It was far too short a time before Barrett's men returned for Jeff. He'd gotten John settled as best he could, but there was only so much he could do. John's fever had gotten worse by the day, and his lungs were so bad now that Jeff could hear his every breath without any assistance. His skin was deathly pale, save for the shadows around his eyes and the dark bruise that crept past the collar of his shirt. He looked…faded, somehow, fragile, as if he were halfway to being a ghost.
The last thing Jeff wanted to do was leave him in that condition, but he had little choice in the matter now. So he squeezed John's shoulder, smoothed his hair back from his sweaty face, and followed the guards out of the cell. He was led to a part of the facility he'd never seen before, and a set of doors slid open to let him into a room full of advanced computers, drafting tables: anything Jeff could need to design a whole fleet of war machines. The wall opposite the door was actually a window, although it wasn't the outdoors on the other side, but rather…
Jeff swallowed hard. He'd been hoping that the work he'd have to do would be mostly theoretical at the start, something he could do slowly. He'd hoped that it would take a while for any designs he produced to actually be made into anything that could do any damage. But what he was looking at now was a cavernous hangar, with manufacturing equipment of all kinds installed on the ground and cranes and platforms overhead for working on something large. It was the kind of space Jeff and his family had used to create the Thunderbirds.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
Jeff turned to see Barrett standing in the doorway. He gestured to the window, and the vast hangar beyond.
"We'll be ready to start mocking up prototypes as soon as you provide the designs," he said. "I think this project has experienced enough delays, don't you?"
Jeff said nothing, just glowered at him, jaw clenched. Barrett shook his head in mild disapproval.
"Really, Jeff; I did tell you this was inevitable. There's no need to be upset about it."
He drew closer, and Jeff ached to wrap his hands around the man's throat, to choke the smugness from his face. He knew that John would be the one to pay for it though, and he restrained himself.
"I expect a fleet of ships, ultimately, but I want something powerful for your first project," Barrett said. "That green ship of yours - Thunderbird 2, isn't it? Something like that, but faster, with the interior space configured for weapons that can be customized."
A bastardized version of Thunderbird 2, of the ship that Jeff had so lovingly helped design for his gentlest child to help him save lives. Just the thought of it made his heart clench, his stomach turn.
"You shouldn't have to make too many modifications from the original designs," Barrett went on. "I saw the pod configuration system; something like that should do quite nicely."
Jeff blinked. That equipment was kept inside of Thunderbird 2's modules, not visible to anyone from the exterior.
"You saw it?"
"Why, yes. You'd proved to be more uncooperative than I was expecting, you understand, and I was getting tired of waiting, so I started considering replacements. Langstrom Fischler had shown initiative in engineering, so I attended a demonstration of his, a new system he'd designed to alter the weather. Of course, it turned out that Fischler is a complete imbecile, and he very nearly got us all killed. He would've finished the job if International Rescue hadn't shown up."
Jeff could only stare at Barrett for a beat, stunned and speechless. Could he really mean…?
"They saved your life," he whispered. Barrett inclined his head. Jeff felt his hands clench into fists. "My family saved your miserable life, and you turned around and attacked them?"
"Well, how could I not? Quite aside from being further inspired by the design of your ship - it really is a marvel, Jeff, I applaud you - that was when I realized the opportunity I had to provide better incentive for you. I recognized your son, you see." He smiled. "Gordon Tracy. Quite the Olympian, once. And I only saw the pilot briefly, but I heard Gordon calling him Virgil. Not many parents would subject their child to a name like that, and it got me thinking."
Barrett leaned against one of the drafting tables, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked comfortable and relaxed, almost cheerful. He'd won and he knew it, and now he was basking in the victory.
"I had a little chat with Fischler after that," he went on. His lip curled a little in disdain. "Give that man something to talk about, and he'll never shut up. Makes him insufferable, but useful. See, it turns out the moron has needed International Rescue's help on a number of other occasions. So many, in fact, that he's met every single one of their agents."
He gave Jeff a knowing look.
"From there, it was just a matter of planning. It took quite a bit, and even then, the operation quite nearly failed at the eleventh hour. I'd planned on it being the rocket to show up, not one man in a spacesuit."
A chill tore through Jeff, turning his blood to ice.
Barrett must have seen the look in his eyes. He shrugged.
