I meant to upload this chapter 15 minutes ago but a bee flew through my window and proceeded to freak out my dog who went wild while I was trying to find a glass to catch aforementioned bee. The entire time my cat was yowling at me for food and tripped me up twice, causing me to drop the bee and have to catch it again. You can't make this shit up. Anyway, I'm finally here!


The doorway led into another tunnel. Thunderbird Two touched down on the platform and rolled along on her wheels. This passageway wasn't as dark – lit by pale blue LEDs which lined metal ceiling panels – and was nowhere near as long but it came to a seemingly dead-end. Then, as soon as Two rolled onto the final section of floor, that distinctive hiss of hydraulics sounded, followed by a faint jolt as something connected to the underside of Two's hull, holding her firmly in place.

Virgil sat up ramrod straight in his seat. "What the hell did they just do to my ship?"

John made a wild grab for his console – which had slid across the dash where he'd stowed it temporarily – only for that strange sensation of falling to grip them all for a split second before gravity caught up with them again. The floor ascended past their eyeline as the panel Two was secured to lowered into a great cavernous space. The sudden change in light was so harsh that they were temporarily blinded.

Alan yanked his hood over his head. "Ow."

"Jeezus, fuck," John spat, rubbing at his eyes. Scott gripped the back of his brother's chair, trying to ignore the instinctive panic at losing his vision, blinking so frantically that tears welled up. He swiped them away, regaining his ability to breathe as the world swirled back into focus, albeit choked by spots as his eyes adjusted.

"Warn a guy next time," Virgil muttered, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow, squinting as he realised the lights weren't disappearing any time soon. "Great hospitality they've got going here."

Scott moved to stand between the two front seats, examining the expanse outside the window as the platform continued to descend. Alan scrambled upright, half crawling up the dash to regain his footing, blinking owlishly.

"Wow," he murmured, echoing Scott's thoughts. "What is this place?"

Strobe lights flooded the expanse in a white glow, vicious and harsh and utterly void of any welcoming aura, a sort of scientific laboratory lighting. They were in a hangar – a massive hangar, larger than their International Rescue one back home, far greater than anything Scott had come across even in his USAF days – and the platform finally set down alongside rows and rows of other aircraft, jolting slightly as it locked into place. Distant shouts echoed across the vast space as workers flitted between the planes. A crane swung low across the far side. The familiar thrum of machinery grew audible.

"Holy shit," Alan whispered, nose pressed to the window. "There's gotta be at least a hundred ships out there."

There were classic fighter jets, multiple crafts marked as GDF fleet, varying military ships – drones, manned planes, several helicopters, a couple of new model Chinooks – even a few space-graded models, wings and tails all lined up neatly as if they were ready for battle. And now Two sat alongside them, dwarfing the Lockheed jet docked immediately to her left. Internally, Scott was nerding out, because come on, those were some really freaking cool aircraft out there, even if they weren't even near the same level as One. From the amused look John sent him, his brother had already guessed at these thoughts.

Virgil was too focussed on the immediate fate of his Thunderbird to appreciate the contents of the hangar – or even the impressive architectural design it had taken to construct such a space in the first place. He powered down to conserve fuel but didn't disengage the safety protocols.

Gordon let his breath go in a rush, whistling past clenched teeth.

"Don't do anything dumb," he warned, directing a pointed look at Scott. It wasn't entirely necessary because Scott knew when to pick some of his battles and starting a fight with people who had the power to build and operate a place like this was a kamikaze run. He lifted his hands in surrender.

Gordon, somewhat appeased by this gesture, gave him a final stare, then reached for the radio. He didn't initiate a call, just waited, frozen to the spot, not even tapping with anxious energy anymore, just still, which was wrong, wrong, wrong, and put Scott even more on edge than he already was.

A collection of workers – presumably engineers – had stopped their tasks and instead were gathering around Two, pointing, whispering, gawping, all wondering at the appearance of a Thunderbird in their hangar. Two was impressive on the best of days – an engineering masterpiece – let alone in the middle of the apocalypse when the majority of survivors had assumed International Rescue was just another relic lost to happier times.

The radio finally choked into life. "Darn it, Tracy, you just lost me twenty bucks. I bet you'd been eaten by a rotter."

"Sorry to disappoint," Gordon quipped. "But, uh… we got room for any more folks down in Sector Echo? I found my…." He ducked his head, hiding overly bright eyes from view. "You know my family. The whole dang world knows my family. They've got skills to contribute. And I've gotta tell you now, Bruce, it's all of us or none of us."

