Alternate chapter title: All Hurt No Comfort. Reminder of TWs, including suicidal thoughts and panic attacks.


Their designated quarters had a light design – a lot of marble tiles, white carpet, plain walls void of any décor.

In contrast, the Hood's space was dark. Not claustrophobic – it boasted the same minimalism as any other room in the bunker – but oppressive. Walls were painted deep mahogany or smoky grey. Gold furnishings stood out against the dark shades.

The only room which broke away from the theme was the bathroom with its white walls, although the floor tiles were black with flecks of gold. Scott remained there for an unknown length of time. He still couldn't pin down the reason why he'd gone with the Hood, but now he was here. He gripped the rim of the basin and ducked his head to avoid glimpsing his reflection in the mirror.

Anxiety kept him on tenterhooks, seething beneath his skin, hissing venom in the form of white noise in his head, so loud that it was deafening, made worse by the knowledge that his worst enemy was on the other side of the door. The Hood's presence put him on edge on the best of days – the idea of the man witnessing him in this moment of utter vulnerability was too much.

Footsteps shifted outside the door. Had he locked it? He thought he had, but his memories were untrustworthy, so he couldn't be certain. Everything was foggy. He wanted to check, but his grip on the basin was the only thing keeping him upright. His knuckles were ghostly with tension, grazes pulled to breaking point so that tiny beads of blood welled to the surface. He tipped forwards to lean his head against the mirror. The shock of cold kickstarted his heart, skipping a beat, sending electric jolts from his chest to his fingertips.

Falling apart happened so slowly that it wasn't noticeable, like descending through layers of the ocean – the light vanished gradually until all of a sudden you realised that you were completely enveloped in the darkness where it was cold and quiet and no one could hear you scream and it was too late to ask for help.

He couldn't get air into his lungs, gasping it through strangled wheezes which only made everything hurt more. Some of that darkness became a physical terror, spilling into his vision. Logic stated that he was on the verge of passing out and so needed to calm down right now, but the static in his head drowned that little voice too. He couldn't stop replaying the conversation over and over and over. It was a looped tape, haunting him without mercy.

He dunked his head under the faucet and switched the water to the coldest setting, praying that the ice would shock his body out of the spiral. It trickled down his spine, dripping from his chin like tears, soaking his shirt but it still wasn't working. Instinctively, he wanted to call for John or Virgil. He didn't know if that would ever be an option again. There was a reason he'd tried to keep the poison locked in his head for all these years where it couldn't hurt anybody else.

He was thinking too much and he hated it. Ugly truths reared their heads - if he looked in the mirror, he'd witness them between the cracks as he fell apart. If he hadn't been clinging onto the basin, he'd have thrown a fist into the glass and oh, how he hated that his instinct was to lean into violence as if it could possibly offer him any peace.

Life had taught him that being anything less than perfect made him a burden, but when his brothers had told him differently he'd tried. He'd tried so badly to be better, to ask for help when he needed it and he'd been doing well, but old habits didn't die easily and so he'd stayed quiet despite knowing that his fall had begun. Frankly, he was tired of caring.

Because the bitter truth was that it was all in his head. He'd taken his own worst fears, his own beliefs about himself, and projected them onto Virgil, when of course Virgil didn't hold any of his actions against him. Had he scared his brother? Undoubtedly. Virgil was the guy who had written kind as his answer to the elementary school question what do you want to be when you grow up?

Violence was the antidote to kindness. So yes, Scott had scared him, but Virgil knew him better than to mistake it for anything other than a side-effect of survival mode. Yes, he looked at Scott differently these days, but not with any less love or blinding affection.

Scott had thrown that accusation at him – you can love someone and still dislike them – when the truth was that it was all in his head because he didn't like himself. Panic had magnified the feeling until it was all he saw anywhere he looked, even in the eyes of people who loved him unconditionally.

Your mind likes to lie to you, John had told him all those months ago and at the time Scott hadn't realised just how true the words were. But now the power of those lies had landed him in pieces on the bathroom floor of a man who had once sworn to destroy him but no longer had need to because Scott had already destroyed himself.

The apocalypse might have killed immeasurable numbers of the global population, but the infected weren't the only ones who'd been broken. Survival came at a cost and with every action another piece of him died. The problem was that he had been in survival mode for a lot longer than the apocalypse had lasted and the human soul was not infinite – if he let the world take much more then it would consume him completely. He partly rebelled against the idea, partly accepted it, because didn't that make sense? That he'd eventually give everything until there was nothing left?

God, he wanted his brothers with him so much. He hoped against fate that John couldn't feel his emotions through the hivemind. It was strange – craving someone's presence and yet dreading seeing them again all at once. He wanted to hold onto them and never let go but feared dragging them down with him.

Time slipped away.

He regained his senses slowly.

Everything hurt.

A knock bounced off the door.

"Tracy, are you dead in there?" The Hood drawled. "I do hope so, although your little guard dog seems awfully snappy these days and I'm not in the mood to have a knife put to my throat again."

