends of his fingertips are starting to feel numb. Behind his closed lids, he can feel his eyes filling of their own volition. He lets his head fall to the side, cheek and forehead against that dirty floor, his body is twisted uncomfortably while still bound to the toppled chair. He can't see any way out of this. But then, he can't see anything at all anyway.

...

A/N: What's this!? We're finally starting to post up Snow Blind? We're only a hundered or so pages into writing it XD
Please leave us a review with what you think so far, feedback would be amaaaaazingggggg. I can offer virtual cookies as insentive with the promise they're not Grandma Tracy standard ;) xx