"Mission status?"

Gordon faltered. "Uh…"

"You know the drill, Tracy. If you didn't complete your task, you ain't coming back in 'til it's done and dusted. So. Mission status?"

Privately, Scott thought, what the ever-loving fuck? He made the wise choice to keep that particular line to himself.

Gordon shifted from one foot to the other. "Uh," he coughed, passing a hand over the back of his neck, unable to meet Virgil's curious gaze in the reflection across the glass. "Yeah. It's done. Mission completed. So, about my family, do I-?"

"Report for debrief by sixteen-hundred."

Gordon hesitated. "What about my family?"

"They're cleared for initial entry. They'll have to go through processing though, just like you need to go through decontamination."

The call ended without waiting for Gordon to agree. The workers outside were creeping ever closer, awed expressions only extenuated by the bright lights. Gordon slumped against the dash, clawing a hand through his hair, breathing slightly ragged. Virgil reached out, put a hand on his brother's bicep for a moment, squeezed, then let Gordon stand back upright.

"You good?"

Gordon tipped his head back, knocking against the bulkhead with a painful thud, still fighting tears. "Yeah Virg," he sighed. "I'm always good."

"What mission was he talking about?" John queried, latching onto the detail which frankly was the least of their concerns at current.

Gordon shrugged, moving to the back of the cockpit. "Don't worry about it, Johnny. I've got it covered. Just standard recon BS. I've gotta log those bandits too, especially the ones who… uh… didn't walk away."

John was too damn good at controlling his emotions to let them play out on his face, but Scott was standing close enough to him to pick up on the tiny flinch. The memory of that knife hitting the ground, the metallic ring, blood-soaked hands and haunted eyes – it all came flooding to the surface. He brushed his hand against John's shoulder, faux-casual, just enough to knock his brother back into the present.

Alan knocked his hood down, determination sinking back into his posture. "Processing sounds super sus and if I get thrown into a cage with zombies I will totally haunt y'all from beyond the grave – although maybe not because I'd just be one of them…"

"Hey Al," Gordon teased, tossing an arm around his brother's shoulders and trying not to look too hurt when Alan shoved him away, "Maybe leave the pep talks to Scott."

Virgil ghosted a hand across the controls. "This doesn't feel right."

"They won't touch your ship, Vee," Gordon assured him, sounding genuine for the first time since their arrival at this godforsaken place. "Only the smaller crafts. Two isn't of use to them. They want fighter jets and surveillance drones." He patted the bulkhead fondly. "Trust me, the green giant isn't going anywhere. She'll stay right here until we need her again."

John lifted his console. "I'll add a few layers to our security. Just for peace of mind."

Virgil whirled on him at once. "Do not push yourself. Look at me. John. Look at me. Let me see your eyes."

John raised his chin, glowering. "I'm not wearing my contacts. Christ, Virg, have a little faith."

"You're a nightmare, Jay, and you know it."

John hid a smirk behind his console. "I'm a delight." He slapped the side of his chair, beaming as the console shone green. "Excellent. All done." He stashed the console in a locker, only stumbling a little and managing to play it off as tripping over a stray sock Alan had left on the floor. "Ready to go?"

"Just head through the doors," Gordon informed them. "The engineers can direct you. I'll be right down. I've just got to grab something."

Virgil eyed him suspiciously. "Grab what?"

"Just something. Jeez, Virg, anyone would think you don't trust me."

The silence was almost painful.

Gordon stiffened. "Great. Thanks for that. Good to know. Just- I'll catch up with you later."

John waited until the door had closed behind their brother before speaking. "He's hiding something."

"No shit, Johnny," Scott muttered, earning an elbow to the ribs as a reward. "Hey! That hurt!"

"You'll live," John retorted, and gave him a shove towards the exit. "Come on, get your ass moving already. It'll be 2070 by the time we get through processing at this rate."


The engineers must have been given orders to leave as by the time the elevator pitched them into the hangar, the space was deserted. Green arrows along the wall guided them to a different door, away from the main service entrance, marked with biohazard symbols which, admittedly, wasn't the most welcoming sight in the world and didn't install anyone with much confidence. Once they had stepped over the threshold the door immediately slammed shut behind them, sealing with the same controlled hiss as an airlock.

Scott ran a hand over the smooth surface, feeling around the frame as there was no handle, confirming his suspicions that it couldn't be opened from this side. A blinking red light appeared above the door, immediately followed by an electronic voice which ordered him to step into the centre of the room.

