Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who celebrate it. If you don't, I hope you're having a great weekend in general!
I call this chapter: Scott has issues, John is awesome and everyone needs a hug.
Right. Warning for a panic attack in this chapter. Keep yourself safe! :)
In other news, ya boi is now back in quarantine. Yay. My colleague tested positive and I don't want to infect anyone so I'm chilling at home just in case. Plus side - more writing time. Down side - crippling loneliness. Ah, I'm having a great week y'all.
It was a long-running family joke that John had more letters after his name than existed in the actual alphabet. Every time a form had to be completed, there'd be yet another qualification that he'd acquired whilst bored during downtime or when the radios were quiet with no one in the world – or off it – requiring rescue. It wasn't even a surprise anymore for John to have suddenly become an expert in a vague, super specific subject, seemingly overnight. He claimed it was so he had all the necessary expertise in order to do his job and guide them out of difficult situations, but Scott secretly suspected that it was because no matter how incredible Five was, and how human EOS was becoming, Space could get boring, particularly when you were a genius – and John was a genius, there was no denying that: even Brains agreed.
So for John to have detangled the mess of data Scott had essentially stolen, sorted through his own medical files and drawn a valid conclusion, all whilst still recovering and doped up on medication – it wasn't as shocking as it probably should have been. If it were anyone else, Scott would have taken the findings with a pinch of salt, but it was John, which meant the research was not only accurate but that the theorised result was most probably true, and that? That was a potential game-changer.
Immunity? That suggested that there were others out there, just like them, still surviving, still fighting the good fight. Of course, the question remained as to why EOS hadn't been able to identify any survival groups, but EOS wasn't omniscient, so the possibility remained. And then, of course, the million-dollar question – if John was immune, was that a trait that extended to the entire family?
"Ah," John said dryly as Scott jolted upright as if he'd been electrocuted. "I was wondering when you'd wake up and join the party."
"You're immune?" Scott caught his brother's warning stare and froze as Alan – who apparently was asleep across the end of the bed, partly lounging over Gordon's knees like some sort of bizarre overgrown housecat – stirred a little, falling back into sleep with a soft sigh.
"Immune?" Scott repeated, quieter, echoed by Gordon's startled whisper.
John swept a hand towards the hologram projector and EOS obediently produced a series of complicated biological data packets.
"It's a working theory," he explained. "I don't know for sure. But I started thinking about how else I could possibly have survived five bites and there was no other plausible explanation. Actually, I think that's what the doctors were trialling in Jerusalem, with those quarantine zones."
"Cages," Scott corrected, not bothering to conceal his bitterness. "Call them what they were."
"Cages," John continued smoothly without missing a beat. "I don't think they were all refugees. I think some were people who'd already been exposed and hadn't shown any symptoms. At least that's what the notes suggest. But the DNA testing… which is what you originally photographed, before EOS did a little bit of research of her own to get me the extra info… that's where it gets really interesting. See, there's this one specific mutation. I nearly missed it at first, but Brains helped me out and we finally found it when comparing samples. I'll save you the complicated details, but…"
"Immunity," Gordon finished for him.
John shrugged. "Possibly. That's the consensus so far, anyway. But it could all be a massive coincidence. I may just have struck lucky for once. There's no way to test it, not unless we find the same mutation in the rest of us, and anyone feels like volunteering for a bite."
"Actually…" Gordon began.
"Oh no," Scott realised aloud. "I know that tone of voice. What batshit scheme have you thought up now?"
"A bite isn't the only way to expose someone. We have a sample of the parasite… theoretically, couldn't we whack some stuff in a test tube?"
"That's not how it works."
"Technically," John cut in. "That's not impossible. It's not easy but it's not impossible, and it's certainly better than exposing one of us. Just… DNA sample. Parasitic sample. A ton of lab safety practices. MAX and EOS can run the main show."
Gordon clapped his hands together gleefully – or not gleefully, because Scott was growing better at identifying when it was a mask and when it was genuine and right now he suspected it was the former.
