The term 'apocalypse' was widely disliked amongst the surviving members of the world's elite. Apocalypse implied that there was nothing left. It hinted at complete annihilation with no hope of recovery. This did not sit well with the Top One Percent. In the absence of society, their notoriety had diminished. This change grated, but it was tolerable if cultivated alongside a healthy sense of desire. After all, everybody needed a reason to drag their ass out of bed in the morning.
So, their pedestals of wealth and fame might have crumbled beneath their feet, but that was okay, because they could rebuild. They would drag the embers of society from the ashes and kindle it into a raging inferno once again. And then everyone would be indebted to them, crawling at their feet amongst the ash, worshipping their skill at reviving humanity from the brink of extinction.
Apocalypse suggested that such a feat was impossible and so the bunker's residents preferred the phrase end times - the end of one era giving way to the dawn of a new one, with them back in their rightful position at the top of the pile. Life was a collection of vicious circles, but they were ahead of the game. So, they remained below ground, plotting and planning while they waited for someone else to finish off the dirty work – alternatively known as razing every goddamn walking corpse from the face of the Earth.
Construction began on an underground, fortified bunker in eastern Minnesota approximately three months before all hell broke loose. It was a hush-hush need-to-know-only operation. The benefactors remained anonymous, but rumours spread as they always do. There were whispers of politicians, famous TV personalities, CEOs of less-than-strictly-legal companies.
No expenses were spared. While the GDF constructed practical bunkers designed for maximum capacity, various private bunkers across multiple states prioritised luxury. If you were going to lock yourself below ground, at least do so in style. On a Monday in July, when the GDF planned another set of box rooms, the Minnesota bunker saw the installation of three hot tubs. The apocalypse had never been so relaxing.
For the first five months of the end times, the bunker remained sealed. It closed its doors on a fateful sunny September morning. Those doors remained unopened, regardless of the frantic screams and pleads over the radio. When silence finally fell, residents cracked open a nebuchadnezzar bottle of champagne.
Six months after anyone last felt the sun on their skin, problems arose. No one had been prepared to ration supplies. It was a preposterous idea – don't you know who I am? And it very quickly became clear that the doors would have to be opened.
The universe smiled upon them in the form of a radio transmission from three other private bunkers. Comms had been silent for weeks. The first poor worker to pick up on the message was accused of hallucinations and tossed outside for his troubles. But the radio continued to chatter and a discovery was made – several other members of the elite were requiring sanctuary. Apparently there was a radiation issue in the south, or something like that. The important fact was that they were willing to pay – in cash, information and, most crucially, supplies.
This was not to say that just anyone with rations to splurge was granted entry. Each new resident was carefully selected. The requirements were simple – a background of powerful positions, passable marks on an algorithm-run aptitude assessment, a desirable item to trade and a connection with a pre-existing resident.
Many applicants were turned away despite their wealthy pasts. The Hood, however, passed with flying colours. Then again, he had worked with approximately 90% of the bunker's inhabitants in the past and they were all very aware that he was not the sort of man who took no for an answer.
He swiftly mastered the hierarchy within two weeks of stepping foot on Minnesota soil. Within a month, basic infrastructure on the surface world had been re-established. He learnt of untouched cities in the south and sent underlings to pilfer through the rubble, transporting everything back on his newly repaired trainline. The railyard was his proudest achievement by far. Well, that and the helipad – air support kept close tabs on the rotters which had amassed in the east and had slowly been marching towards the bunker ever since.
The things were growing clever. The Hood wasn't concerned so much as he was irritated. They couldn't afford to keep losing half of their supply runs to rotter ambushes. Even with the newly constructed electric fence, it had become increasingly obvious to him that the bunker would not make a suitable permanent residence. He set his sights further northwards and struck gold. The issue was getting there. He was under no false pretences as to his chances of survival if he attempted the journey alone, but his associates were all fools who would be hindrances.
And then, completely out of the blue, came reports that a survival group had somehow hijacked one of the supply trucks, made it past all the checkpoints and were now standing in the compound, demanding entry. The Hood considered whether it was interesting enough to abandon his glass of bourbon and decided against it.
