I proofed this at 2am somewhere above southern France in the galley of an A320 while all the passengers were asleep with the exception of one child who kept staring at me like some sort of demon so in retrospect they might have been possessed and it's a wonder I'm still alive.
Scott was saved from an interrogation by an alert which popped up from the projector in the lounge to inform them that it was their designated time in the cafeteria. This was a mercy from the universe – it was easier to hide his feelings when his brothers' attentions were partly caught by the influx of new details and the cafeteria, according to Gordon, was chaotic even at its quietest moments. Not that this prevented Virgil from hovering.
Alan bounded on ahead, drawn by the promise of food and the smell of overly salty potato slices – a poor substitute for fries but apparently tasty enough. There were whispers of fresh bread on offer. Several levels of survivors were pouring into the hallways, heading for the elevator down to the cafeteria, and Alan was nearly swallowed up by the crowds. Scott tried to keep an eye on that flash of blue t-shirt, but there were too many people. It was distinctly not helping his already frayed nerves. There wasn't much trouble a sixteen-year-old could get into in the short space between the hallway and the cafeteria but if anyone was going to manage it, it would be Alan.
"I'll get him." Gordon swept past and plunged into the fray without hesitation. Scott glimpsed him throw an arm around Alan's shoulders, pinning the kid to his side, vanishing within the open jaws of the elevator. Those potato slices had their names on them.
The corridor was crammed with people. They were packed in like tinned sardines, and this was only a small handful of those living in Sector Echo. It was a testament to just how massive the bunker truly was and just how colossal the capacity was, especially given there were still empty floors waiting to be filled over in other sectors. In a way, it was a relief, because it was easy to blend in. On the other hand, it was suffocating. There weren't individuals, there were simply iD numbers, clearance levels and job roles. Jenkins – and presumably those in charge of other sectors too – had made himself a god and no one was willing to jeopardize their place here by questioning him.
"Scott." John's tone implied that this wasn't the first time he'd spoken and the concerned look Virgil directed between the two of them confirmed it.
There was a camera above them. That blinking red light could read every secret off his face, analyse body language, report back to Jenkins in an instant. He squared his shoulders and looped an arm around Virgil, knowing John would read between the lines and follow without question.
"Who's listening?" John queried, falling into step beside them, true to form.
"Everyone," Virgil concluded. "But… someone in particular, right? Whoever is in charge?"
"Of this sector, or the entire bunker?" John gestured to the white lights on their iD tags as a GDF agent pulled them aside for a spot check. Satisfied with their clearance levels and that it was their designated cafeteria slot, they were allowed to proceed. Virgil slunk into the far corner of the elevator, clearly uncomfortable with the amount of people squashed around them. The elevator had to be well over its operating limit and trembled as it began the descent.
The chorus of voices was too loud for Scott to be overheard by dangerous ears.
"This sector," he replied at last, as the elevator seemed to plummet for approximately two seconds before catching itself with an ugly screech. No one appeared concerned. "I'll tell you about it in a minute."
"Are you alright though?" Virgil was studying him in that familiar manner, the one that proved he was reading Scott like an open book. It was a relief to know that they were finally back on the same page. "You're shaken up."
"Blame the elevator. Haven't these guys ever heard of safety regs?"
John gave him a fondly exasperated look. "Nice try. Cut the crap."
There was no point in arguing when Virgil and John were teamed up against you. You were destined to lose. It was easier to give in, provide a small snippet of information to sate their curiosity until they came back to demand the full picture. And so.
"I found the person who's got Gordon so scared."
John didn't react. "And?"
Scott flattened himself against the wall as the elevator paused to let on even more people, who impossibly crammed themselves inside. It was a miracle that John wasn't freaking out, what with the severe lack of personal space available. He was stuck between Scott and Virgil, with Virgil a half-step in front of him like a human barricade, which was somewhat acceptable, but if any strangers got up in his space, it likely wouldn't end well.
The elevator finally shuddered to a halt.
"I think Gordon's right to be wary of this guy," Scott said at last.
Virgil observed him for a moment. "Not just Gordon," he diagnosed. "You're intimidated by him too."
Scott didn't deny it, which was as good as a confession. Virgil exhaled slowly, clearly unnerved by this revelation. He stepped aside to let a cluster of people funnel out of the doors. John watched them go without truly seeing them, lost in his thoughts, running the math and not liking the answers.
Scott gave them both a light shove towards the open doors. "Let's eat. I can tell you more over dinner."
