I had this marked as edited but I don't actually remember proof-reading so if it sucks I am very sorry. It's been a long week.
Twenty-four hours of quarantine was simultaneously the longest length of time in history and the quickest day ever. After the first half had been wrapped up in fear and fever, the second half passed mostly uneventfully. Gordon snuck back out after John woke up – fever finally broken, meds taking effect but the truth of that time span beginning to reveal itself – slipping into the sea of agents patrolling the corridor as if he'd simply been performing a spot-check. Scott was itching to know the rest of those secrets, but there were bigger problems right now.
Seriously. So many problems.
Those three (two, technically, according to Virgil, but no one was willing to voice that particular detail) weeks were hanging over their heads like a guillotine, and if the GDF found out… None of them wanted to discover what those consequences may be.
"We're not talking about this," John snapped while Alan was out for the count and Virgil had attempted to tentatively raise the subject. His voice was too shaky to come across as threatening and there was something rather sad about that. "What's it going to achieve? Nothing."
"It's a conversation we need to have." Virgil sounded more tired than anything else. He'd just spent the past hour sorting the remainder of their medical supplies into a rationed course which they could stretch to last another four days at the maximum. "We don't have a plan. We don't even have a theorised cure. Sooner or later, we're going to have to turn to the GDF."
"I don't trust them."
"John, you don't trust anyone."
"I trust you."
Zero hesitation. The words seemed to hang there for a second before fading. For the hundredth time, Scott found himself questioning what had gone down between those two in the days after the satellite incident. But no matter how curious he was, he considered, as Virgil slumped at the edge of the mattress, braced against his knees, gaze fixed on the medicines while John watched him, searching for something unknown, there were some stories which weren't his to know.
"The GDF have resources," Scott said at last, before the silence could infect everything with that strange tension. "We don't have to work for them to make use of that. Especially as Gordon's our guy on the inside."
"Maybe," John conceded, which was the closest to a win as Scott was going to get. Frankly, he was too relieved to have John conscious and back with them to start pushing. A few minutes later, a knock to the door signalled the delivery of what constituted for breakfast rations, with a sachet of painkillers hidden beneath a plate, courtesy of a certain agent who suited IR blues far more than he did GDF gear.
They were supposed to be released from quarantine after twenty-four hours, but various delays pushed this back to the thirty-six-hour mark, at which point they were led to another room two floors up and cleared from the processing unit. A nondescript man handed them each a gunmetal iD tag with their unique numbers on, which they were ordered to wear at all times unless they fancied getting hauled aside and questioned. Each of the tags had a light set into the edge, which was currently lit up white.
"What's white mean?" Alan queried, licking blood from his fingertip where he'd accidentally stabbed himself with the pin of his tag.
"Colours equate to clearance levels. White is the lowest rank."
"Huh." Alan wrinkled his nose, clearly disgruntled with this but letting it slide after Virgil shot him a warning look. "That's rude. I can't believe I've gone from flying a rocket to this."
"Be grateful you're alive, kid," the man muttered, a trace too venomously for Scott's liking, but they were ushered into another elevator before he got a chance to put anyone in their place.
This elevator was immediately different to any of the rickety contraptions in the lowest levels of the bunker. It was cleaner for a start, with brighter lights and several large windows which at first seemed unnecessary. The ride was smooth, lacking any disconcerting jolts. Even the guards seemed friendlier, greeting them with open smiles and handshakes. And then the purpose of those windows – set into the doors and two sides so that they were flanked by glass – was revealed, as the elevator burst free of dark concrete into an open unit which gave them a full view of the bunker's heart.
"Wow." Alan pressed a hand to the glass as if it were a hologram image which he could disrupt, eyes widening as he realised the sight was real. Scott turned away from the two agents – not Gordon this time, unfortunately – and glimpsed the view over Alan's shoulder.
"Impressive," John remarked quietly. Coming from him, that was as good as jumping up and down on the spot with excitement. Leant against the wall, he angled his chin ever so slightly towards the far side of the expanse in front of them, as if Scott hadn't already glimpsed the sheer scale of the place.
The massive room was filled with long tables, various stands, great kitchens, milling with people from all walks of life. It was a teeming mass of organised chaos. The elevator was soundproof, but Scott could imagine the noise of a hundred conversations overlapping, the scrape of cutlery against ceramics, shouts from kitchens, the sizzling of hot pans and even the yap of one or two dogs he could spy down there, leashes keeping the creatures close to their owners' ankles. On one wall, a giant screen presented updates: alerts on the state of the world above ground, various stats, progress reports from different task forces spread throughout the bunker.
Virgil gripped the railing. "This place is massive," he murmured, without taking his eyes off that sprawled mass of life.
