Scott had once promised to never step in a mortuary again.

There a lot of promises you break for your brothers.

The hall of the hospital mortuary was small and clinical. The place smelled too much like bad memories. There was nothing you could do about the cold air or the unmistakable stink of formaldehyde.

Alan stood alongside him, having refused the wheelchair the nurse had offered back at his room. He could walk slowly, holding onto his older brother's arm. It had been less than forty eight hours since he had been pulled from the ocean and he was fighting off pneumonia with the persistence that only Alan was capable of. The drug withdrawals were hitting him even harder. The police were waiting for a statement from him before he was free to be signed out of the hpdhospi and taken home.

This current task was optional, but Scott was going to help his brother through it even if it killed him. He offered Alan a reassuring look.

"You don't have to do this if you don't want to. We can turn around now."

"I have to see her," said Alan resolutely, staring at the door in front of them.

His youngest brother turned his head to look at him, his mouth tight with anxiety. Scott had to work hard to keep his gaze locked onto his eyes and not staring at the multitude of scars and bruises that covered his face.

"I appreciate you coming down here. I know, when Mom"-

Scott cut him off with a nonchalant wave, all false, just as the door was opened by the mortician.

"We're ready for you," he informed the two waiting men.

Scott and Alan stepped slowly into the small room, containing only a shrouded figure on a steel table. When they were inside, the mortician unveiled the body. Scott felt his brother's bicep tense imperceptibly under his fingers. His own breathing momentarily stopped.

For an instant it was his mom there, with her high cheekbones and chestnut hair. His heart gave a hammering thud. In the next blink, it was the drowned woman he had tried to revive on the floor of Thunderbird One. She had been meticulously cleaned. Even the red nail polish had been removed. Her sleek black hair had been carefully combed.

She looked like she was sleeping.

After a few long, silent moments, Alan asked to leave. Scott took him back to his room, where more dread awaited them in the form of two police officers. They would not be leaving without their statement. Alan asked his brother to wait outside.

Scott was still waiting in the corridor when his watch beeped. He silenced it quickly and disappeared into a vacant room before answering the call. His father's face appeared.

"Father? How goes the rockslide?"

Jeff Tracy had a relaxed brow and pride in his voice.

"It's been slow going but they've shaved a couple of days off the local rescue efforts, at least."

"How's Virgil doing?"

"He's finding it difficult getting back into it. Still, the new leg is working well. I got Rob down here on standby just in case."

"Alright."

"How's Alan?"

Scott gulped, realising too late his reaction would be plain to see. His father understood immediately.

"Has he spoken about the kidnapping at all?"

"No. Wait, he..." Scott struggled, knowing what will happen if he's honest, "He says he doesn't remember anything."

"And you believe him?"

"Dad, I"-

"That's a no, then," said Jeff decisively. "Ok, son. This is what you're going to do. I don't care how you do it but you need to get the truth out of him before he can set foot on the island."

"Father, it's"-

"Do not interrupt me. I know you better than you think. I will not have another son bottled up over here ready to explode, considering everything that's happened. There are women and children on this island to think of. Can I count on you?"

He's your child, Dad. This should be your job.

He realised his father was watching him, waiting for an answer.

"Yes, sir."

Back in the isolation room, he helped Alan to get dressed in his civilian clothes. Both of them were jarred at how he looked in them, painfully thin and sick. Afterwards, Scott took him down to the hospital café on the pretext that their father was coming to collect them.

Alan insisted he wanted nothing to drink as he sat down carefully at a table, but Scott went up to the counter anyway. He mused silently on how much Alan had loved hot chocolate as a child. He settled on two lattes.

They sat across from each other at a small table in the café, their silence filled with questions.

"How's Tin-Tin doing?" asked Alan.

"She's still in shock. Wouldn't you be? But don't worry. Virgil's taking care of things. Last I heard he had taken Janna off her hands so she could get some sleep," said Scott.

Alan's lips quirked, half a smile, "I can't believe that girl still won't sleep."

Scott took a sip of his coffee, before carrying out his father's instructions.

"The police said you couldn't remember anything... About what happened to you?"

Alan's hackles were up instantly.

"I know what you're doing. You want me to talk."

Scott looked away, chastised.

"Alan..."

