"You said I'd know when to look for you." John puts an emptied glass back on the table in front of him, the last barrier between him and the Hood. His head is clearing rapidly, deep breaths and adrenaline resolving themselves into steadiness, the deep calm of resolve. He's still groggy, but it's only weariness and not the slowness of benzos or opioids or chloroform. He's not in a wheelchair in a mildewy hospital basement, but in a private plane, not as nice as his family's. And this time, no matter the route he's taken, he wants to be here. "Here I am."

It's a nice plane, as private planes go. But not, as John had noted, as nice as his father's. It's older, for a start, a little less polished. The seats are deeply cushioned, but the upholstery is tacky, fake-leather. In places, the trim around the various panels is beginning to flake or peel away. The carpeted floor is dingy, and the space overall is small, a little cramped and not as well laid out. Where Tracy-One looks as though it's been carefully appointed with fixtures and fittings that harken back to an earlier, mid-century style, this interior is dated, rather than retro. It has the look of a carefully preserved hallmark of diminishing wealth, finally starting to go to seed.

"Here you are," the Hood echoes, and his smile is oily, sinister. The man who sits across from him has clearly gone to an effort to keep up appearances. In person he's—smoother, more refined than John always imagines him. He's only ever seen the man as a hologram, a shadowy figure in the dark, before now. His clothes are tailored, his fingernails are manicured and his manner is neat, precise. "Does it need to be said that I'll kill you if you don't cooperate, John?"

He remains just as blackly malevolent, however.

John shakes his head, shifts in his chair. He winces, pained by his chest and shoulder and the fresh scar just below his collarbone. When he glances down he can see that blood has leaked through the bandage taped to his chest, and his t-shirt clings lightly to dried spots of blood at the edges of it. His good hand goes to the place where the pacemaker's been inserted, just lightly, and then up behind his left ear, throbbing and painful and bandaged. He's going to have to see to this. None of it's been handled correctly, and if he's anxious about anything, he's anxious about sepsis and infection. But there's nothing to be done about it at thirty thousand feet, and he has a more pressing concern. "How did you access the GDF server? They sequestered my system, how did you get at it?"

The Hood laughs and leans back in his seat, comfortable. "Simple corruption and bribery. If it's worked once, I can guarantee it will work again. That's most often all it is, my methods are rarely elaborate."

This is an unironic statement from a man who wracked the entirety of the Pacific Rim with earthquakes. John refrains from commenting on the fact, because this is neither the time nor place to have a smart mouth. "Did you kill my father?"

"I certainly tried." Those golden eyes narrow, but the smile stays in place. "But no. If he's dead now, it's not my doing. It's been made to look that way, though, hasn't it? Made your family quite wary of me, perhaps that was his aim. He'd convinced most of the world." The Hood's manicured fingers make a little wave of acknowledgment, deference, as he adds, "And me, for an impressively long time."

It's not new information. Lady Penelope's the one who'd told John that Jeff Tracy had been somewhere, alive and well, not more than a year ago. The questions of how and why have been pounding in John's haggard, put-upon brain ever since, "What do you want with him?"

"None of your business. It's what I want with you that needs discussion, John Tracy. The AI. EOS. You're going to retrieve it for me." The Hood's fingers tent, rings glinting above the ridge of his knuckles and a faint smile on his lips. "The pacemaker is quite clever. I was very interested to hear of the modifications you'd requested. Industry gossip, always so tantalizing. Tell me, had you counted on dear Langstrom to stab you in the back, or had you planned on letting me snatch you off the street?"

John's entire plan hinges on something half-remembered from the dark of a hospital basement. The same encounter that's written itself in his memory in violence and terror is what he'd come to count on. That far off, impossibly brief connection to the GDF server—how it had been accomplished, John couldn't even begin to guess. Or, well, he could, but he hadn't wanted to credit the extent of corruption in the GDF it would have taken to access a secured, isolated server on a GDF base. "He's hardly what you'd call morally upright. I just hoped if I contacted him, you would too."

This elicits a low chuckle. "How admirably cynical."