"Well, can you blame me for wanting to get the youngest?" he asked. "How long do you think you could've watched your sixteen-year-old go through what John did? I still maintain that we would have been through with this whole business already if things had gone according to plan."
Jeff's body was shaking from the force of his impotent rage. His jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it, and his nails dug into his palms.
"Still, all's well that ends well," Barrett said, smile returning. "You're actually rather fortunate, you know. I contented myself with just capturing one of your sons. I even kept the wrong one instead of just killing him and going after Alan again."
"And that makes me fortunate?" Jeff demanded.
"As a matter of fact, it does. Other people might not have been so restrained."
Before Jeff could ask what that meant, Barrett straightened and began to retreat from the room.
"I'll let you get to work," he said. "I'd advise you not to try to be a hero; John won't thank you for that."
Before he could leave, Jeff called after him, "I want medical treatment for him."
Barrett paused and looked back, unsurprised.
"John will receive treatment as soon as the first machine is operational."
"But these things take weeks to design, much less build!" Jeff said. "You gave John pneumonia, which is bad enough on its own, but then your thugs made it a thousand times worse yesterday. He's got broken ribs, can barely even breathe, and untreated pneumonia puts him at risk for developing sepsis at any time, if he hasn't already. It could kill him in days."
"Then I suggest you work quickly."
Christ, he really didn't care, did he? He knew there was no way to do the kind of work he was asking for in just a few days, and he planned on withholding treatment anyway.
Unless…
"If you want results that quickly, then you need to let John help," Jeff said.
Barrett raised an eyebrow.
"Is that so?"
"You said it yourself, the first day you brought him here," Jeff told him. "He's brilliant, and he's the best programmer I know. He also knows the Thunderbird software inside and out, including updates that have been implemented since you brought me here. I'll be twice as fast working with him."
"I saw your son less than an hour ago, Jeff. The boy looks like roadkill. I'm no expert, but I doubt he could pass a year five maths quiz in his condition, much less act as a competent programmer."
That probably wasn't an all too unreasonable assessment, but Jeff still had to try.
"Even on his worst day, John is better than anyone else you'll get," he said. "And like I said, he knows the Thunderbirds' onboard computer systems better than anyone, including me. Give him a chance. I promise you you'll start seeing results sooner."
Barrett studied him carefully, as if searching for the potential trickery in the request.
"He will be monitored constantly," he said. "If he tries anything, you'll both wish he hadn't."
"I'll make sure he behaves," Jeff promised. "But he'll be more useful to you if he's healthy."
"How convenient."
Barrett's expression had turned a little sour, but he clearly appreciated the truth of Jeff's statement. His gaze returned to the window, a trace of hunger flaring in his eyes.
"He'll get pain medication for his ribs," he decided at last. "Wouldn't want him getting distracted. But you have to earn anything else."
His smile returned.
"After all, we can't have you losing your incentive."
Virgil shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably, shifting in his seat.
"How is it possible that I feel less comfortable in a thousand-dollar tailored suit than I do in full rescue gear with forty pounds of equipment on my back?" he grumbled, tugging at his collar. It was the second suit he'd worn this month, and while this wasn't quite as bad as the press conference, he still felt like he was suffocating.
"You're just not built for the monkey suits and political bullshit," Scott said. "It's not a bad thing."
Virgil cut a glance at his brother. Scott seemed more comfortable in his own dark suit, confident. He looked older, steadier; this was the version of Scott that had taken over Tracy Industries in the midst of turmoil and confusion and managed to guide it back to prosperity, the version that could command the attention of every person in a board room without so much as raising his voice.
That confidence and natural leadership was something Virgil could use a little more of just then.
"Tell me we're not gonna screw this up."
Scott's expression tightened. Both of them had been tense as piano wires for the last two days, ever since the Hood's alarming visit and the subsequent revelations from Alan. Before Scott could respond, a young woman poked her head into the waiting room.
"Mr. Barrett is ready to see you," she said with a bright smile.
Scott and Virgil exchanged one last glance, and stood, following the secretary into a large office. A sharply dressed man in his late forties sat behind a vast glass and mahogany desk, a wall of windows at his back providing a lofty view of the Thames stretching out beyond. Barrett stood, and Virgil began to study him carefully.