"Brilliant. You wanna stab me with a needle?"
"Brains will want to stab you with a needle."
"Alternatively," Scott countered, "You could use me as your guinea pig. I've been exposed more frequently than Gordon has, so there's a higher chance that I should have been infected by now, so…"
"Just test everyone," Gordon announced, flopping backwards across the mattress and flicking Alan on the forehead when he gave a complaining murmur. "What's the actual likelihood of this being a Tracy gene? Like, all of us being immune? Is that a possibility?"
John banished the holograms. "Honestly? I have no idea. This is barely even science at this point, I don't have anywhere near enough test subjects and an ethical committee would crucify me, not to mention the lack of proper procedures available and…"
"Don't kill my vibe, Johnny."
John tossed a cushion at him. "You know what will kill your vibe? That family meeting."
Gordon paled. "Shit. I forgot about that." He froze as Alan rolled over, tangling a hand in the hem of that godforsaken Hawaiian shirt as he subconsciously sought comfort.
Scott's instinct was to reach out, move closer, provide that necessary reassurance until the nightmares subsided or Alan awoke altogether, but John's soft tap to his wrist kept him in place. He shuffled a little further upright until he was sat next to John and could observe his two youngest brothers without coming across as too overbearing. John reached over to grab one of the spare pillows and motioned for Scott to lean forwards so he could stuff the pillow behind his back.
"Thanks," Scott murmured.
John gave a nonchalant shrug. "Got sick of watching you wince every time you move," he explained, all faux-casual as if showing that he cared was outlawed, adding teasingly, "old man."
Scott didn't bother to point out that there were only two years between them. No one picked an argument with John and won. He slumped a little against the pillow and tried not to fall back asleep again. There was a fierce ache in his muscles from earlier that seemed to have seeped into his very bones, not so bad that he could be bothered to ask Virgil for meds but sore enough that moving required energy that he couldn't find.
A corner of the blanket wrapped around his shoulders. John stared at Gordon and Alan as if nothing had occurred.
"Go back to sleep if you're tired," he said quietly, without looking away. "You need it."
"Hmm."
"Scott. We have three hours until that meeting. Gordon's got Alan. I've got you. Just let us handle everything for a while. Go back to sleep."
At the end of the bed, Gordon had carefully tucked the extra-fluffy weighted blanket around Alan's shoulders, displaying an open expression of concern that he would have kept hidden had Alan actually been awake. There was a gentle affection in his actions, in the way he eased the kid's fingers away from the hem of his shirt but replaced the fearful hold with his own hand, running a thumb across Alan's knuckles until the death-grip eased somewhat, and murmuring something soft that Scott couldn't quite hear but was doubtlessly comforting. It was at moments like this that it was easy to see that Gordon had that same protective streak as the rest of them; that same big brotherly instinct to look after the younger. John was right – there was no need to worry about Alan for the time-being, not when Gordon was on the case.
The thing was: Scott was concerned about Gordon too. But right now Gordon was fully invested in looking out for Alan and that would be enough to keep him grounded for a little while at least.
The problem was that no matter how exhausted he was, how badly his body was protesting after being pushed beyond its limits on the ship, there were too many questions buzzing around his brain. It was a sort of low-level energy that fizzed under his skin and had his fingers drumming against his stomach.
"Did you know?" he asked finally, because that was the only thought he could apply words to and confidently translate right now – the rest was incomprehensible white noise. "About the immunity? When you… in the supermarket. Did you have your suspicions back then?"
John was silent for a moment.
"Would it make you feel better if I told you I did?"
Scott tried to consider the implications but there was too much noise to focus on that one thought. He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."
John tipped his head back against the wall. "I didn't know," he admitted, hushed. "It just happens that the universe was smiling on us for once." He lifted one hand to his shoulder and gave a single pat before returning his hands to his lap, a silent sign of permission.
"You sure?"