"No going back now, I guess," Virgil observed, voice tense like a tightly wound spring, gaze fixed rigidly on that red light marking the door as sealed. "Only way out is through."

"Through what exactly?" Scott muttered, very conscious of hidden ears and eyes in the walls. The entire room was covered in a clinical white from floor to ceiling and even the lights were the harsh hue fit for a laboratory. "What is this place?"

"Decontamination chamber?" Alan guessed aloud. He pointed to the varying vents set into the ceiling, one for every second panel. As if on cue, there was a distinct click followed by the slow whistle of gas releasing. A strange fog dispersed from the panels, descending swiftly to the ground and curling around their ankles like a very unwelcome cat.

"I can't scan anything," John reported, sounding more put out by this fact than particularly alarmed, although the slight clench of his jaw suggested secret unease. He gripped Alan's shoulders and tugged his brother closer, falling back into the instinctive circle they had formed, back-to-back so that no one could get the drop on them.

"Please do not be alarmed." The electronic voice was back.

Scott glowered at that blinking red light, hoping there was a camera hidden behind it. "You try not being alarmed in our shoes."

"It's not toxic," Alan pointed out, shifting closer as a tendril of fog snaked around his wrist. "So… there's that, I guess? It could be worse."

"Decontamination complete."

"Oh, thank fuck for that." John broke away from the circle as a door on the far-side began to slide open, swiping his hands down his arms and chest as if he could brush off any remainders of the cleanser. It wasn't quite as bad as the decontamination showers Scott had taken back home following his numerous radiation exposures, but not by much. That chemical taste had infiltrated his sinuses, leaving his throat raw and tickly, inviting a coughing fit in the not-so-distant future, and if it was bothering him then he could only guess how much worse it was for John with his frankly terrible health at current.

The door led into a new room where they were greeted by a duo dressed in GDF hazmat suits, expressions completely concealed by helmets and body language impossible to determine through such bulky layers.

Scott stopped short, a little taken aback by the continued silence and lack of introduction, although the one on the left appeared to be bouncing on their heels with apparent excitement. The right-hand figure attempted to inconspicuously elbow their companion, gruffly clearing their throat. Scott stuck out a hand, unsure of how else to proceed. There was a brief movement as John stepped up to his side, a wordless exchange passing between them in that split-second of eye-contact. They had to play this carefully.

The right figure – clearly the superior – politely gestured for Scott to retract his hand. Their voice was muffled by the speaker in their suit, modulated with robotic enunciation.

"Please don't take offence, but I can't shake your hand until you've been thoroughly screened. The decontamination process you've just been through is only the beginning – it counteracts the exposure to radiation you may have faced. In a minute, we'll ask you to remove all items on your person and place them in the box provided. You'll be examined for any open wounds, and you will be provided with new clothes."

"You want us to strip?" Alan exclaimed, aiming for outraged and instead landing closer to incredulous. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Hell no, buddy. This ain't Vegas, and I'm not that cheap."

"Alan," Virgil sighed, resigned to these sorts of remarks from years of flying alongside Gordon. "Shut up."

John ignored them both. "Will our property be returned to us?"

The left figure ducked their head sheepishly. "It has to be destroyed. Sorry. It's just to safeguard against… well, you know. Who knows what kind of hazardous material could be carried in?"

That certainly explained what had happened to Gordon's original IR suit and why he was now wandering around in GDF issued gear. But these suits didn't just hold protection against the infected, they were filled with various IR tech and if they ended up in the wrong hands… Scott didn't like the idea of that, and he didn't need to check with John to know that his brother was on the same wavelength.

The right figure cleared their throat. "Following this, you will report for background checks and an overview of the facility. We'll assign you a role, a room and an ID code which you will use throughout your time here. You will have to enter quarantine for at least twenty-four hours during which any and all current and past medical issues must be reported."

Alan stuck up a hand. "I had chicken pox when I was thirteen, do I need to report that or…?"

Gordon's absence apparently meant Alan felt the urge to fill his brother's shoes in terms of providing unnecessary comments. John clearly found this highly irritating. Scott secretly wanted to laugh. But they had to maintain an air of professionalism, ensure they didn't tip the scales away from their current precarious balance where they still had some semblance of control over their fates. The GDF had been somewhat unpredictable before, even more so now.

"Injuries will also have to be noted," the right figure attempted to continue.