It had been a rather extraordinary tale that Alan had shared with his brothers. The Hood had told him of an old partnership, two businessmen with aligned interests and similar morals, who saw the potential advantages in working as a team. Knowing that it would be in their best interests to have at least one good name between them, they'd kept Barrett as squeaky clean as possible and did all of their dirty work under the Hood's name, as well as other aliases and sham organizations. Like Stelair Aeronautics.
Looking at Barrett now, Virgil had a hard time seeing him as someone capable of the kind of atrocities the Hood was so fond of perpetrating. He looked like someone's stepdad; blandly handsome, with salt and pepper hair, grey eyes, stress lines on his brow. He also looked incredibly familiar, although with him being a moderately well known businessman, Virgil supposed that wasn't so surprising.
But there was something in his eyes…
"Mr. Tracy and Mr. Tracy," Barrett greeted with all appearances of warmth. "It's a pleasure to formally meet you."
His hand was dry when Virgil clasped it, his grip firm.
"I was terribly sorry to hear of your brother's death. You have my condolences."
His condolences were among countless others that had flooded in after the press conference. They were the only ones that made the hairs on the back of Virgil's neck stand up though.
Barrett waved them toward chairs clustered around a glass-topped coffee table. Virgil sat on the edge of his seat, tense, but then Scott's foot nudged his. Virgil did his best to mirror his brother's more relaxed bearing.
If he wasn't built for monkey suits and political bullshit, then he definitely wasn't built for espionage. But with the Hood's story had come a warning: Barrett had people in the GDF.
"Can I offer either of you anything to drink?" Barrett asked them.
When Scott and Virgil both politely declined, he sat down in a chair across from theirs. They all surveyed each other for a moment.
"As delightful as it is to have the opportunity to meet two of the reclusive Tracy brothers, I must admit to being somewhat at a loss as to what I can do for you," Barrett said. "I've had some dealings with your father in the past. I don't suppose he's sent you to negotiate about that collaboration I proposed?"
"I'm afraid not," Scott said. "Our father passed away some time ago. We've kept it discreet, you understand."
"I see. Well, you can count on me to keep it to myself. Once again, condolences. Your family really does seem to be having quite the string of bad luck, doesn't it?"
Virgil tensed. Was that a taunt?
He shot a glance at Scott, who had also gone rigid. He began to worry about one of the outbursts Scott was prone to making when his family was threatened. When he replied though, Scott's voice was level.
"So it would seem," he said. "Mr. Barrett, we're here because we were hoping you could help us with something."
Barrett raised an eyebrow.
"Well, I'm not quite sure what it is you think I can do for you, but I will of course be happy to try," he said.
"We're glad to hear it." Scott sat forward in his chair. "Have you heard of a man known as the Hood?"
Subtlety had never been one of Scott's strong suits. In this case though, they'd all agreed beforehand that a direct approach was best. Scott hadn't been able to catch up with the Hood after his visit to Tracy Island, so all they had to go on was what he'd told Alan. It wasn't enough to make any accusations yet, but they were hoping to determine for themselves whether or not there could be any truth to it.
Virgil was watching carefully enough to see the way Barrett froze, just for an instant.
"Well, hasn't everyone?" he said, and his voice sounded no different. "He's the man responsible for that nasty seaquake business last year. Those machines of his did quite a bit of damage to one of my company's oil platforms. The spill took months to clean up."
"We're sorry to hear that," Scott said. "But can you think of any more…personal dealings that you may have had with him?"
Barrett's expression cooled.
"Mr. Tracy, I'm not sure I appreciate where you're going with this."
"We're not accusing you of anything," Virgil said quickly. "It's just that Tracy Industries has also been having some problems with the Hood. Attempted theft, property damage, that kind of thing."
"I see." Barrett still looked wary, but the set of his shoulders had relaxed slightly. "Well, now that you mention it, yes; the Hood has tried to steal from me in the past. He's succeeded a few times as well. I don't know if you remember that incident a few months ago, when the CATCH system went offline and every airplane in the sky was without any guidance for an hour?"
Virgil managed to avoid looking at Scott this time. He remembered the incident well. His big brother had damn near gotten killed right before his very eyes rescuing the pilot of one of those planes.
"It rings a bell," Scott said.
"Well, it turns out that the system was deliberately sabotaged by the Hood, so that he could steal a great deal of alsterene fuel from me. International Rescue went after him, though. They couldn't recover the fuel, but they did manage to keep it out of the Hood's hands."