Scott caught the meaning. It was overwhelming, seeing it all from here. That sense of being a very small piece of a very large puzzle – as he had felt upon entering the giant hangar – had returned. It came hand-in-hand with an all-too-familiar feeling of being out of control. His head was spinning. How the hell had they even imagined that they might be able to go up against the GDF? This was a show of control beyond anything he'd ever seen. No wonder Gordon was so scared. These people were more powerful than even the Hood.
We're not getting out of here.
Alan was too caught up in the wonder of it all to consider the true implications, and for that Scott was eternally grateful. Let Alan be a kid for a while, please. And if things had been different, perhaps they could have been happy here. If John hadn't been ill, if they'd been the sort of people who were content to let others take care of the problem, if their family had been complete rather than scattered across the solar system. But when Scott looked at all those people, he didn't see freedom. Humans weren't meant to live below ground, to live in fear of the sun. This wasn't truly living.
It would be so easy to just go along with it all. To accept whatever role he was assigned, to sneak a few medicines here and there, possibly hack into a database or even just ask for help in curing John. Work their way up the clearance ladder until they could access a radio, make a few calls, track down Penelope and Kayo. Take what they were given without questioning why or how. Fighting this would be damn near impossible and they were run ragged as it was. It was just too much.
"This is Cafeteria One-Bravo," an agent announced brightly. "Time here is limited as there are so many people in the bunker. So, for example, I'm from Sector Bravo with yellow clearance, so I'll come to this cafeteria for my designated time slot. You guys have been allocated to Sector Echo, so you'll go to Cafeteria Five-Echo for your own slot. You're lowest clearance so it'll probably only be for an hour or so. But you can work your way up."
Virgil was laser-focussed on the screen, specifically on those updates purporting to be a live analysis of above ground conditions. Radiation levels had climbed into crimson. Animal and plant life stats were plummeting.
He turned back to the guard, expression pained. "Don't people find that… upsetting?"
The guard shrugged. "Nah, man. People find it reassuring. Life on the surface is fucked. It makes them appreciate how safe they are, realise how grateful they are to have a place here."
"So, it reminds them to keep in line," Scott translated flatly. "Because if they rock the boat, those stats prove it's a death sentence."
The GDF personnel exchanged an unreadable look, sharing nervous chuckles.
"Look buddy," one of them began, with a smile that didn't reach their eyes. "We're only clearance level yellow. If you've got concerns, take it up with one of the big guns, yeah?"
John tensed, proving that he'd also heard the hidden threat within that sentence. Scott backed down. Virgil, watching those life signs tick downwards, seemed ghostlike, a little shellshocked, and when Scott put a hand on his shoulder, he leant into the touch.
"The infected stats are dropping." Alan's voice was level but edged with intent. There was a concealed meaning behind his words. He indicated to the screen with a nod. "See? The number of creatures within a five-mile radius are falling. They're fleeing the radiation."
"Just like we saw in Utah," Scott recalled. There was a connection there and he couldn't quite figure out which dots to join together. "Which suggests our theory was correct."
John observed those numbers decreasing steadily, radiation counters rising, an ugly mixture of death fleeing death while life hid from them both. There was a strange look in his eyes, matched by an unreadable tone of voice when he eventually spoke.
"Life instinctually runs from death. The parasite is a biological creature. It's a living thing. If it's running, then presumably it's running from something that can kill it."
"And if it's running from radiation," Alan realised aloud, seizing upon the details as if they were a rare prize. He whirled on his heels, eyes bright as he caught John's hands, grinning. "Radiation can kill it!"
"Radiation can also kill us," Virgil pointed out.
Alan heaved a dramatic sigh. "Dude. Be positive. We didn't know anything which could kill this thing until now. This is like… this is progress. We just levelled up the game."
"Uh huh," Virgil agreed reluctantly, but he was still frowning. Scott caught a glimpse of John's reflection in the glass – thoughtful, somewhat pensive, but also, most concerningly, tainted with that same stubbornness which had once landed him with fractured ribs after using Five to pull a certain batshit crazy scientist (fucking Fischler) into space.
"Whatever you're thinking," he said quietly, stepping back to stand at John's side, "don't."
John shrugged. "Two weeks."
"Don't do anything stupid."
"Me? Do something stupid?" John offered him a slight smile. "Relax, Scott. I won't do anything you wouldn't."
"I know." Scott repressed a shiver as a livestream showed a blanket of radioactive decay eating through anything living left above ground. John's gaze was bright with curious intent. "I know," he repeated. "That's what concerns me."
The tour of bunker only encompassed Sector Echo. This was partly because they only had clearance for their allocated sector, but mostly due to the sheer scale of the bunker. It stretched for miles across and down and its true capacity was a closely guarded secret. They were given a basic tour of the different areas – leisure, research, military, residential and so on. It was a lot to take in. Alan kept asking questions. Thankfully, their guide found this endearing rather than entertaining a desire to strangle the kid. There was no sign of Gordon throughout the tour, not until they were shown their designated quarters.
