Sorry for the delay again, guys. This chapter has been another nightmare one full of rewrites! Hope it's worth the wait.
"Dad, c'mon," Virgil said.
His father rested a hand on his shoulder. "It's being taken care of."
"They're my drawings." Virgil didn't care if he sounded like a petulant child. Hope had flared when he had woken up and realised the images had gone. He wondered if Matt had said anything, telling his colleagues to trust what Virgil had produced, or whether they were so desperate for leads they had accepted his drawings without questioning them. Blag hadn't turned up on any of their searches. At least this way, they could put names to faces for his henchman.
But Virgil had no idea if any names had yet emerged. His father wasn't telling him.
"Dad-,"
"Virgil, enough. You're bored, I get that. But these cops can be trusted, so we need to let them do their jobs. Besides, you can't do anything even if they find something."
Virgil flinched and his dad sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb. The strain was getting to the man and Virgil wasn't the only one to see it. Gordon was leaning forward on his chair, an uncharacteristic frown on his face as he, too, watched their father. His being in a hospital bed was not the reason Virgil's father wasn't telling him; he hadn't said anything to his brothers either.
The worst part was that Virgil knew why. As soon as they had a lead, as soon as they had something to go on, Virgil knew they all planned on beating the police to the scene. This was their family Blag had messed with and they weren't prepared to let strangers handle it. It was their brother on the line, after all.
"I didn't mean that," his dad said, making Virgil look at him again. "But you have to let yourself recover, son."
Virgil nodded mutely, knowing anything he said would be the wrong thing. His dad squeezed his shoulder and left the room. Both Gordon and Virgil watched him go, then Virgil threw back the covers.
"Not a good idea, man." Gordon rested back on his chair, arms crossed and one eyebrow raised. He looked like John when he did that and Virgil tried to ignore him.
"Why not?" Virgil felt fine or, at least, much better than he had done. He was bored of sitting in bed.
"Because you died." Gordon picked up the television remote, frowning when nothing happened. Virgil didn't tell him he had asked his dad to turn it off at the wall when the constant noise and flashing light had hurt his head. He was attempting to make his brothers believe he was feeling better – they didn't need to know about that.
"You can't keep holding that over me forever," he said. He knew he needed to take it slow – Brains had drilled that into their heads over the years of coming back injured from rescues. But Scott didn't have time for him to sit here recovering. Virgil could scarcely imagine what his brother was going through right now and he had to make sure Scott knew he was alive; he wasn't going to be the reason why his brother stopped fighting. For that to happen, however, he needed to move.
Gordon tossed the remote back onto the bed. Virgil tried not to shift at the look he was being given. It was remarkably like that of their older brothers' and Virgil refused to let Gordon stare him down. Just because he was stuck in bed didn't mean he planned on losing his big brother authority over Gordon.
Gordon finally stood up. "Okay."
"What?" Virgil suspected a trick.
"You're right, they can't keep you in bed forever. You want to get up? I'll help you."
Virgil stared at Gordon for a moment then realised his brother meant what he said. He twisted, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
"Slowly, Virg," Gordon said.
Virgil made to protest, then realised it was empathy in Gordon's expression. His brother was offering genuine advice having been in this situation himself. He was the one person Virgil could actually listen to right now without feeling like he was being pandered to.
He nodded and took a deep breath as he straightened up, putting his feet on the floor. Pressing his palms against the mattress, he shifted his weight and, for the first time in days, stood up. Gordon hovered by his side, one hand brushing Virgil's elbow but not actually supporting him.
He was doing it! He was standing up! Virgil grinned…
…then wobbled alarmingly.
His vision tunnelled, darkness pressing in on either side and he blinked, attempting to focus. One hand reached behind him, searching for the bed, but it didn't seem to be there. He didn't realise the cry of alarm that came from him as his legs started to buckle.
Distantly, he was aware of the door opening. But more importantly, Gordon's hand finally connected, grabbing his arm and keeping him upright. His other hand rested on Virgil's back, guiding him until Virgil could sit on the edge of the bed again.
As soon as it took his weight, he breathed deeply and felt his vision start to clear. He looked up to find Gordon watching him closely. He looked sympathetic, but also like he had known that was about to happen.