Virgil hid a grimace. He remembered how close they'd come to losing Kayo with that little stunt. If the Hood hadn't been her uncle, he would have let her crash and burn in the interest of saving the alsterene.
"Well, that's something," he said with an attempt at a smile.
"Indeed." There was a moment of silence as Virgil and Scott tried to figure out how to proceed. Neither of them was exactly skilled in intelligence gathering, but they'd thought it best to come themselves instead of sending Lady Penelope. If Barrett had John's death on his conscience, he would be more likely to react when facing his victim's brothers.
"Mr. Barrett…are you familiar with a company called Stelair Aeronautics?" Scott asked.
Barrett paused. He looked back and forth between the two of them.
"As a matter of fact, I am. Stelair is one of my satellite companies. Why do you ask?"
This, at least, they'd been prepared for.
"Tracy Industries has a number of minor holdings in space," Scott said. "One of our initiatives is cleaning up space junk."
The excuse even had the benefit of being true. Alan still whined about it whenever he got sent on trash duty.
"One of our trash pickups came across a small debris field left behind by the explosion of a Stelair satellite. We recovered some computer circuitry from the wreckage. We wanted to make sure any useful or proprietary information wasn't lost, but we've been having a little trouble finding a point of contact with Stelair."
"I see." Barrett's expression was inscrutable as he sat back, studying Scott. "Well, you've found one. I'm afraid I only recently bought the company, and things aren't as well organized as I'd like yet. We'll get it straightened out."
"We're sure you will," Virgil said with a bland smile. "In the meantime though, where should we send the recovered tech?"
"Oh, no need to return it. I appreciate the thought, but all of our satellites automatically back up to our earthbound servers. I know the incident you're talking about, and there was no data loss."
The incident. Such an innocuous description of something so devastating.
"Nothing too bad, I hope?" Scott said. "No casualties?"
"Actually, I'm sorry to say we lost an astronaut."
"And there was nothing that could be done?" Virgil couldn't help asking, tension humming through him now.
"Evidently not. I've heard that International Rescue actually sent a man after him, but he must have arrived too late."
Virgil felt his jaw go slack.
"But- but the rescuer was all right?" he asked.
"As far as I know, yes. It's been a bit difficult to piece together details, and, well, International Rescue isn't exactly easy to get a hold of unless you've fallen down a well, or something." He gave them a small smile, inviting them to share the joke.
Virgil planted his heel firmly on Scott's foot as he felt his brother tense like a coiled spring. He wasn't much better himself.
"Right," Virgil said, knowing it was well past time to get out of there. "Well, we're sorry to hear about your astronaut, but we're glad you didn't lose any data. We'll just have the debris we collected destroyed and recycled with the rest of the space junk. Thanks for your time."
He stood, pulling Scott up with him. Barrett rose to see them out.
As he was heading out of the seating area, Scott tripped on the tasteful navy carpet, and crashed to his knees. Virgil reached for him, but he was already getting up on his own, brushing himself off.
"I'm fine," he said, waving away his brother. "Guess it's a good thing I didn't have that drink."
It had been a slick maneuver. If Virgil hadn't known about the tiny but powerful listening device beforehand, he never would have noticed Scott pressing it to the underside of the coffee table before he stood.
"It was a pleasure to meet you," Barrett told them at the door, shaking their hands again. "Your father was a friend, so if there's anything I can do for you in the future, please don't hesitate to let me know. I hope for all our sakes that the Hood is apprehended soon."
Virgil managed another smile that set his teeth on edge, and then he and his brother were striding out of the office. Scott managed to keep it together until the elevator.
"John got there too late?" he exploded, shifting from calm CEO to furious brother in the blink of an eye as the doors slid closed behind them. "Did he really just sit there and deny that we lost someone in that explosion too?"
"Not here, Scott," Virgil sighed, glancing around.
He could feel his brother stewing at they made the long trip down from the top floor. There was a park near the Barrett Enterprises building, and Virgil steered them there, where their conversation would be just one more among dozens of anonymous strangers'.
"I don't know what the Hood's game is, but there's definitely something shady about that guy," Scott said. "He said he was a friend of Dad's? That's crap. We knew Dad's friends, and he wasn't one of them. And the only reason he copped to owning Stelair was that he could see we already knew about it from Eos' digging. Did you see how twitchy he got when we asked him about it? He-"
"Scott," Virgil cut in. "You don't have to convince me. I was part of the same conversation you were."