Two minutes later, upon hearing that cursed name, he couldn't believe his luck. Trust the Tracys to show up when someone needed rescuing. Of course, the fact that the someone was him would have to go unmentioned for a while. He drained his glass, already mulling over the various ways he could play this. A short battle of wits later and his old… acquaintances were granted access.
He met his own calculating stare in the mirror. The embers of a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. All the pieces were falling into their pre-plotted places. The arrival of the Tracys had catapulted him ahead of the game. He was in a better position now than he could possibly have planned for.
Another chuckle rumbled in his chest.
Belah Gaat was one step closer to conquering the end times.
From the instant those hatch doors had closed above them, the GDF bunker had held a sinister quality about it. Perhaps it had been the all-encompassing darkness. Or maybe it was the distrust which had still been festering between them at that point – not that they were entirely on the same page even now, but you know. The point was that the only true comparison Scott could make between the bunkers was that sense of finality when the hatches closed.
A long corridor stretched out ahead of them – mahogany floorboards framed by walls lavished in cream paint, brightly lit by gold-plated lightbulbs as if the bunker contained so much wealth that it had begun to literally seep from the ceilings.
It was uncannily silent – the sort of quiet where ears began to play tricks and invented voices where there was nothing but your own conscience. Scott supposed it could have been considered a relief – being so utterly cut off from the chaos of the outside world – but the only phrase which truly stuck with him was suffocating.
Marisa took the first step forwards. Her boots rang loudly in the empty space.
"So." She turned to face them, arms crossed, jaw locked. Her gaze had dropped by several degrees to an icy challenge. "Do you normally make deals with international fucking terrorists or is this a one-off apocalypse special?"
She held up a hand before Scott could get a word in.
"Isn't this the same guy who tried to blackmail you over a live global television broadcast into handing over your Thunderbirds?"
"Would you believe that's actually pretty low down on the list of stuff he's put us through?" Alan muttered darkly, twisting his baseball bat in his hands as if wringing its neck.
History had a habit of haunting you no matter how much time had passed. It also tended to repeat itself, like some sort of big cosmic joke. No matter how far they travelled, what paths they chose and actions they took, they always ended up here – making a deal with the devil. Maybe there was such a thing as fate after all – the cycle wouldn't end until either the Hood was dead or they were.
Sometimes Scott wished he had left the man behind for the infected to inevitably tear apart or the GDF to burn, but the Hood seemed to have the survival capacity of a cockroach – it didn't matter how many times the odds had been stacked against him, he was incapable of dying.
"Look," John said calmly while Marisa glowered at him, "I understand that this isn't an ideal situation and you're uncomfortable with-"
"Uncomfortable?" Marisa's voice lowered to a hiss. "I'm beyond uncomfortable, pal. You brought us into this place without consulting me. Theo and Jasmin are my responsibility. Now, honestly? Even if I'd known the sort of people who are living down here, I'd still have made the same call, because we need supplies and a place to sleep, but next time? You include me in the discussion, or we're done. Clear?"
"Clear," Scott echoed, repressing a wince as his headache ticked up a few notches on the pain scale. The entire clusterfuck of a situation they'd stumbled into was not helping. "Trust me, Marisa, I don't like this any better than you do. I was tempted to make a break for that helipad the second I heard this bastard's voice. But we have reasons to believe that the Hood was involved in the initial outbreak and that means he has some answers, answers which we need."
Tense silence settled.
Marisa squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. "Alright. What's done is done. But from now on, we're a team. All of us, not just your family."
They were so used to working as a closed unit that incorporating outsiders into the discussion seemed strange. No one had intended to exclude Marisa from the decision-making process, but somehow it had happened anyway. Scott would have felt guilty about it, but there were more pressing matters at hand, so he added it to the repression pile and switched his focus to the corridor.
Lighting warped the hallway so that it seemed to stretch on for miles, akin to a room of magic mirrors at a fairground. Combined with the lack of sound, it was completely disorientating. Scott considered the possibility that it was a deliberate defence against intruders, then decided that he was giving the Hood too much credit. Although, he reminded himself, this wasn't the Hood's design. He was as much a guest here as they were. The original residents were an unknown quantity and that made them dangerous.
The hallway ended in a heavy set of airtight doors. Smooth metal reflected alien lights. An access panel to the left glowed a harsh blue. Movement sensors recognised a new presence and the doors parted to reveal an elevator.
