zero point

six

Scott Tracy was on the move, the bright signal of his beacon pulsing a steady trail as the transmitter bypassed Heathrow and moved west out of London.

John's attention moved from one point on the tracking screen to the next as he projected Scott's route to its assumed destination – the transmitter was headed towards Northolt Field, which made no sense at all unless Scott was being transferred to a Spectrum aircraft. Although, John thought as he shifted in his chair and the lights of his board reflected multi-coloured in his eyes, nothing had made any sense since the whole fucking Spectrum debacle had begun.

The beacon on the screen pulsed and made a turn hard-left, and John found himself staring at it with his thumbnail pressed against his bottom lip. Maybe Scott had purged the transmitter already – in which case Thunderbird 5's systems were monitoring the edible transmitter as it flushed its way through London's sewage system. With a series of taps across his screen John piggybacked 5's sensors to the nearest telco array, triangulated the signal to make sure the beacon was on top of the street and not under it, and satisfied himself that the transmitter was still lodged inside Scott and that both were now definitely headed towards Northolt Field. It was small consolation to know that Scott's bowels were as disciplined as they had ever been, but the target destination made John lean back in his seat with his jaw tight and his tongue pressed hard against the back of his teeth. There was a singular possibility that Northolt raised with all flags flying – that his father and his brother had been taken into custody. That Spectrum had finally decided to make good on their threat to shut International Rescue down.

John's stomach lurched. It was always the same – a loss of equilibrium as he felt all the miles of endless space stretching out beneath his feet. He'd had that feeling more and more since that day, triggered by the memory of his Virgil screaming and Scott's voice, frantic, over the comms. And after the screaming had come the silence, when John had sat quiet for hours listening to the cold empty static where Virgil had once been, and staring at the uncaring planet as it moved blue through an uncaring universe.

He'd expected the world to stop turning that day – because how could it go on, spinning blithely with its mass of stupid people fighting over nothing, arguing over lines drawn in sand and dents in their cars and what sort of wine they should serve with their undercooked meat. John had hated the world in that moment. It was all so meaningless and pointless and pathetic, with the Earth moving relentless around the Sun, and the Moon right there grinning in his face, and the cold, indifferent stars stretching out into infinity.

Spectrum's passenger jet was an unexpectedly comfortable affair, dedicated, apparently, to ferrying only the world's most very important personages – as Magenta had confirmed when he'd told Jeff and Scott to take their seats where the World President usually sat.

Magenta had waited patiently while they organised themselves, watched solicitously as they buckled themselves in, and then settled himself down with a full-body sigh in the seat across the aisle. He was still there now, with his legs stretched annoyingly out onto the deep blue carpet and his pink boots crossed lazily at the ankles. Those boots hadn't budged as the SPJ barrelled down the rain-slicked runway and cut its way up through the turbulent layer of cloud that still shrouded London, not even twitching when a microburst dropped them through enough feet of altitude that Scott felt his stomach rise with the loss of gravity, and a loud rattle of glass sounded noisily from a drinks locker located back of the seats. And when equilibrium was regained and the SPJ burst through the cloudbank and accelerated supersonic into blue air and sunshine, those long pink boots uncrossed and recrossed with confident ease, as if the owner of said boots sat through that kind of shit every day.

'Apologies,' Colonel White said as he emerged from the cockpit. He'd disappeared into it when they'd boarded, along with Captain Ochre and another officer in grey, who'd spared Scott a quick 'welcome aboard' before turning a gaze on Jeff that Scott recognised all too well as awe-struck admiration at meeting Jeff Tracy. The Jeff Tracy. Relic survivor of man's first forays to the moon and back – a 'living fossil,' as a 13 year-old Gordon had once quipped with juvenile hilarity before failing to dart fast enough to avoid the back-flip of his father's hand.

Colonel White moved into the aisle and sent Magenta's boots leaping out of it with a flicker of his cool grey eyes. 'Our ETA is twenty minutes,' he informed them, his legs braced sailor-like as the jet juddered into the jet stream. 'We have a fully-stocked bar, if you'd like to take advantage of it.'

'No thanks,' Scott replied. He was full of bad coffee and didn't have the stomach for any more poison.

Jeff had been focused on the sky outside the window and Scott doubted he'd even heard the Colonel's offer, though he shouldn't really have been surprised when his father roused from his contemplation of the bright air and sunshine – being father to five boys had finessed Jeff's ability to focus on more than one conversation at a time. 'Whiskey,' Jeff said, not meeting anybody's eyes.