The cafeteria seemed even larger in person. Seeing it from above didn't do justice to the true scale. There were infinite lines of tables, seemingly hundreds of hatches for food collections: general, specific allergies, catering requests, and so on. Presumably there were entire sectors of the bunker dedicated to food production.
Queues were lengthy. Children – grouchy after a long day of school and hyperactive with the excitement of seeing their parents and siblings again – were shrieking. Workers wore the marks of an endless shift, exhaustion stark on their sunken features. Those on the catering side greeted them like old friends, welcoming newer arrivals – from the sounds of things, some people had been here from the very earliest days of the apocalypse. Some had even been recruited within twenty-four hours of Z-Day – government alerts popping up on the phones of those with desirable skills and trades, inviting them to pack their bags and report to a set location where they were loaded onto buses and ferried into the depths of the bunker.
Alan and Gordon were up ahead, already in the queue. Gordon looked to be flirting with the pretty blonde serving the potato slices in the hopes of getting an extra helping. The woman was ducking her head, smile bashful and bright, laughing as she swatted his wrist. Alan looked deeply unimpressed by his brother's antics. Behind them, an engineer – overalls still coated in oil, fresh off his shift with a growling stomach – made some comment that had Alan glowering and Gordon stepping in with an easy quip, smoothing over ruffled feathers before the situation could escalate.
Virgil watched Alan flit between the crowds, making a beeline for a table in the corner which he claimed as his own by smacking down his tray a tad more aggressively than necessary. Gordon yanked his brother's hood down and ducked out of reach with a loud laugh which had a nearby cluster of twenty-somethings looking up. Alan grabbed Gordon's wrist and pulled him onto a chair before he could sidle over to make further conversation with the group.
"Did he say anything more after I left?" Scott asked, following Virgil's gaze.
Virgil turned back to the queue. "Nothing much. I can't get a read on him. It's like he's scared saying the slightest thing will land him in trouble, with us or with the GDF. He still won't say anything about that vaccine either. There's gotta be something more to it. Is it related to the parasite? What would the GDF want with a vaccine against a random illness?"
One of the agents in line a few paces ahead shifted to hear the conversation better. John eyed them with the utmost suspicion. Virgil quietened, sensing prying ears. At the table, Alan was stealing potato slices off Gordon's plate while his brother was distracted by something on the display screen. Scott twisted to see. There was a report call for scouts from Sectors Echo and Bravo as soon as their rota reset tomorrow morning.
"Isn't Gordon a scout?" Virgil asked, more of a statement than a question. He flashed the server an apologetic smile as the woman repeated her question, Choice A or B, sir?
John held out a hand for his own plate of choice. "Yes."
The conversation was put on pause while they went through the process of food choices, drink selections and then joining the line for cutlery. Meals were heavily rationed but it was practically a three-course dinner compared to the feeble servings Scott had grown used to. The choices were limited – carbs and a few vegetables but not a lot else. The water had the chemical taste of a recycled unit, but only those with higher clearance were allowed anything else – those at the top even had the option of a carbonated drink. There was replicated OJ available for some and Scott eyed it longingly.
Gordon kicked out a seat for him. "Hey."
John sank into a chair and stabbed mournfully at his plate. "This is worse than space rations."
"Not really. You're just a picky eater." Alan chased the final potato slice around his plate. "I don't think it's that bad."
Virgil mumbled something through a mouthful of bread that no one could be bothered to translate. It was probably an affirmative. John glared at his plate, but hunger won out and he began slicing it into tiny bites, stacked precariously onto the end of his fork like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Gordon lifted his boots onto the edge of John's chair, surprised when his brother didn't try to shove him away. "You'll get used to it, space-case."
John sent him a dark stare. "That's not comforting."
In actuality, the food really wasn't that bad. It was a little dry and lacked any true flavour, but it was more than edible, and, after two-and-a-half weeks of rationed cans and long-life protein bars, it was practically gourmet. It was entirely possible that John's lack of appetite was yet another side effect of the medicinal cocktail he'd downed an hour earlier, but no one was prepared to point that out.
It was nice to be surrounded by the chaos of society again. A battered, broken version of society, admittedly, but there were kids screeching and tired parents and workers bemoaning their various roles. It was a wonderful display of a very human existence. Scott zoned out of the confusing conversation bouncing between Gordon and Alan in favour of observing the different dynamics of the cafeteria. He had the vaguest sense of being back in high school. A few people clearly recognised them as there were secretive glances sent their way and whispers dancing between tables as rumours ran their course. Goodbye anonymity – you'll be fondly missed.