They'd been given a set of twin rooms with an adjoining bathroom and a secondary tiny space which was the size of a walk-in closet but had been coined a lounge to make the place sound more appealing. Somehow, someone had squeezed a tiny couch into the space alongside a flatscreen TV set into the wall, displaying the same information as the main display units in the cafeterias. Virgil switched it off immediately.
One room held three beds whilst the other contained two. Virgil shot John and Scott look which promised there would be hell to pay if they forced him to share a room with the Terrible Two, so they took up residence in the first room as a trio. Alan didn't raise any complaints and when Gordon finally materialised, lugging a bulging box of miscellaneous crap from his previous solo residence, he didn't protest either. He dumped his stuff in a corner of the room and crashed face-first onto the bed closet to the wall, not even bothering to kick off his boots.
A projector in the so-called lounge offered a direct line to a support station, which could bring them any essentials they needed. John curled into a corner of the couch and pulled the projector into his lap. The woman who answered appeared flustered, as if she weren't used to people actually taking up the offer of asking for items.
"Sorry, what?"
John eyed her as if she were an idiot. "You took all our possessions during the decontamination process. That included my glasses. I need a replacement."
The woman appeared baffled. "…Why?"
"To see, funnily enough."
Scott couldn't keep himself from laughing. John shot him an admonishing look over the top of the hologram, although he seemed hard-pressed to keep a smile off his face. He muted the call for a second, gesturing to the hologram in question.
"Anything else we need?"
"Hair gel."
"Scott, I swear to God."
"Okay, okay, I'll be serious." He ducked his head around the door to catch Virgil's attention where his brother was attempting to unpack Gordon's stuff before it could find its way into every room like a virus and drive them all up the wall. "Virg? Anything you can think of?"
"Gimme a minute and I'll write you a list."
Their assigned quarters were far better than any of the single rooms, according to Gordon after he woke up and rolled in-and-out of the shower. He was in a green hoodie and sweats, socks astray, flung across the couch as if he owned it. Virgil swatted his ankles and he moved them with a great sigh to give Virgil room to sit down.
"Where'd the hoodie come from?" Virgil asked him.
Gordon gestured vaguely towards the main bedroom. "Did none of you check the closet?"
"The closet has spare clothes?"
"Yeah, duh. What, did you think you only get the one outfit?" He hauled himself upright, one arm hooked over the back of the sofa. "There's not much stuff but it's not terrible." That green hoodie was vibrant against the nondescript white and beige walls, floors and furniture, like a splash of life amid the gloom. "Did you guys get interviewed yet?"
"We get interviewed?" Alan materialised in the room seemingly out of thin air, taking great delight in seeing Scott jump. Seriously, he was going to get the kid a bell at this rate. "Aw man, I'm crap at interviews."
"Al," Virgil pointed out, "you've never been to an interview."
"Exactly. What are you meant to say? If I suck, are they gonna kick me out? I'm a rich brat, I'm not supposed to be good at job interviews."
"Technically, we're broke now." Gordon sniggered at the silence. "What? It's true. Tracy Industries is gone. We don't even really have IR anymore. Congrats, Allie, you officially have to work for a living."
"I want my old job back. My old job involved rockets. This is the worst downgrade in the world. No, wait, in the universe. Everything sucks and I wanna go back to bed."
Gordon nodded solemnly. "Big mood. Same."
Alan turned on his heels and skulked back to his room. "I'm gonna cry for a while. Don't disturb me." He tossed a deadpan stare over his shoulder before Scott could react. "I'm joking, Scotty, don't freak out."
The silence left in his wake was mildly uncomfortable. They were mostly caught up in their own thoughts, with the exception of Gordon, who seemed halfway to falling asleep again, curled against the armrest in a manner that couldn't be doing anything helpful for his back. Virgil reached over to grab his shoulder, coaxing him into a better position. Gordon glowered at him, but there wasn't any real heat in his eyes. They'd reached a sort of grudging acceptance – Gordon kept his existing secrets but didn't create any new mysteries, and Virgil didn't pry further.
Scott was not a part of this agreement. He wasn't about to let the matter go any time soon. It was probably the reason why Gordon seemed reluctant to be alone with him - because he knew Scott would start asking unanswerable questions.
Virgil stared at the statistics from the engineering department rolling across the base of the screen, without truly seeing them. He'd shed the t-shirt, leaving him in a long-sleeved thermal, the sleeves tugged over his hands where he could fumble with the cuffs. Whatever thought he was entertaining, he was turning it over and over in his head so that the puzzle could play out on his face too.
Scott returned to pacing. He doubted it was possible to wear a hole in the floor when he was only in socks, but if it was then he was halfway to achieving it. They'd successfully made it through processing but now they here it felt somewhat anticlimactic. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It was like there was a cliff-hanger lurking around the corner. It seemed too easy, too simple, and when had Tracy luck ever played nicely?
