*falls through the door at 10pm having just finished work* *drops this chapter at your feet* *immediately falls asleep*

AKA the author is very tired and time is a concept which no longer applies to me.


The ranch was unnaturally empty. Silent. Still. As if the soul had been ripped out and all that remained was a shell. There was nothing out of place – the cleaning bots had continued to do their jobs undisturbed and consequently the layer of dust present in every other property across the country didn't exist here. But this house had always harboured a crowd, a family. It was a large building and, with just Alan for company, Scott felt strangely like a ghost. It was eerie walking the empty corridors and expecting to see someone dart into a room or for distant piano music to drift on the air.

He stowed the car below ground, safe behind metal barriers next to a dilapidated hoverbike. He'd grown oddly attached to the vehicle. It had protected them from every horror the world had thrown at them and it had gotten them safely all the way across the states, even through radioactive ashfall, dust storms and unexpected hordes of infected. Of course, Scott had to give himself some credit for driving all that distance, but still. He was feeling sentimental. He gave the bonnet a swift pat on his way past.

Alan attempted to make a beeline directly for the International Rescue training quarters where Brains' advanced tech was more likely to provide them with a radio signal. Scott snagged the back of his brother's hoodie and forced him upstairs into the main house. They'd gone without a radio for this long – as much as he was also desperate for news, half an hour more wouldn't make much of a difference. He sent Alan to scout out the rest of the house on the pretext of checking everything was in order but mostly just to keep the kid out of the way.

The fridge was almost empty – which was as he'd expected – but there were a few longer-life items stashed away in there and the cupboards were full of cans and jars and air-tight boxes that had kept their contents as fresh as the day they'd been made. The ranch was off-grid, so he checked the levels of the water tank and ran an electronic sweep of the generators and solar-panels. Everything looked good, remaining solidly in the green. He emptied the supplies he'd brought from the car into cupboards and left the rucksack on the kitchen table.

A hologram projector winked on the sideboard.

"EOS?" Scott tried, without too much hope. There was no reply. He sent the projector back into sleep mode and set the coffee machine whirring.

Alan wandered back into the kitchen clutching a cleaning bot in his arms. "Look," he announced, with an immensely proud smile. "WALL-E is still here."

Scott took a moment to scan his memories. "WALL-E? Like… the robot from the movie?"

Alan rolled his eyes. "The cleaning bot. Remember Gordon and I named this one? It has yellow paint on it from when we accidentally spilled Virgil's palette all over the floor. See?" He patted the bot fondly and put it back on the floor when it flashed at him indignantly. "If we're not trying the radio yet, then I'm gonna take a shower."

"Good," Scott teased. "You need it."

Alan glowered at him. "Hypocrite."

"Oh, I know. I'm going to wash too, just as soon as I've had my coffee."

"Can I have some?"

"No."

Alan vanished into the corridor without further word, scuffing his shoes sulkily as he rounded the corner. Scott was hard-pressed not to laugh. Instead, he retrieved his coffee and headed for a shower of his own.

Unlike Gordon and Alan, who never left anything behind after their visits to the ranch – not because they were organised but because Virgil insisted on checking for them after that one time when Gordon had left his stuff in the closet and had been forced to fly back and collect it all – Scott always kept a spare change of clothes in his designated room here just in case. He'd never actually figured out in case of what, but he was fairly certain that the thought of zombie apocalypse would never have crossed his mind. Now he was just grateful to his past self as he had his own clothes which actually fit to change into after his shower.

Great water pressure was a luxury which he'd sorely missed. He couldn't keep his back to the spray for long because ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, but it was practically a miracle to feel clean again. The dust was everywhere. He had to pick it out from under his nails, scrub it from his scalp, practically use up an entire bottle of shampoo.

And that was just the dust. There was dried blood, general grime, gore from creatures that should have stayed within a video game and never crossed into reality. The cuts across his knuckles had scarred. His wrists were finally beginning to heal though, that was a bonus. His back was another matter. Not a problem so much now that they were here because they had always kept medical supplies at the ranch and besides, hopefully they'd be reunited with their family soon enough.