John's smile was quietly amused. "Am I sure that I didn't know about the immunity, or am I sure that you're allowed to use me as pillow?"
"…Both?"
John lifted his book higher with a fond sigh. "Go to sleep, Scott."
When Scott awoke it was to a dark room and distinct lack of younger brothers – save for John, who had also drifted off at some point and whose shoulder Scott was still using as a pillow. For a minute he remained where he was, content to let the moment drift away slowly, but then the soft tip-tap of footsteps across carpet alerted him to someone's presence – presumably what had woken him in the first place.
Grandma noticed he was awake before he could speak and greeted him with a warm smile and a mug of something cinnamon-spiced and warm.
"Don't you worry," she whispered, fondly teasing but serious all at once. "Penelope made it, not me. It's supposed to help with anxiety. She was making it for Alan but thought you might like some too."
Scott reluctantly lifted his head from John's shoulder and sat upright to accept the mug. "How is Alan?"
Grandma perched on the end of the bed, lifting a blanket into her lap to fold. "He's been better," she admitted, knowing better than to lie to him. "But he got some sleep which helped, and he's eaten. He's with Kayo right now. She challenged him to Mario Kart to distract him."
"Using a controller would prevent him from biting his nails," Scott realised aloud. "Huh. Nice work, Kayo."
Grandma smiled. "That's what I said." She reached across and put a hand on his shoulder, and he leant into the touch. "Check in, Fly-Boy. How are you doing?"
Scott watched the cinnamon swirling in the mug. Warmth bled into his palms. He closed his eyes for a second. "Tired," he said at last. "Head's finally quiet though, so that's something."
Grandma made a soft sound of concern. "Kayo said you saw some pretty gruesome sights earlier. It takes a lot to rattle that girl…"
It was a hidden question. Scott couldn't bring himself to answer it just yet. He tightened his grip on the mug and tried to use the sensation of heat to anchor himself to reality. There were memories floating just within reach that he didn't want to access again, ever, not even while John was right there beside him, safe and sound.
"I remembered what happened in New Zealand," he admitted in a rush, trying not to stumble over the words as sights and sounds flashed behind his eyes. "All of it. How it happened. How I didn't… John made his choice and it turned out okay in the end. But I froze. I fucking froze." He didn't dare look up. "That's not supposed to happen anymore. That was the whole point of therapy, wasn't it? It was supposed to fix me. And I thought it did because I never had a problem on rescues. But apparently not, because when it comes down to it, I still freeze when someone's dying in front of me."
Grandma tried to keep her voice even. "I think that's a perfectly valid reaction. I think a lot of people would respond in the same way."
"I'm not supposed to be most people. I'm supposed to be better."
"That's an unreasonable expectation to set for yourself."
"Not really. Dad always wanted me to be more, so…"
Grandma's expression was unreadable in the dim light but with her hand still on his shoulder, Scott felt her tense.
"Your father wanted you to be the best version of yourself that you can possibly be," she said evenly, "but that didn't mean he expected you to be superhuman."
"That's not what I'm saying! I just meant that-"
Grandma shut down his protests in an instant. "PTSD doesn't go away with a few therapy sessions, kiddo." She waited a moment, as if expecting Scott to respond, but continued when the silence hung heavily. "Given the current circumstances and everything you've gone through in the past month, all that you've seen and experienced… a relapse is completely understandable."
"Don't call it that," Scott snapped. "Just… don't."
Grandma's voice was tentative. "Why not?"
"Because it sounds like I'm fucking broken!"
This time there was no denying it – she definitely flinched. And wasn't that the most painful thing? To know that you were causing so much pain that one of the strongest people you knew was flinching right in front of you.
"You're not broken."
"Right." He nearly choked on a damp chuckle that blurred the boundary between a laugh and a sob. "Of course I'm not. I nearly got John killed, but sure, I'm perfectly functional."
Grandma took the mug from his hands and reached for him, but he threw himself to his feet so quickly that he nearly tripped over the blanket on the floor.
