An attempted cure goes wrong.

3

Virgil had steered Gordon to the infirmary, meaning to let Brains have a crack at that memory problem. Their sickbay was a small, sunny room adjacent to the lab, featuring a high-tech exam and treatment table, advanced medical equipment, five curtained hospital beds, and a balcony with half-open french doors. A little breeze came in along with the slanting, late afternoon sunlight, bringing birdsong, and the velvety scent of tropical blooms.

Gordon sat beside his older brother at the edge of a cluttered desk, trying to quell his own rising nervousness. Something about the room, or hospitals in general, maybe, made him deeply uneasy.

Then Brains stepped in from the stock room, still carrying on his over-the-shoulder conversation with Virgil. The skinny scientist had donned a white lab coat, and had an instrument tray in his gloved hands.

"We'll t- try a mild, ah... mild sedative f-first, Virgil, w-with hypnosis, after. Chances are he's only, ah... only b- buried the memories, not l- lost them completely. If that f- fails..."

Gordon never heard the rest. A spear of light flashed off the polished aluminum tray, the tiny glass vial. And all of a sudden, he was somewhere else; a harshly-lit prison with white, padded walls.

...Three men wrestled him to the floor while a fourth huddled against the wall, nursing a shattered jaw. Though he fought as hard and as desperately as he could, they succeeded in pinning him long enough for one of their number to force him into a strait jacket and fasten it wrenchingly tight. And then, because he continued to struggle, they kicked and stomped him, targeting abdomen, groin and lower back until he couldn't fight anymore.

"Regular little tough guy, isn't he?" Someone laughed coarsely, planting a sharp knee on his spine and patting his leg. Through a red mist of pain and terror, he saw another one enter the room; white lab coat, gleaming instrument tray.

"Now then, Gordon..." said the 'doctor', moving forward. There was no help, and no escape, no way at all to avoid what was coming. His brother was dead, and everything he remembered, a lie. A long hypodermic stung its way through the jacket's needle port, filling him with something that tore and seared clear down the length of his arm. "...Let's talk."

...Gordon vaulted to his feet so forcefully, he toppled the desk, sending books, files and computer equipment crashing to the floor. Fists tightly clenched, head lowered, the boy edged away, snarling,

"Put that shit down, an' back the hell off, goddammit, or, so help me, I'll effin' break you in half!"

Hurt and bewildered, Brains set down the tray and looked to Virgil.

"B- but I only...,"

The pilot shook his head, waving Hackenbacker away. Still protesting his innocence, the engineer retreated to the stock room. Then, hands out and clearly visible, Virgil backed his panicky brother into a wall.

"Gordon, it's okay," he began soothingly, coming slowly nearer. Kept a sharp eye on the boy's doubled fists, too. He'd seen trapped wolves that looked friendlier. Close enough at last for a swift grab, Virgil dodged a bone-crushing left hook, seized Gordon and trapped him in a powerful bear hug. Didn't do anything else but talk, though, trying like hell to calm the kid down.

Someone held him fast, in a 'be still' kind of way, not a 'beat you down and hurt you' way, all the while saying something over and over, that Gordon was too shaken to really hear.

He wasn't going to cry. He never cried. At his mum's funeral, even, standing numbly by the grave with his coach and teammates; Royce on one side, McMahon on the other, Kurt, Erik and the rest gathered all around, protective as Dobermans. Not even then.

Gradually, the voice got through, pulling him back to the present, and the sunny, quiet room. His breathing slowed, the shaking calmed, and he began to listen, a little.

"You're okay, Kiddo, you're safe. I got you."

Virgil. Slowly, Gordon nodded, feeling his stomach give a sudden, experimental heave.

"You need to be sick?" His older brother asked calmly, seeming, as usual, to understand without being told. Gordon nodded again, exhausted, miserable and chilled. Virgil got him to a sink and ran the tap, holding him steady while he retched. Then, when no more would come, and he'd managed to wash up a bit, his brother fetched a bottle of water from the infirmary's refrigerator, opened the top and handed it over.

"I'm sorry," Gordon whispered guiltily, once the bitter taste had gone. "Didn' mean to make such a bother."

Virgil patted his back, said comfortingly,

"Not a problem, Kiddo. After what you've been through, flashbacks were bound to hit sooner or later. No more labs, promise. We'll try something else. Actually," his head dropped, "it's me that should be sorry."

Confused, Gordon looked up as Virgil continued,

"See... you're my responsibility; like John is Scott's, and I'm John's. Mom told me, when you were born, that now I was a big brother, and I was supposed to protect you... show you the ropes, kind of." Rubbing at his own knotted neck muscles, Virgil added quietly, "And that's twice I haven't done my job. Let you get lost, or hurt. Not exactly batting a thousand, here."

"Might've been worse..." Gordon ventured, after a bit.

"Yeah?"

"Y' might've got stuck with Alan."

Virgil started to laugh, pulling his younger brother close and knuckling the top of his head.

"No way," he chuckled. "The Tasmanian Devil is your problem, Mister."

Then, releasing Gordon,

"C 'mon, Kiddo. I'll show you up to your room. Grab some sack time, and a shower, and we'll move to plan B in the morning. Throw a coconut at your head, maybe, see if that doesn't knock something lose. Sound like a plan?"

"Sure... If I get t' throw one back."

"Fire away," his older brother scoffed. "You'll never hit me."

They left the room, then, still mock-arguing, while Hackenbacker remained behind. Sighing, the engineer summoned a team of maintenance robots, and set about clearing up, wondering just what he'd done wrong.