Atmospheric damage meant that temperatures kept fluctuating wildly across the world. Outside, when they'd first arrived, it had been mild. Now, it plummeted so sharply that there was a faint whirr as the heaters activated around the house. Scott switched off the water and listened carefully. Through the vents, he make out the whistling of distant wind and if he could hear that then there was a serious gale picking up outside. Not that it mattered – they were safe inside the house.

The cabinet in his en-suite was still stocked, which meant shaving supplies, toothpaste, merciful painkillers, clean bandages and multivitamins thank you universe. By the time he'd changed into clean clothes and headed back to the kitchen, he felt more human than he had done in over a week. Even his temperature seemed to have returned to within the healthy range. He drained a full glass of water and then forced himself to drink most of a second glass too, because he was very aware that he was dehydrated and that wasn't helping matters in so far as healing and fighting off any infections were concerned.

There was that strange brain-fog of exhaustion taking root in his head again, despite the caffeine. He tossed some ingredients together and stared at the stove for a good minute trying to remember how to work it, just in time for Alan to walk in and start judging him.

"This is why you're usually banned from cooking."

Scott let Alan take over and sank into a chair. "This is why… no. I've got nothing. Just… pretend I came up with something incredibly witty and clever."

"You're not John," Alan announced, sniggering to himself.

"Thanks," Scott deadpanned, and put his head on the table. The next thing he knew was obnoxious music blaring from the speakers while Alan slid back and forth between the spice rack and the stove, so he made the executive decision to fall back asleep.


From just after lunch right through until the late hours of the night, they sat on opposite sides of the bench in Brains' lab and tried to coax a signal out of the radio. All frequencies were filled with white noise. The constant static bled tension into the room. Alan kicked at the wall, leaving a dusty dent from the soles of his boots, and stormed out. Scott slid down in his chair and dropped his chin to the table-top, eyeing the radio and the blinking red light above the projector that proved it was searching the airwaves without anyone to hear or connect with. Thunderbird Five was either offline completely or there was simply too much interference. Scott knew which one of those reasons he'd prefer to be the truth.

Alan returned ten minutes later armed with his console in the hopes of rigging up some form of signal booster. Scott left him to it and retreated upstairs. Feeling defeated was never a fun experience, but it especially sucked when you were so close to the finish line only to realise the track stretched on for miles with no end in sight.

What was he supposed to do if the radio remained dead? Hole up here forever? Sooner or later, they would run out of supplies and besides that, what were they supposed to do? Sit around hoping for rescue, praying that somehow someone would think to check here? With the state of the world, there was no way they would make it back to Tracy Island – it was simply too far away. Trekking across the states had been trial enough and they hadn't even travelled as far as the east coast.

It was snowing outside. Snowing. Actual ice. Here. Scott rubbed a circle in the fogged-up window and stared incredulously at the landscape. Weather reports from the projector proved that he wasn't seeing things. The temperature had somehow plummeted even further. He wrapped his hands around his mug of coffee and suddenly felt very, very glad that they'd made it here before the snow had hit. Just the thought of spending the night in the car during this made him shiver. Or perhaps that was the fever back again. He held a wrist over the scanner to check and banished the results with a mental note to take more of those vitamins.

"No luck." Alan trudged into the kitchen, voice rough. "I'm heading to bed." He grabbed a glass and held it under the faucet, frowning as his gaze trailed over the window. "Is it snowing?"

"Hmm." Scott observed another flurry dance by the window. "Fancy going sledging tomorrow?"

The joke fell flat. Alan watched the snow for a moment longer before turning away. "Night."

"Sleep well."

Alan's laugh was bitter and sharp-edged. Scott repressed a wince.


During the early hours, something started beeping. It was an electronic noise, high-pitched, and in his half-asleep state Scott found it more of an annoyance than anything else. It went away for a while and then returned, growing louder the longer he ignored it. In the end he stumbled out of bed and went in search of the source.

A row of floor-level lights lit up when he stepped into the corridor, triggered by motion. The rest of the house stood still and silent and any sounds from outside remained muted by snow and reinforced glass. Alan was still asleep, oblivious that anything was wrong, door propped open a crack to let the warm glow of a lamp spill into the hallway. Scott pushed it shut and carried on into the lounge where a projector above the hearth was blaring red.