'Of course,' the Colonel said.

Magenta slid smoothly from his seat and made his way aft to the galley, and White settled himself into the officer's vacated chair. 'You understand that Cloudbase is off-limits to civilians,' he said without preamble. 'We won't ask you to sign the Official Secrets Act, but we do ask that you respect the secrecy under which Spectrum operates. Whatever you see or hear on the base, including the reason why you are there, will need to remain confidential.'

'Or what?' Scott's tongue rebelled against the taste of shitty coffee that had been burned indelibly into his taste-buds. 'You'll keep us in custody until we agree not to talk?' There was a sound of bottles clanking from aft, and what sounded like ice being loaded into a tumbler. 'Been there,' he reminded the Colonel. 'Done that.'

White sighed through his nose. 'Spectrum hasn't exactly been forthcoming with information,' he acquiesced, his voice still annoyingly proper with its regimented vowels – even the man's words had somehow managed to arrange themselves in formation. 'And I agree that HQ did not handle your involvement in the Faulkner incident appropriately. I'm sorry for what happened to your family. And to your organisation.' The Colonel had addressed these last comments to Jeff, but Jeff didn't turn to look at him, staring instead at the rainbow swirl of the Spectrum logo that was emblazoned on the forward bulkhead.

'There will be another briefing session when we arrive,' the Colonel continued when neither Tracy spoke. 'You'll be able to talk to the base doctor, and the officers in charge of this case.'

Scott's mouth twitched with irritation. He hadn't slept for twenty-four hours and he felt like it. 'Another hurdle in our way?' he challenged, leaning back as Magenta passed a half-full tumbler across to his father. 'Or another chance for you to back out?' Maybe he should have taken a drink after all – he was wired-up tight and he could smell the whiskey in his father's glass, strong and sweet and seductive. 'Excuse me, sir,' he addressed the Colonel with forced politeness, 'but it's time you stopped fucking us around.'

Surprise passed across the Colonel's face, fast and fleeting and gone as swiftly as it had appeared. 'I know how this must seem. All this talk of zero point energy and Mysterons no doubt sounds to you like science fiction.' An empathetic smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. 'Lord knows, but in the cold light of day even I sometimes have my doubts.'

'So far,' Scott said, ignoring the Colonel's attempt at apologetic familiarity, 'all you've done is beat around the bush.' He stared into the Colonel's cool grey eyes. 'I want to see my brother. After that, we can talk.'

'There are still reasons to doubt that he is your brother,' Magenta interrupted out of nowhere.

Scott glanced up at the officer, but Magenta's eyes were unreadable in his clean-shaven face.

The Colonel cleared his throat, and Magenta turned on his heels and returned to the galley. 'The Captain is correct.' White returned his attention to the Tracys. 'It might be better if you don't get your hopes up.'

'Excuse me?'Scott said. From the seat beside him drifted the bell-like tinkle of ice as his father drained the whisky from his glass. 'If you didn't want us to have hope, then you should never have made that damn phone call.'

White's head nodded, his lips tight and one hand drifting down to brush the trousers of his uniform where the fabric stretched across his thigh. 'I've read your Air Force file, Mr Tracy. Veteran of the second Siberian uprising, a tour of duty in Bereznia, three commendations for valour and a decorated hero. And now, as International Rescue's field commander, you are the first responder, aren't you. The first on scene. The first man at the locus of danger.'

'Very nice,' Scott said, his eyes never moving from the Colonel's face as the older man clinically listed the chapters of his life. 'What's your point?'

'My point,' the Colonel said as he accepted a glass from Magenta, 'is that you are a man of action. You aren't a man who likes to sit around and wait for the action to come to you. Alright. We will dispense with the pre-brief.' White raised the glass to his lips and swallowed an emotionless mouthful. 'You want this over with. On a more visceral level, you need closure.'

'You're right.' Scott watched as the Colonel sipped from his glass. 'I want this over with. And I'll do whatever it takes to end it.'

Captain Blue placed his cap on his head and inspected himself in the mirror, taking a moment to admire how fine he looked in his uniform and how well the blue of his tunic matched the blue of his eyes. It wasn't arrogance or vanity, he told himself as he slicked an untidy strand of blond hair carefully back under his cap, it was just an unfortunate reality. Being handsome and rich and coming from a background of privilege was equal parts blessing and curse, and not for the first time Adam Svenson found himself wondering how Virgil Tracy had handled it, and that maybe one day they could compare notes. On his cooperative days Tracy seemed like he might be a personable and well-adjusted guy once you got to know him. And once you got past the possibility that he might be a card-carrying Mysteron.