Another thing which was bothering him was the mundanities of actually living. What were the rations? What about medications? Was there any version of legalities down here, any form of official protection, even the feeblest trace of human right laws? Interviews, for job roles, to earn their keep – but what about Alan? Technically, he was still a child. He was supposed to be in school. Was there any kind of education system in place? And come to think of it, Scott couldn't recall seeing any kids throughout their tour of Sector Echo.
"These interviews," he began, somewhat hesitantly, because any time he asked questions nowadays Gordon grew as skittish as a new foal. "Is it like a job interview? Or more of an aptitude test?"
"Both?" Gordon didn't sound particularly certain. "I got streamlined, 'cos they picked me up when I saved a couple of their scouts from zombies. So. I didn't exactly get interviewed as such. A few of the guys I teamed up with said it's more of a background check thing, assessing your skills, y'know? I'm guessing Virg will get put in medical research."
Virgil frowned. "Not engineering?"
"There's fewer folks with medical experience than there is engineering. The real wild card is gonna be John."
John, who was asleep again. No one was about to disturb him. Without meds at their disposal, sleep was the best healer on their side. He'd stirred briefly when Scott had encouraged him to take his glasses off and actually get underneath the blanket, like a normal human, but that had been over an hour ago and there had been no sign of him since.
It would come down to a question of just how many resources the GDF had at their disposal – whether they had notes on the EOS incidents which Colonel Casey had turned a blind eye to, if running John's name through the system flagged that watchlist code, just how carefully John was prepared to behave. Which, if Scott had to place a bet, didn't bode very well, because John got himself into just as much trouble as Scott did, he was just better at getting himself out of said trouble again.
"We're free to come and go, right?" Scott asked, finally giving up on pacing within the tiny room. It wasn't shedding any of his anxious energy and he needed a different view before he lost his mind entirely within these blank walls.
Gordon nodded. "Within Sector Echo, yeah. Steer clear of the research labs, maybe? I dunno if Clearance White gets you there. I'm higher status than you, brother." He found this entirely too amusing, grinning, cat-like, a hint of that mischievous gleam back in his eyes that Scott was far too relieved to see again to bother with faking annoyance.
Virgil twisted to glimpse him over the back of the couch. "Don't start any trouble."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
"If the fire alarm goes off, I'll know who to blame."
Scott tossed one of Gordon's discarded socks at Virgil. "Thee of little faith."
"It's not a question of faith, I just happen to know you very well."
He tossed the second sock at his brother too, just for good measure. Virgil looked distinctly unimpressed.
"I'll try my best not to set fire to anything," Scott relented at last, which, admittedly, wasn't very reassuring, but hey, Alan had to have learnt his trouble-making skills from someone and contrary to popular belief, it wasn't from Gordon.
"No fires," Virgil repeated sternly.
"No fires," Scott agreed, and slipped out of the room before Gordon could start laughing.
The residential corridors seemed to stretch for miles. They continued several floors above and below, like an apartment block within the bunker. Scott went exploring without a set destination in mind. His iD tag had a tiny projector inbuilt which produced a map, directing him back to his apartment if he got lost, and besides, the bunker was so busy that there was always someone around to ask. Not that he was planning on it – drawing attention to himself was his last intention. The majority of his life had been spent in the spotlight but that didn't mean he didn't know how to become invisible. He had John for a brother – becoming a ghost was a learnt skill.
The residential block ran in a wide loop with a cafeteria at its centre. A long corridor with a glass balcony circled the edge so that Scott could observe the chaos below. Tables were jam-packed with workers recently come off shift and the mixing smells of varying foods was greasy and a little sickly, like the kitchen of a fast-food restaurant.
He gripped the rail and rose onto his toes, examining the height of the drop. From all the way up here, people looked like ants, scurrying about their business, trying to create a new normality. He craned his neck, spying further balconies where the living quarters continued for at least twelve more floors.
He didn't want to guess at how far below ground they were. Just the thought of all that soil bearing down on them was suffocating. Being unable to see the sky was disconcerting. He'd never been claustrophobic but now he could understand the feeling. He may have the run of Sector Echo, but he still felt like a prisoner, and the constant surveillance – from GDF agents, from cameras, from mics hidden with walls and even cleaning drones installed with monitoring tech – did nothing to convince him otherwise.
He continued wandering around the circumference of the cafeteria, taking in the grand sight of all those lives – hundreds of rooms towering high and low. It was an architectural masterpiece – there was certainly no denying that – but all he could think of was animals in cages: battery hens, easily disposable, replaced at the slightest sign of trouble. He'd slept more in the past twenty-four hours than he had done in weeks, but that had the downside of upping his alertness, leaving his mind to notice details and draw comparisons which left his anxiety writhing in his lungs. There was something deeply uncomfortable about watching all these broken people comply without question – out of fear or necessity, either was tragic in its own right. And now his own family was being thrown onto the treadmill.