Proximity alert. It was on night-mode, designed only to wake those in certain rooms, such as certain heads of security, usually-space-bound-monitors, and, of course, commanders. He tapped on the hologram and let the information spill across open air. Live feeds hovered to the side, displaying the delightful sight of a collection of infected clawing at the perimeter fence. Another group were scrabbling at the gates. One was attempting to dig underneath. Two more had become caught in barbed wire and had torn great chunks of flesh away in their struggle to free themselves, leaving white bone for all to see.

Scott stared at it for a moment. All traces of tiredness fled. He took a closer look at the live feed, as if he'd mistaken it, but no, there the creatures were, crazed with the desire to feed. That manic desperation in their eyes was unnerving even through a camera lens.

"For fuck's sake," he muttered. "It's two in the morning. Couldn't you at least wait until dawn?"

The infected merely snapped at the lens, leaving bloodied smears. A small crack appeared across the screen. Scott resisted the urge to just turn around, take a sleeping pill and pull the duvet over his head. It was highly unlikely that they would breach the perimeter, but just in case – he couldn't take that risk.

Kayo wasn't the only person who'd memorised their security measures. Scott entered the access codes and activated as many defences as possible. Electrifying the fences was first on the list and even seemed to take down a few of the infected for good. It was difficult to see past the cracked lens, but a few of the creatures were sprawled in the dirt, twitching sporadically. The fresh snow was ruined with blood.

With the defences active, the infected were essentially incapable of breaking past. Unfortunately, logical reasoning and Scott's paranoia didn't line up, so he collapsed onto a sofa where he could still see the projector and the readouts and waited, just in case. He zoned out eventually. Time ticked over. His imagination ran wild and played havoc with his heartrate. Shadows reared into demons in the dark. Footsteps that had never existed crept closer. Somewhere, seemingly closer than on the other side of that fence, the infected were howling.

Something snapped. He jolted upright and the room swam. In front of his face, his hands seemed to swirl into something inhuman. It was very hot. He wasn't even wearing a shirt, but he was sweating as fiercely as if he were in the middle of the Sahara Desert. Something bumped his ankles. He yanked his feet onto the sofa. The cleaning bot continued on its programmed path, none the wiser about the human counting himself down from the precipice of panic on the sofa above.

It was so hot. He hauled himself off the sofa and stumbled in the vague direction of the kitchen. Reality was an illusion that flickered in and out of existence. He fumbled with the fridge door and stood in the blast of cold air until he was shivering so violently that his teeth chattered.

A faint thud shook the cutlery on the draining board. He whipped around so quickly that gravity decided to desert him, or perhaps that was his own sense of balance. His elbow cracked against the sideboard. He scrabbled at the cupboard for a handhold and ended up half collapsing into a chair. Sensors revealed that the sound had been snow falling from the roof. He stretched his arms across the table, trying to soak coolness into his skin.

"Dangerous temperature detected," the scanner informed him – he didn't remember reaching for it, let alone activating it, or anything that had occurred in the past however-many minutes – in a cheerful voice that didn't match its words and oh, he had never missed EOS this much in his entire goddam life. "Advised: take action to reduce fever now."

At some point he'd either fallen asleep or passed out or something. Perhaps awareness abandoned him whilst he was in his feverish haze of semi-consciousness during which anything could have snuck up on him, or on Alan, and – you're defenceless right now, there's infected outside, fuck, what's happening? – he couldn't think straight. Or at all. Or…

The fever dipped sufficiently for him to keep track of his mind. There was a main bathroom with another cabinet that was more likely to have supplies such as fever-reducer. He made a beeline for it. Left the light off. His head was pounding. Boxes of tablets clattered in the sink. A spare toothbrush fell to the floor. It didn't really matter how much noise he was making because Alan would probably sleep through a hurricane, but he still flinched. There, at the very back of the shelf – fever reducer. Hopefully in date. He guesstimated the dosage, figuring he'd have to drain multiple bottles of the stuff to actually OD anyway, and tumbled into the bathtub to wait for it to kick in.

He fell asleep again.


Scott dragged himself from uneasy dreams just before dawn. Pale light whispered at the window. He clambered to his feet, still shaky, and tidied away the mess of medicines across the sink and the tiles from the night.