"Okay," Theo said slowly, dragging out the word. "I'm guessing that's our cue?"
Some days it was difficult to distinguish between instinct and paranoia. Today was one such occasion. Scott glanced down at Finch who was sniffing at the thin line of space between the hallway and the parted elevator doors. She didn't seem particularly perturbed, although he was reluctant to rely entirely on a dog's judgement.
Alan waved the baseball bat over the edge. "Doesn't seem like a trap. No lasers, anyway."
"Lasers?" Theo whispered, exhilarated by the prospect. "Is that a real thing? Like, people actually use laser traps? That's not just a movie trope?"
Alan tucked his bat back over his shoulder. "Yuh-huh. Someone tried to trick my sister with one once, so I'd say they're pretty real. Kayo's way too smart to fall for that sort of thing, but yeah, it definitely happens outside of movies."
Impossibly, Theo's eyes grew wider. "What is your life?"
"Currently?" Alan deadpanned. "Tragic."
Gordon hid a smile but made no comment as he stepped into the elevator. Scott tensed instinctively, preparing to haul his brother back to safety, but the elevator seemed exactly what it was – perfectly ordinary. Distasteful, certainly, and debatably ostentatious with gold-threaded marble tiles, but a simple mode of transportation void of any malicious trickery.
Jasmin crouched to trace gold veins in the tiles. "Is this real? No way. It's gotta be fake. Man, maybe we should steal the floor and trade it wherever we go next."
"No," Marisa sighed in a long-suffering tone, "We are not stealing the floor, Jazz."
Jasmin caught Theo's eye with a deliberate air of mischief. "Okay. Whatever you say, Mari, whatever you say."
The elevator descended faster than anyone anticipated. Muscle memory of Thunderbird One's launch kept Scott on his feet, but the others were forced to grip the handrail or hold onto each other. Virgil steadied Marisa while John caught himself on Scott's shoulder. Jasmin, still on the floor, tumbled over her heels, saved from a concussion by Finch.
The entire elevator jolted as it plummeted downwards faster than any health and safety regulations would have deemed safe. Finch whined, crawling into Jasmin's lap. Theo made to grab the handrail but accidentally slammed into Alan's chest instead, flushing vividly red when Alan simply wrapped an arm around his waist to keep him upright, old rescue instincts kicking into play despite months of disuse. The lights flickered then, slowly, the elevator came to a juddering halt.
Jasmin relinquished her tight hold of Finch. "That… was something."
"Are we alive?" Alan held his hands up to inspect them for any hazy ghostlike qualities. "Did we just take an elevator to actual Hell? Seriously, what was that?"
"That was initiation step one," Gordon deadpanned, although his frown suggested that it might not have been so much of a joke after all. He passed a hand over his hip where one of the knives was concealed.
Alan gathered Finch into his arms, stifling a cough. "If that was step one, I don't know if I want to find out what the next stages are."
The doors parted to reveal a contrasting sight to the migraine-inducing corridor upstairs. This was a brightly lit hallway with glossy paintwork and freshly-cleaned tiles, the stinging stench of bleach still airborne. A holo-projector sat on a polished table with intricately carved legs, woodwork depicting birds taking flight and delicate flowers bursting into blossom.
The projector displayed a standard impersonal greeting which welcomed them to their 'new home'. Scott skimmed through the text, confident that John would memorise any important details for later. They were to go through a lengthy decontamination process – from general antibacterial to much-needed radiation procedures – followed by a brief screening with their sponsor in which a trade would occur – in other words, the contacts in exchange for their places in the bunker.
Radiation decontamination had come a long way over the past few decades, but it still wasn't pleasant. On the upside, their clothes and gear went through the same process and so they were allowed to keep them. Finch looked thoroughly miserable afterwards. Alan rubbed her dry with a towel, but sticky remnants of decontamination fluids had twisted her fur into orange-stained knots which would take a lengthy session with a comb to untangle. She perked up a little when Alan retied the bandana around her neck, tail wagging feebly.
And then it was into the heart of the spider's web.