Hair satisfactorily smoothed back into place, Captain Blue shoved his razor back in the drawer and rinsed the sink clean, glancing up when the door chime pinged. Scarlet was meant to be meeting him at the lockdown, not here, but it was just like Paul to show up unannounced to make sure he was getting a move-on. Blue wiped his hands on a towel and strode across to the door – a pitiful few strides with legs as long as his, and the officers' quarters on Cloudbase weren't exactly huge. Just enough room for a bed, a console and a couple of chairs, and a small bathroom at least so they didn't have to rotate through a communal head. He palmed the door open with his hand, stepping quickly out of the way when a floral-scented whirlwind slipped past him into the room.

'Symphony,' he hissed, poking his head into the corridor to check if she'd been seen coming in. The passageway was clear, and he ducked back inside and locked the door behind him. 'What's the matter?' he asked, concerned because she only ever did things like this in the middle of the night when she was sure she wouldn't get caught.

'Nothing,' Symphony said, advancing towards him so that he no choice other than to stand there and let her, or to take a step back until he was butted up against the door. Blue opted to take a step back and found himself butted up against the door.

'I'm on a break,' she told him, amused at his predicament, 'and I was thinking that maybe you might be needing a break too...' She trailed off because the quirk of his lips indicated he knew exactly what sort of a 'break' she meant, but just in case it still wasn't clear she reached for his belt, her hands moving with practiced ease as she worked the buckle free.

'Sorry,' he said, taking hold of her hands and moving them as far away from his belt buckle as he could. 'No can do. I'm meeting Scarlet in twenty minutes and I've still got some reports to – '

'Perfect,' she grinned, her hands slipping out of his and moving back to unfasten his belt.

Captain Blue's eyes turned heavenward as if searching for strength. 'I can't believe I'm actually going to say this, but Symphony, no, right now I just don't have the time.'

'You can make the time.'

'No, I can't, I really really can't,' he said, realising as he said it that he'd already lost the battle. In the three seconds he'd spent telling her he that he really really couldn't, she had his belt free and was working on the zipper of his fly, her hand sliding smoothly beneath his briefs and making him suck in a lungful of air when her cool fingers met his warm skin. 'Karen,' he groaned helplessly as her fingers found their mark.

'Shut up and get undressed,' she whispered, enjoying the feel of him beneath her hand.

'You know how long it takes to put this uniform on?' he asked, breathing hard and yet somehow keeping it together despite all the activity that was taking place in his underwear.

'I do,' Symphony said, 'because every time you take it off you bitch about putting it back on.' She stood on her toes to press her lips against his, loving the baby-soft smoothness of his fresh-shaven cheeks and the hint of alpine fir in his aftershave. 'Just think,' she said, smiling against his mouth and feeling him smile back in return, 'about how much fun we'll have once you get it all off.'

'Alright,' he conceded, one hand slipping along the contours of her Angel flightsuit until he grasped one perfectly-shaped buttock in the palm of his hand. There was no point protesting anymore – all he could do was to flip it around and get the upper hand. 'But on one condition.'

'And what's that?'

'You're taking it off all by yourself, and I'm not helping you.' He raised his hands in the air to prove he was serious. 'And you've only got twenty minutes.'

'No fair.' Symphony's hand slipped free of his briefs and she worked hastily at the fastenings of his tunic. 'Why do I always have to do all the work?'

'Honey,' he said, waving a hand towards himself like a game-show hostess displaying a much-coveted prize. 'You want this, then you gotta work for it. Now,' he grinned down at her, 'be careful when you take off the hat. I just fixed my hair.'

Cloudbase was a magnificent sight as the SPJ made her approach, the airborne carrier glinting like a rare jewel in the eternal sunshine that forty thousand feet of altitude could bring.

Scott had seen the carrier before, of course, but he'd made sure to always keep Thunderbird 1 at the limits of the airborne strike team that his Air Force buddies assured him were aboard. 'Angels,' they had called them as the beer had flowed and the pretzels somehow made their way onto the well-worn boards of the bar-room floor. Exotic and ethereal beauties with unmatched tactical ability and supernatural piloting skills, the words whispered with such drunken awe that Scott was hard-pressed not to smirk as he leaned back in his chair and signalled the barkeep for another round. Angels or no, nothing on the planet could match Thunderbird 1 for speed. And no angel – or devil, for that matter – could ever match Scott Tracy for piloting skill.