Footage showed that the infected were still milling at the fences but had made no further progress. He found a protein bar in the cupboard and took it downstairs with him to Brains' lab. Even battling nausea, he was well aware that he couldn't keep taking a cocktail of meds without eating anything.

He didn't hold out much hope for the radio but switched it on anyway. There was a burst of static then that continual humming as it sought a signal. He wandered around the lab whilst keeping an ear out for any change. There were old designs projected along the wall, some that he recognised from more recent module upgrades and others that had evidently been rejected. The original prototype for Gordon's gecko-gloves still sat on the side from its original tests here.

Yet more static.

Scott took a bite of the protein bar and returned to the bench. Alan's wrist console – partly deconstructed – littered the surrounding worktop. He prodded it. The collection of code that the kid had last been attempting to work on bounced into the air.

"Huh." Scott examined it, recognition flickering at the back of his mind. It was a very familiar fragment of data, he just wasn't sure why. He vaguely remembered it from when John had been explaining something about Five and boosted signals and why messages on their private IR server were far likelier to get through than others on remote radios. Or something. Either way. Cool.

Enter code, the console instructed. He typed in Alan's only for it to flash red. CLEARANCE REQUIRED. Except – Scott's own code didn't work either. He took another bite of the protein bar while he considered it. The only thing that possibly made sense was – this coding had been created when Jeff was head of IR. Had they ever changed it? Updated it? Shifted top clearance over to Scott's id? He couldn't ever recall doing that for this specific piece of data. Why would they have done? They'd never had the need. Nothing had ever caused interference severe enough for them to need to use their own devices to essentially supercharge their own private IR signal.

Scott knew Jeff's codes. He'd been his father's second-in-command – he'd had to know them in case anything ever went wrong – and oh it had gone very wrong.

CODE ACCEPTED.

"Holy shit," he whispered. The static cut out. "Did that just…?"

CONNECTION FOUND: TB5. BROADCASTING ON ALL I.R. CHANNELS.

For a moment, he didn't move or speak or even think. The radio sat there patiently, within reach, just waiting for him.

He cleared his throat. "Hey, uh… Thunderbird Five, do you copy?"

Silence.

Give it a minute, he told himself. It'll take a few seconds.

"Five?"

Panic lurched. He gripped the edge of the worktop.

"Five, come in."

Nothing. Just grating, eternal silence. No static – it was definitely connected – there was just no one listening… or no one there to answer.

Please, please, please…

Keep calm. Everything is fine. Just breathe. Remember not to lose your cool.

"Dammit John, answer the fucking radio!"

Or… you know. Not remain calm. He lowered his forehead to the worktop and took a deep breath until his lungs ached and his back stung, but it did nothing mitigate the panic, prickling all over like a thousand tiny needles all perfectly poised to inflict maximum damage. Because – there was no reason for this. No reason why there was no answer. It was connected, Thunderbird Five was online, there was just no one there.

But then-

EOS's voice was the most beautiful thing he'd heard in forever.

"Sorry," Scott said faintly. "Can you repeat that?"

EOS was busy uttering her own apologies. "I'm so, so sorry. I tried to keep track of you but then something damaged the suit and your earpiece was gone and I couldn't make contact with Alan's suit either after you breached the atmosphere because the interference was too great and I'm so sorry, Scott, I swear that I tried, honest."

"EOS, I…" He took a forcibly level breath. "Okay. Look, it's fine. Or at least it doesn't matter now. But I need to know where my family is."

EOS faltered. "I… I don't know. I… I can tell you that your grandmother is on Mars, as are Brains and Parker."

"They're safe?"

"Yes." This was the first point EOS had sounded confident about. "Yes, they're safe. They're living with Captain Lee Taylor."

Scott pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Spots whirled in his vision. "What about Penelope? Did she get off the satellite too? Where's Kayo? And where the hell are my brothers?"

EOS quietened. "Penelope and Kayo returned to Earth to follow a new lead that Penelope found on the satellite. They went out of radio range and… Virgil wanted to wait. His argument was that they're both immune and highly skilled and would get in contact as soon as they could. Gordon wanted to go after them. John suggested a compromise and said they should all return to Tracy Island for the time-being as that's where Kayo and Penelope would return first."

"So, they're at home? On the island?"

"Last I heard from them. But Scott, I lost the connection nearly a week ago."