Scott pushed himself to his knees, testing his legs before he dared attempt standing. He cast a brief glance at the mirror, just long enough to check that he didn't look completely wrecked but too quick to risk glimpsing any of the feeling behind his eyes.

He had no comprehension of how much time had passed but it had clearly been a significant amount as his shirt was almost dry again and he had lost all sensation in his feet from sitting awkwardly. They now came back to life with a flurry of pins-and-needles. Dried tear tracks were itchy. He cupped his hands under the faucet and scrubbed the remnants of his breakdown from his face, taken aback by just how cold the water was and the fact he'd been unable to feel it before.

The Hood's quarters were a similar layout, only minus the extra bedrooms. It didn't take long to track the man down. The distinctive hitch of vinyl underlaid a ghostly piece of classic music which sounded as though it belonged in a haunted house. Scott followed it to the lounge, mildly taken aback. He'd expected to find the Hood sat at the conference table once again. It was disconcerting to find him in a domestic setting. It knocked everything off kilter.

For some reason, he'd assumed that the Hood spent all his time plotting world domination. It had never occurred to him that the man would occasionally relax with a glass of wine in front of the television and yet that was the sight he was met with.

For the first time, he was struck by the realisation that the Hood was only a man, restrained by the same basic needs as anybody else – just as killable as any other person. It sort of humanised him, which Scott hated, because consistency was hard to come by these days and he didn't need any complicated morals getting in the way of his long-term desire to toss the Hood into the sun.

The television was on mute, playing a looped video of a sunny forest. Presumably even international terrorists missed the surface world on occasion. The Hood was reclined on a black sofa, blazer discarded, and shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His legs were outstretched, crossed neatly at the ankles, eyes partly lidded as he listened to the music. He was nursing a glass of wine so deeply red that it resembled fresh blood. He straightened a little at Scott's approach, an element of calculated distrust seeping into his relaxed demeanour.

Scott gave him a wide berth, keeping his back to the wall as he inched deeper into the room. He couldn't help but observe the comparison between their current positions and a hunter trying to gain the trust of a skittish animal.

The Hood looked faintly amused.

"Unlike the creatures above us, I don't bite." He gestured to the stretch of empty sofa at his side. "Take a seat."

Scott cautiously sat on the very edge, as far away as he could get. The Hood appeared dismissive of his presence, actively ignoring him in favour of sipping from that wineglass and appreciating the creepy music.

For a few minutes, they sat in relative silence. Scott slowly sank into the embrace of the sofa. There didn't appear to be any imminent danger, but he was still tenser than a taut string, anticipating the Hood to make a move which never came.

"So," the Hood mused, examining the red ring left at the base of his empty glass. "How did you fail them this time?"

"I haven't failed them," Scott snapped. "They're still alive, aren't they?"

"True," the Hood conceded. He glanced across, features twisted by a dark smile. "But you of all people should know that survival isn't necessarily a blessing."

The instinctual urge for a vicious retort was still there, but muted, out of Scott's reach. He couldn't find the words.

He let a minute tick by in silence, before asking, tiredly, "What do you want from me?"

The Hood's smile evolved into something intrigued, curious in the same manner as a mad scientist dissecting their test subject, digging through flesh and bone, determined to unlock all the secrets without caring about the consequences for the soul under the scalpel. His tools were words rather than blades, but they weren't any less sharp.

"Interesting," he remarked slowly. "Why do you assume I want something from you personally?"

Unspoken: it's hardly as if you have anything of value left to offer.

"Everyone does," Scott muttered, vaguely aware that his tone had tipped over from tired to defeated.

Being this open was a terrible idea and couldn't lead anywhere good, but he'd probably irreparably fucked up his relationship with his family who would never look at him the same way again, so what could the Hood possibly do to him which would hurt worse? Nothing.

He inhaled deeply. The tart snap of alcohol was in the air.

"Everybody wants something from me."

"Shockingly, this time I have no demands."

He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "Bullshit. Come on, spit it out already. What is it? Or am I just today's entertainment? Do you find fucking with my head enjoyable?"

"Yes," the Hood replied without skipping a beat. "Very much so. But that's not why you're here."

Scott tightened his hands to fists. There were weeping wounds on his knuckles. He couldn't remember how they'd gotten there but they were fresh enough to leave thin smears of blood between his fingers.

"Then why?"

The Hood lifted his empty glass to gesture grandly at the room around them.

"I think a more appropriate question would be why you followed."

He settled back against the corner of the sofa.

"Or perhaps it is because, despite your wilful disregard for orders and authority, at heart you are still just a scared child vying for your father's approval, desperate for someone to tell you what to do so that any blame will fall on their head rather than your own for once."

Okay, he'd been wrong. Apparently it was possible to be hurt even more. It was as if he'd been punched in the plexus. Scott curled in on himself slightly, arms wrapping around his ribs as if the pain had a physical cause. He felt as though the air had been knocked clean from his lungs.

The Hood's smile was full of teeth. "Oh, you're so easy to rile. Truly, it's a wonder that you lasted as long as you did in the corporate world with such thin skin."