The view outside the window changed, Cloudbase drifting slowly out of view as the SPJ moved onto a more direct bearing. Scott's gaze shifted, his father's profile coming into sharp focus with the too-bright sky behind him.

'Dad,' Scott said. 'You okay?'

Jeff inhaled, a long-drawn breath as though his lungs hadn't tasted air in a thousand years and his son's voice had jolted them back to reluctant life.

'Honestly?' Jeff said, turning to look at Scott. 'I don't know.' Pain flashed across his face and made his mouth twitch, and he kept his voice low so the officer seated across the aisle couldn't hear. 'I don't know what to think, son. I don't know what to feel.' He stared at Scott, direct and intense and searching. 'How am I supposed to feel?'

'I wish I knew,' Scott replied. He could smell the whiskey, sweet and strong, on his father's breath.

'I didn't want to hope for it,' Jeff told him, the high-altitude cloud throwing too much glare in through the window and casting a halo through the grey of his hair. 'But now it's all I can hope for.'

'You're late.'

'Am not.' Captain Blue looked at his watch. 'Okay. Three minutes,' he conceded.

'Two minutes forty seven,' Scarlet informed him with deliberately irritating accuracy. 'The SPJ touched down five minutes ago. Fortunately for you the Tracys will still be in processing.'

'Which gives us at least another ten minutes.' Captain Blue closed the door behind him and moved to where Scarlet was sitting in the centre of the small observation room with his chair turned towards the two-way mirror. Scarlet had his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed, and his hat was resting upturned on the chair next to him. He'd been there a while judging from the attitude, and from the empty coffee cup that he nursed in one hand. Blue lowered himself into the nearest empty chair and looked at the prisoner through the two-way mirror. 'What's he doing?'

'Playing the piano.'

Blue stared through the glass. Tracy had put on his change of clothes, and shaved, and his hair was combed neatly away from his face – it had grown too unruly to stay there, but at least the guy had tried. And true to Scarlet's words the man's hands were splayed across his thighs, his fingers tapping out a leisurely tune across an imaginary keyboard.

'His file says he was a pianist.' Scarlet leaned forward to put the empty cup beneath his seat. 'A good one too, if the information is accurate.' He sat back in his chair and looked at Captain Blue as if a thought had just occurred. 'You ever play any instruments?'

'No,' Blue replied. 'Yes,' he corrected, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out in a lazy imitation of Scarlet. 'Sort of. There was a moment in my freshman year, when I was living on campus, and I had this crazy idea that playing the guitar would attract me some ladies. I thought playing the guitar would make me irresistible. Well,' he added as an afterthought, 'more irresistible than I already am.' He chuckled at his post-pubescent naiveté. 'I did the whole tie-dye thing – even grew my hair out and got myself a half-assed goatee going on. My father lost his shit when he got a load of me – stopped my allowance until I started behaving like a respectable Svenson.'

'And what happened?' Scarlet asked.

'I learned to shave and Pop's money instantly reappeared in the bank,' Blue replied.

'I meant to the guitar.'

Blue grinned. 'Discovered I didn't need it. Turns out I have other instruments I can use to attract the ladies.'

Scarlet rolled his eyes. 'You did not just say that.'

'Yes I did,' Blue replied. 'I did just say that.'

'There is something very wrong with you.'

Blue grinned and whispered cheekily, 'just don't tell anybody.'

Scarlet matched the grin. 'Tell me, has Mr Bear been dipping into the honey pot?'

Blue narrowed his eyes at Scarlet's use of his codename. 'What the hell does that mean?'

'You have lipstick in your ear.'

Captain Blue swiped at his ear.

'No,' Scarlet told him. 'Not on your ear. In your ear.' He made a circular movement with one finger in the air. 'Inside that bit, you know, that ridge bit, that thing there.'

'Asshole,' Blue said with his finger in his ear.

Scarlet's grin settled into a smirk. 'Exactly how did you get lipstick in your ear?'

Blue ignored the question – and the irritating smirk on Scarlet's face. 'Is it gone?'

'Yes,' Scarlet sighed with the faintest trace of disappointment. He looked at his watch, got to his feet and worked at straightening his uniform. 'Come on,' he said, handing Captain Blue a pair of restraints. 'Let's get this family reunion started.'

It was not much worse than going through an airport security point, or getting on board an aircraft carrier, or getting into the White House, for that matter – the pat-down was routine, but the full-body scan was probably strong enough to show up what Scott had eaten for breakfast three weeks ago.