The urge to run was strong. Not running to anywhere in particular – these corridors all looked the same and there was no escape, not that he would leave his brothers behind in any universe – but simply sprinting until physical autopilot took over and thinking became an unnecessary past time. Running until he could breathe – the next step down from flying. He leant over the railing, instinctively seeking the sky but finding only cold concrete and layers upon layers of unknown technology.
The GDF were no longer bound by any laws as there was no one to hold them accountable. Right now, they were the highest authority in the world and, as Scott had witnessed in others, power tended to corrupt. Perhaps he was a little biased, what with his distrust of authority, but come on, who could blame him? The GDF had been compromised in the past. Whoever was at the top, it was no longer Colonel Casey.
That sense of suffocation was returning. It came hand in hand with the loss of control, the overwhelming feeling of being utterly powerless. He couldn't keep himself safe, let alone anyone else. This place was possibly more dangerous than the surface – humans had always been the scariest monsters, according to John, and Scott happened to agree with him. He wished they'd never come here. At least on the surface, despite the zombies and the bandits and the radiation, they'd had their freedom. Now what did they have? Safety, at the sacrifice of their own identities.
These people – all scared but of an entirely different monster to those which lurked above ground – were GDF droids, unwilling to question anything. And for some, that was an acceptable form of living. It was simply another price to pay for survival and they had suffered so much already that this paled in comparison. But in Jeff Tracy's book, this was a version of Hell, and Scott had always been his father's son.
The world was unfair. Life was cruel. They lived in an uncaring universe. But fate was not set in stone. For every instance of evil, there was evidence of kindness too. For every scheme of the Hood's that had landed people in harm's way, there had been International Rescue there to save the day. Hope was the foundation of humanity. And even now, under the tyranny of what the GDF dared to claim was a safe bunker, Scott could still spy snatches of everything good, hints of everything which made people human. At the end of the day, all that people truly wanted was to live their lives in peace, to be free from pain and fear, free to love and be happy without consequence.
Windows blazed a brilliant gold, like little suns set into those towering concrete pillars. Plants – grown under lamps – were vibrant dashes of green, curious tendrils sneaking out from windows which remained constantly cracked open so that the noise of life could filter inside. Splashes of colour – pinks, peaches, purples – decorated the stems as fragile flowers revealed sweet scents to the mess of salt and sugar and spice rising from the cafeteria.
Dreamcatchers and chimes dangled in frames. Doors had been painted with chalks. One of the walls on a higher level had been covered with a lifelike mural, an underwater scene, a coral reef brimming with life. Music drifted above the thrum of voices. It was hot, but in that faintly sticky way that usually could only be found in the heart of megacities where too many people were packed into one space. It was life persevering. Virgil would love to see this, Scott reflected, making a mental note to bring his brother here, because if Scott was able to see the beauty in this, then Virgil would discover an entire masterpiece.
There were families being allowed into the cafeteria now. Younger children – middle-school age at the oldest – were causing a raucous. A crowd was forming around serving hatches. Kids were playing tag between the tables. Parents – tired from a full day's work – turned a blind eye. Friendly conversations passed between those in lab coats and those streaked with oil from the engineering bay.
Survivors – all of them. They deserved better. The whole world did.
It took a while but eventually he found a path to lead him away from the residential section. He wasn't able to enter the cafeteria as it wasn't yet his designated time, but he found his way to some quiet rooms, filled with chairs and tables, the walls plastered with elementary school posters. Apparently someone was teaching the younger kids, even if his question about high school education remained unanswered as he was unable to find any classrooms fit for elder students.
Corridors formed a maze and he double backed on himself several times. The boots – not a perfect fit – were beginning to rub and his heels felt raw and blistered, but he was strangely reluctant to head back. He craved being surrounded by his family and dreaded it at the same time. Being with them was a reminder that he had failed them. It opened the door to another spiral and with nowhere to run or fly, his instinctive grounding measure was punching the nearest wall, which wasn't a viable option. So, he kept walking; wandered deeper into the GDF's web and hoped he wouldn't stumble across a spider.
He found an observation deck, overlooking the hangar. He was almost certain that he wasn't supposed to be here, given he had slipped through a maintenance hatch and up two ladders through service tunnels. There was a dusty desk without a chair in the corner. An inspection of the drawers discovered two pens and a pad of paper – which he stashed in his pockets for Virgil and Alan, the artists of the family whereas Scott couldn't even make a stick figure look human – and a mostly empty bottle of Jack. Paranoia had him reluctantly leaving it alone, wrestling with the desire for a stiff drink. Getting blackout drunk was a pastime he'd left in his younger years, but nowadays the idea of that numbness in place of the constant panic and pain was more tempting than it should have been.