"Shut up," Scott muttered, but made no attempt to leave. He could have gotten up and walked out. The Hood wouldn't stop him. And yet.

"Except you don't want me to stop talking, do you?"

The Hood rocked his wineglass between his thumb and his forefinger. A single leftover droplet splashed from the rim to ruin the carpet. He set the glass down and rose to his feet, moving to stand over Scott, a cat toying with a mouse before the kill.

"You want me to keep going because that is the real reason you followed me here. You seek out pain like an old friend. This is another attempt at self-flagellation. You want to hurt, and you know I can provide that."

Scott forced himself to look up. The Hood was watching him intently, expression unreadable but a distinct note of glee in his eyes at seeing a Tracy reduced to this.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" Scott whispered.

The Hood's neutral mask flickered. "What?"

"You told me that it was my fate to die at your hands."

Scott swore he could taste copper. There was a steady pressure around his temples and behind his eyes and in his chest, pushing against his ribs as if all the feelings were too big to be contained with a human body and were now trying to physically tear him apart.

"So why haven't you done it? You've had plenty of opportunity."

The Hood was quiet for a moment. "I said it was a Tracy's fate to die at my hands. I never specified that it would be you."

Scott was on his feet before he'd even registered that he was moving. "Answer the damn question."

The Hood stepped back, looking Scott up and down before pacing in a slow circle around him. Scott could practically feel the noose tightening around his neck. He'd put it there himself and now he'd handed the end of the rope to the Hood, but he still didn't know why. It was as if something in him had finally snapped.

"Do you know what the apocalypse does to people like you?" The Hood paused behind him, voice slinking over his shoulders to wrap around his windpipe. "It drains the life out of you. It kills your body slowly, but it destroys your soul in a heartbeat. You don't notice at first until something forces you to truly look at yourself and all you can see is an empty husk."

Scott flinched. The Hood let out a low chuckle at the movement.

"Just tell me," Scott ground out, closing his eyes as he sensed the Hood move around to face him.

"Open your eyes."

"Fuck you."

"Open your eyes, Tracy, I want to see the look on your face when you hear this."

Scott opened his eyes, glaring defiantly at the Hood as if daring him to comment. His vision was swimming. There was copper in his mouth. He thought maybe he'd bitten his cheek, but perhaps it was his own imagination replaying all the blood he had spilled to the point where he could taste it.

The Hood's voice was perfectly level. No trickery, just the truth because that was infinitely more painful.

"There is no fun in killing you when that's what you want. You believe you deserve death, but you won't do it yourself – presumably to save your brothers from the pain of knowing it was self-inflicted – so you've come to me. It would be a clean ending. But I'm not going to give you what you want. It's much more fun to watch you suffer. You've carried the world on your shoulders for so long that it's finally crushed you. All I have to do is sit back and watch it happen."

The Hood tilted his head as if expecting protests or denial, eyes widening ever-so-slightly when Scott remained quiet.

The words washed over him and remained there, trying to drag him under, weighing him down until his legs buckled and he crashed to his knees. Blood turned to thunder in his ears. His eyes were burning. He could taste salt mixed with copper.

There was a faded scar dangerously close to his heart from a rescue gone wrong. Somehow, that pain from having his chest ripped open had been tame in comparison.

He didn't think he was breathing, shoulders slumped, head bowed, feeling as if he were being crushed into a singularity like in John's documentary on black holes only a few hours earlier. It was strange how little time it took for everything to break beyond repair. His mind replayed Dad's disappearance – how a mere second had changed everything then.

A cold hand gripped his chin and tilted his face upwards.

The Hood's voice was wondering as he asked, "What happened to you, Scott Tracy?"

For the first time, those eyes weren't filled with hatred, but curiosity. Scott took a shuddering breath, unable to think let alone speak.

The Hood turned back to the sofa. "Scotch is in the dining room. Fetch it and bring it here."


It was only five in the afternoon. Twenty-four hours ago, while nothing had been okay, it had still seemed fixable. Such little time to contain magnitudes of this scale. Then again, time didn't appear to be obeying the laws of reality. The clock in the lounge read an entirely different time to that in the kitchen which in turn purported to be an hour faster than the timestamp above the hallway holo-projector.

The Hood claimed this was all in Scott's head, that every timepiece in his quarters read the same, so who knew anymore? They'd both had enough to drink that any supposed fact had to be taken with a significant pinch of salt – although on second thought Scott couldn't recall the Hood's glass diminishing at all throughout the afternoon.

They were back in the lounge. The Hood reclined along the sofa, back propped against the armrest, his eternally full glass held aloft in a constant toast. He wore a black-and-gold silk robe over his shirt and slacks – save for their impromptu road-trip, it was the most uncoordinated Scott had ever seen him.

It was sort of jarring seeing him act like a regular person. He had given no inclinations as to when Scott should leave. If anything, he seemed perfectly content to have a Tracy steadily drinking through his scotch supplies. Based off the slight curl at the corners of his mouth, he even found the sight amusing.