There was a small line forming by the dispenser accepting used plates. Alan slid off his chair, sneakers squeaking against linoleum flooring, sweeping their stack of ceramics into his arms and nudging Virgil's shoulder to check if he was done.
"Sorry, what?" Virgil glanced up, engrossed in his sketching on a napkin. There was ink from that stolen pen smearing his knuckles. "Oh, right. Yeah, I'm done. Thanks Allie."
"So." Gordon waited until Alan was out of earshot, somehow managing to make the single syllable sound as ominous as a thunderclap. He braced himself against the table, that uncharacteristic seriousness returning with a vengeance. "Where were you?"
"Exploring."
Gordon arched a brow. "Uh huh. And?"
"And more exploring." Scott was probably deriving too much amusement from irritating his brother, but it was still hilarious to see Gordon sulk like a five-year-old denied an extra cookie. He propped his chin in one hand and smirked. "What?"
Gordon shook his head. "You're an asshole." He nudged a glass of OJ towards Scott. "Want some?"
"Is this a trap?" Scott poked the drink dubiously with a paper straw. "Did you spit in this or something?"
"I'm actually hurt by your lack of faith in me."
Across the table, John lifted his chin from his folded arms to comment, "One time you offered me a cookie without telling me that you'd sneezed on it, and I ended up developing pneumonia."
Gordon laughed and tried to cover it up with a cough. "It's not my fault you're a walking health hazard."
John stared at him for a long moment. "I'm impressed you're making that joke given the current circumstances."
"Eh." Gordon flicked him square in the centre of his forehead and John batted his hand away with a huff. "You're a big boy. You can handle it. Anyway, Scooter, back to you. OJ? Yay or nay? C'mon, I only got it because I saw you eyeing it up. The perks of having higher clearance, y'know?"
"You genuinely didn't spit in this?"
"You're killing me, Scotty."
Scott took a cautious sip of the juice. As far as he could tell, it had not been tampered with, but he kept a suspicious eye on his brother for any amused reactions until he was satisfied that for once Gordon was being nice without ulterior motive. It was unnerving. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Maybe it was Gordon's way of offering an olive branch – or an apology for all the lies. Either way, Scott was happy to accept it.
Alan had struck up conversation with the group of teenagers playing a rather aggressive game of cards on the next table over. He didn't seem like he would be returning any time soon, so Scott switched to the main topic they'd all been dancing around.
"I ran into Richard Jenkins."
John jolted upright and had to catch himself against Virgil's shoulder, battling headrush. "As in that Jenkins?"
Virgil stowed the napkin in his pocket. "I'm confused. Who is this guy?"
"He was US military but hopped across to the GDF in the early days." Scott kept the summary brief, mostly interested by Gordon's sudden silence. "He and Dad… they didn't exactly see eye-to-eye."
"Dad hated the guy," John translated. "Couldn't stand him. Mom refused to even be in the same room as him. The only reason Dad didn't completely cut ties with him was because Jenkins somehow ended up in charge of GDF relations with IR for about two months before Colonel Casey took over."
"Why don't I remember him?" Virgil was still struggling to place the name.
John shrugged. "You never had reason to meet him. Count yourself lucky. He's a slippery bastard. I'm surprised he's not linked to the Hood."
"I've just never heard the name Richard Jenkins."
Scott suspected Virgil might have heard a slightly different variation though. "Did you ever hear Dad refer to a guy called Dick?"
"Yeah, once or twice- Oh. Richard…" Virgil was hard-pressed not to laugh. "Tell me Dad called him that to his face."
"Dad didn't," John replied. "But apparently Mom did."
Gordon snorted. "That's awesome."
"So," Virgil began to piece the puzzle together, "Jenkins is in charge of Sector Echo?"
"In charge is kind phrasing," Gordon muttered, drawing his knees onto his chair to rest his arms on top. "He's like… his word is law. No one questions him. He's dealing with some hella sketchy shit but there doesn't seem to be any accountability. There's got to be someone above him, but no one knows who. And if you start asking questions, he makes your life miserable. He always seemed to have a particular grudge against me since the day the GDF picked me up. I didn't realise he knew Dad."
"Define making life miserable." John had that look in his eyes which promised a world of pain coming Jenkins' way in the not-so-distant future. "Did he threaten you?"