The hangar was as impressive as it had seemed yesterday. Was it yesterday? He counted the hours. No, the day before that. Christ, he hated being below ground, without the sun as a faithful timepiece. He pressed his forehead to the glass and drank in the sight of metal hulls, powerful engines, grounded birds which belonged in the sky and seemed dreadfully sad trapped down here. He could relate.
A familiar glint of green caught his eye and he turned to stare at Two. She had been left well alone, thank God, but something about her was lonely. She belonged to a brighter time and now, thrown into the apocalypse, she bore scars – ugly marks across her hull, traces of scorching heat, suspiciously rusty stains. It had to hurt Virgil to see his 'bird like this. Loving a damaged thing meant feeling their pain as if it were your own, and that could be exhausting. Sometimes Scott wondered whether people felt that way about him.
He ended up sitting by the window, watching Two wait faithfully for rescue, trying to remember how to breathe. There was no respite from the darkness, from the soil, from the eyes. Even here, he was pushing boundaries, rocking the boat, just as Gordon had advised him against, but really, what had his brother expected? Scott's entire life had been about breaking limits. It just happened that sometimes that wasn't always a good thing.
The medical research hub was made up of several large laboratories. Scott stumbled across them by accident while trying to sneak his way into the military training deck. A wrong turn led to another set of doors which he snuck through, tailgating a nurse who began questioning his lack of appropriate clearance but was quickly sweet-talked into turning a blind eye. These hallways were pristine but were somehow under even more surveillance than the residential areas. Scott scuffed a hand through his hair – long enough to conceal his eyes when he mussed it correctly and most definitely in need of a cut – and pulled off the hoodie he was wearing to drape it around his shoulders so that the sleeves concealed his iD tag, where his white clearance level betrayed the fact he was decidedly not allowed down here.
There were two distinct areas – research and treatment. Treatment lay at the far end which wasn't an issue given it was the research by which Scott was most interested. He peered through a window at the hazmat-suited figures within, scurrying between holographic displays. A cage of mice were panicking on a table. But then- there, at the back, was a familiar symbol – the same one which had been on those WHO crates where he'd picked up that vial.
"What the hell…"
Dread registered faster than the actual sight before him. At first, he couldn't see inside the large metal container properly, because it was concealed within a secondary airtight chamber and the bars themselves kept sparking with electric blue as whatever was inside lunged at the shocked sides. All sound was muted by heavy doors and glazed windows, but Scott didn't need to hear those howls to know the creature was in agony, calling out in that same desperate tone as those infected back at the airfield.
Hologram projectors recorded results that he couldn't fathom. This was the furthest lab from the entrance and Scott sensed he'd really fallen off the deep end this time. If there was anything he wasn't supposed to see, then this was it. And from the blinking red lights on the numerous cameras surrounding him, there was no way he was gonna talk his way out of this one. At this point, there was no turning back. By that logic, he might as well find out as much as possible.
Those readouts were still a mystery. From the looks of the creature, the infection hadn't reached its brain yet as the decomposition was still in the earlier stages. There was something sickeningly human about the fear in its bloodshot eyes and Scott couldn't look away, as if drawn to the thing by magnetism. He registered the controls on the exterior of the airtight chamber just as a hazmat-suited man increased the conditions within. They were pumping radioactive material into the cage and observing the effects on the infected, no, on the parasite. And it was somehow linked to that vaccine too…
Scott took a step closer to the window, blinking frantically as if he could somehow enhance his vision – for the first time in his life he longed to borrow those contacts – to get a closer look. The infected collapsed to its knees, shrieking in agony, tendrils of green seeping from its skin and writhing like snakes. Something was happening to the parasite, drawing it from deep within its host to the surface, and as soon as it came into direct contact with the radiation it was… Scott couldn't quite see. Crumbling, perhaps? Turning to ash, like it had done on that ship? He gritted his teeth, cursed his lack of self-preservation – because he knew this was a batshit crazy idea, but he was about to do it anyway – and reached for the door.
Hands clamped down on his shoulders.
"Clearance Level?"
Scott summoned a flirtatious smile and prayed whoever was under that mask was single and into men. "Hey there. I was just looking for the bathroom…. I think I got a bit lost."
The agent did not seem impressed. "You're not allowed to be down here."
"Right. So, if you could just show me the exit, I'll be on my way."
A gloved hand passed over a concealed radio in their mask. Scott rocked back on his heels and peered over their shoulder, considering the pros and cons of making a break for it. He wouldn't get very far, he considered, and stayed put, praying he wasn't about to be thrown into the radiation storm currently rocking the world above.
The agent cocked their head, listening to a response which Scott couldn't hear. "Really?"
Their words were coloured with a disbelieving tone. They tugged their mask down a fraction to reveal tawny eyes and a mop of chestnut hair, clearly disapproving of whatever order they'd been given. Then, as further information was relayed to them, their eyes went wide. Their disposition changed instantly, shifting from irritated to awed, possibly even a trace of shame hidden within that blush. They lowered their hand to their side, ending the radio transmission and stood stock-still, staring.