"I'm a liability at this point. What happens if I freeze again? What if that had happened earlier? I could have gotten Gordon hurt or worse."
"But you didn't."
"But I could have done." It was a strange feeling, a little like floating and yet being too real and too much all at once… His heart was doing odd tricks in his chest. It was too hot and yet he was shivering or shaking or both. He wiped the sweat off his hands on his jeans and the room seemed to half in size, the dark shadows in the corners closing in to condense everything into a tight cage. "I… I put him at r-risk, just by being m-me."
"Hey."
When had John woken up?
Voices.
"Grandma, please, just give us a minute. You're making things more complicated. Yes, I know you mean well, but please get out."
Hands.
Hold on tight.
Don't let go.
Don't leave me.
"Feel that?"
There was a faint pressure. Scott tracked it back to his hands and blinked, once, twice, realising that John was right in front of him and they were sitting on the floor and John was holding his hands, squeezing.
"Too dark," he choked out.
"EOS, lights, lowest setting."
The shadows retreated back to their corners. Light was good. Light was a barricade against sneak attacks. But light wasn't safe. Nothing was safe. Even here, home, away from the main threat that crept ever closer, there was no safety, not when the danger was in their own minds. Good luck finding secure ground when the foundations of your subconscious were crumbling.
Protect your brothers.
Except when you're the one putting them at greater risk.
"I f-froze."
John winced. "Right. That."
Typically, rooms weren't supposed to spin. Then again, typically Scott didn't feel like he was having a heart attack, so, you know… fun times. Talking of time, he was taking up too much of it. Too much everything. Take a breath, there's oxygen here somewhere, oh look, John's talking again…
"Scott."
John sounded strangely panicked. John never sounded panicked. Occasionally overwhelmed but never properly panicked. And yet…
Why is he crying, a small, logical part of Scott's brain asked, filled with concern because he could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen John cry.
"Come back to me."
Breathing hurt. Then again, everything hurt, so what was the difference?
"That's my line," Scott tried to say, but it came out as more of a strangled wheeze which was far from reassuring. Everything was shaking. The carpet writhed as if an earthquake had gripped it, or maybe that was just his sense of gravity tipping itself the wrong way up, down, side-to-side… No, no, that was just John, pulling him close, and Scott could hear his brother's heart rate, elevated but steady.
"Hey," John said quietly. "Can you hear me?"
Scott kept his face buried in John's shoulder but managed to locate a hand and offered a thumbs-up.
"Okay. I'm not going to say much, and you don't have to listen. If this is too much, just tap and I'll stop talking. And don't start thinking that bullshit about being treated like you're broken, because this isn't that; this is boundaries and recognising limits and you do the same thing with me when we're at social events."
John paused. The world kept turning. Nothing was collapsing. And yet Scott still felt his heart rate quicken until he heard his brother's voice again.
"I direct all missions in a certain part of the world to the others, anyone other than you. But I also ensure that Alan or Kayo are piloting Four on any rescues related to hydrofoils. I try my best to keep Virgil away from deep cave systems or mineshafts. I don't send Alan on deep-space missions alone, not because he isn't capable, but because beyond Mars and Earth, there's a sense of solitude that can get overwhelming. Kayo's bad days conveniently match with the days when I decide we need a three-man crew on Two. My point is that we all have aspects of our pasts that could impact our behaviour in the field. That doesn't make any of us a liability. It just means that we need to play to our strengths. There is no reason for Gordon to go on a hydrofoil rescue if Alan's free to pilot Four, especially when Virgil could do with a hand over on… I don't know, say a landslide. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"
"Sorta."
John's hand stilled where he'd been tracing constellations across Scott's back. "But the main problem here isn't that, is it? If it were any of us in your shoes right now, you'd be on my side. It's because it's you specifically."
"John?" Scott couldn't keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "Just stop. Stop trying to rationalise this. We both know I'm not actually going to listen. Look, I j-just… I need a few minutes. And I'll be fine."