Alan lifted a hand again. Virgil smacked it back down. Alan shot him an affronted look and continued regardless.

"Not to sound like an asshole, but you do know who we are, right? Like, I'd have thought the giant green Thunderbird would have given us away, but in case you didn't know… getting injured is kind of a major occupational hazard in our line of work."

"Alan," Virgil hissed.

"What?"

It was disconcerting to be faced with only reflective orange vision shields, but Scott fixed his sight on where he guessed the right figure's eyes were. Not exactly a challenge, but enough to assert a sense of authority.

"He's got a point," John pitched in, just to emphasise their united front. "If you want a full medical history for each of us, we're going to be here a long time."

The left figure rocked back on their heels. "Uh… that's… I don't know if…?"

"You can raise any further queries with your assessors," the right figure finished for them, voice sharp-edged with warning, head tilting ever-so-slightly.

Scott tracked the angle to a fine crevice between the tiles in the top-left corner of the room and noted the tiny flashing light within, confirming the theory that there were cameras constantly monitoring them.

"Assessors?" He caught onto the word, wondering at the phrasing. At his side, John had a frown kept tightly under wraps, moving a hand casually so that he could tap twice against Scott's wrist, the gesture mostly kept out of side. Tread carefully. Something's wrong. Which, yeah, Scott had already figured that much. He also kept coming back to the question of where the hell was Gordon?

The right figure swept an arm towards the long corridor ahead of them. "Showers. Disposal unit is at the end. Clothes will be in the container within each cubicle, which will automatically unlock once the allocated shower time has been completed. Do not attempt to withhold any items. They will be taken by force if necessary, but we do hope it won't come down to that. Afterall, we want to work with you. Our way of living here may not align with your own personal views, but we're sure it won't take you long to understand why these strict regulations are necessary."

"What in the actual f-?"

"Thank you," John announced, deftly cutting Scott's protest short with a jab of an elbow to the ribs, reaching for a smooth smile usually saved for addressing slimy business associates. "The GDF has been a great ally in the past and we also hope to continue our friendship without any… disagreements. Showers, did you say? Fantastic." He snagged Scott's wrist and dragged him through the second doorway, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Do not try anything. We have no idea what we're up against. And if we kick off now, we might lose Gordon again."

Scott yanked his wrist free. "I hate this."

"I know."

"I really hate this."

"You really hate rules," John corrected.

Scott shot him a sideways glance. "So do you."

John shrugged. "Never claimed otherwise. Hey, do me a favour? Take another two steps to your right. I need to block that camera."

"Why?"

"They're taking our tech. Until we get access to Two, that means we have no link to EOS, with the exception of…" He retrieved a tiny black case, instantly familiar, and Scott snatched it from his hand before their two hazmat-suited observers could notice. John attempted to steal it back, going so far as to claw his knuckles, but Scott kept the case tightly caught.

"Are you insane?"

"Probably. Now give me my damn contacts."

Virgil looped an arm around John's shoulders to maintain the pretence of a happy family meeting, presumably relieved at having reached 'safety'. "What's going on?"

"John wants to wear his contacts."

John sent him a death stare. "How else are we going to sneak anything in?"

Virgil tightened his grip in warning. "Not happening. You can't wear them, not with your current stats."

"Oh my god." Alan ducked under their arms, popping up in the middle of their huddle, sounding as irritated as Scott currently felt, complete with a teenage eyeroll for good measure. "Give 'em here. I'll wear them." He held out a hand. "Virg, it'll look crazy unnatural on you. Scott's been in the press too much for anyone to not realise his eyes are blue. I've been out of the media this entire time, no one's gonna question the green. Plus I'm the most used to holograms after John. Just…" He pried the container from Scott's hand. "Gimme."

This is a crap plan, Scott thought.

"Huh," John said aloud. "That's not actually a crap plan."

There came a gruff cough from behind them. A hazmat coated hand drummed against ceramic tiles in an unspoken request for them to move along. Scott caught Alan's eye and angled his chin towards the case in silent question. Alan levelled him with a deadpan stare, stuffed the container into the concealed weaponry pouch of his suit, and turned on his heels in the direction of the nearest shower.

The entire corridor was lined with closed cubicles – a feeble attempt to provide some semblance of privacy, as if those cameras weren't overloaded with security tech which could pierce through those plastic slats in seconds to check the occupant wasn't up to any nefarious schemes. Everything was orange and white. Radiation and biohazard symbols were intermittently mixed with the GDF logo, decorating each door and every numbered panel which lined the floor. It was a bit of an overkill, only reinforcing the uncanny sense that they weren't being saved, but rather imprisoned. Find safety but sell your soul to a new devil – Scott wished they'd never come here, but there was only one way out and that was through.