"Not as easy as you think, huh?" he said quietly.
"What the hell are you two playing at?"
Virgil swung his legs back onto the bed and lent against the pillows in exhaustion before looking at John.
His brother looked furious. But he also looked as drained as Virgil felt and he knew the anger wasn't directed at them. He shifted, though, not in the mood for a lecture. There was only one person he would allow to pull the big brother card on him right now, and it wasn't John.
Gordon moved, taking the brunt of John's glare.
"Proving a point," he said. "Or would you rather he tried on his own?"
"You knew?" Virgil said, already knowing the answer. It had been written all over Gordon's face before Virgil even tried to stand, now he was thinking about it.
Gordon sat on the edge of the bed. "'Course I did. You think we keep bringing it up, but you died, Virg. Your body has to reboot itself. You don't just walk away from that."
"You did." Virgil knew John was watching them both closely, but he stayed quiet.
"So will you, big brother. It takes time though. At least the doctors are saying only a few more days."
"Then they will tell me to take it slow," Virgil muttered bitterly. Gordon's words were sinking in though; his brother had been told he might not even walk again, let alone be up after a few days. Virgil had been lucky, but right now, that wasn't making him feel any better.
"Does it matter? It'll be faster than you can manage right now." Gordon leant over, kicking his previously vacated chair towards John, who sank into it gratefully. Virgil didn't have an argument to hand; almost fainting on his brother had undermined anything he might say.
"I hate this," he settled for muttering. Gordon grinned – knowing he had won – while John looked amused.
"This miraculous knowledge you have on recovery times only works on the mainland, right?" he said and Gordon flushed. Virgil, however, smiled. Gordon was as bad – if not worse – than the rest of them when it came to letting himself heal after a bad rescue.
Virgil forced himself to sit up a little straighter. He looked at John critically.
"You look like crap."
"Thanks." John ran his fingers through already mussed-up hair and leant back in the seat. Gordon also turned and his sharp intake of breath revealed he hadn't noticed how drawn John looked until that moment.
"Gords?" Virgil waited until he was certain he had his brother's attention. "Do me a favour?"
"What?"
"Go for a swim."
"Virg-," Gordon sat up, staring at him. Virgil jerked his head towards John.
"Please?"
Gordon looked between them, biting his lip. Virgil knew what he was thinking; he didn't want to miss anything, but they both knew John wouldn't open up if he felt pressured. Gordon was normally the one to get through to John, but this time, Virgil knew it was up to him.
The fact that John was staring into space, unaware that they were scheming around him, seemed to make up Gordon's mind.
"Don't try anything until I'm back to laugh." Gordon climbed off the bed, touched John on the shoulder and disappeared.
A minute later, John blinked and looked around.
"Where-?"
"For a swim." Virgil looked his brother in the eye. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
"Fine. I'm gonna go run that marathon now."
John looked as if he was going to argue, but settled for running a hand over his eyes. Virgil had thought his father had looked drawn, but it was nothing compared to John. His brother was taking it personally that he hadn't found Scott yet.
"Dad's given instructions for the plane to be fuelled."
"He can't!"
"He would have already sent me and Gords home if he thought they were keeping you in longer."
"But… Scott…" Virgil couldn't form a coherent sentence and stared helplessly at John.
"I know."
Virgil understood why John looked so bad. The island had access to more technology and his brother wouldn't have to worry about the cops seeing what he was doing. But it was too isolated: half-formed thoughts voiced out loud between cops were gold-dust to John in regards to where to focus his search. Being in Kansas – the last place Scott had been – connected them to the case, to their brother.
He knew John would be spending every waking moment trying to find a lead.
They were grown men but they all knew not to cross Jeff Tracy when the man got an idea in his head. Their dad would find a way to get them on the plane and taking off, heading for home, while they still tried to form arguments about why it wasn't a good idea. They had got their stubborn natures from somewhere, after all.
If they didn't find anything before their father gave the order, Virgil wondered if they would have a choice. But it wasn't his father's actions that made guilt churn his stomach.
"What I said before," he said hesitantly, "I didn't mean it."
He knew full well why John couldn't look him in the eye. Virgil had demanded answers and John hadn't been able to deliver them.
"You did," John said softly.