"He thinks he can keep me here? Using my need to see my family against me, like he's grounding me as a kid? He's still the manipulative bastard he was back then."

"Alan," Scott said warningly.

He thought Alan would leave, but his brother barely had enough energy to sit up at the table, let alone stamp away in a temper.

As awful as he felt, Scott knew his father was right. Alan could try and put up a façade of being unscathed, but Scott could see right through him. He noticed the tiny beads of sweat forming on Alan's hairline and upper lip. He also observed the rapid flicking of his brother's gaze as it went from the front exit, to the side exit, to the front exit, to the stranger that just walked in, then back to the side exit again. Scott casually glanced down at Alan's right hand, gripping his coffee cup just a bit too tightly.

It could easily be put down to the drug withdrawal symptoms, but Scott had been there before. He felt a painful tingling in his nails and he had to fight to suppress a shudder. He needed his little brother to be better than him and do what he couldn't do all those years ago.

"Who was she?" said Scott softly.

Alan didn't look from the exit as he snapped, "What?"

"The girl," probed Scott, "The one that was pulled from the water with you."

There was a brighter flash of anger in Alan's eyes.

"The one now dead on a table because of me?" he hissed, loud enough to make a few heads turn their way. He looked down, looking like a frightened little boy.

"Yes," Scott replied, his tone even more soft, "Who was she?"

Alan winced as his anger melted into grief. His head fell into his hands and he took a deep breath.

"Siti. Her name was Siti."

"What happened to her?"

"Scott. I don't know where I start..."

"I need you to try. Please."

He watched Alan struggle with his words for a few moments, before he offered "You don't have to tell me yet. I could make something up to Dad, if-"

- "Of course I'll tell you, Scott," he groaned, his head still in his hands, "I'm glad to be able to just be here, to talk to you again. I'll tell you."

Alan took a deep breath again, the rattle in his chest more pronounced. He steadied himself.

For the first few days, all he knew were sensations.

Warmth. Darkness.

Cold. Light.

Hunger.

Warmth. Darkness.

He was trapped. The same straps constantly pinned him down. The cold table under him soon got replaced by what felt like a bed, but the ceilings were always blank and gray. That was the only thing he could see.

Sometimes, if he was lucky, he would dream. He would dream of a car, the rumble of the engine under his legs and the rush of movement as he pressed the accelerator. Better than sex.

In bed with TIn-Tin, as he became lost in her delicious warmth and her intoxicating perfume of sweet roses and musk. In those times, he was the luckiest man in existence.

The elation of a newborn in his arms, so frail and miraculous. He had made hundreds of promises to her - that he would protect her, that he'd always be there...

Sometimes he felt the rush of leaving the ground, the pull in his bones as he left the launch pad far behind him.

Then there were the nightmares.

A dark, encompassing rain that he couldn't find his way out of. A constricting of his neck. He was suffocating.

Then he was holding a broken body, a cold deadweight in his arms. He had never seen a dead person before. He heard a voice behind him, deep and wonderfully comforting. 'Here, I'll take him. It's alright. Get back to Thunderbird Two...' He loved the man very much, but couldn't recall his name or his face.

The dreams were few and far between. It depended on whatever drugs they were using. Most of the time, his world just cut to black only for him to awaken in what felt like a few seconds.

''They will come for me. They will come for me. They will find me. They have to.'

Then there would be the echoing clomping of heels, the vice grip on his wrist and the sharp sting of the needle.

As the drugs hit his system in a creeping, numbing fog, Alan would beg, writhe, scream... It didn't matter. The woman, and it was always the same one, never responded. She wouldn't even look him in the eye.

He was always baying for her blood, his useless anger flooding him, as artificial sleep swallowed him once more.

It could have been years that he had been here. He had no awareness of the passage of time. The world sharpened only for it to predictably fade once more.

They couldn't keep him like this forever. Or so he hoped.

One time he groggily came to his senses to see a man standing over him. He wore a white coat. He looked vaguely familiar, but Alan couldn't figure out why. He was middle aged, tall and broad. He grinned at him smugly.

"It normally takes longer than this," he said, almost admiringly, "But you're not responding like our previous subjects had."

Something was telling Alan he had missed a lot of the day already. He had been here before, but before he could follow that thread of memory, he was suddenly overcome with dizziness. This quickly gave way to a cold tingling feeling as paralysis set in. He was falling unconcious. No, not unconcious... It was the drugs, a new cocktail.