For the first half-hour, they had drunk in silence. The Hood had been in control of the bottle then, topping up Scott's glass every few moments – and presumably his own too, although Scott never saw him do so. Eventually, he handed the entire bottle over, claiming to have drunk his full and demanding that Scott finish off the rest so that it wouldn't 'clutter up the place'.

How much scotch was too much? Whatever the answer, Scott had probably passed that point. He'd given up on using a glass and was now drinking straight from the bottle. It was resting on his chest, pinned in place by one hand, although his grasp was loose enough that it shifted in time with his breathing and threatened to roll off onto the floor.

It was sort of nice though, spreading warmth throughout his body. Every injury was muted to a dull ache. He'd started out sat on the sofa, but now he was on the floor. It was a decent carpet. Plush. Soft under calloused fingertips. The ceiling was a vague haze above him, spinning lazily.

He was fairly certain that it wasn't supposed to be doing that. In fact, he should probably be a bit concerned about the way he could barely lift his head up, but oh well. That would involve being able to feel anything in the first place and the alcohol had successfully numbed everything. It wasn't even that he didn't care anymore. He just was. The world was narrowed to this single moment with liquid fire in his veins and sloshing in the bottle in his hands.

The Hood was speaking again. His words cast colourful ripples across Scott's vision. He tightened his fingers around the bottle neck. The glass was slippery, wriggling free of his grasp to smack against his chin when he took another long drink. It clacked against his teeth painfully. Amber glistened in the lights overhead. He tilted the bottle to discover it was almost empty.

"What time is it?"

The words came out slurred. The Hood pushed himself upright, crossing to the mantelpiece which stood over a fake fire. He twisted the clock around so that the face was hidden.

"Around eight."

"At night?"

Scott frowned, trying to count, but the hours had blurred into one living hell. He swore it should have been earlier than that. How long had he been here?

"How…?" He shook his head. Everything twisted into a spiral and he had to flop back against the carpet, gasping for breath. "What about- I should-"

The Hood braced his hands against the mantelpiece. "You can stay here for tonight. If I toss you out now, the wolves will tear you apart. There is no room for weakness in this bunker."

"You have wolves?"

"No, I mean the other-" The Hood repressed a sigh. "Never mind."

Scott rolled onto his front and attempted to push himself up on his elbows. He ended up resting his forehead against the carpet with his eyes squeezed shut, fighting nausea as saliva pooled in his mouth. A hand gripped the nape of his neck – not comforting, but controlling, as if to remind him that he was entirely at Hood's mercy right now – sending chills down his spine.

"They'll never think to look for you here. And even if they do, they won't find you. Relax, Tracy, you won't be disturbed."

Scott took a series of deep breaths to distract himself from the nausea. "They'll worry."

"Will they?" The Hood's grip tightened until it was borderline painful. "Or have you pushed them too far this time?"

"No, no, I- I know them." His arms gave way, sending him collapsing back onto the carpet. He closed his eyes against welling tears which burnt as fiercely as the scotch. "They won't give up on me even though they- they should. They're gonna worry."

The Hood stepped away, scoffing. "By all means, leave. Go and reassure them. You know where the door is."

In truth, Scott didn't think he could have left even if he'd wanted to. Not that he particularly wanted to stay either, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. He fumbled for the sofa – looming somewhere high above him – and hauled himself into sitting upright. The simple movement was exhausting, leaving him light-headed with blurry vision.

The Hood's laugh was low and icy. "As I thought."

Scott tipped his head back against the armrest. It dug into the base of his skull. There was something by his hip, which he reached for, blinking rapidly to ascertain that it was the empty scotch bottle. He pressed it to his forehead, delightfully cool against his overheated skin.

Icy fingers wrapped around his chin and jerked his head forwards so that he was nose-to-nose with the Hood. Panic flooded his body before his mind could catch up. He stared at the man, wide-eyed and shaking.

The Hood's fingers tightened to leave bruises. His features stretched into a gargoyle's smile.

"You're pathetic."

"I know," Scott breathed.

The Hood released him and took a step back, wiping his hands against his robe. Then, wordlessly, he turned on his heels and swept out of the room. His steps echoed in the hallway.

Scott remained motionless for a minute. He was frozen. His body refused to listen to him. He was struck by an understanding for all those newly infected, screaming to be freed from the cages of their minds, begging for their autonomy to be returned.

He vaguely registered that the bottle had shattered. Tiny glass shards glinted amid the carpet. He tried to scrape them into a pile, but they bit his palms until the floor was soaked in his blood. Pain was a distant sensation beneath the fog. His head was spinning again. He tried to catch his balance, but reflexes retracted his hand as soon as he placed it on the broken glass, tipping him off-balance to smack his head against the floor.

And then-

Nothing.

He was vaguely aware of a knocking. It was dark. The sound was distant, on a door somewhere, desperate and relentless, but it went unanswered and-

He opened his eyes to dim lights. The difficulty with life below ground was that there was no sunlight from which to gauge how much time had passed.