"There were-" Gordon chose his words delicately. "-certain conditions I had to meet in order for you to be allowed in. Which, in hindsight, makes zero sense, because we're exactly the sort of people they need working down here, but at the time I wasn't exactly thinking logically, so I just figured, yeah, okay, fair enough." He stole the paper straw from the glass to occupy his hands. "I didn't help myself. Kept asking questions. Jenkins made it very clear that I needed to keep my mouth shut. Complete the mission. Report. Next task. Repeat. And then I found you guys and here we are."
It still didn't add up.
"There's layers to this place," Gordon continued. "And I don't just mean that in a literal sense. I'm talking black markets. Some of the bandits I was tracking on the side… I don't have evidence, I just have theories, so I might be wrong, but it kinda seems like some of those groups had ties with this bunker. There are levels below the processing sections where you have to be given a special code to access and down there… There's rumours. That's when I started asking questions. Look, I've only touched the surface of the shady shit that's going on here, and I don't recommend digging deeper. People vanish."
"Then why bring us here?" Virgil asked quietly. "And don't just say meds for John. We could have found those elsewhere."
"There's better supplies here. It gives us a break. And… Look, I've got one last task I've gotta complete. It benefits us as well as the GDF so it's worth it. It's… I was following a lead to this place when I stumbled across those scouts. I didn't just end up here by accident. They're playing me, but I'm playing them too. It's not a one-way street. And yeah, Jenkins is an asshole on a power-grab trip, and he scares the shit outta me because I don't know exactly what he's capable of, but- I only need a few more days to get what I need. Then we can skip town, get the hell outta dodge, I promise."
"Gordon," John said after a terse moment, "what in the actual fuck are you talking about?"
"I can't tell you."
"Why the hell not?"
"Because."
"Does Jenkins have something over you?"
"Sure, something like that."
John made an exasperated growl and turned on Scott instead. "What did he say to you? You said you ran into him, and you came back looking like you'd seen a ghost. So. Start talking."
Scott took a moment to search for any eavesdroppers. "Jenkins is the GDF, at least in this sector. He has access to everything. And I mean everything, including files he should never have even known existed. My name is flagged in the system. John, we already knew yours was."
John was lightning fast on the uptake. "Which files?"
"Jenkins likes his blackmail, put it that way."
"Which files?"
Scott studied the scraps of paper where Gordon had torn the straw to shreds.
"Jenkins considers himself the law down here. Gordon's right, there's no one to hold him accountable. So- he can- cases which would never actually- Fuck. Okay. He has all my USAF records. Including the uh… therapy notes. Theoretically, if someone had evidence to question someone else's ability to care for a minor on the grounds of mental health… they could then get custody turned over to the GDF. So. We could try to leave but- I don't think the GDF would give a shit, but Jenkins probably would simply because he's got it out for us."
There was an uncomfortable silence.
"Wait…" Gordon whipped around in his seat. "You're saying… Jenkins…"
"Oh, and another fun fact – I think I just got drafted back into military service."
Another pause.
"Scott," Virgil sighed. "When I said don't get into trouble… this is exactly the sort of thing I was talking about."
John looked about five seconds away from murder. "Where is this asshole? I want a word with him."
"There's some dodgy testing going on in the medical research labs too. They've got one of the infected in a cage. I couldn't see much else because I got caught, but-"
Virgil knocked his head against the table. "You're the leading contributor to my stress levels."
"I vote for murder."
"John," Virgil muttered, ever the voice of reason. "No murder until you're able to stand on your own two feet without help."
"Is this…" Gordon sought for words. He nodded towards Alan. "Is this a genuine concern? Like, Jenkins can't actually do that, can he? Turning over custody?"
Scott didn't want to think about it. "You said it yourself – he's the law down here. He's also the judge and jury from the sounds of things. Look, you said you need a few days. All I have to do is play his game until then. A few days is nothing."
"Fuck that."
"John-"
"No. Don't John me. He's setting you up for failure and you're an idiot if you can't see that. You said he has your records and yet he's drafting you back into service – you know that won't end well. He knows he can't use confidential records as evidence to overturn a custodial decision, but by sending you into that environment – he's trying to trigger you. I've seen that aftermath. It's not happening."
"Why?" Virgil wondered aloud. "Why go to all this effort?"