Scott let out an explosive breath of air. He picked up his pace, his fists opening and closing with useless energy.
"I know," he said. "It's just- what the hell does this all mean? That the Hood was telling the truth? That would be a first."
"Just because we could tell there was something off about Barrett, doesn't mean he did what the Hood said."
"You mean murder our brother?" Scott drew to a halt and rounded on Virgil, his eyes wild. "I mean, that's what we're talking about, right? We think this guy may have murdered John."
Virgil swallowed hard.
"We can't know that, Scott," he said. "Maybe they're just trying to cover up an accident. And I'm not saying that means he should get off the hook," he hurried to add when he could see another explosion building in Scott. "But you also can't charge back in there with torches and pitchforks before we understand the situation completely, or we'll lose credibility, and put the anonymity of International Rescue at risk. That's why we planted the listening device."
Scott stared at him for a moment, before deflating slightly. He shook his head.
"How are you so calm about this?" he asked.
Virgil looked away. In the distance, he could see a couple of kids chasing each other around a fountain, a dog sniffing at a dropped ice cream cone, pigeons flocking around an old lady tossing out breadcrumbs.
"Scott, I may have just shaken hands with my twin's murderer," he said, his voice even. "I promise you, I'm not calm."
Scott blinked, and his expression softened. He let out a weary sigh.
"Come on, little brother," he said, wrapping an arm around Virgil's shoulders. "Let's go home."
John had the dubious privilege of knowing what it was like to experience gravity at 25 times its normal strength. He knew what it was like to feel as if he was being crushed by reality itself, the life being pressed out of him. He'd never thought he would have to feel the same way when he was back on solid ground. And yet.
There was the physical pressure of course, the weight of the fluid in and around his lungs squeezing the air from him, but it was so much more than that. There was always an IV in his arm now, delivering a constant supply of something that had eased the pain in his ribs, helped to clear the fog from his mind, eased the physical burden a little. But his time was now spent in a computer lab working for the face of evil, every second spent under the watchful eye of one of Barrett's men. Each day, the weight of the lives he was endangering settled more heavily on him, until it wasn't just the pneumonia that made it difficult to breathe.
He'd tried his best to resist, but it had only taken one failed attempt at building a timed kill code into the software for the new ship to make John realize that his babysitter actually knew a thing or two about computers. Despite having well and truly lost the battle though, John wasn't giving up the war just yet.
So every day became a battle of its own. His every keystroke was watched, so it had therefore been up to him to take a subtler approach, finding other ways to sabotage the equipment that would be harder to detect. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed the challenge, but with this work, knowing what the stakes were, feeling his body continuing to deteriorate, that was out of the question.
On day…well, he'd really stopped counting, at this point, John was so absorbed in his own predicament that he didn't notice that his wasn't the only immune system that was losing the good fight. Until, that is, he heard the unmistakeable sounds of retching from behind him, and turned in time to see his usual guard bestowing his breakfast upon a patch of floor beside the exit.
Even as John recoiled in disgust, he was filled with an unfamiliar surge of hope. If the guard stepped out for just a few minutes, maybe he could figure out a way to-
But the man was already talking into his mic, summoning reinforcements. It was less than a minute before a new guard was arriving, and another minute before the woman in the lab coat and a man with cleaning supplies followed. They had the unfortunate man and his mess collected and bundled off with rapid efficiency, and then John was left alone with his new overseer.
The man was younger than most of the others, maybe Gordon's age. John thought he'd seen him a few times before, but it was hard to be sure. The young man's dark gaze was unreadable as it swept over John, taking in the pallor of his skin, the fevered sweat on his brow, the needle in his arm.
John didn't pay him much attention, just turned back to his console. He worked in silence for awhile, reconfiguring the customization software for a weapons module. This one would leave the firing pins out of everything it assembled. It wouldn't make Barrett's threats any less alarming, but it would hopefully minimize any actual damage he could do if he tried to carry them out.
John tried to ignore the tingling pressure in his chest for as long as he could, but it still wasn't long at all before a cough exploded from him. Even with the paltry cocktail of medications that was dripping into him, he was still getting worse, and coughing hurt. Once he'd started though, he couldn't stop, sucking in desperate, gasping breaths as he tried to fill lungs that were already filling with liquid. It felt a little like drowning again, and he had to fight down the panic that tried to join the pneumonia in suffocating him.