His head was pounding. Everything was too much – too loud, too bright but too dark, too scratchy, too soft, too quiet – and it hurt. His hands were crying out, sticky with dried blood. There was a foul, stale taste in his mouth which was as dry as if he'd swallowed sand. He pushed himself upright, supported by the sofa against his back, and came face-to-face with the Hood.

"Ah, good. You're awake again."

Scott reached for his voice. It sounded as if he'd swallowed broken glass. "What time is it?"

"Nine." The Hood's eyes were a stolen green. "It's only been an hour, Tracy."

"What?" Scott winced at the volume of his own voice. "That's bullshit."

The Hood turned the clock around so that Scott could spy the hands pointing to nine-o-clock sharp. It made no sense because Scott knew damn well what a hangover felt like and this most certainly was one, yet the evidence was right in front of him. It was undeniably nine.

He staggered upright, practically collapsing in front of the holo-projector, hands clumsy as he fumbled for the time which sprang up to inform him that it was in fact nine at night.

"Here." The Hood held out a bottle of something. The cap was missing, but it stunk strongly of alcohol. Scott squinted at the label, vision too fuzzy to read the brand. "You could clearly do with another drink."

Scott was still caught up by the fact that supposedly it had only been an hour. All of his senses assured him that it had been a lot longer, yet the evidence was irrefutable. It was utterly disorientating. The mixture of exhaustion, panic and nausea which rose up his throat in the form of acid only added to the confusion. He felt mildly delirious.

The Hood pressed the bottle into his hands. Scott took a swig instinctively. The sharp snap of pure liquor made him cough. He stumbled backwards to sink onto the sofa, noting absently that there was no trace of the broken scotch bottle. If it weren't for the lacerations across his hands, he'd have sworn he'd imagined the entire incident. Everything he thought was real kept being proven false. He was partly convinced that he was going insane.

The Hood leant against the mantelpiece, observing Scott tip the bottle back once more. His eyes were vibrantly green, and it was so, so wrong to see him wearing those contacts.

"What's the plan, Tracy?"

Scott twisted his thumb around the rim of the bottle. He could already feel that false fire spreading outwards from his chest, inviting him to relax, to lean into its arms and drink the pain away. The glass was icy against his palms. A glance down revealed that his hands had smeared blood across the bottle. The label was unreadable. He took another long drink, then folded into the awaiting embrace of the sofa.

"Huh?" he mumbled at last, only just registering that the Hood had moved to stand over him, arms crossed, expression twisted by disapproval, his own personal grim reaper refusing to collect his life quite yet.

"What's next?" The Hood sounded irritated. "You can't stay here forever."

A bitter laugh bubbled up, trapped behind a new mouthful of liquor.

"Fuck knows. I don't have a plan. You must have realised that by now. I'm- I have-" Scott flung his arms out. The bottle sloshed over his hand. Pain ignited all the way up to his wrists. Spilled alcohol mixed with the blood on his palms, dripping onto his knees. "-nothing. No ideas. Nothing to offer. Not this time. Sorry to disappoint. I know you like a challenge."

The Hood delicately stepped out of range.

"You know, I detested your father, but I also admired him." His eyes narrowed in disgust. "You are not half the man that he was. That's good news for me – it means that we can do business."

"Business," Scott scoffed, leaning his head back against the sofa cushions with a dull laugh. "Right. What kinda crossroads deal are you suggesting this time?"

The Hood's nonchalant expression split into a scheming smile. "I can give you your wings back."

And Scott knew he should have wanted it. He should have wanted it so badly. He'd spent his entire life with his head in the clouds until he finally reached them and every moment after that first flight had been dedicated to looking up and counting down the seconds until he could next take to the sky. Flying came easier to him than breathing. On the ground he was just going through the motions, but in flight he was alive. If it were possible to stay up there forever, he would never come back down.

But he couldn't muster any of that excitement. He couldn't even imagine it. He didn't want anything. It was as if some greater force had drained every emotion out of him. No longing, no hope, not even any desire to get better. He just was. He was a greyscale while everyone around him had retained their colours.

He couldn't imagine even getting up off the sofa, let alone living to tomorrow or the day after that or long enough to climb into a cockpit. He was so, so tired. He couldn't do it anymore – any of it.

He knew he should have been leaping at the chance of flying again. The voice at the back of his head was screaming – what is wrong with you, why are you like this, get up, snap out of this – over and over and over. But he was imploding silently, just delaying the inevitable, because he'd fallen so far this time that he couldn't see the light anymore and the sky seemed so impossibly far out of reach that even hoping to fly again was a cruel joke.

"No," he whispered, voice breaking on the word. "No, you can't."

A vein in the Hood's temple twitched. "What are you talking about?"

"You can't give me back my wings."

Not when they've already been clipped.

The Hood stared at him for a long moment. Scott tore his gaze away and tipped the bottle back until the fire in his throat overpowered the ache in his heart. His mind was too loud, a screaming mess of indistinguishable white noise.

The problem with survival was that you had to find the strength to save yourself first. People could help you along the way, but you had to put in the work too and he didn't have the energy. He also didn't see the point. All he ever did was hurt more people than he saved.