There was a moment when Scott had thought the scanner paused a fraction too long on its second pass, and he had licked his lips and cast his eyes towards the technician at the board. The young man stared intently at the display of Scott's inner workings on his screen, his face tight in concentration and his features shadowed blue from the LCD of the panel. It hadn't taken this long when his father had gone through and Scott had held his breath, willing his heart to slow in his chest as he watched the technician chewing on his lip, and maybe sweat had pricked out under Scott's arms as he waited the interminable seconds for the scanner to shut itself down with a loud and unexpected whump.

'All clear,' the tech said from his position at the board, coming out from behind the console and handing Scott his wallet and his watch. The tech was shorter than he'd looked sitting down, and he smiled up at Scott with the reassuring kind of smile that a dental receptionist uses when they ask the patient to take a seat just before the dentist rips their teeth out. 'Welcome aboard.'

The door, when it opened, slid away with a soft pneumatic whoosh that always caught him off-guard.

Virgil's fingers flattened against the white of his Spectrum-issue pants as a draft of cool air rushed in from the hall, the atmosphere suddenly swimming with the mismatched scents of pine disinfectant and day-old coffee. Virgil let the odours move around him, so pungent to his starving senses he could practically see them colliding in the air.

'Good afternoon, Mr Tracy.' Captain Blue dangled a pair of cuffs in front of Virgil's eyes. 'Hands out, palms up.'

Virgil's head tilted back, his hands still pressed flat against his thighs. He'd been deep inside Liszt's Transcendental number 12 and he was resenting the interruption. 'Really?' he said, looking at the cuffs. 'I thought we'd moved past this.'

Captain Scarlet turned from his inspection of the cell. 'You heard the man. Hands out, palms up.'

Virgil's lips quirked at the captain's wary posturing, the fleeting smile making Scarlet narrow his eyes and scrutinise his prisoner carefully.

'What's so funny,' Scarlet asked, his body tight and his fingers lingering over the butt of his gun.

Virgil rose to his feet, carefully and deliberately until he stood at full height and could stare the captain straight in the eye. 'Nothing,' he said to Scarlet, holding out his hands so that Captain Blue could slip the restraints around them. 'There's nothing funny about this at all.'

The interrogation room was small. Claustrophobic. Painted an almost-grey kind of white that blended seamlessly with the bright-lit ceiling and molded imperceptibly into the vinyl-tiled floor. The only blemish Scott could see on that sterile white finish were the scuff marks that streaked low along the walls, where the feet of past prisoners must have screeched along them in their panicked attempts to avoid the worse.

'If you would take these seats,' Colonel White said, motioning Jeff and Scott toward two chairs placed on one side of a white plastic table. He gestured towards the glass inset in the far wall, the mirrored surface bouncing their reflections back in the hard light from the ceiling. 'We'll be watching from the observation room, of course, and two security officers will be posted outside the door. They'll respond instantly if there are any difficulties. But,' he added, moving around to the opposite side of the table where a single chair had been placed, 'in the interests of avoiding any potential danger to yourselves or to my staff, we would ask you not to attempt to engage physically with the prisoner.'

Scott's mouth opened in protest. 'You can't be – '

'Please,' the Colonel said. 'We'll all be safer if you would follow the protocol.' He pulled the single chair out from the table but didn't sit in it. 'These are simply precautions, Mr Tracy. Believe it or not, we're all hoping for the same outcome.'

'Sure,' Scott said, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. He remembered sitting in the same kind of room in one of Spectrum's landside facilities, in the long hard days that followed the incident at Faulkner's. They'd kept him there for hours, with the dust of the tunnel still in his hair, and dirt still streaked across his uniform, and a layer of steel-wool stubble peppered across his chin, and he surely must have stunk of sweat and fear and the terror of that moment when he'd realised Virgil was gone. Scott glanced up at the camera set into the ceiling then looked back at his reflection in the mirror, his eyes narrowing as he tried to see past it to whoever waited beyond.

'Let's proceed,' Colonel White said, straightening in his uniform and glancing one last time at the empty chair.

Scott roused from of his contemplation of the space behind the mirror and turned to watch the Colonel leave, breathing deep because he had to be ready for what was coming next. It was like steeling your nerves for battle, knowing that you'd be lucky if you got out of it alive.

The door slid shut behind the Colonel's retreating back, leaving them alone in the silence with just the sound of their breathing and the sensation of sweat breaking out on the palms of their hands. Scott turned to Jeff and met his father's troubled grey eyes. 'Nervous?' he asked, his voice pitched low because there were ears everywhere, and there were pale faces watching beyond the polished surface of the mirrored glass.