Virgil flushed but there was no blame in his brother's voice.
"I should have found something by now. He's not dead. Blag wouldn't have staged this whole thing just to kill him. Why not shoot him when they took you if that was the plan? He's out there somewhere and I can't friggin' find him!"
"You will. We will." Virgil had to believe it. He wasn't certain he would find the strength to try and get out of the bed again if not.
"What if we are too late, Virg?"
"What do you mean?" He had never heard John sound like that before and it made him shudder.
"We almost lost him even after we got him back," John said. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "We lost him to himself."
"We're not kids anymore." Virgil sat up straighter as he spoke. "He's strong. Stronger than we are."
"Strong enough to go against Blag?"
Virgil opened his mouth, froze, and shut it again. There had been terror – sheer terror and complete helplessness – in Scott's expression when Blag's men had widened the hole in the wall. The type of terror that left no room for rational thinking.
"He has to be," he muttered. There was no other option: Scott had to be alright.
"We can't go back to the island," John said. He once again reached for the laptop he had left by Virgil's bedside. "Dad's even thinking of pulling Al from school."
Virgil winced. Alan was safest where he was – the school had the best security money could buy, sheltering some of the richest and most privileged kids in America. It was even safer than the island.
But it went deeper than that. He couldn't face his little brother unless he could tell him everything was going to be okay.
TBTB
Ice cold water jolted him back to alertness as tiny needles of pain pricked his skin. Scott coughed, shaking wet hair out of his face and glaring up at the man standing over him. The guard smirked and threw the bucket at his prisoner before stalking out. Scott heard him laugh even as the bolts slid home, the grating rasp of metal on metal making him shiver.
Grabbing the bucket, Scott pulled it closer. He grinned at seeing there were still a few drops left, tilting the bucket and chasing them eagerly. The cold burnt his throat, but it helped to ease the dryness.
Once it was finished, he put the bucket to one side and hugged his knees to his chest, trying to warm up. The cell was cold enough anyway; the water had just made things worse. His ribs protested the movement but Scott ignored them. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't hurt, to the point he welcomed the numbness the cold caused. He had very little body heat left, though – sitting still wasn't helping.
Putting one hand on the wall, he stood up, taking a moment to make his vision focus before starting to pace. He knew they were watching him; he hadn't been allowed to sleep for however long he had been here. Unconsciousness had brought him a few moments respite, but they wanted him awake at all times.
As soon as the message had been broadcast the men had untied him from the ceiling and advanced. Blag had settled back in a chair, a smirk on his face as he gave the order for them to do what they wanted.
They had originally pretended it was some sort of interrogation. Scott's fears that Blag knew about International Rescue had been put to rest, though; all the questions were about the armed forces. Scott knew it was a pretence – if Blag's sources were as good as he claimed, he would know Scott had left the Air Force years ago. Anything he knew would be outdated even if he did reveal it.
Eventually, they had stopped asking questions.
It wasn't the only time though. Scott had regained consciousness in his cell. To his shame, he had been changed into the clothes the guard had tried to get him to put on. He had no idea where his own were and knew his chances of seeing them again were as good as his chance of escape.
He turned, pacing back the other way, his hands clenched into fists. One smarted and Scott felt a grim satisfaction at seeing the bruising on his knuckles. He wasn't the only one who had ended the confrontation bleeding and by the time they had come for him a second time, they had been wary. Blag hadn't even been present when they had handcuffed him, forced him back to that small room and continued where they left off.
Scott had been grateful they had stopped asking questions. He knew every man had his breaking point and he wasn't far off his. It wasn't even the pain, it was the helplessness. Sitting there, hands bound, having to take what they threw at him because he had no way of fighting back... Exhaustion was dulling his senses and his mind was foggy.
As the adrenaline from his awakening started to fade, Scott stumbled. A step later and he was on his knees, a startled gasp of pain escaping him before he could stop it. He couldn't help it, though. When they had returned for him a third time, Scott had struggled, not certain he could survive another round with them. But it had meant nothing as they slammed him into a chair, binding his hands again and closing in.
The lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. Scott had no idea if he had blacked out for minutes or hours, or how long the beatings had he been missing for hours, days or weeks?
Had his father found out about Virgil yet?