"Can I ask you something?"

The Hood arched a brow. "You want to ask me something?"

Scott gestured vaguely with the now-half empty bottle. "Uh huh."

"Get on with it then."

"Was this inevitable?" He lifted his head from the cushions to glimpse the Hood's taken aback expression. "No matter what choices I made, would we always have ended up here?"

The Hood brushed imaginary lint off his lapels. "Life has the cascading effect of a series of dominoes. Remove any one of those and the outcome is very different. So no, if you had made even a single different choice, we wouldn't be here now. In answer to your real question, yes, this is your fault."

Scott didn't have a reply to that. He drained the rest of the bottle and tossed it aside, wrapping his arms around his middle. Objectively, the Hood couldn't be taken at his word, but he was only confirming Scott's own beliefs, so perhaps he was telling the truth this time.

The Hood strode back to the mantelpiece.

"You're wrong, of course. You do have one last thing to offer." He turned around to face Scott. "Unlike the Global Defence Force's shared production sites, this bunker is run on a trade and barter system. If you have nothing to give, you're out. This isn't a pity party. It's a new society. If you want to stay, you have to pay."

"You have the contacts."

"A mere entry fee. There is something you can offer which will not only guarantee permanent residence for your family and your strays but has the potential to save lives as you're so fond of doing." The Hood summoned a DNA strand from the holo-projector. "There's been a lot of research into the genetic mutation which causes immunity. The only blockade keeping us from a viable vaccine is the lack of a willing test subject."

Scott was having trouble focussing. "You don't have anyone else with immunity? In this entire place?"

"Obviously," the Hood drawled, "But they're unwilling to accept the risks. But you… You have nothing else to offer. You've always been prepared to sacrifice your life to save others. This is the same principle."

"If I say no…?"

"Then I hope one of your brothers has something of equal value to offer." The Hood's tone was smug, confident in Scott's predictability. "You want to be useful? You want to save your family? This is how. This is how you atone." He gestured grandly. "Consider it one last rescue if you like."

The liquor was hitting him hard. Scott couldn't lift his head from the cushions. It was a different feeling to being drunk. He almost felt drugged but put it down to the constant exhaustion. His hands felt strange, numb but tingly all at once. Blood roared in his ears.

"Okay," he whispered, barely able to keep his eyes open. His voice was a ghost. "O-okay. Take what you need."

The Hood's laugh stirred faint panic as instincts warned him that this was wrong. He didn't care. All he had to do was close his eyes. Maybe everything would be clearer when he woke up. And if he didn't – well, that was up to the universe, wasn't it? Either way, people would benefit.

He drifted in and out of consciousness.

Time slipped through his grasp again.

He tried to ground himself in the present, but it was like reaching for a handhold on smooth ice.

More time swept past.

He became conscious of certain moments. They came to him in flashes.

Blink – awake.

Blink – hours had passed.

Blink – he was floating, aware of his body but disconnected as if watching from afar. There was a glass being held to his lips, a hand covering his nose until he was forced to swallow or suffocate. Dizziness. The room, swirling. On his side on the carpet, shivering, a voice raised in anger, the taste of bile in his mouth and the stench of vomit so overwhelming that he gagged.

Blink – he was gone again.

Time was merciless.

"Pull yourself together, Tracy, you're a disgrace."

"Sorry-" The words were clumsy, slurred, he couldn't think, had to be better, apologise. "-sorry, m'sorry, sorry-"

Blink – he was slumped on the shower floor, fully-clothed, drenched, the water so cold that it stole his senses. For a moment he fell through the gaps in his memories to that rescue when the ice had given way beneath his feet, only Virgil had been there to haul him out again and where was Virgil? Why wasn't he here? Please, please, please-

Blink – there was something bitter on his tongue – some kind of pill, he realised foggily – and hands were holding his mouth shut, encouraging him to swallow, don't be difficult now, don't you want to be helpful, don't you want to be good, it'll make all the pain go away, and he was sure that he shouldn't, but he couldn't think why, so he did but then he drifted away again…

The next time, he was slightly more aware. He was as weak as a newborn kitten, unable to lift his hand or move a finger. He was sprawled unceremoniously across some large, vaguely oval table. Various needles vanished beneath his skin – IV lines, perhaps? He couldn't turn his head to find out – and the sight made his vision swim. Childlike terror washed over him.

The Hood materialised above him, hazy around the edges as if not quite real.

Scott fought to stay in the moment, clinging onto consciousness desperately, digging his nails into the tabletop.

"What did you do to me?" he whispered faintly.

The Hood's sigh was cold, sharp, scary. "Nothing you didn't agree to. You weren't in your right mind, tried to fight me when I began the tests."

"N-no, you- What did you give me?"

"A few doses of Flunitrazepam. Nothing you need to worry about."

"You-"

"If you would stop being so difficult, I wouldn't have to do this."

"S-stop-"

"Shh, none of that, it's most irritating."