He tried to speak, but all that came out was garbled noises. His tongue felt frozen to the floor of his mouth. Panicking, he tried to raise his head. It took more effort than lifting a car. A hand slapping down on his forehead thwarted his efforts. There was a thump as the back of his skull connected with the metal table.

"Let it do it's work. Now, don't bother trying to talk," White Coat Man said flatly, "It'll mess with my scanner."

There was the sound of a switch flicking and the room grew alarmingly dark. All he could hear was his own rapid breathing, then the flicking of console switches...

Then there were lights. They flashed and blinded him.

Suddenly he was standing at the sink of his hotel ensuite, brushing his teeth.

Tin-Tin's voice sounded from the bedroom. "Alan. Come here, see if you can feel this..."

Intrigued, Alan spat his toothpaste out in the sink and hurried into the bedroom. He was a little disappointed to find Tin-Tin standing with her top lifted to show her midriff, rubbing her tiny belly. He was hoping she was up for a little action, but lately she had felt far too sick.

Her smile was cautious, inviting. She took his hand and placed it on the low swell of her stomach.

"Imagine," she said softly, "that there's an egg under my skin."

"Ok..." said Alan, feeling a little foolish. What would this accomplish?

She placed a hand on top of his, encouraging him to press a little harder. Her stomach felt firm, but that was all he could feel.

"Tin-Tin, I don't think-"

"Keep going!" she giggled.

He sighed. Seeing her excitement, he closed his eyes and gave it a real try. He pressed his flat hand around the right side of her belly, then the centre, then...

"What's that?"

He felt it, just like she described. Like a small egg under her skin.

"It's there. I can pinpoint it," he said, mightily proud of himself.

"Yes. That's your baby."

The lights were back, painfully bright. He couldn't escape them. There was a sudden explosion of pain behind his eyelids. The drugs were wearing off.

"Please! Please, stop this! I don't know what you want me to do! Just make it stop!"

He felt again felt the spasming in his neck, like a cracking whip. Suddenly the lights were gone.

As he blinked away the red dots distorting his vision, Alan beheld a sea of green. To his right was a vast tree, twisted and knotted from it's many years of growth. A crude rope swing swayed there, hanging from one it's thick branches.

He liked the tree, but he wasn't tall enough to reach the swing. Scott was, but only just.

He became aware of a whimpering sound coming from behind him. After he made his way through the grass, he saw Virgil, underneath the teeter totter. He was lying on the ground and crying hysterically. A thin trickle of blood was oozing down his face.

He froze, staring at the blood. He didn't know what to do. Grandma was out shopping for groceries, he knew... And Father... He would be in the house. But the last time he had knocked on his door, Father yelled at him. Father wouldn't help.

"I want Mom. I want Mommy..."

Eventually, seeing no solution, all he could was sit down and cry beside his brother. That was how Grandma found them, half an hour later, when she returned from her shopping.

The thrumming in his head had increased dramatically as the memory faded. Alan felt his minimal stomach contents rising up his oesophagus. Still paralysed, he feared for a moment that he was about to choke on his own vomit. Somebody removed his straps and turned him on his side milliseconds before he was finally sick. He retched pitifully for what felt like an eternity.

"Siti, the compazine. Quickly," barked the White Coat Man.

Alan gasped as there was an alarming sting in his neck. Then he felt burning as a liquid was injected there. There was a clap of a hand on his back.

"That'll stop the nausea. Ah, what a day! Such a good sign!" the cold man declared triumphantly, almost in a singsong, "I told them you were too good to throw away. Great progress."

Quivering in humiliation and pain, Alan couldn't even move his eyes toward him. He wanted him to look in his eyes and feel the pure fire of his rage.

Don't you touch me, you psychotic bastard. If I could move right now your head would be nothing but a bloody red pulp...

"Uh, oh. Look at that activity! Someone's in a mood again. Siti, take him back to his room. We'll remind him of his manners another day."

He was trollied back to his bare cell, still strapped to the bed. Once he was alone, his anger gave way to crippling fear.

'I won't die here. They're coming for me. I know it. I know they're coming for me.'