'Hell, yes.' Jeff turned to stare at the single, vacant chair opposite. 'I can't stop thinking what if… '

'I know.' Scott's gaze landed on the empty chair. What if… The statement encompassed every possibility in the universe. 'Dad, I – '

Footsteps sounded outside the door and Scott straightened in his chair. He felt hot suddenly, his palms moist and his mouth dry and there was noise rushing loud inside his head. 'Dad,' he said, but the sound didn't escape his lips as the door slid back open with a pneumatic rush.

'Gentlemen.' Captain Scarlet strode into the room and gave them a perfunctory smile. They had met before, of course, in the dark hollow space where Faulkner Labs had been.

Scott felt his mouth tighten. 'Captain,' he returned, because if he couldn't be polite he could at least be civil. Scott made as if to stand, but the Captain waved him back into the chair.

Scarlet moved to the opposite side of the table. 'I assume the Colonel has briefed you on the protocols.' He looked down at them, his eyes as cool and blue as Scott had remembered, and his voice still so smug and annoying that Scott wanted to punch it right down the back of Scarlet's throat.

'The prisoner will sit here.' Scarlet pulled the empty chair out further than the Colonel had. 'And you will refrain from making physical contact.' He turned towards the door before either Jeff or Scott could reply. 'I hope you're prepared,' he said as a white-clad figure stepped into the doorway. 'I know from experience that this can be quite a shock.'

So this is what shock feels like, Scott thought as the blood drained abruptly from his limbs and pulsed clamouring into his brain. He knew it was in his brain because he could hear it there, rushing and screaming and drowning out everything but the light, tunnelling his vision down to one single, narrow point so he could see nothing else but the man framed in the doorway, and he didn't dare to look away in case it was one of those midnight visions, the shadows you can see in the corner of your eye, only when you turn to look at them they were never really there. Scott swallowed, tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, his lips parting with uncertainty and his hands balling into fists because he desperately wanted to reach across to touch his father, to shake him and say to him Are you seeing what I'm seeing?

And maybe for a moment Virgil had the same thought, the same rushing tunnel vision, because he faltered on the threshold for just a moment, his lips parting infinitesimally in maybe surprise or recognition, and then he was over the lip of the door and being steered into the room by Captain Blue, the officer's hand tight on Virgil's elbow as he guided him down into the chair.

There were no more words as the officers left the room, no more warnings and instructions, just Scarlet pausing on the threshold before he finally closed the door. And then the three of them were alone, listening to the sound of footsteps receding down the hall and looking at each other across the sterile white expanse of table, and Scott wondered if it would be alright to grab hold of his father now.

Virgil shifted in his chair and carefully raised his cuffed hands to rest them on the table. He was clean-shaven, his hair combed, the remorseless white of the table reflecting up into a face that was pale and tired and drawn. The only colour to be seen were the bruises around his eyes, as though he hadn't slept for days. Or weeks. Or maybe even months.

Those bruised eyes stared back at Scott, moved to his father, moved back to Scott, and back, and forth, and back again, the expression in them unreadable, unfathomable, as though Virgil was trying in his own quiet way to assimilate this unexpected new reality. The Colonel's words about Mysterons and the zero point field filled Scott's mind, tumbling one over the other as he stared into Virgil's unblinking eyes.

This wasn't how Scott had imagined it – not even in those bitter moments of weakness when he'd cursed his brother for dying and leaving them with nothing but a gaping and all-consuming void in their lives. They missed the sound of him at the piano. They missed the creak and clatter of his easel when he propped it on the balcony. Even the smell of him had slowly vanished from their world – the oil paint and turpentine, the engine grease and pomade. It was inevitable, Scott guessed, that the wound would slowly draw itself shut. Time heals all wounds his grandmother had said, but this was a wound that was still bleeding, only Scott hadn't realised it until now.

'Son,' Jeff said, the single word breaking the silence, his father's voice filled with all the hope and fear that two years of grief could bestow.

'Dad,' Virgil said, his voice as rich and familiar as it ever was. 'Scott.'

Scott looked at his brother and wanted to bury his face in his hands, because with those two small words he knew it was true, that this was Virgil, alive, and whole, and Scott was afraid that after all this time of holding himself together, he might finally crumble apart.

Virgil took a breath and leaned toward them across the plastic of the table. 'What took you so long?'