Hands cupped his face, cruel, bruising, forcing another of those bitter pills down his throat and he thought he might have been crying silently, but then he was drifting away again, and he couldn't get his voice to work – not that there was anyone around to hear him – so he screamed in his head, for Dad, for Grandma, for Virgil, for-

John!

John, John, Johnny, please, I can't hold on, he's killing me, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, John, please-


Scott was partly convinced that he was dead. If not dead, then at least dying. He wasn't having an out-of-body experience as such, but he was aware of his surroundings without being conscious of his own physical form. He knew that he was in pain, but it was distant. He couldn't move.

Knocking again. It had come and gone over the past minutes, hours, days? This time it wasn't going away. Whoever was on the other side was shouting so loudly that they could be heard even through the dampening layers.

The Hood swept across Scott's line of sight and blocked him from view of the doorway.

"You can lock us out, lie to our faces, send us on yet another fucking wild goose chase but this time we are not leaving. I know you have my brother and so help me God, if I have to torture you to find him then I won't hesitate. Get out of my way."

John.

"I should have slit your throat when we first arrived. Don't fuck with me right now."

The Hood backed up, hands aloft in surrender as Gordon advanced on him, knife at the ready.

Oh.

His brothers were here.

Scott could let go. It was okay now.

He drifted.

He became aware of someone screaming. It was the same sort of desperate, unbearable cry as parents on rescues gave upon learning that their child hadn't made it – the purest version of heartbreak. Virgil.

Hands were cupping his face again but this time they were impossibly gentle, thumbs wiping dried tears and sweat and blood from his cheeks, fumbling desperately under his jaw to find his pulse.

"Please, please, please," Virgil was whispering, voice broken and shattering more on each syllable. His hands were trembling. "Oh, god, Scott, Scotty, no, n-no."

It's okay, Scott thought, willing the words to transfer into Virgil's head, it's okay, Virg, please don't cry, it's okay.

Because Virgil should never sound like that, those sobs which tore a person apart until they became a scream. He was aware of Virgil gathering him up from the table, one hand cupping his head, cradling him close like he was something precious, something holy.

"Oh, Christ, no, p-please, don't go, Scott, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I should have realised just how bad it was getting, oh god, I'm sorry, this is my fault."

Virgil held him tighter, burying his face in Scott's hair so that his voice became muffled, splintered by sobs.

"No, n-no, no, why would you let him do this to you? Don't leave me, please don't leave me, Scotty, you c-can't, I love you, I love you, don't go, please-" His words bled into a scream. "-Scott."

"Virgil, Virgil," John's voice cut through the chaos, "I can feel him, I can still feel him through the hivemind, he's still with us, I promise you."

"I can't f-find a pulse," Virgil choked out.

John's hand was icy. Scott clung onto that chill through the fog. His brother's touch was painfully gentle, finding his pulse through the smeared blood on his throat and counting a heartrate which was dangerously low.

"What did you give him?" John snapped, voice filled with so much cold fury that the room temperature seemed to drop. "What the fuck did you give him?"

The Hood smiled. "Nothing that he didn't take willingly."

I didn't, Scott thought desperately, heart fluttering like the wings of a nervous hummingbird, so light-headed that he could barely stay awake, I didn't know, I swear, please, believe me…

"You bastard." Gordon was fire to John's ice, a raging inferno, rising to a scream of his own, knife clattering to the floor because revenge could wait but Scott's life couldn't. "This? Is this what you were giving him?"

The Hood gestured to the liquor cabinet which contained no pure liquor at all. Gordon tore the doors open so viciously that they ripped clear of their hinges. His shoulders were rigid as he read the labels.

"You roofied him?"

Slowly drifting away in his brother's arms, Scott heard Virgil's heartbeat jump.

"Were those mixed with alcohol?" The reply was inaudible, but the panic which drenched Virgil's words was as clear as day. "How much?"

The Hood must have made some gesture or pointed to the bottles, because Virgil inhaled sharply and John breathed, "Oh fuck."

Gordon stumbled backwards. "Oh my god. You've been- That could kill him."

"That could be a side-effect," the Hood conceded. "But he knew there would be risks when he agreed to help me. He decided that the potential for a working vaccine was worth it. If you ask me, I rather think this would be his desired outcome. Perhaps not this exact scenario – all of you blubbering over the place – but let's face the truth: this happened on your watch."

"Shut the hell up," John spat.

"You drove him to me. From the second I set eyes on him, when you filed through that door, it was obvious that he was falling apart. Now, if I could see it, then I can only assume that you deliberately turned a blind eye. You claim to know him, to love him, but you let him tear himself apart until he had nothing left to give. Is this what you call family? I'm rather glad I don't have any left if that's the case. Do you know I offered him the chance to fly again? He turned me down. That's how badly he's broken. It would be kinder to let him go. He might finally be able to find some peace."

Alan had been frozen in the doorway, too overwhelmed by the sight in front of him to move. At the Hood's words, he slowly looked up, eyes bloodshot, jaw set, hands tightening around his bat as his expression shifted from utter devastation to pure, unbridled rage.

"At this point," the Hood remarked, "He's not worth saving."