He had so many questions, but it suddenly struck him that hidden under the forced stability of EOS's voice there was a strain of emotion. "Have you been alone up there?"

There was a pause.

"John promised me I'd never be lonely again," EOS whispered plaintively. "But then he left me. Everybody did."

"I'm sorry. Shit, that's… I'm so sorry, EOS. Can't you… I don't know, is there a way for you to stay with Brains?"

EOS's voice was very small. "I didn't want to take my focus away from Thunderbird Five. John trusted me to look after this place. It's our home."

"Is that what he said?"

"…He said I was the best decision he ever made and that he trusted me to make my own choices."

And that. That right there.

"He knows, doesn't he? He knows it's still in his system."

"Combined with the information Penelope brought back and Virgil's research… yes. John figured it out, as did I. It's… the parasite hasn't infected anyone else because his own natural immunity and the antibiotics he was taking kept it weak. Unfortunately, every time he puts a strain on his body he weakens his immune system, so the parasite gets stronger. Our working theory was that if it gets strong enough, that's when it can infect others."

"And he went back to Tracy Island? With Virgil and Gordon?"

"Yes."

Scott didn't buy it. He believed EOS all right, but John definitely had another plan up his sleeve. Just what the hell are you doing, Johnny?

"I'm sorry, Scott."

He buried his head in his hands. "Yeah. Me too."


"You look awful," Alan informed him, wandering into the kitchen in bare feet and immediately hopping onto a counter to save himself from the cold tiles. "Did you sleep at all?"

He didn't give Scott a chance to answer, knocking his heels against the cupboards in a steady drumbeat.

"I forgot how great it is to sleep without the Hood snoring away in the backseat. Hey-" He slid down from the counter and crossed to the fridge. "-are you hungry yet? 'Cos I'm starving. Also, I've been thinking, and I reckon I might know another way to boost the signal. I mean, technically it involves hacking my suit, but eh, minor details."

It had been a while since Scott had seen Alan this upbeat. Reaching the ranch had given him fresh hope and a good night's sleep had probably helped lower his anxiety levels. It was a shame that Scott was about to ruin that by admitting he'd already been in contact with Thunderbird Five and that their family was now scattered across two planets and multiple continents. Except – his attention was caught by the jacket Alan was wearing – deep blue, lined with snatches of yellow with a tiny fish embroidered on the cuff.

Scott stared. Then he stared a little longer just in case the sight miraculously changed in front of his very eyes, as if reality were playing another joke on him. But no. The jacket remained draped around Alan's shoulders, a little oversized but not so large that it swamped him.

"Isn't that Gordon's?"

"Huh?" Alan inspected the jacket. "Oh, right, yeah." He shrugged. "I found it. He must have left it here last time we visited."

"No," Scott said slowly. "He didn't."

"Uh, yeah." Alan nudged the fridge shut with one foot and turned to lean against it, facing Scott with his arms folded across his chest. "How else would I have gotten it?"

"Alan, I'm telling you he didn't leave it here. And I know that for a fact because Virgil checks both of your rooms every time we leave to make sure neither of you forget anything."

Alan snorted. "He's such a mom."

"You're missing the point. Gordon didn't leave that jacket here. I'm ninety percent sure he wore it about a week before everything collapsed, so he definitely had it at home."

Alan let his arms fall to his sides. "Okay, so then how did it end up here?" Realisation trickled onto his face, stark in the clear light of day. "Holy crap. Wait… are you saying…?"

"Gordon was here."

Alan nearly slipped over as he bolted around the table and grabbed the projector from the sideboard. "Check the security logs," he demanded, slamming it down on the table. "It would show up if anyone had been here since our last visit, right? He'd have to use his code to disable the alarms, so it would be logged."

Scott drew the security logs into being with a dawning sense of disbelief. There was no way. There couldn't be any way. Because Gordon was supposed to be on Tracy Island. Gordon wasn't supposed to be here, on the other side of the world. But there, stamped in the activity records, undeniable and unquestionably true: GCT. Gordon Cooper Tracy.

"What the fuck?" Alan whispered over Scott's shoulder. He drew back, eyes wide. "But that's… he was here on Tuesday."

"I know."

"Today's Thursday."