He owed it to his father, and Alan, to keep fighting, attempting to escape. But he owed it to the others – Virgil, John and Gordon – to take Blag down, regardless of the cost. Scott believed that was the only reason why he hadn't already passed back out again. His brothers gave him strength, just the way they always had.
But right now, he could barely stand. He had no idea how he was supposed to avenge them.
Shutting his eyes, he leant against the wall, sinking down it until he was sitting again. Exhaling, Scott then winced as his ribs protested and put a hand against them. His heart was racing and he tried to calm down. He didn't know why – it wouldn't get him anywhere – but he had always been a man in control, and this was the only thing in his power right now.
It might have worked, if he hadn't shut his eyes. But only a few moments later, a guard banged on the door. Scott didn't move and the guard snarled. The rasping of bolts gave away the man was coming in, but Scott still didn't open his eyes. He couldn't fight them, not anymore. But he could defy them.
A boot nudged him in the side and he gritted his teeth, trying to remain upright. He didn't open his eyes fast enough though and the guard kicked him again. This time, Scott went sprawling and a soft exclamation hissed through a split lip as he caught a bruise. He struggled to sit back up, adamantly refusing to look at the guard. Not reacting was the best defence he had right now. They wanted a fight but didn't seem to realise their earlier enthusiasm meant Scott couldn't even if he wanted to. Standing was enough of a hardship.
The guard grabbed his arm, dragging him to his feet. Scott put his other hand on the wall as the man shoved him. Finally satisfied that Scott was awake, he stalked towards the door.
"I'm going to kill him," Scott said.
The man stopped, giving away he at least understood English even if he couldn't speak it.
"Hit me again and I'll kill you too."
The man turned, saying something in Russian. Scott didn't need to understand to recognise the condescending smirk on his face. He clearly thought Scott had no chance.
Scott refused to think the same, despite it being a constant thought nagging in the back of his mind. Avenging his brothers was the only thing keeping him going.
As soon as the door slammed shut, he sank back to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. It offered little warmth but Scott was prepared to take whatever he could right now. He stared aimlessly around the cell, looking for inspiration. None was forthcoming and it wasn't long before he started to drift again.
Ignoring the pain and the dizziness, he stood back up. Moving slowly, he paced the cell, trying to warm up and keep awake. He wasn't ready for the men to come back and shutting his eyes was the quickest way to draw their attention. He needed to focus and think.
The broadcast was out there. Brains might have found it and, while Scott paced, be tracing it back to its source. Back-up could be on the way even now and once he had someone to keep the Russians off him, Scott would find Blag and make him pay for the years of hurt and fear he had inflicted on the entire family.
The thought burnt through him, consuming him, until Scott could stand a little straighter. He kept moving, realising it wasn't just determination warming him, but the fact he wasn't slumped against a cold wall.
He wasn't ready when he heard the bolts drawn back again, though. He backed into a corner, determined to make it as hard as possible for the men. Four spilled into the room, but while they flanked him, they didn't approach. Scott wondered what they were waiting for, until Blag himself walked in.
Scott tried to straighten up, lifting his chin as he stared at the man. On every other occasion, he had been taken from the cell back to the small room. This was something different and he didn't like the small smile playing across Blag's face as they stared at each other: Scott with contempt, Blag with amusement.
"You told my man you were going to kill me," Blag said, his tone conversational. "We both know you don't have it in you."
"You killed my brother!" Scott spat. "You'll be surprised what I have in me."
"I don't doubt you've killed - you were in the military." Blag was watching him intently, but Scott didn't know what he was waiting for. "But killing a man in cold blood? That's not you, Scotty."
"You may have networks of spies," Scott said, more bravely than he felt, "but you know nothing about me."
He watched the men carefully. It didn't matter that he would be able to offer little defence when they came for him; old habits stuck and years of being in the rescue business meant he was always mindful of his surroundings, especially in situations where he had no control. Although it was normally watching for rock falls or crevices opening.
Watching the men felt more dangerous than anything nature had ever thrown at him.
"Very well," Blag said. He barked something in Russian and the men stepped back, one moving to stand directly in front of the door. The cell was so small it made little difference but Scott didn't feel as trapped.