It was ridiculous how high his heartrate spiked upon stepping out of the decontamination zone into the first floor of the bunker. Scott could literally feel the hilt of a knife digging into his lower back where he'd placed the holster to make it less conspicuous – first impressions tended to stick and greeting people with a knife rather than a smile was unlikely to put him in anyone's good books – and yet he was more on edge than he'd been at the GDF bunker. Maybe it was because he'd still had an element of faith in the GDF whereas this time he was going in with no rose-tinted glasses. Once bitten, twice shy – he wasn't about to let a man like Jenkins twist his arm behind his back again.
The bunker practically sang of wealth. Polished hardwood floors reflected the gentle glow of stained-glass lamps. A set of elevators connected each level – but these were expensive, smooth-running things with golden gates and ivory buttons, quite unlike the contraption that had carried them down from the surface. Scott cast a cursory glance over the various options and promptly doubled back for another look. There were dining areas, spa zones, entertainment lounges, even a ballroom as well as a multitude of other unnecessary luxuries, not to mention the innumerable levels dedicated to residential purposes.
"There's a spa?" Gordon tried to inject some humour into his voice. "Damn, maybe this place isn't so bad after all."
Jasmin picked up the joke. "Yeah, I could go for a massage. Ooh, wait, or one of those weird stone treatments. I don't know what they're called. They put lava stones on your back or something?"
She trailed off as Marisa gestured for silence. Holograms from various projectors had been guiding them through the bunker to their current location – a plain black door with a single gold peephole at its centre and a biometric lock on the access panel at the side.
Scott peered at the nametag. It had been painted over but he was willing to bet that the Hood was using one of his many aliases anyway. He straightened instinctively into military posture, vaguely aware of metal glinting to his left as Gordon retrieved a knife.
Marisa exhaled through gritted teeth. "Okay, I've gotta ask before we do this – what's the deal with these contacts? Because if this guy wants them… I kinda feel like that's a good reason not to hand them over."
John turned the case over, rolling it between his palms with a calculating light in his eyes. He curled his fingers around the plastic covering and squeezed it to the verge of cracking. It struck Scott then that this was John's last link to Thunderbird Five. Losing Two had been bad enough, but this was willingly handing over their technology to the Hood of all people. In a way, it seemed worse.
"Tech-integrated," John explained quietly. "They're uh… The wearer forms a neurological link. It's a little like plugging your brain into a supercomputer. You think, the computer acts. Of course, that's a vast simplification, but- The Hood has wanted to get his hands on them for years."
"And you're willing to just give them to him?" Marisa looked distinctly unimpressed.
John pressed his thumb to the fingerprint recognition on the case.
"Not exactly. The Hood can use them to access a few basic systems, but the software he really wants? That's out of his reach."
A hint of exasperation entered his voice.
"So, contrary to popular belief, no, I haven't lost my mind. The Hood has made many attempts on our systems over the years. It was an inevitability that he'd eventually come close to success, so I planned for it. He can try to use the contacts, but he'll have to get past iris recognition, numerous firewalls and then if he somehow finds a signal he'll find himself head-to-head with EOS, so I'm fairly confident that he won't be able to use the damn things to gain control of Five like he wants."
Virgil caught his wrist, gaze searching with no small hint of confusion as he asked, "Then why are you still reluctant to hand them over?"
"Because the second we give them up, we no longer have any leverage."
It was a sobering thought.
"This is it." John glared at the case as if it were personally responsible for their current situation. "I don't have any other tricks up my sleeve, so once we do this… I'm out of plans. There aren't any backups, not this time. So, if this goes south – which, might I remind you, it is highly likely to – we don't have an ace card."
There was another drawn-out silence.
Gordon cleared his throat. "I'm not saying that I'm passing up a great opportunity for a joke right now and that you should all be very proud of me, but… that's exactly what I'm saying. Ace card. Heh. We always have an ace card when you're around, Johnny."
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
John shouldered him aside and knocked on the door before anyone could stop him.
The door slid open with a mechanical hiss. Warm light streamed into the corridor, deceiving in its welcoming quality. Scott ventured into the open space on high alert, tuned into every detail his senses could provide him from the glaringly obvious oil painting hung above a liquor cabinet right down to the tiny smudges of left-handed fingerprints on a metal tray which held crystal flutes. He was vaguely conscious that he was holding his breath. Tension pulled the bites beneath his shirt taut. The sudden pain reminded him to exhale.