"Bullshit."
"I can pretend to be fine, and they'll buy it."
"That's not… Please tell me that you can see how fucked up that is?"
"No more fucked up than me freezing while you get torn apart."
John flinched.
"Sorry," Scott muttered, but made no move to shift away, mostly because he was ninety-percent sure that John was the only thing keeping him upright. "I'm trying my best."
"I know you are."
"I keep making everything worse."
"That's a lie."
"I kinda fucking hate myself half the time, y'know?"
John inhaled sharply. "I really wish that was a lie too."
There was a little piece of lint on the carpet. Scott picked at it. There were grazes across his fingertips from somewhere and the tiny fibres stung against raw skin. Sometimes, when he took a moment to listen to his own mind, he could almost hear his childhood-self sobbing. When he looked in a mirror, the sobs turned to a scream.
"I wish it was a lie too," he whispered, and pretended not to notice the way his voice cracked on the final two words.
"One to ten. How bad?"
Scott finally pulled back and nearly collapsed onto the carpet as his arms trembled under his weight. John was watching him, eyes bright and still tearful but determined.
"One to ten," he repeated. "How bad, Scott?"
"Johnny. Seriously?"
"One to ten."
"We don't need to do this."
"Well, Gordon clearly thinks the opposite and right now I'm inclined to agree with him."
See, this was why he shouldn't have fallen asleep – it had given his brothers the opportunity to talk about him, made even worse by the fact that these were the only two brothers who knew particular details about his past. And John knew everything. Gordon was just observant. Shit.
"Gordon needs to focus on himself."
"One to ten, now."
There was that edge to John's voice that was a warning, like a shark circling a surfboard, no longer screwing around.
Scott stared at his hands in his lap and reminded himself to take a breath.
"Five," he admitted in a very small voice.
"Right, so that's a seven."
"I'm not going to do anything. I'm just… thinking. Thoughts are…"
"Thoughts are dangerous," John finished.
Scott shook his head. "Only if you act upon them." He chuckled humourlessly. "Memories are riskier right now. I'm serious, I'm not… Don't look at me like that. I'm-"
"If that sentence ends in fine, I will be donating Thunderbird One to a scrap heap."
"I was going to say I'm not a danger to myself. A danger to anyone else is a different story mind you, because I can't keep my goddam head in the game, but…"
John frowned. There was a gleam in his eyes that promised he had found a tiny detail worth focussing in on and was now about to chase it like a cat after a mouse. This didn't bode well for Scott, but he knew from experience that there was no escaping John's questions, so he simply clambered onto the bed and collapsed across the mattress, pleasantly surprised when his brother joined him.
"What's the deal with you and One?"
"The deal used to be that I flew her, and I was pretty dang good at it."
"Scott. C'mon. You barely reacted to that taunt about the scrap heap."
He stared at the ceiling. There used to be glow-in-the-dark stars here.
"I don't think I can fly her anymore."
John grew very quiet. "Can you elaborate?"
"No."
"No?"
"Not now, at least."
"Okay, so-"
Scott caught John's wrist and tapped it twice.
"Silence now?" John realised aloud. He gave a weary sigh. "Alright. We can do that." He rolled onto his side, watching. Scott didn't have the energy to tell him to knock it off. "Don't leave me?"
Every promise, all at once.
Scott hooked their pinkies together, earning a faint sense of amusement from the childlish gesture.
Okay. I promise.
He could hear John's smile in his brother's voice.
"For the record, I love you very much, no matter what."
Scott closed his eyes against a starless ceiling. "I know," he whispered. He didn't need to say it back, not to John, because John already knew. He always did.