Radiation decontamination fog left a sticky substance on the skin, as if he'd taken a bath in extra strength hair gel. A proper shower was a welcome relief – because that stuff dried quickly and was itchy – especially with hot water and relatively high pressure. He scrubbed the final remnants of blood from beneath his nails and traces of grime from his scalp. The soap provided was a plain bar which somehow smelt of nothing mixed with a faint trace of cotton and yet wasn't unpleasant. It didn't lather particularly well and the distinctive chemical sting on still-healing scars wasn't reassuring in regard to its origins, but it was better than nothing.

He tipped his head back, swilling water around his mouth to spit dust down the drain. Everything ached in the force of the hot water as if his nervous system had suddenly been awoken and realised the absolute hell he'd put his body through in the past forty-eight hours. He pushed dripping hair out of his eyes and inhaled steam until his lungs protested. The faint scratch of dust was painful in his throat. Lights reflected harshly off the tiles. He braced himself against the ceramic and took a moment to breathe, letting thoughts fly by unacknowledged.

A red light above the showerhead informed him that his time was up. The spray cut out, replaced by an unnatural icy chill as if the aircon had been turned on at full blast. Instinct had him reaching for his IR suit, discarded on the floor just out of reach of the pooling water, but the plastic container protruding from the wall clicked open. He pried the lid off just a slither to begin with, peering dubiously at the mix of dull clothes, but closer inspection revealed nothing untoward: khaki trousers, charcoal grey thermal, a black t-shirt and boots and then the essentials.

"I don't think we're going to win any fashion shows," Alan called, voice muffled by the steam still hanging around while the ventilation system did its best to catch up. "Where's the colour?"

"Kayo would love it," Virgil joked.

Personally, Scott was just glad it wasn't actual military uniform. He changed into the clothes as swiftly as possible, nearly tripping over his abandoned suit as he attempted to keep from treading in any puddles in socks because wet feet was not a fun time. He bundled his old gear into his arms and stuck his head around the door, jolting back as he came face-to-face with the ringleader of the hazmat duo.

"Ever heard of personal space?" he muttered, unsurprised when the remark went unacknowledged. He held out his suit in silent question and was directed to a hatch set into the wall at the end of the row of showers.

It appeared to be a chute which plunged into darkness. Maybe there was a furnace at the base. Either way, he felt strangely sad about tossing his suit into the shadows. Not just because he hated wasting resources when there were precious little left, and not even because the suit had saved his life multiple times, but because- Well. It was a link, wasn't it? He was surrounded by his brothers, but they weren't the only family he had and there was an unknowable distance between the rest of them.

"Another one for the scrap heap," John remarked quietly, looking strangely out of place in his issued clothes. He shivered, despite wearing that thermal under his tee. "Is it just me or is it freezing in here?"

"It's not the warmest," Alan replied, nearly tripping over his own feet and sweeping a hand through thin air, blinking rapidly. "Ah, crap. How do you- John, these are super cool, but they also suck. I might puke, holy hell." He stumbled again, catching himself against Scott's shoulder. "Oh my-" He screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head. "Nuh-uh. Me no likey."

"Depth perception is weird for the first fifteen minutes," John confirmed, genuine sympathy in his voice as he reached over to tousle Alan's damp hair. "But you'll get used to it. Unfortunately, you've got to act the part."

"Because no one can know I'm wearing these, yeah, I get it."

Alan blinked slowly, pupils wider than usual, balance still a mystery as he staggered his way to the chute to dispose of his suit. It was strange seeing him with green eyes – that vivid, alien hue that had always struck Scott as being like John was viewing an entirely different world to everyone else, now applicable to Alan too – and Scott wasn't sure what to make of it. He didn't dare look to John. Thankfully, the universe sent Virgil to break up what had the potential to be an awkward silence.

Alan took one look at his brother and burst into laughter. "That's uh… wow, dude."

"Shut up," Virgil muttered without any real heat, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "This stuff is not designed for anyone who lifts on a regular basis."

"I lift on a regular basis," Scott protested.

John nodded gravely. "I lift the weight of my sins, if that counts?"

Virgil stared at him. "You concern me."