The room reminded him vividly of conference rooms in various business hubs he'd had the misfortune of visiting throughout the years. An oval table took centre-stage, ringed by a collection of hardwood chairs with plush, crimson cushions. A lone holo-projector was mirrored by an unlabelled corked bottle at the opposite end of the table. Neutral wallpaper reflected the glow of brass lamps while several framed paintings watched over the scene. And there, of course, in pride of place, reclined leisurely at the head of the table, fingers steepled so that a gold ring gleamed like a third eye beneath his chin, sat the Hood.
It had been months since Scott had last laid eyes on the man. In that time, he was aware that he had become practically unrecognisable himself, but the apocalypse had not left the Hood unscathed either. He was gaunter, although that was an expectation of anyone. Shadows had burrowed deep beneath his skin, pushing bones closer to a paper-thin surface. His prosthetic arm seemed misfitting in contrast to the wizened muscles of his other limbs and doubtless the skin of the stump beneath his shirt would be raw and angry where the joint had rubbed. Fine scars had spread across his body like cracked ceramic. But that cold, calculating light in his eyes remained steadfast.
His lips twitched up at the corners as he wrestled with a smirk. That ring winked in the warm light. He sat up, splaying his fingers against the tabletop, a collection of sharp edges with the crisp black-and-white lines of his suit. He gestured for his guests to take a seat.
For a brief instance, time grew stretched. A heartbeat and an hour became the same length.
Scott glanced across and caught John's gaze. In many ways, this was just another business deal. Other interpretations placed their souls on the contract. Undoubtedly their father would never have made such a call. But then again, who knew what move Jeff would have made? It was an impossible situation.
The Hood's expectant eyes held a certain weight. There was a challenge within the depths of his pupils. They seemed to melt into the shadows of those eye sockets so that it was nothing more than a grotesque skull staring back at Scott. It was the sort of creature he saw in his sleep. He inhaled sharply, then marched across to the table, yanking a chair out to sit down. At his side, John mirrored his actions. Behind them, Gordon held that knife perfectly balanced across his knuckles.
"Here we are," the Hood remarked dryly, as if the entire predicament were fundamentally hilarious to him. "All these years and now look at us. Look at you. The valiant heroes, come to grovel at my feet. I hate to say I told you so, but you Tracys are so dreadfully predictable."
Apparently not quite predictable enough given the brief flash of undeniable shock in his eyes when all of a sudden Gordon was right there, leaning across the table to press the knife to his throat. The razor-sharp edge skimmed vulnerable skin above his pulse. Metal winked in the shifting shadows.
"Keep running your mouth and see what happens, I dare you."
The Hood eased the knife away with two fingers. "Do you mind? It's difficult finding tailored suits these days and I'd hate to get blood on this one."
Gordon braced himself against the table, eyes narrowed with threat. "Trust me, that suit will be the least of your worries."
John ducked his head to hide the glimmers of a proud smile. Scott considered whether or not to step in, but there was something awfully gratifying about the unease which lined the Hood's face. Gordon was fast becoming an unpredictable quantity these days and for once it was working in their favour.
"You won't harm me."
Beneath the bluff, there was a distinctly uncertain edge to the Hood's drawl.
"Oh yeah?" Gordon twirled the knife, voice icy. "Wanna bet?"
"I'm your ticket into this bunker. Without me, you're cast out again." The Hood eyed the knife contemplatively. "And believe me, the rotters are rather… troublesome at night. Very active. I wouldn't rate your chances particularly high."
"Gordon," Scott prompted, reaching over to tap his brother's wrist. "Not now. Leave it."
For a brief moment, he didn't think Gordon was going to listen. John twisted in his seat and caught Gordon's eye. Something unspoken passed between the two. Gordon sheathed the knife and retreated to lean against the wall, arms crossed and gaze challenging.
The Hood reclined in his chair. Surrounded by expensive artwork and lavish finery in a suit almost certainly silk-lined, he radiated smug superiority.
"It appears we have a lot to discuss."
Scott sort of wished he'd let Gordon go ahead and gut the bastard like a fish. "On the contrary – I have very little to say to you."