Grandma resurfaced around half an hour later – sufficient time for Scott to have drifted back to sleep and woken up again with a pounding headache but significantly less shaky. She didn't appear to be holding any grudges towards John for ordering her out of the room earlier. In fact, the only readable emotion on her face was worry – fond and weary, carefully honed over years of watching her grandsons grow up, pushed to its upper limits as they consistently found their ways into situations that stuck with them long after the danger had faded. It was easy to soothe the fears of a child – a lot less easy to provide comfort when there was no guidebook for traumatised adults dealing with the apocalypse. But she had never been one to walk away from a challenge and so here she was and here she would remain, with a warm smile and open arms – and a glass of water with a strip of painkillers on the side because she just knew.
The painkillers did very little, but they kept Scott's headache from blurring the lines of a migraine which, given he had that family meeting in just under twenty minutes, was a mercy. He downed the glass of water under the eagle-eyed stares of both his grandmother and his brother – those two were formidable on their own, let alone when they teamed up – and finally escaped the pair after blagging his way into heading to his room for a change of clothes.
It was proof of just how out of it he still was when he didn't notice Virgil's presence until his brother knocked on the doorframe to announce his arrival.
Scott didn't bother with words, just held up a hand to signal that he needed a moment as he continued trying to struggle his way into a hoodie that either had shrunk in the wash or was simply cooperating with the universe's theme of let's screw Scott over. Both options were equally likely.
Virgil pushed the door to and moved to sit on the bed. "What happened?"
Scott finally yanked the hoodie over his head. "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because it's a valid question." Virgil tilted his head, silently observing. "And because you've been avoiding me like the plague."
"Is plague really the best thing to mention right now?"
Virgil shrugged, leaning forwards to balance his elbows on his knees. "Probably not," he agreed evenly, "but nice deflection. Seriously though. You only ever avoid me when there's a reason for me to be concerned."
"I'm not avoiding you."
"Yes, you are - because you know I can read you like a book. Case in point right now."
There was a gap in the shutters. The sea seemed sad. Not angry but hurt. A weary shade of grey that belonged only to the depths of dawn before the sun had risen, when the world stood quiet and contemplative and grieved for all those who had no one to remember them. Now, that sorrow was still present, etched into the rocks and scorched into the seabed where the remains of the ship and its condemned crew slowly settled into eternal darkness, tainting the rest of the world with them. Absently, Scott wondered how EOS's octopus family were doing – if they'd survived or, if not, whether she'd monitored them right up until their final moments, because loyalty even through great pain was yet another trait she'd inherited from her creator.
"Where are you right now?" Virgil asked quietly. He rose to his feet and moved to Scott's side, steps silent against the carpet. Ghostlike, Scott thought, and shivered. "Hey." Virgil tapped him on the temple. "Come back to me."
"I'm right here."
"And?"
Scott reached out and drew the shutters tightly shut. "Nowhere else. Just here." He tangled a hoodie drawstring around his thumb to give himself something to fiddle with. "Gordon finally spoke to me. Which… I don't know. There's more there. A lot more. But at least he's talking. To John too, which is even better because John can actually help whereas all I can do is listen."
"Listening's more valuable than you realise."
"I feel like that's a hint."
Virgil shrugged. "Interpret it however you want."
Scott let go of the drawstring with a sigh. "Yeah," he agreed with a hint of amusement. "I could definitely benefit from listening more, you're right."
"So listen: we love you. You're important to us."
"Ew. Is this going to be another conversation where I have to talk about feelings?"
Virgil relented, albeit grudgingly. "Alright. I can tell I'm not going to get anywhere at the moment. C'mon, let's get this meeting started."
"Déjà vu is a bitch," Kayo announced as she slipped into the Den and curled up in the tiny space left beside Penelope, looping an arm around her friend's shoulders and looking hopelessly fond as Penelope finally smiled – a rare sight these days and all the more precious for it.
It was a strange day when Kayo was the loudest person in the room, but Scott couldn't help but be grateful to her. He knew exactly what she was doing – overcompensating to draw the attention to her to give them all a moment to gather their thoughts without needing to put on a mask. There was something desperately sad about that, but he couldn't bring himself to analyse it right now, especially not when his attention had to be on the task at hand. He couldn't help but catch Gordon's eye and tried not to wince when he saw his own apprehension mirrored there. This was not a conversation that any of them were looking forward to.