"I know," John replied cheerfully, slapping him on the back. "Where to next?"

"Medical examination," the voice announced from behind them, followed by the wet smack of plastic shoe cases against slippery tiles – hazmat suits were not designed for shower rooms. "If you have any open wounds, report them now."

"I got attacked by a broken window in a pharmacy," Scott announced, just to be a little shit because come on, this was getting ridiculous. "The window won." He relented. "There are healing cuts on my back, that's what I'm saying."

"Any other scars obtained in the past six months?"

Obtained, as if they'd gone out looking for injury.

John made a strange, strangled sound, not quite a cough but something similar. "In the last six months? So, within the past, say, four, nearly five months…?"

"Yeah, Johnny," Alan muttered, pinching the brim of his nose as he battled a headache. "That's how basic math works. Anyway, what scars have you picked up within the past- Oh."

It was a miracle that neither of the GDF officials grew suspicious as Alan cut himself off, miming zipping his mouth shut, clearly unable to be trusted with any crucial secrets whilst he was still adjusting to life with enhanced tech. Virgil caught on within an instant. It took Scott a second longer for the realisation to dawn.

Something they'd learnt was that zombie bites left scars. Pretty glaringly obvious scars. And based off how paranoid the GDF had been so far, Scott was willing to bet finding evidence of past exposure to the infected was not going to go down well. He met John's slightly panicked gaze and found himself at a loss for words.

Well, fuck.


At their equivalent depth in the ocean, only the very strongest of light rays could have seared through the shadows, but the vast majority would have been an impossibly inky darkness. Strange creatures lurked within deep waters. Here, the monsters were unknown, but that sense of threat remained. Perhaps it was the lighting – humans weren't designed to be below ground and at this depth every glimmer was entirely artificial – sorta grey mixed with overly yellow hues which cast a sickly pallor over the walls.

The hazmat duo handed them over to three guards dressed in GDF suits with heavy-duty masks – not quite as intense as radioactive gear but not too far off. Scott couldn't help but notice that these guards had been allowed to keep their weapons – well-shined revolvers and sheathed blades strung against hips and over shoulders. Two took the front and the final guard took the rear. Alan's steps faltered for a second, that sharp inhale betraying whatever the contacts had revealed to him, and the rear guard's hand instinctively landed on the handle of that gun.

"Is there a problem?" Scott took a step back until he'd placed Alan between himself and Virgil, casually nodding towards that gun as if he weren't on the verge of completely going ballistic because come on, this was fucking insane.

The guard spoke gruffly, voice modulator in his mask rumbling. "Just keep moving."

"It's their suits," Alan whispered once Scott had fallen into step beside him, just audible over the heavy treads of boots against bleached tiles. "They're not just z-rated. They're rigged."

"Rigged?" Scott lowered his voice as that same guard looked up sharply. "What d'you mean, rigged?"

"Like, rigged to blow. So, if one of us turned or showed signs of infection, I guess they'd just blow us all to pieces. Including themselves. I think it's a safety feature. A just in case. Still creepy though."

Not merely creepy – it also showed just how far the GDF were willing to go to keep this bunker secure. There had to be very few fully trained agents left, yet they were prepared to sacrifice them as if their lives were meaningless.

"We should find Gordon and get the hell outta here," Virgil muttered, drawing closer as if safety in numbers was possibly applicable in any shape or form in this scenario. "This place is…" He gestured vaguely. There was no need for words when the meaning was obvious. And with guns literally surrounding them on all sides- Well. Getting outta there sounded fantastic in theory, but in reality?

Alan stole a glance over his shoulder. "Somehow I'm getting the feeling that going back isn't an option."

Scott twisted to be met with the anxious tremor of fingers against a trigger. That mask was plastered to the guard's neck, translucent with sweat around the base. Up ahead, the other two guards' movements were stiff as if they too were walking at gunpoint. With those explosives lining their suits, just waiting for the brush of a palm against the correct placement, they essentially were. He partly felt sorry for them. From the sounds of things, this bunker was more a prison than a safehouse. Who knew the GDF's capabilities anymore?

"Pick up the pace."

Virgil sent him a look, as in, for once in your life, don't argue. Which, yeah, obviously, Scott wasn't a complete idiot thank-you-very-much – those guns weren't just pointed at him personally, they were pointed at his family, and down here, an unknown number of miles below ground, there was nowhere to run.