John side-eyed him, as if to say don't rock the boat just yet. Which was a valid point because they were here for answers and immediately getting thrown out of the bunker when they'd only just arrived wasn't a smart move. Unfortunately, the Hood was a master of mind-games, which would have been tricky enough on any day of the week, let alone after everything they'd gone through in the past twenty-four hours. Scott cast a longing look at the liquor cabinet.
John set the contacts case down on the table but didn't lift his hand away from it. For a long minute he remained silent, studying the Hood's body language and picking out minute tells that flew over Scott's head. As far as he could tell, the Hood was perfectly at ease, secure in the knowledge that he held all the best cards, but John was clearly viewing a different picture.
"Enough games." John slid the case into the centre of the table. The Hood tracked the movement. "Let's get down to business."
In actuality, it wasn't really intended for the Hood at all. It was more of a subtle hint for Scott to get his head in the game and slip back into the role he'd played for so many years amongst the sharks circling Tracy Industries. Eight months of the apocalypse might have made him rusty, but he'd spent too long perfecting his skills to forget them so easily. Of course, it would have been a lot easier to retrieve that particular headspace from its box had the process been aided by a stiff drink or a dose of strong painkillers, but hey.
The Hood's fingertips twitched. His gaze was fixed on the case. It was such a small, innocuous object, yet it held all the power in the room right now.
Scott clamped his hand down on the case just as the Hood reached for it. "Not yet. We have some conditions which we would like met."
A vein in the Hood's temple pulsed. When he spoke, his voice was forcibly calm.
"Such as?"
John studied him for ten long seconds. "Lay out your terms, then we'll outline ours."
Scott resisted the urge to gauge his brother's expression. John was too good at maintaining a poker face anyway.
The Hood twisted that gold band around his finger, considering. "Very well. I can offer you sanctuary in this bunker. That comes with several concessions – access to a wide range of supplies such as medicines. Private quarters. Access to all levels. In return, I have a simple request – those contacts."
John didn't skip a beat. "And?"
The Hood's smirk grew wider. His gaze slid to Scott. "I'm sure you saw the helicopter upstairs. Its original owner met a rather unfortunate demise roughly eight days ago. Since then, it has been sitting there, utterly useless. We have fuel, we have a working craft, but what we don't have is someone to fly the wretched thing."
"You need a pilot," Scott realised aloud.
The Hood gestured vaguely. "Need is such an ugly word. I wouldn't say I need someone to fly it. But you are correct – I would like a pilot."
John sat perfectly poised, turning the offer over in his mind. He glanced sideways, tilting his head at Scott ever-so-slightly in question, leaving the answer in Scott's hands.
Scott examined the holo-projector; amber hibernation light blinking steadily at him like a pulse. He returned his gaze to the Hood. "We get sanctuary, access to a working comm and you tell us everything you know about the parasite."
The Hood's eyes narrowed. "Why, pray tell me, would I confide such information in you?"
"You want to rule the world. Pretty hard to do that when there isn't anybody left in it." Scott sat back in his chair, draping one arm over the backrest, feigning ease. "If we gather enough intel, we might be able to reverse the infection. You have information that very few people were privy to. For once, our goals are aligned. Work with us and we'll return the favour."
The Hood ran his thumb across the worn surface of his ring. "I'm listening."
John sat forwards, bracing his elbows against the table. "We want information which you have. You want a pilot and Scott's the best there is. It's a straight exchange. Seems like a good deal to me."
Every so often, the power would flicker as it switched between sources. The lamps blinked, giving the impression of candlelight. It reflected in the amber depths of the liquor cabinet and the Hood's eyes and the polished tabletop. Scott curled his hands into fists until he could feel the ragged edges of his nails, relinquishing the tension just before he broke the skin.
Movement shifted as Gordon rocked forward on his heels. Finch's growl rumbled deep in her throat. John said nothing, simply watching and waiting, calculating all the odds but keeping the answers close to his chest.
The Hood cleared his throat. "Very well."
He wafted a hand in front of the holo-projector's sensor and let it read his thumbprints. A form flashed into being. Scott just had chance to glimpse some phrase about sponsors and ID conformation and activation before it vanished again.