And Alan snapped.

"You did this! This is all your fault!"

He vaulted over the table, heels slipping on the blood-soaked surface, swinging the bat in a high arc. The Hood raised his prosthetic arm, eyes gleaming green as he reached for Alan's throat to finish the job he had begun all those months ago on the satellite. Except Alan was clever and he was quick, and he had learnt. He smashed the bat into the joint where metal met skin, bringing it down again and again.

"You put us here. You tried to steal the parasite in the first place! You were the one who started all of this. It's never enough for you! You ruin everything! So many people are dead because of you. Everyone is suffering!"

The Hood reeled back, howling. Sparks erupted from the damaged prosthetic. They skittered over his skin. The stench of scorched flesh filled the air as he burned.

"Does that hurt?" Alan screamed, face wet with angry tears. "Does it fucking hurt? I hope you're in agony. I want you to beg for mercy. Beg for your life like you made Scott beg for mine. Go on. Get on your fucking knees!"

The Hood threw up a hand. Alan didn't hesitate. The bat collided with a sickening snap of bone.

"You murdered the world. You broke everything. How are you still alive when you're the one who should have died first? Why won't you just die?"

The Hood's shout was so full of pain that everyone flinched. Everyone except for Alan. The bat was dripping in blood. He stood over the Hood, breathing heavily, face speckled in crimson.

"You've taken everything from me. You took my childhood. You took my dad. You made me an orphan. You hurt my family, left them in hospitals fighting for their lives. You tried to take International Rescue from us. You took my home, my future. My friends are dead because of you. I have permanent scarring on my lungs, so you've probably taken space from me too. And for what?"

Alan dragged a hand across his eyes, blinking away furious tears.

"So, now? I'm going to make you pay."

For the first time, the Hood's mask dropped. He looked genuinely, humanly afraid.

Alan raised the bat above his head. Gordon lunged to stop him, catching Alan's arm before he could bring the bat down on the Hood's face.

"Alan, Alan, you've gotta stop."

Alan yanked his arm free, smashing his elbow into Gordon's face in the process. There was a distinct crunch and Gordon tripped over his heels, landing heavily, clutching his nose as blood poured down his chin. John's eyes widened, scrambling to his feet to reach them.

The Hood's face was slick with crimson. "You're going to kill me? In cold blood? Not very heroic of you."

Alan let out an icy laugh. "Well, you know what they say – the only way to defeat a monster is to become one."

"Alan," John shouted. "Don't do this!"

The Hood grinned, baring bloodied teeth. "Do you know what killing a person does to the soul? This will ruin you."

Alan shrugged. "I'll consider it a personal sacrifice for the greater good."

John seized Alan's wrist.

"Get off of me!"

"I can't let you do this."

Alan whirled around, voice dropping to a hiss. "I wasn't asking for permission."

He pulled his punch, but it was still hard enough to knock John off his feet.

The bat landed in the pooling blood, momentarily discarded as Alan switched to his fists. The Hood crumpled beneath him, face unrecognisable. Alan's knuckles split from the force of the impacts. The Hood's features were a mess of torn flesh, tattered cartilage and blood.

Alan drew himself up to his full height and retrieved the baseball bat for the final blow.

"You already stole one father from me. You don't get to take another."

John was struggling to regain his balance, but Gordon was already there. He threw himself forwards, shouting, screaming Alan's name and Alan hesitated. That second of mistiming was all it took for Gordon to slide into the arc of the bat.

Alan couldn't stop in time. Momentum had taken over and the rules of physics couldn't be disobeyed. His voice rose in a panicked warning for Gordon to move.

The bat smashed into Gordon's head at full force. There was a godawful crack. For a split-second, time seemed to stop, but then he dropped like a stone.

"Gordon!"

Alan collapsed to his knees, scrambling on all fours to reach his brother. The bat rolled away, forgotten, covered in not only the Hood's blood, but a Tracy's too.

"Oh god, oh my god, no. No, no, no, Gordon? Gordon, this isn't funny. Gordy, wake up, I didn't mean to, I swear, please, I never meant to hurt you." Alan's voice fractured on a sob as he slid a hand beneath Gordon's head, trying to lift his brother off the floor. "Gordon? Please wake up."

John shoved Alan aside roughly. It wasn't intentional – he was just trying to assess how badly Gordon was hurt – but Alan's face crumpled. He landed on his back in the pooling crimson, trembling as he lifted his hands into the light and saw the blood dripping from them.

"J-John? He's okay, right? I didn't- I- Johnny?"

John didn't say anything, head bowed, expression hidden from view, but his hands were shaking as he pushed the hair back from Gordon's forehead, blond already matted with blood.

"I didn't mean to," Alan whispered. He clasped his hands to his mouth to stifle a sob. "He's okay. He's gotta be okay. John, say something."

John reached for the holo-projector on the table.

"This is John Tracy. We need urgent medical attention in Belah Gaat's residence. Three down, one overdose with potential alcohol poisoning and blood loss, another unconscious and a suspected skull fracture."