"Because the world knows us," John answered. "This place isn't sustainable. These people aren't happy. The planet needs fixing and they can't hide down here forever. But this lifestyle – being treated like a king – Jenkins loves it. He doesn't want to lose it. Right now, people follow him because they're scared and there's no one else for them to look to. But if the Commander of International Rescue starts speaking up… People will follow you, Scott. They always have. Hell, I did. That makes you a threat. That's why Jenkins is lashing out. Now, we have two choices – we play along until we get what we need or we raise Hell."
"I'm not taking that risk." Scott didn't need to think it over. "If this mission raises some bad memories, I'll just have to cope. Maybe later, if we can figure our shit out, we can come back and try to make a real change, but for now - hell, for the foreseeable future – we don't rock the boat. I'm not risking Alan. Not happening."
"This is a lose-lose situation, you do realise that?" John sensed he'd lost this round.
"Probably."
"Scott, this is actually insane."
"I know."
"Fuck Jenkins."
Gordon gave a meaningful cough. A second later, a cleaning bot slid past. "Careful. Eyes and ears everywhere, remember?"
John didn't flinch. "I don't give a shit. Jenkins should be more scared of me. I'm a dying man - I've got nothing to lose, and he just messed with my family. If he's smart, he'll start running. The GDF have me on a watchlist for a reason."
It was debatable as to whether the cleaning bot had been concealing a hidden camera/mic or if it was simply a coincidence, but there certainly seemed to be a heightened guard presence. Scott couldn't make a judgement on whether there had been increase in security protocols given this was his first time in the cafeteria, but according to both Gordon and the secretive whispers amid the crowd, there were not usually this many checks. Queues to leave the cafeteria snaked around the perimeter and folded between tables as guards insisted on scanning each iD tag.
Alan slunk back to their sides as tensions rose. "This is weird, right? I'm not imagining it."
"This is weird," Gordon confirmed. "Keep your head down and do whatever they say."
"You're kidding me."
"For once, I'm deadly serious. Don't fuck with these guys."
The actual translation was don't fuck with Jenkins, but Alan didn't need to know that. Doubtless it wouldn't take him long to catch onto the real story here – because he'd always been good at solving mysteries even without the added help of those contacts – but for now it was safer to keep him in the dark. Alan was just enough of a kid still to follow his elder brothers' leads, thank God, so that was another thing in their favour.
Now that his attention had been drawn to it, Scott couldn't stop noticing all the surveillance. And perhaps it was his paranoia running rife, but it felt distinctly as if he was specifically being targeted. Everywhere he turned there were more cameras, a secret mic betrayed only by the faint light winking from a crevice in the wall, guards upon guards running patrols but slowing as they stepped past him, twisting to look over their shoulders until they had rounded a corner.
It wasn't just him. Throughout the evening – when Virgil went to scout out the rec rooms with Alan, or when Gordon showed Scott the gym facilities, or even when John vanished on the pretext of taking a walk but in all probabilities was just scouting escape routes – each of them experienced that uncanny yet undeniable sense of being watched. Apparently the name Tracy had earnt them just as many enemies as admirers down in the bunker, just like it always had done on the surface.
Scott wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. Jenkins – so far – had gotten what he wanted, so why the watchdogs? Around eleven at night, sat in bed but unable to actually sleep, he tugged back the curtain to peer through the window which overlooked the cafeteria. Strange shadows flitted across the walls. Beyond the steady thrum of electricity was a faint whirr, accompanied by tiny flashing lights, evenly spread and moving up-and-down, back-and-forth, rotating across the open space of the cafeteria.
There was a slight rustle as Virgil sat up, propping himself on an elbow, still groggy from the short snatches of sleep he'd achieved. "What's wrong?"
"There are drones outside." Scott let the curtain fall back into place as one of the drones slowed to hover outside. A thin beam of light broke through the fabric, searching for any movements or suspicious activity.
John finally gave up on sleep, shuffling upright with the blanket around his shoulders. For a moment, he studied that searchlight, trailing across the floor, a silent menace, before it finally retreated as the drone continued higher up the residential bloc.
"It's like we're kids again," he mused, faintly amused. "How long has it been since we had a curfew?"
Virgil flopped onto his back with a chuckle. "John, I don't think you broke a curfew in your life."
"Technically, if curfew counted as being inside the house by a certain time, then I broke it almost every night of my life."
Scott recalled near-silent footsteps on the roof. "I have no idea how you never broke an arm, or just didn't fall off at any point."
"Still," Virgil continued. "I feel like when most people say oh, I broke my curfew, they're usually referring to sneaking out or going to a party, not stargazing on the roof."
"I'm special."