John shrugs carefully, regrets it. The movement is agony and it plays across his face as he resolves not to do it again. The Hood, watching him, makes some gesture towards someone further inside the plane, and an attendant arrives shortly with a pair of painkillers in a small glass dish, another glass of water. These are laid on the table without comment, and left to John's discretion. For the moment he leaves the offering be and answers the question, "Time's running out. It was going to happen one way or the other." John gives in and reaches for the pair of small white pills, downs them dry. "I'm not letting her get deleted. If you're my only option—"

The Hood scoffs, interrupting, "Do you really think they would delete a program of that nature? I don't know if you're naive or idealistic, but the GDF have seized your property. It will be used for their own ends. Their own satellites have always been feeble, paled in comparison to your technology. Do you really think it's taken them this long to scrape the AI from your station's code? They're tearing your system apart and they'll cannibalize whatever they feel entitled to take."

Overall, John's opinion of the GDF has hit an all time low, but he can't tell if he's being baited into a response. In spite of himself, the thought makes his skin crawl, has his jaw tightening. It's not implausible. That's the worst thing, the fact that he he can believe it. Brains and Scott have handled the GDF's interactions with TB5 and its systems, and he can only imagine what's been leveraged by the defense organization—EOS as an excuse to tear into his carefully crafted code. His ability to keep his temper in check has suffered lately, but he manages to keep his expression neutral. "I don't know about that."

"I do. You're a stupid, spoiled child, and you work for me now. Believe me when I tell you, the Global Defense Force hold International Rescue in no higher esteem than any other company of mercenaries. Regardless of the good to which your technology is put, you still represent the competition. They've been waiting for their excuse, believe me."

This isn't something John plans to rise to. It's too tempting. It plays too intimately into the way he already feels and he can't let it hit him where it already hurts. He's a creature of quiet pain, always has been. It's not supposed to be easy to get to him, it's not supposed to show. He's off his game. He's supposed to be calm, supposed to be in control. It's not easy. "You'll excuse me for accounting for your fairly substantial bias, and taking your opinion with a grain of salt."

"How typically arrogant of your family."

"You hate my family."

The smile that hasn't faded only widens. "With a cold passion."

"We've never known why."

"Would it reassure you to know it's none of your fault?"

No, actually. It was something that Scott said to Virgil, watching the dawn from the beach, though it's not something John heard. About being hated. Something Scott's afraid of, something that's never occurred to John, for all his brilliance, for all his wide view of the world. It's never occurred to him that he's hated. It's occurring to him for the first time how close he's come to being killed, to being murdered. And how he's sitting not more than three feet from his would-be murderer. That would frighten Scott. Correction: if things have gone to plan, probably this is what's frightening Scott, whether he knows the details or not. Somewhere, Scott's frightened. Alan, too, especially Alan. And Gordon and Virgil, and everyone.

But.

Not John.

Because the Hood's not the first person who's tried to kill him. There's a place very close to John's heart, for the first person who'd tried to kill him, whether she's a person or not. That's a minor technicality. And if he's not afraid of her—well, then. She's cleverer than this bald-headed, maniacal old man. She'd come closer to killing John than he had. It would be outright disrespectful, it would be an insult to one of the entities he holds in the very highest esteem—to be frightened of the man before him now.

So he isn't. It takes a concentrated effort, no mistake, but he's got someone to be brave for, so he can't be frightened now. Instead John clears his throat and meets the Hood's gaze. "How're you planning to keep me in line?"

"You have graciously facilitated the surgical implantation of a kill switch." A small device is procured from the Hood's pocket, and without the least hesitation he thumbs a button.

John's heart rate spikes and his blood pressure plummets. It's only the briefest moment, but he's certain in the span of it that he's about to die, and he cries out sharply in pain and fear. His good hand goes reflexively to his chest, clutches at his heart, the area around the incision already tender and delicate. It's over as quickly as it began, and the device that's sent his heart rate spiking is the same device that returns it to normal, or tries to. There's a strange sensation all through his chest as the computer near his heart tries to restore order. In the flutter of pain and panic, his hand against the recent incision has set it bleeding again, specks of deep red leaking through his t-shirt as he slumps in his seat, gasping for breath.

It shouldn't be surprising that this is the sort of thing the Hood finds funny, but there's still something chilling about the way he laughs, dark and hearty and clearly pleased that he's inflicted pain. "Ah, so it does work. Fischler Industries hardly has the best reputation for reliability in their tech, but I'm pleased to see Langstrom isn't totally useless. That's how I plan to keep you in line, John Tracy." The Hood lifts the small device again, gestures with it in the air. "I hope I've given you enough of a reason not to cause me any undue difficulty."

Well. That'll probably do it. So maybe John's a little frightened of the Hood.