"You're a part of International Rescue."
"I was the head of International Rescue if you want to get technical."
"You're Scott Tracy."
"The one and only." He offered them a hand and they shook it faintly. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance…?"
"Oh, right. Agent E-Twenty."
He dazzled them with another smile. "Aw, c'mon. What's your real name?"
"Lexi."
"Lexi. It suits you."
Lexi flushed and physically shook herself. "Hey. Don't do that. I'm not going to be swayed by a pretty face." She shook a finger at him. "Do not think this means you're off the hook. I've got orders to take you to my boss."
"So, you think I'm pretty?"
"Start. Walking." Lexi ran a hand through her hair, disbelieving. "We all thought the rumours of Thunderbird Two in the hangar were BS. But you're really here. I thought… everyone says International Rescue is long gone. Not that we hear very much about the surface. I don't have high enough clearance. And- hang on, why am I telling you this?"
"I'm a very trustworthy person."
"Shut up, Tracy."
"You can call me Scott, if you like."
"Not happening."
"Really?"
"…Shut up, Scott."
Lexi was surprisingly funny and feisty to match. She was a real firecracker and in another life Scott may have tried flirting for real. As it was, he was too focussed on secretly panicking and trying to figure how the hell he was gonna get out of this. No amount of Tracy charm affected Lexi's resolve and eventually she deposited him in an office at the very top of Sector Echo where he remained sweating for ten minutes.
The office was wide and open. There was a desk with two high quality leather seats and a tray of bourbon accompanied by crystal glasses on the side. Of all the things to save, of course this top-level GDF officer chose that. Scott took a seat and drummed a hand against the desktop. The walls were covered in projected images of the ocean. Gentle waves rumbled over the speakers. He closed his eyes and imagined he was on the beach. At least the ache in his shoulders supported the daydream, as if he'd just finished a surfing session.
"So," a gruff voice announced, and Scott rocketed upright, boots slamming into the floor with an audible thud that shook the bourbon. The man who entered was tall, dark hair streaked with silver, sporting a pristine uniform decorated with medals. He radiated superiority, chin slanted so that he could peer down his nose.
Scott had had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting the man before – he was a GDF colonel, transferred from the US Army, and he'd had past dealings with International Rescue before Colonel Casey had taken over that role. Scott could vividly recall his father complaining about Colonel Jenkins. Over half those medals pinned to the man's chest weren't deserved. He was, in Jeff Tracy's own words, an inconsiderate asshole, who didn't give a shit about anyone other than himself.
Yeah. Dad hadn't liked Jenkins very much. As a general rule, Scott tried to give people the benefit of the doubt, but he also trusted his father's judgement and with a couple of exceptions, Jeff had tended to be right about these things. Based off the way Jenkins was puffing out his chest like a prized turkey, this was another example.
"So," Scott echoed, laying his hands flat on the table to keep himself from curling them into fists. He observed Jenkins pour himself a glass of that bourbon and swig it entirely too fast.
"So," Jenkins repeated, lips curling into a nasty smile. "The prodigal son returns. Scott Tracy, in the flesh." He ghosted a hand across Scott's shoulder on his way past and Scott attempted not to either flinch or smack him into the next century. "Has anyone ever told you that you're the spitting image of your father?"
"I've heard it said once or twice, yes."
"It was a tragedy, how he died."
Scott didn't reply. He suspected Jenkins was trying to bait him and he wasn't going to fall for it. He eyed the clock on the wall. The others were bound to be getting suspicious by now. If he didn't talk his way out of this office soon, Gordon was going to come searching for him and probably end up in trouble too.
Jenkins ran a thumb around the rim of his glass until it screeched. "This is a nasty business, isn't it?"
He circled back around to the other side of his desk, examining Scott as if he were a lab specimen, setting the glass down on a coaster decorated with the US flag.
"Now, Tracy, your file flagged up on my display as soon as you entered the bunker. Young Gordon insisted that you were alive, that he would find you, but I didn't believe him. He's a real firecracker that one, isn't it? Never knows when to stop asking questions. All about morals and doing the right thing. It's nice in theory, but it's not practical. He just can't understand that. A lot like your father in that regard, but at least Jeff knew when he was on the losing side."
On the walls, those projected waves reared their heads, collapsing on themselves in an avalanche of dark water. A faint roar over the speakers replaced the gentle lapping of surf that had been audible previously. Distant threat of an untameable ocean crept into the very pores of the room, framing Jenkins with shadowy waves.
"This insistence your brother has on sticking by his beliefs, being prepared to die for them… yes, I suppose Jeff shared those traits to an extent, but really… that was always Lucille's attitude more than his. So. The question is, are you more like your mother or your father? Because depending on your answer, we can either get down to some business, or you're going to discover exactly why I've been able to keep this place running so smoothly and spoiler alert, it's 'cos I don't take kindly to resistance."