"Oh, you're special alright," Scott muttered into his pillow. Virgil caught the words with an amused snort while John simply gave a dramatic sigh and slid out of bed to cross to the window.
The drones had retreated back towards the lower levels but there remained an eerie sense of observation. From all the way up here, those searchlights glittered like eyes, piercing the darkness as they continued on their lonely hunt. Scott had to question exactly who the prey were. It sent his skin crawling. He repressed a shiver, thoughts threatening to turn back to long repressed memories yanked into the present by a man who'd have been better left to the undead.
John shoved at Scott's ankles. "Move." He clambered onto the bed to get better access to the window and sat frozen so as not to attract attention, staring at those drones swirling lazily in the centre of the cafeteria. "Do you think they're drawn by motion?"
"Do you think you could shut up and let some of us sleep?" Virgil shot back, voice muffled by the pillow he had face-planted onto. "I don't know exactly what this interview process is in the morning, but based off what we know so far, I'd like to have a reasonable level of alertness."
John ignored him. "I wish I had my contacts."
"No," Scott said simply. John twisted to look at him. Framed by the pale light from those drones - passing along the corridor now – he appeared ghostlike and Scott had to physically shake himself out of unwanted thoughts. It felt as if there were spiders scuttling down his spine again. He shivered.
John turned his attention back to the drones, watching, struck into silence by sheer curiosity and the irritation of being outmatched by an organisation he could probably have torn down within a mere day given enough motivation and tech. Virgil yanked the blanket over his head, deciding that the threat of suffocation was still better than being kept awake into the early hours. Through the wall came the quiet sound of bare feet against tiles shortly followed by the distant clamour of the TV.
There was a pause. John didn't look away from the window. Virgil eventually dragged the blanket back and rolled onto his side to face Scott, eyes bright in the glow from the drone outside.
"Are you going or am I?"
Scott closed his eyes to listen. The TV was flipping between channels as if it were a race to loop through them all, suggesting the culprit was searching for a distraction rather than mere background noise. There had only been one set of footsteps, proving that whoever it was had not accidentally woken their roommate and all of this – given Gordon woke at the slightest sound whereas Alan could sleep through Two landing on his head – pointed to one brother in particular.
Alan would have been easier to deal with, but Scott had been trying to track Gordon down for a one-on-one chat for the past twenty-four hours and now it appeared he finally had his chance. He threw his blanket over John's head – openly laughing at the enraged squawk which followed – and gestured for Virgil to go back to sleep. Virgil didn't ask twice, pulling the blanket back over his head to block out the external light from the window where the drones had been replaced by guards performing security sweeps with flashlights. John let the curtain fall back in place but didn't move from Scott's bed, sat perfectly still, watching, waiting.
The walls were too thin for there to be any real secrecy between rooms, especially not when John had uncannily good hearing and was doubtlessly listening in, but Scott pulled the door shut behind him anyway. It was darker in the lounge – void of any windows and lit only by the artificial glare from the TV – and he stood in the entrance for a moment to let his eyes adjust.
There was a hooded figure on the couch, swamped in a blanket that had mostly fallen into his lap where he was tapping unevenly against his knees. Bruised knuckles suggested there had been a fight with a wall in the time between their cafeteria conversation and this late-night misadventure. The TV screen flashed between graphics too quickly for the picture to finish forming. The hand clutching the remote was faintly shaky.
"Quit hovering."
Fair enough. Scott rounded the couch and sank into the space beside his brother before Gordon could get a chance to protest. They sat in brief silence with just the distant thrum of drones and steps in the corridor outside for company. There was a faint rumbling which could have been either a test flight from the hangar or Virgil snoring into a pillow. Sharp light fractured over the hazy lines of the couch, the blanket and the pillow – the latter of which Scott pulled into his lap to occupy his hands because Gordon's nervous tapping was contagious.
"Nightmare?"
Gordon tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. "Nope."
Scott tried the opposite theory. "Can't sleep?"
"Something like that."
It was a strange sort of stalemate where Gordon wasn't pretending to be fine – which in his books was as good as confessing he was upset – but wasn't prepared to openly admit it either. It was unclear whether he was waiting for Scott to pry further or was simply finding comfort in his presence. There was a sense of vulnerability in the silence.
"Do you think-" Gordon began and cut himself off before he could finish his question. He lifted his head from the back of the couch to stare at the screen, reds and whites and yellows of flashing pictures reflected in bloodshot eyes. He drew a knee onto the couch to rest his chin on top, which would have made him look painfully young on any day of the week, let alone when his hair was askew and he was in an oversized hoodie clearly meant for Virgil.