He felt something spatter his arm, saw a flash of red. And still he couldn't stop coughing, his chest burning and his head starting to swim. He felt a hesitant touch on his shoulder, and then a scrap of tissue was being pressed into his hand. John coughed into it, until at long last, his breathing began to ease. His eyes were watering, and he squeezed them shut as he tried to catch what little breath he could.
After a minute, he realized there was still a hand on his shoulder. He tensed, turning his head to see the new guard standing over him. The man was watching him intently, but John still couldn't read his expression.
"Were you really with International Rescue?"
John blinked. The guards rarely talked to him at all, and when they did, it certainly wasn't regarding his rescue work. Of course, they also didn't usually give him tissues to cough into, so they were in unfamiliar territory all around.
"Yeah," he said, when it became clear that he was actually expected to answer. "Yeah, I was."
And - wow, he'd never had to use the past tense for that. He hadn't been prepared for how much it would hurt.
"You were the one up in space, right? The one who talked to people while the others helped them?"
John raised an eyebrow. That wasn't exactly how he would have described his role in International Rescue, but he supposed it wasn't altogether inaccurate.
"That's me," he said cautiously. A shiver swept through him, making his teeth rattle.
The man was silent for a moment. Then he shrugged out of his standard black jacket and draped it over John's shoulders.
At John's baffled look, he said, "I have a little sister. Elena."
His gaze went distant. John felt like replying that two could play at that game, that he had two little brothers, and didn't see how either piece of information was relevant. Something told him that patience was his best course of action here though.
"Six months ago, she was caught in a landslide while she was out hiking," the man went on after a moment. "She got lucky, if you can call it that. Got buried alive instead of crushed. She could barely move, couldn't see anything. She's claustrophobic, you know? She was terrified."
The guard's expression was tight, his fingers curling into fists and then relaxing again in a cycle he didn't even seem to be aware of.
"But she got a call after less than a minute, from International Rescue. She said even though it took hours to be rescued, the man on the phone never hung up, and kept talking to her, making sure she knew she wasn't alone. She said it kept her sane."
John struggled to think back. Once upon a time, he'd remembered every rescue, but his illness had sapped his focus, carved holes in his brain. Even with what he was fairly certain was some kind of amphetamine sharpening his mind, it was a long moment before he could say, "Elena…Morales? That's your sister?"
"You remember her?"
"I remember she was brave."
John kept racking his brain. Elena Morales. It had only been a few months before John was kidnapped that Thunderbird 5's sensors had alerted him to a nasty rockslide in the Pyrenees. A quick scan of the area had yielded only a single electronic signal, Elena's phone. He remembered calling her, remembered the simultaneous relief at having her answer, and dismay at how very young she'd sounded when she had.
"She talked about you," John recalled slowly. "I…I was trying to keep her mind off of what was happening, so I asked her to talk about something good. The first thing she thought of was you."
He frowned. She'd told him, he knew she'd told him…
"Lucas?" he guessed. The guard nodded. "She said that you dropped out of school to raise her after your parents died, and that you worked three jobs to support her and your other sister…Violet?"
"Valery," Lucas corrected, his expression unreadable.
He looked away.
"I've just tried to do right by them," he said, almost as much to himself as to John. "This job, the pay…I didn't know…"
Silence fell for a moment. John waited, unsure how to fill it. He could certainly understand wanting to protect one's siblings, but if Lucas was seeking forgiveness for what he was complicit in, John didn't think he could manage that.
"I've got a little brother Elena's age," he said at last. "Alan."
Lucas' shoulders tensed. He still didn't look at John.
"He was the sweetest baby, always happy about something," John went on, driven by some unnamable instinct. "When he got a little bigger, he used to follow me around, all the time. It annoyed the living daylights out of me, sometimes, but it was also kind of this honor, you know? Like, out of everyone, he picked me to tag along with."
John hadn't talked this much in days, and he had to cough for a painful minute before he could go on.
"I used to take him out stargazing. He was so funny; he was always chattering about something, but get him looking up at the stars, and he would just go so quiet. His little eyes would get so big…"
John looked down at the bloodstained tissue in his hand. He missed his little brother with sudden, breathtaking intensity.
"I always did the best I could to look after him, and the rest of my family. But I've always figured…the best thing I can do for him is be someone he can be proud to call his brother."