Scott observed that bead of amber liquid trickle down the side of the glass and drip onto Jenkins' thumb. The man's hands were littered with old burn marks from cigarette ash. His smile was sharp and overly white. In many regards, Scott preferred the Hood. At least then he knew where he stood. Jenkins was an unknown quantity and, not only that, but he was also clever and he was powerful and as such he held all the cards.
"Neither," Scott replied at last, tilting back in his chair to portray a sense of relaxed ease. He met Jenkins' gaze without hesitation, keeping his expression unreadable. "I'm my own person, Colonel. I would appreciate it if you would treat me as such."
"And what kind of person do you consider yourself, Commander Tracy?"
Don't react, don't react, don't react. Yes, technically he was commander of International Rescue, but he hated hearing it. The title made his skin crawl.
Jenkins chuckled. "I do hope we can do business. Your skills are of great interest to me. Your brother's too – which one is it again? The genius? John, wasn't it? His IQ score shocked me, I must admit. I'm surprised he was never recruited."
John had been given many offers by the GDF over the years, actually, but he'd turned them all down because he preferred to work as a free agent. If he came across security risks or breaches in data protection, he passed them along to the correct people, but, much like Scott, he'd never cared for authority. Scott doubted John's answer was going to change now either, but Jenkins could ask away if he so pleased.
"And would you look at that? He's already on our system. Been flagged for years. How strange. We'd better hope he works with us this time, hadn't we? Now, Tracy, I'd like to know your opinion on the following offer. We have a mission which needs a pilot with extensive military experience."
"No." Scott was answering before he even had chance to think about it. But his subconscious registered the word military and immediately his stomach rebelled. He swallowed nausea, lifting his hands into his lap so that he could dig his nails into his palms and concentrate.
"Careful, now." Jenkins' smile grew venomous. "I'm not sure if anyone's informed you yet, but everyone here has a role to play. There are no freeloaders. Now, children? We don't expect them to work. We actually have a surprisingly good education system in place. But, you see, if their parents aren't working… well, then those children become a drain on resources, don't they?" He braced a hand on the table and leaned over, right up in Scott's space, voice dropping to a deadly hiss. "Do we understand each other, Commander?" He chuckled. "Alan seems like a good kid. His aptitude tests are off the charts. It would be such a waste of a young life…"
"Choose your next words very carefully."
"And there's Jeff's son. Finally. My God, you had me questioning if there was any Tracy blood in those veins. Just sitting there, no fight… I wondered for a while whether you really are as broken as these files suggest."
There was ice in his heart. He swallowed, cleared his throat. "What files?"
Jenkins poured another glass. "Everyone who comes in here is thoroughly screened. We can't afford to have troublemakers walking through those doors. It's a delicate society nowadays." He took a small sip. "Think about it – everything is stored electronically. We have access to everything if that person poses a possible security risk. And I mean everything, from a full breakdown of past careers to say, I don't know, a therapist's notes."
Confidentiality was a lie apparently, or it simply didn't apply to the GDF anymore.
"That's illegal."
"Son, down here, I am the law." Jenkins took another sip. "Did you know that if an anonymous source proved there were reasonable concerns about mental instability, certain guardianship could be revoked?" He set his glass down nonchalantly. "I'm just making you aware. Young Alan's too smart for it to make sense to throw him out. But if he comes under GDF guardianship, like so many other orphans in this bunker… well, I can dispose of you very easily, but your brother? He'd be in the palm of my hand."
"Is that a threat?"
Jenkins tilted his head. "Consider it some friendly advice." He gestured to the door. "You're free to leave, Tracy. Don't go sticking your nose where it doesn't belong again. Oh, before you run back to your little family – would you like me to send you the information about that job offer?"
Scott froze in the doorway. Shit. He didn't have a choice.
"Yes."
Jenkins beamed. "Excellent. See, Scott, I knew we could come to an agreement. It's been a pleasure doing business with you. Report at Oh-Four-Hundred tomorrow. I'll be expecting you. Oh, and say hello to Gordon for me, would you? I've missed our little chats over the past couple of days."
Scott was not ashamed to admit that he bolted from the office. By the time he'd taken the elevator down fifteen levels, he was shaking. By the eighteenth level, he was forced to step out early and follow directions to the nearest bathroom. He hadn't eaten very much in the past forty-eight hours, so he mostly brought up bile, but it left him shivering and sweating against the porcelain, head pounding as if he had an oncoming migraine. He couldn't breathe. Jenkins' smile kept lurching in and out of his vision. He clawed a hand through his hair until his scalp stung.
His iD tag projector presented a message. Welcome back to military service, son.
"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He knocked his head against the wall so hard that his vision swam. Jenkins had him cornered and they both knew it. He was without a doubt, completely and utterly screwed.