"Do I think…?" Scott prompted, taking care to keep his voice quiet. He moved back into the couch's embrace and draped an arm along the top – maintaining that distance but making it clear that Gordon was welcome to close it if he wanted. Part of him was concerned that Gordon was keeping that fine line of space between them out of a sense of guilt, withdrawing from comfort because he didn't think he deserved it – because touch was his primary love language and when Scott combined those bruised knuckles with the way his little brother was very clearly denying himself physical affection, it didn't paint a pretty picture.
Gordon finally gave up on the TV, switching it off entirely to drench them in darkness. He continued fumbling with the remote, picking at the seam where the plastic halves met, just visible in the pale blue glow from the projector – eternally active in case any alerts were publicised. Scott was hard-pressed to keep himself from reaching out but somehow managed it.
"What were you going to ask?" he murmured.
Gordon shrugged but the movement was tense. He set the remote down on the armrest and untangled the blanket, draping it between them so that they could share it.
"This is my fault."
Scott's instinct was to instantly shoot that claim down in flames, but experience had taught him to let Gordon keep talking until it was all out in the open before replying.
"I don't know exactly how dangerous this place is, but I knew Jenkins was corrupt. I could have come back alone, got what I needed, and met you guys upstate. But I didn't. I brought you here, and now- Everything that's happening is on me."
"You were doing what you thought was best."
"Yeah, but I screwed up, didn't I?" Gordon curled into the corner of the sofa, voice small. "You always told me that it's okay to make mistakes as long as we learn from them and try to fix things. But I don't know how to fix this."
"You don't have to fix it alone. We're a team."
"I didn't know Jenkins had a history with Dad. I mean, John's right – Jenkins wants to stop you from becoming a problem, but also… that grudge against Dad can't have helped – and I gave him the power to hurt you because I'm the one who brought you here."
The thing was, Gordon was too smart to fall for a collection of comforting lies. Scott couldn't flat-out deny everything his brother was saying either, because… well, whatever tomorrow had in store, he was almost definitely going to be smacked in the face by repressed memories and it was going to hurt. Equally, it wouldn't have happened had Gordon not brought them here. But at the same time – there were still benefits to being here. And Scott didn't blame him, not in the slightest. He didn't think any of them did, not truly. But he didn't know exactly how to phrase any of it.
"Jenkins is the real issue, not the bunker itself. You didn't know he had that information on us. It's illegal, for a start, and yes, I'm aware you had a vague idea that the GDF had become corrupt, but you had no idea what would happen. If we'd- if I'd kept my head down like you told me to, maybe we could have flown under the radar without Jenkins getting involved, but who's to know? It's- You can't put this on yourself, Gords."
The darkness was suffocating.
"I don't want you to get hurt."
"I won't. I'm not flying into a dogfight."
"That's not what I mean by hurt and you know it."
On second thought, maybe the darkness was a friend. This was not a conversation he was willing to have with anyone, not even John, especially not now, the night before he flew right back into the heart of his nightmares. But somehow he suspected Gordon wasn't going to drop the subject.
"The human psyche is a strange thing," he said, aiming for casual but sounding slightly too strangled for it to come across that way. "Maybe I'll be completely fine. Like riding a bike – no issues, as if I never stopped."
"You've spent years running from the military," Gordon pointed out flatly.
Ouch.
"Hey. I take offence to the phrase running. Anyway, it could be worse. At least it's the GDF and not USAF. Now that may have been a problem."
"Don't do that."
"Do what?"
"Deflect. Pretend everything's fine. It's not. I fucked up and now you're paying the price and there is no universe in which that's fair. I get the world's screwed up, but you shouldn't have to suffer because of my mistake."
It was the sort of darkness where the mind could play tricks. Vision was full of lies. Monsters lurked where the light revealed merely a chair or a potted plant. Scott gripped the blanket and focussed on the feeling of faux fur beneath his palms.
"I would choose this," he said eventually, trying not to think about the nausea swirling in his stomach whenever he spied the clock ticking towards his report time. "Not- I wouldn't volunteer, that's not what I'm- but if- if the price of us being here was someone taking this role, then I'd choose it."
"For anyone? Or for just us? Because if it's just for us, then that doesn't make me feel any better, because you'd fucking die for us, so… It's not exactly a comfort."