Medical checks took place in a small, square area which could only be described as an interrogation room. There was a metal table in the centre with two chairs on one side and a single seat on the other. A reflective screen ran the length of one wall. Scott was willing to place bets that it was a one-way viewing window. As soon as the guards had left – reporting that a medical officer would be with them shortly and closing the door with a familiar click indicative of a lock sliding into place – he strode over to it, determined to portray confidence because he got the sense that these people sniffed out weakness like sharks. He rapped his knuckles against the smooth surface to watch his reflection ripple.

"Scott," John said simply, enough of a warning in itself. He claimed one chair for himself, kicking the other aside for Virgil to take while Alan sidled over to Scott and skulked by the two-way mirror. In the artificial light he looked pale and gaunt – certainly more sharp lines than he had ever been before – and those vividly green eyes were jarring.

"They're watching us," he mused, head tilted slightly to hide the green glare as the contacts scanned through the glass. "Three of them."

Virgil braced his elbows against the table and buried his face in his hands. "Do you have to sound like a possessed child in a horror movie all the time?"

Alan snorted. "Dude. Yes."

"Don't call me dude," Virgil sighed, slumping a little further forward until he rest his head on the tabletop, cheek turned to the side despite the cold metal so that he could inspect John for symptoms. "You need another dose."

John stared at him, evidently unimpressed. He sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin, gaze fixed on the window as if he could see through his own reflection to identify whether those hidden faces were saviours or captors. If he was trying to sketch them out, make them think he knew more than he did and so treat him with cautious respect as a result, then it was a good strategy and Scott was willing to bet it would work. John had a habit of intimidating people. It was a hobby of his. A somewhat ironic hobby, given his own unease when it came to social events, but hey.

Alan turned away from the window, massaging his temples.

Scott lasered in on the movement. "Are they giving you a headache?"

"Chill, I'm fine." Alan flapped a hand at him. "Seriously, I'm alright. It's just a lot of information all at once, all the time. It takes some getting used to." He hopped onto the end of the table, shoving Virgil's arm out of the way and grinning at the protesting growl that followed. "I may have an idea. It's kinda crazy. Definitely illegal."

"Crazy and illegal?" John turned an amused look on Scott. "I knew you'd spent too much time together. You've corrupted the kid."

"Don't call me a kid."

"You've corrupted the gremlin," John amended easily, as if Alan hadn't even spoken.

Scott chose to ignore him because he was a very sensible and mature human-being and totally not just because he would always lose to John when it came down to a battle of wits and he could do without suffering that particular humiliation thank-you-very-much. He turned away from the glass and leant against it, crossing his arms over his chest and feeling that ache in his shoulder from God-knows-what-injury-now. He could still taste the decontamination gas and it was not pleasant. Anyway. Focusing. Was a thing he had to do. Goddamn he was tired.

"Do I want to know your plan?" he asked instead.

Alan shrugged. "Maybe. I don't know. It involves the contacts and coding. It would be awesome to have EOS helping out but that's not an option, so I guess we just have to hope that all that studying actually stuck in my brain."

"Oh, dear Lord," Virgil whimpered into the table. "This is going to end in disaster."

"Hey!" Alan reached over and swatted Virgil's head. "I'm great at coding. This is going to be a success, and no one will know anything about Johnny's… uh…"

"Misadventure?" John suggested, shockingly at ease for a man who was possibly about to be thrown out of a bunker at best and facing annihilation at worst.

Alan nodded. "Yup. That works." He swung his legs to-and-fro, knocking his heels against the edge of Virgil's chair and yeah, that was making him seem younger than ever which was doing nothing good for Scott's headspace. Jesus. This was not going well.

Out of the three agents Alan had counted behind the window, only two entered. One was GDF, military, heavily armed and dressed to the nines in protective gear, taking up position by the door, arms folded across their chest and expression concealed by a blacked-out visor. The second agent lacked the posture of a military man, instead displaying obvious nerves and a slight tremor to their fingers where they were clutching a tablet – presumably to record all their medical data and transfer it to the Big Guns at the top.

Virgil sat back up. John drew himself to his full height and placed his hands neatly on the table in front of him, body language open and inviting friendly conversation but also radiating don't fuck with me vibes. Scott was very familiar with those as they were normally directed at him personally whenever his brother decided he'd had enough of being bullshitted for one day.

There were no more chairs available, so instead he took up the space between Virgil and John, leaning one hand against Virgil's chair to give the impression of casual unaffectedness. It was a perfect manipulation tactic which John and he had perfected over the years. If the target fell for John's apparent openness, Scott would then go in for the kill, and vice versa. The GDF agent by the door admittedly complicated things, but this medical officer was the only one they needed to get on their side.