"Congratulations," the Hood remarked dryly. "You are officially our newest residents."
"Yay," Theo deadpanned in a tiny voice.
The Hood glanced up sharply. "Ah yes, I don't believe you've introduced me to your latest strays."
There was a distinct flavour of menace in his voice. Gordon's knife flashed in the lamplight. Finch growled, hackles raised. Alan shouldered Theo behind him, glaring daggers. Marisa and Virgil shifted closer together, wary like hunted animals.
Jasmin raised her bow, arrow directed at the Hood's biological eye. "Back off, creep."
The Hood let out a low chuckle. "I'm almost impressed." He nodded to Gordon. "Is this one your prodigy?"
Gordon gritted his teeth. "She told you to back off. Unless you want that arrow in your thick skull, I recommend doing as she said."
Jasmin curled her fingers tighter around the bow. "Final warning."
"She doesn't miss." Gordon flipped the knife into his other hand, voice low in warning. "And neither do I."
The Hood's amused smile held fragments of ice. He lofted his hands in mock surrender.
"Relax, children. My business isn't with you. Now…" He nodded to the case. "Shall we?"
John wordlessly slid the case within the Hood's reach. "Do we have a deal?"
"Tomorrow I'll tell you everything you want to know."
The Hood offered a hand. John took it, clearly repressing a shudder. The case exchanged owners while Scott stared at it, wondering whether they were making a massive mistake.
The Hood turned the case over in his hands, levelling John with an appraising look.
"You've got an excellent mind for business, John Tracy." His smile turned acidic. "I'm sure your father would be very proud of your actions if he were here today."
John flinched before he could mask the emotion.
Scott lunged over the table. "Oh, you son of a bitch-"
"Scott, don't." Virgil hauled him back. "Not yet. Not tonight. Come on, let's go. Get some rest. He's just trying to get a rise out of you. Don't lower yourself to his level."
The Hood watched them leave, mouth twisted in that eternal smirk. He cradled the contacts in one palm as if he couldn't quite believe his own luck. His voice slunk into the corridor after them.
"It's been a pleasure doing business with you!"
Their designated quarters took up an entire half of Residential Floor: Level Two. It was a deplorable example of how these people valued wealth over morality. Several families could have been packed into even one of their allotted rooms, but instead this was dedicated to just the eight of them. In the initial outbreak, that number would have been three – Scott didn't dare ask what had happened to those original residents. He suspected the answer would anger him too greatly and he'd already nearly throttled the Hood once that evening.
There was a literal goddamn olive tree in the middle of the dining room as a centre piece. They each had individual bedrooms, all complete with en-suites. There was a private hot tub. One room had a walk-in closet. The lounge was bigger than the Den back home on Tracy Island. Scott was at least eighty percent convinced that they could have fitted Thunderbird Four in the kitchen. It was like a penthouse apartment, completely out of place in a survival bunker.
Theo skidded into the lounge in his socks, hyped on adrenaline. His hair was on end where he had run his hands through it, flushed with baffled excitement. "This place has a private cinema which is literally bigger than my entire apartment back home."
"Uh, Scott?" Alan looked faintly nauseous. "The main bedroom is so massive that I genuinely think you could land Thunderbird One in it. This has got to be a joke or some kind of a trap, right? There's no way they actually built all of this just for a handful of super rich guys. You could fit so many people in here, it's insane."
Scott let the rucksack slip from his fingers to land on the floorboards with a dull thud. He couldn't tear his gaze away from the fucking olive tree. There were blue glass beads around the base to reflect the LED lights in waves across the walls as if they were living inside of an aquarium. He pinched a leaf, internally cringing as he felt the waxy coating of a very real plant. People were suffering, dying, on the surface but all these rich asshats cared about saving was materialism.
Virgil came to stand beside him. He looked distinctly pale, washed out by lights and shock and tiredness. There was still traces of decontamination fluid in his hair and the bruises from the drive were beginning to paint themselves into existence, purple blossoming over his left cheek with the promise of a black eye in the not-so-distant future.
"This is an olive tree," Scott said slowly.
Virgil pinched the brim of his nose. "Yes."
"What the fuck?"
"Maybe we're hallucinating."
"I don't think so."