"I know," Scott repeated, torn between hysterical laughter or tears or possibly putting a fist through the wall. "We just missed him. By two days." He raked a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the way his fingers were shaking. "Two fucking days. Less than that, actually, because we got here yesterday afternoon. Are you serious? We were that close."

"We were that close," Alan echoed, voice very small. He sank into a chair. "We…" He ducked his head and stared at the floor as if it had greatly offended him. "Scott," he whispered. "He was here. He was right here. And now…" He flexed a hand as if he could turn back time with a single snap of his fingers.

If Scott had trusted his legs to actually remain holding him upright, he'd have started pacing because there was so much energy itching under his skin, energy that threatened to turn to anger, but he wasn't convinced he would stay standing and collapsing in the middle of the kitchen was not the way to go about reassuring Alan. So. He folded his arms on the table and buried his face on top.

"I don't get it," Alan whispered. He drew his feet onto the chair and clutched his knees to his chest like a little kid, not frustrated like Scott was but deeply exhausted instead which was arguably worse on so many levels. "What's he doing here? He's supposed to be on Five."

This was the perfect moment to tell Alan about everything he had found out, Scott knew, but somehow he just couldn't bring himself to break the news. Because if Gordon was here, alone, then where were John and Virgil? Where were Kayo and Penelope? Why the hell had everyone split up? Didn't they know that was the worst possible move to make in this situation? No, telling Alan would raise more questions and concern than it would provide answers and comfort and for now… it was kinder to keep him in the dark.

Alan pulled the jacket closer and flipped the collar up to hide his expression. "I can't believe he was right here, and we missed him." He glanced up sharply. "Hey, we only missed him by twenty-nine hours. So that's… what, forty hours now? He's probably in the same state still. We could track him down, right? Find him? Scott, c'mon, let's go."

"Alan," Scott said flatly, mostly into the tabletop but knowing that Alan had heard him from the way his brother's fidgeting suddenly stilled. "We can't go after him. Security logs show he has a car and a full tank of fuel. He could be anywhere by now. We have no idea which direction he went or where he's headed. And have you seen the way our brother drives? He could be halfway to LA by now."

"We can't just give up on him!"

"That's not what I'm saying."

"That's exactly what you're saying." There was an ugly screech of hardwood chair-legs against tiles as Alan shoved his chair back. "I'm not going to give up on Gordon just because you're scared!"

Scott didn't even bother lifting his head from the tabletop. Occasionally, when Alan's temper got the better of him like this, it was like trying to face down an active volcano – there was no point in trying to defend himself. He just had to accept it and wait for Alan to come to his senses. No doubt the kid would storm off, strop for a while, then think it over and return with an apology and a workable suggestion. Alan was good at coming up with contingency plans – slingshot around the sun, anyone?

Even so, it hurt to be shouted at.

"Remember when I told you that we need to be on the same team and work together?" He closed his eyes against a stab of pain in his temple, hidden behind his arms. He could sense Alan hovering by his side, practically bristling with anger like an enraged cat – a cat with his claws out, ready to strike, and this cat knew which blows would hit hardest. "This doesn't seem like we're on the same team."

"Yeah, because you won't give me a good reason why we can't rescue Gordon."

"I gave you multiple good reasons," Scott reminded him gently. "I want him back just as much as you do, but we have no idea where to even start. Gordon's more than capable of handling himself – you're not giving him enough credit. If he's out here, it's because he has a plan, which is more than we have right now."

"Bullshit. If you wanted him back you'd be out there searching for him. In the past, nothing would have stopped you." Alan's voice rose dangerously close to a shout.

Scott gritted his teeth. "Same team, Al, remember?"

"Fuck you. Maybe we're not on the same team, 'cos I refuse to be on a team with a coward."

Ouch.

Scott sat up and ignored the wave of light-headedness that immediately washed over him as a result. "That's enough. You don't get to speak to me like that." He planted a hand on the table to anchor himself upright. Balance was a miracle of the past. "I am trying to keep you safe."

"Well, you're not doing a very good job, are you?" Alan shot back, too caught up in the sudden rush of anger – not anger, Scott reminded himself, just a different manifestation of fear and worry – to really consider what he was saying. He gestured to the live feed of the infected. "Does that look safe to you? We were supposed to be on Five. We were supposed to be on Mars. But instead we're here because you wanted to play hero and now we actually need to rescue someone, you refuse to do it."