Alan sat cross-legged on the floor by Virgil's side. He dragged a hand through his hair until it was ruffled, slightly curly as it was still drying from that shower. He propped an elbow on Virgil's knee and yawned. Scott tried not to look at him. It physically hurt just how young Alan seemed right now and even though he knew his brother was doing that on purpose in the hopes of gaining sympathy points from the agents, it didn't lessen the impact.

"So." The Medical Officer cleared his throat. "I, uh… Welcome. International Rescue. It's uh… This is certainly a surprise. I hope you don't take offence to any of this. Standard protocol, I'm afraid, but I'm sure you already know that."

Shockingly, it ran smoothly for the first twenty minutes. Virgil had committed the vast majority of their individual medical records to memory and the electronic forms didn't take long to complete as a result. John was beginning to flag with those meds well overdue, but it was only noticeable to those who knew him. Even so, it was a sign that they needed to get this so-called interview finished sooner rather than later.

And then it came to the inspection of any physical injuries acquired within the past six months which, frankly, was a complete violation of privacy and the GDF were probably very glad that no one was around to reinforce human rights laws down here. Scott repressed the instinct to send a fist into the face of the agent as the faint heat of a scanner passed over his back and then kept his gaze on the crown of Alan's head to focus on anything other than bad memories as the scarred rope-burn on his wrists was also examined. Virgil shifted uneasily in his chair, as if Scott being on edge had the same effect on him.

Alan's attempts to make himself look younger and impossibly innocent as if he were an angel child rather than an experienced member of International Rescue worked well. The Medical Officer glossed over the intense bruising across his knuckles which the kid had somehow kept hidden this entire time and – excuse me, what? Scott attempted to question his brother with nothing more than a look and was not satisfied with Alan's mumbled "I punched a wall a few days ago".

Virgil passed all examinations with flying colours with the exception of minor injuries such as the hits he'd taken back at the facility with the bandits.

Then it came down to John.

For a second, Scott could have sworn the lights flickered. The hologram projector set into the table seemed to phase in and out of life but then it seemingly returned to its hibernation state. Both agents dismissed it. Scott casually shifted his gaze to Alan. The kid's hands were drumming against his knees – classic behaviour when he was in deep concentration – and his eyes were closed, frowning against the lights as if he were nursing a headache. Back across the table, the Medical Officer was asking for proof of John's claims that he had most certainly not sustained any injuries beyond minor bruises, no sir, and Scott creased a hand into a fist out of sight, heart rate elevating until he felt sick. Whatever Alan was planning, it had to work, because they were out of time.

"Shirt off, I'm afraid." The Medical Officer offered an apologetic smile. "SOP. I could lose my job and all of us could lose our lives if I'm not thorough."

John glanced ever-so-quickly to Alan in silent question. Alan tipped back on the heels of his hands and yawned again, dipping his head imperceptibly. In other words, go ahead.

Scott forced himself not to react. Virgil casually twisted in his chair to shoot Scott a supposedly blank look which he translated as, what in the ever-loving fuck is going on? It was a question which Scott was deliberating himself. Thank God John had a good poker face because he didn't appear to react either, even when he had to be just as confused as the rest of them. Somehow Alan seemed to have changed the nature of reality itself, as where there were supposed to be thick scars there was nothing other than smooth skin.

Scott tilted his head, squinting as best he could without drawing suspicion. There was that slight sheen of holographic projections, but it was only noticeable if you looked very, very closely. He recalled that projector flicking on and off except- it wasn't off at all, was it? Alan was still controlling it, concealing the scars. He moved to place a hand on his youngest brother's shoulder. Alan tipped his head back to look up at him and, just as Scott had suspected, those contacts were an electric green with activity.

The Medical Officer filed the tablet into his satchel and pushed back from the table. "You're cleared to proceed," he reported, and stuck out a hand. "It's been my absolute pleasure to meet you and I wish you luck with the rest of the process."

Scott caught him in a firm handshake. "Hopefully we'll see you around."

As the door closed behind the two, Alan slumped onto his back with a groan. "Holy shit. I cannot believe that worked." He threw a hand in the air. "I'm a genius!"

John collapsed across the table, mumbling an affirmative.

"Hey Alan," Virgil announced, somewhat breathless and giddy with relief. "Have I mentioned lately that you are awesome?"