Then, to his astonishment, Blag pulled his gun from its holster and tossed it towards him.
"It's got one shot," Blag said. "You could hit my man there," he jerked his head towards the man guarding the door, "and try and escape. Maybe you'll get out of here. Or you can kill me. You'll never get past my men though."
Scott moved cautiously, expecting a trick. But no one made to intercept him as he picked up the gun, weighing it in his hand. There was no way to tell, but he believed Blag – it only had one shot. It was the type of thing he would do– Blag was all about performance.
There was no choice, not for him. He had accepted when he first woke up in this cold, dismal cell that he wouldn't leave alive. Blag had sworn long ago he wouldn't let Scott go and being back in this situation meant Scott believed him. But, if it was the last thing he did, he was going to take down the man who had destroyed his family.
Levelling it at Blag, Scott breathed softly. His heart-rate was calm now; for the first time since this began, fate was in his hands.
As his finger began to squeeze, Blag sighed.
"You're right," he said, "I do have a network of spies. They made me believe your father was a good man."
"What?" Scott was thrown, lowering the gun a fraction.
Blag shrugged. "Clearly they were wrong if the famous Jeff Tracy raised a son who would shoot an unarmed man. What would your father think of you now, Scott?"
Scott opened his mouth, then swallowed. It would have been easy to say his father would support him and expect him to do whatever it took to not only escape, but get justice for the others.
But a memory, unbidden and unwanted, sprung into his mind. Virgil was cowering behind him, terrified as their father fought Blag at the hospital. Scott had held a gun in his hands then as well, pointed at the man. While Blag had goaded him to do it, his father had begged him not to. Scott thought it had been because he was a child. Now, he wasn't sure. Would his father want him to take Blag's life like this, cold and calculating?
Yes.
He was certain of it. Blag had haunted them for years and shown that he hadn't changed. It would save countless others from suffering if Scott ended it now.
His arm jerked up again.
"He'd be proud of me," he said quietly, convinced it was the truth.
Blag nodded, his smirk still lingering. He waited until, once again, Scott's finger began to squeeze, before he spoke again.
"What would your mother think?"
Scott recoiled as if struck. His entire life had been shaped by what his mother would think of him. Was he living the life she had wanted for him? Was he making her proud?
His dad had set up International Rescue in her name. To help people, to save them.
What would she think of him now? Staring down a gun, preparing to pull the trigger for revenge? It didn't matter how many people Scott told himself he was helping. Pulling the trigger was for him, and his brothers. It wasn't even for justice, and he knew it.
The gun lowered again. His hand was shaking. His entire body was trembling and it wasn't the cold or the pain this time.
Blag nodded at his men. They closed in and, too late, Scott jerked the gun up again. It didn't matter, none of it mattered. Killing Blag was his only priority right now. Just as he made to pull the trigger, one of the men struck his wrist and the gun fell from his hand.
Scott dropped to his knees, scrambling for it. He shouldn't have hesitated! He could have ended it. If he hadn't waited, if he hadn't frozen in that alleyway days ago, Virgil would still be alive. He had to make it up to his brother and once again he had paused!
But someone kicked the gun and it went far beyond his reach. He didn't have the strength to get back up again but the men held him down anyway, not taking the chance.
"You thought about it," Blag said quietly, "I'll give you that much. But there's still decency left in you. By the time I'm done-," he paused, reaching out. Grabbing Scott's arm, he twisted savagely.
Scott's vision cleared. Everything was in perfect clarity as his senses went into overdrive. Sharp, hot pain raced not only through his arm, but every nerve. He didn't have the breath to scream, driven from him in a gasp that stole his strength. Spots danced in his vision and he doubled over when Blag let go, cradling his arm.
"-there'll be nothing left of you. I'm going to destroy the great Jeff Tracy by breaking you. One bone at a time, if I have to."
He backed off but Scott barely noticed. It only took one man to drag him to his feet but it took two to keep him upright.
"Take him lower," Blag ordered, "and tie him up."
He grabbed Scott's chin, lifting his head. "We're just getting started, boy."
The men pulled him out, taking him a different way to before. Scott realised there must be more than one level but that was as far as he got. They didn't make it five paces down the corridor before he passed out.
For once, the men let him escape into unconsciousness.