Leant against the wall, arms folded and expression grim, Parker gave a gruff cough. He hadn't said a word to anyone since their return from the ship, not according to Grandma and Penelope when Scott had briefly caught up with them both earlier. Now, eyeing the holograms beginning to form above the projector, Parker gritted his teeth and straightened.
"Who's going to start then?" he asked.
Gordon inhaled sharply and fixed a lopsided smile on his face. "The world ended because of some weird green slime. Go figure." He swept a hand towards Brains. "Hey Einstein, do you want to take it from here?"
Kayo was right, Scott decided: déjà vu was a bitch – a stone-cold one in fact. It seemed like only hours yet a lifetime ago at the same time that they'd first gathered in this room: shellshocked, disbelieving, still in denial about what was to become their new reality. So much had changed since then – the most important aspect being that it was Brains holding the attention of the room rather than John, who was holding an armchair hostage with his crutches.
The dynamics seemed to have shifted too – instinctual teams formed since childhood merging into a new structure, like how Gordon was now at Scott's side rather than Virgil's or John's, Alan was sat at Virgil's feet, Penelope was curled against Kayo and John held his crutches like a physical barrier against the world – maybe that last one wasn't so different after all.
Brains lifted a hand without speaking and EOS immediately leapt into action. Holograms whirled around the central projector. She predicted his every point without needing to be asked, retrieving diagrams and data so quickly that it was almost dizzying to watch – like observing a firework display on the wrong side of drunk.
There was a soft whirr at Scott's side. He twisted to spot MAX crouched just behind him, camera partly shuttered, head bowed. The blue glow of the holograms reflected across the lenses. There was something very forlorn about the robot, and, glancing back at EOS and Brains, as in sync as if they were psychically linked, the reason why was abundantly clear. Progress was necessary but it always hurt when you were the one left behind.
Once upon a time, Scott had called MAX a mere machine. These days, he knew better.
He patted MAX's hull. There was no pleased trill, not like usual, not like before, but MAX settled at Scott's side and seemed content to be a part of the shadows rather than spotlight if that was what it took to remain in the room at all.
Science was Brains' domain but there came a time when it needed to be neatly explained in a short and relatively succinct way, neatly tied up with a dash of humour on the side before anyone could start crying. This was usually when John would take over and Gordon would interject with ill-timed quips that would get at least a snigger out of somebody (Alan - it was always Alan). But not today. Today John was remaining in that armchair. Today – Gordon hauled himself upright and offered Scott a hand – apparently the roles were shifting yet again.
Summarising didn't last too long. It was EOS's additional information that she had neglected to mention beforehand that took the time. Scott took a step back to get a better look at the newly projected holograms, vaguely aware of Gordon muttering "what the fuck" under his breath.
"Are those… coordinates?" Penelope queried, leaning forwards in her seat.
John's eyes gleamed. "Of a sort."
Alan's voice was soft with awe and a hint of confusion. "They're state vectors."
"Woah, slow down a second." Gordon flung up a hand, splitting a hologram into thousands of tiny blue light shards. "I thought this was the location the message from the ship was being beamed to. Are you telling me it was a satellite?"
"Not was, as in past tense," EOS corrected. "Is. It's cleverly masked. I almost missed it completely. But it's there and it's very much still active."
"Still active like it's still broadcasting?" Scott guessed aloud, ignoring the way his pulse leapt at the mere thought of what EOS was suggesting because he knew that tone in her voice from John's, which meant…
"Once I bypassed their security systems I was able to get a proper scan." EOS didn't hesitate. "I double-checked. Then I triple-checked. But the results are conclusive."
John finished the sentence for her. "There are life signs on the satellite."
"Looks like we just found our first bunker," Grandma remarked.
Kayo's smile was electric. "Looks like we just found our first lead."
Review?
Kat x