"I didn't hold on to hope for too long," said Alan softly, staring at his coffee that had long turned cold, "They had armed men to drag me to where they needed me to go. Even when I took a piss, or was washed. They were always there. At first I fought them. I spat, tried to kick. I even managed to bite one of them once."

He rubbed one side of his face, where a dark bruise circled his eye socket.

"That's where most of this came from."

"Do you remember what they looked like?"

"I think they were Malaysian, like Kyrano and Tin-Tin."

"What about the marks on your head?"

Alan looked perplexed, "I don't know. The drugs made it hard for me to think. They must have operated on me a few times. Sometimes I'd wake up with a pain my throat, like they'd used a tube down there. Like when I had my tonsils out as a kid."

Now it was Scott's turn to be perplexed. Alan still had his tonsils, as far as he knew. Before he could remind Alan of that, his brother continued talking.

"It was Siti that changed everything. She saved me. We spoke to each other once, back in my room after a session with White Coat Man. She was trying to feed me rice, but I didn't want it. I still wanted to kill her. She told me not to fight. She said they will kill me, then they will kill her."

Alan paused and looked into his Scott's eyes, a hitch of anger in his voice. "Her exact words were 'They hurt me, then kill me.'" I realised that she was just like me. A prisoner. She was terrified, Scott. Since fighting and screaming wasn't an option anymore, I tried the opposite. I cooperated and didn't resist. Just like you taught me."

Scott said nothing, but continued listening intently. His comm beeped but he ignored it. There was no way to answer without potentially breaking Alan's reverie.

"Once I started behaving, they got lazy pretty quick," said Alan, smirking, "Eventually they didn't even bother strapping me down, or using the trolley to move me between rooms. The day I escaped, I could tell they were using less sedatives on me. Or they might have used something weaker. I could walk without feeling my legs would collapse under me. My head was a lot clearer, too. They walked me out to see White Coat and the route led me past a window. Siti was following just behind, as usual. I remember thinking 'I'm sure I heard gulls on the other side once.'"

Alan tried to continue but the words seemed to stick in his throat. Scott waited until he recovered himself.

"I saw my chance. I grabbed a gun off one of the gaurd's holsters," said Alan, "Then... I pulled Siti to me."

Alan moved his arm towards his chest, reenacting the motion as he spoke.

"I put the gun to her head. I had no intention of firing, I just thought it would buy me time to think. Instead, one of them fired but the shot missed. It went past my ear. It broke the window behind me. Scott, I'm sorry, I know jumping wasn't a good idea..."

"You had no choice." Scott wanted to reach out to him but stopped himself.

"I did," said Alan sorrowfully, "I could have just let them shoot me. I didn't mean to pull Siti with me.."

Scott, almost relieved, saw tears fill Alan's eyes. It was a good sign. It meant he was processing everything on some level.

"Scott?" whispered Alan, wiping his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his top.

"Yes?"

"Please don't tell Father. I don't want him to ground me."

'Don't make promises you can't keep.'

"Sorry, Alan. You I know can't do that."

Once Alan was back in his room, Scott found an empty bathroom to pace in. He tried hard not to boil over. It didn't work. With a yell he slapped his hands against the tiled wall of the bathroom, hard enough to make the bones in his arms ache. He decided it was still better than punching.

When he had calmed down, he knew it was time for another betrayal. He put in a call through his watch.

"Scott Tracy to Brains?"

"Uh, yes, Scott?"

"You'll need to set up scans on Alan. I don't know what they've done to him but it sounds like they've tried messing with his brain. He was talking a lot about surgical procedures, old memories. Flashbacks, disorientation."

"Uh, well, hopefully if they did there will, uh, be some evidence of brainwashing i-i-if that were the, uh, case."

"There was no evidence with me, remember? And we still don't know how they got in my head." Scott reminded him bitterly.

"I-I-I guess we'll just have to, uh, be on our gaurd at all times and see how he is."

"Sure thing. Tell Father I did what he asked. I'm taking my brother home." Scott instructed Brains sternly, letting the scientist know that he did not want to speak to his father right now.

Author's note - Wow, thank you for the wonderful reviews. It means a lot. I try my best to get back to all of you individually.

My previous fic 'Even as a Shadow' has been given new cover art, courtesy of the kind and talented Lady Razorsharp :)