"There's no way." Virgil pushed his knuckles against his bloodshot eyes for a brief moment. Exhaustion weighed down his shoulders. "There's no way they sat here and listened to all those people dying knowing damn well that there was plenty of room."
Alan sank to sit on the edge of the grand planter which housed the olive tree. "This place makes me feel sick."
"You and me both," Virgil muttered, absently patting Finch when she nuzzled his knee. He scrubbed his hands down his face, wincing as callouses caught raw scrapes. There was a thin trail of blood on his chin where one of the cuts had reopened.
Gordon propped himself against the doorframe. "So… did anyone else just lose all their faith in humanity or am I just really cynical when I'm tired?"
Scott shook his head. There were no words. None that could truly convey the depth of everything he was feeling, anyway. He locked the door to the apartment and slid the deadbolts across just for extra peace of mind.
The unnerving weakness in his muscles was back again, creeping into his legs until they threatened to buckle beneath him. He leant against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes to watch the strange patterns thrown by LEDs against closed lids. His ears were ringing again. Battling exhaustion was like fighting a wildfire – you thought you had a handle on the situation but then all of a sudden it became overwhelming.
"Out of everything," Alan said quietly, head bowed to hide his expression, "Why does this make me sad? We've seen stuff that should only happen in nightmares but for some reason this is just… I don't get how anyone could stand by and watch people suffer when they have the capacity to help them. How can they live with themselves? How do they sleep at night?"
"On silk sheets, apparently," Gordon muttered. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm not joking. Have you seen the bedrooms? This place is off the charts."
Finch rested her chin on Alan's knees, eyes wide and mournful. There was something incredibly defeated about Alan's slumped shoulders. He tipped forwards to press a kiss to the dog's head, fingers tightening in the loose fabric of her bandana.
Virgil tossed a final glare at the olive tree and squeezed Alan's shoulder. "Shower then bed. You'll feel better after some sleep."
"Will I?" Alan glanced up, eyes dull. "'Cos I don't know anymore."
Gordon worried his lower lip until the taste of blood jolted him into the present.
"Maybe you will, maybe you won't, but either way – it's worth a shot, right?" He pushed himself away from the doorway and offered Alan a hand. "Based off the rest of this place, there's gotta be fantastic water pressure. I think after all the shit we've been through, we deserve a little bit of luxury. Try it out, let me know if it's worth going through the effort of getting outta this GDF gear."
Alan grabbed the offered hand and hauled himself upright. "Trying to get rid of me, huh?"
"Never," Gordon deadpanned, steadying Alan as he battled light-headedness. "You're my favourite gremlin, remember? Although you might have some competition for that spot now that Theo and Jasmin are around."
Alan rolled his eyes. "Dumbass."
"Eh. You love me."
"Debatable."
"You're such a little shit sometimes."
"Oh, but you love me."
Alan shouldered his backpack and headed into one of the many bedrooms, posture distinctly less downtrodden. Gordon watched him go with something soft and painfully vulnerable in his expression.
"Nicely done," Virgil commented.
Gordon shrugged. "I try." He dragged his fingers through his hair with a sigh. "I can't remember the last time I was this tired. I'm gonna hit the shower too. Anyone seen Johnny?"
"He's in the lounge," Virgil reported. "One of us should probably check on him."
Scott had to take a few seconds to remember how walking worked. He didn't feel entirely real. Tiredness had pulled him out of his body and now he was operating it remotely.
Virgil and Gordon exchanged a long look.
"I'll take John," Gordon suggested.
"Thanks." Virgil gripped Scott's biceps and guided him away from the lounge. "Oh no you don't. No big brothering for you until you've rested."
"But-"
"No."
"Virg-"
"Not happening. You can't even walk in a straight line right now. The only place you're heading is bed."
"Can I at least have a shower first?"
"Are you going to fall over?"
"Oh for-"
Scott couldn't muster the energy to think of a sarcastic reply. Besides, Virgil was wearing those forlorn puppy-dog eyes which were highly manipulative thank-you-very-much but unfortunately Scott was a sucker and so gave into them every time.
"You can stand outside the door. If I fall over, I'll yell."
Virgil looked relieved at the immediate offer of a compromise. "Deal."
Scott winced. "Maybe don't use that word for a while."