Scott glanced across at him. Gordon was wound into a tight ball of tension, hands turned to claws on the armrest, concerningly close to a full spiral. His voice sounded damp as if he were crying but it was too dark to tell. Perhaps that was the real reason why he'd switched off the TV.
"I haven't forgotten about the gun."
Scott nearly choked on his own inhale. He was pretty sure his heart had just malfunctioned. He cleared his throat and tried to think of something eloquent to say, but instead only croaked out: "What?"
Gordon was silent for an infinitely long second. "Back in October, when we nearly lost John, you and I had that conversation. Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. I remember it. And I- You've got to know why I'm so scared now, about this, what Jenkins is blackmailing you into doing."
"It's not-"
"If someone told me to pilot a hydrofoil, I'd get on the next ship to Mars. Don't try telling me you're fine to get back in a fighter jet."
"I don't have a choice."
"I know. Believe me, I know that. I fucking hate myself for that. And I don't even know if- What's the point in this conversation? I don't know why-"
He cut himself off with a frustrated hiss. Scott pressed the blanket into his hands before he could start picking at scabs on his knuckles. There was a sense of hopelessness infecting every atom and neither of them knew how to stop it. And it was ridiculous, wasn't it? Because this wasn't Gordon's fault and yet he was blaming himself and Scott was better at flying than he was at breathing but the thought of piloting in terms of military service in a goddam fighter jet made him feel like he was walking to death and none of it made any sense.
Sometimes, Scott genuinely considered the possibility that this was all some seriously fucked-up dream, but day after day he never woke up so here he was confronted with the reality that no, this was real, and the truth which he would never admit to anyone was that he was beginning to lose sight of the point. Cure the infected and you had a planet of radiation. Fix that and you had a world full of broken things. Losing faith in life was a terminal condition and while he'd beaten it once before he wasn't entirely convinced he could do so again. Which was, of course, exactly why Gordon was so scared.
He slumped against the couch cushions, unable to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. "Why are we here, Gordon? I mean, really – why are we here?"
"The GDF and World Health had a combined research unit. It was looking into genetic modification, figuring out how to cure specific conditions. It was transferred to this bunker. That vial you found at the facility – it's another piece of the puzzle. I was sent to retrieve it. You saw that infected in the cage – it's part of the testing. They're creating – it's not exactly a vaccine as such, but it's-"
"Immunity."
"Exactly."
"It's dangerous, right? That's why you kept it a secret."
"There are risks."
"And the timeline you gave us? A few days?"
"I volunteered to- human trials start in two days. There are a further forty-eight hours to monitor the predicted side effects. And I'm uh… I'm kinda the guinea pig. But if it works, then…"
"Why does it have to be you?" It sounded like a plea. "Why, Gordon? You'd be the first person to criticise me if the roles were reversed."
"Why did it have to be our family putting our lives on the line for complete strangers?" Gordon finally turned to look at him. "Come on, Scotty," he whispered. "You know why it has to be me."
"If I ask you not to do this, will you listen?"
"No."
"Yeah. I figured."
"Don't hate me for this."
"You could literally murder someone and I still wouldn't hate you."
"What if I murdered Alan?"
"Gordon."
"I am sorry." Gordon dropped his gaze again. "I'm sorry for all of it."
Scott couldn't say it was okay because it wasn't. "You know what Mom always said?"
"Sorry doesn't mean anything unless you change your actions. Dad used to say it too. But I don't know how I fix it."
"Ever tried asking for help?"
Gordon shot him a tearful smile. "Help."
"Stop trying to do this alone."
"Actually, uh… about that… Don't tell anyone. Please. I'm asking you, as my brother, as my friend, don't tell anyone."
John definitely already knew because he'd been eavesdropping this entire time, but Scott was confident his brother wasn't about to going blabbing to Virgil or Alan. John was the best secret keeper in the entire family. And even though his instinct was to go to Virgil, for a medical opinion on this mess if anything, Scott wasn't going to say anything either.
"It's your secret, little brother. I won't tell anyone. That's your choice to make."
"Thank you."
"Don't. I might not be telling anyone, but that doesn't mean I agree with it."
"I get that. God, I'm tired. And I mean… I'm tired. I just- This never ends, does it? And what if it's like this until we die? It's- I don't think we can fix this. Because it's not just- The parasite isn't even the only problem anymore. And we're- I just want to sleep." A humourless laugh. "And I can't even do that because fuck insomnia."
"Gordon…"
"It's fine. I'm fine. I'm just tired… really, really tired."