"I get you're upset. I get it."

"You don't get it. How can you possibly get it?"

"Alan."

"Stop saying my name like that!"

Scott faltered. "Like how?" he queried, genuinely baffled because he hadn't been aware he'd been saying Alan's name like anything. "Really," he continued as Alan scoffed. "Like how?"

Alan stalked back and forth across the kitchen, seething. "In that stupid soft, concerned voice you do. Just stop it. You're not Dad!"

Yeah. That… That stung a bit. A lot. Actually, it felt more like being hit by a rockfall without any protective gear. It wasn't even the first time Scott had heard that line, but it never lost any of its potency. He didn't have a comeback. He didn't want to have a comeback. He didn't want to fight.

He tried to ignore the instinctive urge to wrap his arms around himself.

Alan wasn't done yet. "You're immune. You're safer than any of us. Yeah, Gordon can handle himself, but not against this. You saw that woman. You know the choice it comes down to. They'll tear him apart, or he'll tear himself apart. How can you just let that happen? We could go out there right now and find him. We've got drones, we've got tech here we can adapt and use. We could find him."

"We don't have… None of our tech works properly without Thunderbird Five. You know that. Yes, I know he's not immune. But neither are you. I can't go out there blind and put you at risk as well as Gordon. If we knew where he was going then yes, I would drop everything and run after him in a heartbeat, but Alan, we have no idea. I refuse to get you killed."

"Why not? You did a fantastic job of getting John killed."

Alan had crossed so many lines during this entire argument, but none of them came close to this. He seemed to sense it the second he said it, closing his mouth with an audible snap but not quite quick enough to keep his final shout from echoing around the kitchen. He sort of just stood there, frozen, still breathing heavily but slowly recoiling, looking almost sick with horror. But he didn't apologise. Just stared. And then, in a very small, ragged voice tainted with dread, he whispered: "Are you crying?"

Scott had been sorta floating for the past thirty seconds, detached, unaware of his physical existence, but feeling returned to him in an unwelcome rush that left him dizzy. His eyes were stinging. He buried his head in his hands to take a deep breath – that caught sharply in his chest like a knife – and felt dampness on his face. Huh. That was- Huh. He sought for the words but there weren't any. It just… Honestly, he'd have preferred it if Alan had just hit him.

"We will find Gordon," he said instead, pretending his voice wasn't all crazy kinds of broken. "But not yet. Not like this. We'll find him in a safe way that doesn't put anyone else in danger. For now, I suggest you make something to eat and take some time to yourself."

Alan was still staring at him as if he'd seen a ghost. "You're crying."

Scott pushed himself out of the chair and miraculously made it out of the kitchen without stumbling or collapsing against any walls. Alan didn't say anything, just let him go without question. Which was a good thing because Scott didn't have any words to offer him. Hell, he didn't have anything to offer him.

That detached floaty sensation had returned. It was good. It meant everything was numb. He couldn't feel his back or his wrists or the way the impact his knee had taken back in the city had reignited with a vengeance after so many days of driving. He couldn't feel the crushing weight of guilt or the way certain words in certain phrases had a way of stabbing him directly in the heart as if they were a blade with his name on the hilt. It was just- existence without existing. Ironic, really, because wasn't that exactly the same thing that could be said about the infected?

The radio he'd brought up from Brains' lab was on the chest of drawers by his bed. As he closed the door behind him and locked it, a tiny, purely logical part of his brain drew his attention to the fact the light was blinking. He answered it on instinct alone. Pressed down on the button. Didn't speak.

"Does anyone read me? Any… anyone? Please?"

Scott slid down the wall to land in a heap on the carpet. He cradled the radio to his chest. His words were caught up in his throat. He bit back a sob, closing his eyes, just listening to that voice a little while longer because-

"Can anyone hear me?"

He cleared his throat. "I hear you. I… I hear you."

The radio was silent for a beat. Then:

"Scott?"

He tipped his head back against the wall, unable to keep his voice from breaking on the sob this time, but it didn't matter if the person on the other end heard, of course it didn't matter, because this was-

"Virgil."