Silence fell after that. John waited, although for what, he wasn't sure.
"I'm going to get a cup of coffee," Lucas said quietly. "Can I get you anything?"
John could only stare for a long moment. Was he really…?
"I- no," he said, stumbling over the words in his haste. "I'm all right. Thank you."
Lucas nodded and strode to the door, keying in an access code. And then he was gone.
John wasted a few precious seconds staring after him, dumbfounded. But then he shook himself and turned back to the computer, doing his best to clear the fog from his mind as he began to explore the system, looking for access to something that he could use to his advantage.
The computer he was working on was fairly well isolated. It wasn't configured for access to the internet or any other communications network, and no amount of technical finagling on John's part could change that. He couldn't get a message out, couldn't alert his brothers or Eos. But with a little work…yes, he had access to the rest of the systems in the facility. Maybe he could-
His fingers froze over the keyboard as he stared, horror beginning to spread through him like ice.
Dad had been right all those weeks ago when he'd said that the facility must have been well-hidden. But it wasn't on the moon, like he'd suggested. It was somewhere far, far worse.
John's lungs burned as he began to gasp, his heart thundering in his chest. He gulped at the air, but couldn't seem to draw in any oxygen. His head spun, his vision going dark, until he was back on that table, and the water was everywhere, in his mouth, his nose, his throat, choking him, smothering him, killing him-
"Breathe, John." How many times had Dad said that to him? Enough for him to be able to hear the words in his head now. "Just breathe."
Breathing was no simple task these days, but John tried to tamp down on the panic. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at the evidence of his predicament, did his best to level out his breathing without coughing up more blood. He clutched Lucas' jacket to him as he shuddered, trying to hold himself together.
This couldn't change anything. He couldn't waste this chance.
He opened his eyes and returned to the computer. His hands were unsteady, and his movements less precise than they should have been, but he still resumed his careful search of the network, looking for flaws, for weak points. The system had clearly been designed for security. Everything had been partitioned, no single network had access to or control over everything. John's computer was linked into the facility's basic operations: lights and heat and…and the power grid.
Ever the strategist, an idea began to form in John's mind. He'd been hoping for a means of escape, but that didn't look possible now. It wouldn't be a matter of simply hopping a fence and finding the nearest road. No, if he wanted to stop Barrett, it was going to have to be with the understanding that he might not live to see it.
And not just him.
They'd barely let him see Dad since they'd started their work, perhaps worried that the two of them would contrive some way to sabotage the project. They were still kept in the same cell, but their working shifts had been staggered, so that they were returned to it at different times, barely overlapping. John liked to think that Dad had a plan, that he was just biding his time before he executed his strategy. But from the way Dad looked at him, the few times they'd seen each other in passing…somehow, he doubted it. It was up to him now.
The best thing I can do for him is be someone he can be proud to call his big brother.
Almost without thinking about it, John resumed his work, putting his plan into motion. It might mean he never got to see Alan again, or Gordon, or Scott or Virgil or anyone else he loved, but it would mean that he'd made the world safer for them. That would have to be enough.
It didn't take long to set everything up, ready for one final command. His hands began to shake as they hovered over the controls, hesitating.
He could feel the sickness in his body, as if he were rotting from the inside. His fever was only getting worse, and soon, not even whatever they were giving him to keep his pain at bay and his brain sharp would be enough. He didn't have time to waste, couldn't talk to Dad and figure out a different plan. He had to act now, before Lucas came back, before he could no longer trust his own mind.
Maybe Dad would be able to get out. He was healthy, and brilliant, and resourceful, and he could figure out a way to save himself. He had to.
John fumbled for his IV, yanking it from his arm. Perhaps he would miss it soon, but he wanted this action to be his alone, to be free in the only senses possible while he made it.
He entered in the last sequence.
For a long moment, nothing happened. The door opened, and Lucas returned, coffee in hand. He gave John a quizzical look, but said nothing.
Then the room was plunged into abrupt, absolute darkness.
"Warning: critical power failure. Failure of life support systems imminent."
He'd done it. For better or worse, he'd done it.
A/N: *Cue dramatic music* Anyway, the rescue Barrett tells Jeff about is from the episode Weather or Not, but Barrett isn't supposed to be either of the two men shown in that episode; he's just tagging along for the ride.
Thanks for the lovely support of this story so far!