Scott's plan had been to ask John to tag along to his meeting with Noah Warren. This idea was immediately struck out of consideration when he stepped foot into a dark apartment. Alan was meeting Theo and Jasmin at the cinema on one of the entertainment levels, while Marisa had mentioned she would also be out that evening, but John was supposed to be back already. The temperature was frosty, greeting Scott with a blast of cold air which had him reeling while Gordon openly cursed, shivering in a shirt still sweaty from his workout.
Virgil reached around the doorframe and flicked on the lights. "Did John mention if he was going to be late back?"
"No," Scott replied slowly. Instincts warned that something was wrong, but he couldn't pick up on any immediate threat. He lowered his arm to let Gordon step through the doorway. "Did he warn you that he was planning to turn our rooms into the Arctic?"
Gordon gritted his teeth, looking distinctly nauseous in the icy aircon. "I don't care why, just turn the thermostat back up. Jeez. Johnny had better have a good reason or I'll kick his scrawny ass to… I dunno, frickin' Pluto or somewhere. Pluto's cold, isn't it? See if he likes it then." He yanked his shirt over his head and stumbled. "Shit."
Virgil gripped his shoulders to steady him. "Alright?"
"Dizzy. Gimme a mo. It'll pass."
"Sure?"
"Yuh-uh, doc." Gordon offered him a lazy grin. "Relax Vee, I'd warn you if I was about to puke on your shoes." He lifted his hand away from the wall and took a cautious step. "Hey, would ya look at that? I'm basically a pro at this whole concussion thing."
"You're a pro at pushing your limits," Scott muttered, finally allowing disapproval to enter his voice now that Alan wasn't around to overhear the negativity. He dragged a hand down his face, repressing a sigh. He could just sense Gordon's sour stare. "Yeah, yeah, I know I'm a hypocrite."
"Aw, Scotty." Gordon smacked him on the back. "You're becoming self-aware."
"Gordon," Virgil sighed.
Gordon gave another full-body shiver in the chilled air. He balled up his damp shirt and pinned it to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself in a feeble attempt to fight off the cold.
"I'm gonna take a shower, warm up a bit." He swatted Virgil's hands away. "Oh my god, Virg, back off." A hint of irritation crept into his voice. "Seriously."
"If-"
"-I need anything, shout, yeah, I know." Gordon flapped his shirt over his shoulder in a dramatic farewell. "Laters, 'gators!"
His steps held a faintly stumbling gait which suggested that the dizziness was worse than he was letting on. Scott ignored his so-called smother-hen instincts, although unease made him just as nauseous as his younger brother was probably feeling. He glanced sideways to meet Virgil's worried gaze.
"I'm going after him," Virgil decided aloud.
"Good luck," Scott quipped, only partly joking. In all honesty, he was more concerned about John. Gordon might be reluctant to admit his own limits, but he wouldn't push himself so far past them as to cause permanent damage. At worst he'd land himself with the headache from hell tomorrow, but at least that was something they knew how to deal with.
They'd taken to sharing rooms, reluctant to be alone even after so long in the bunker. This left several bedrooms untouched. They weren't dusty but lacked the homely touches which had infiltrated every other space. A long corridor separated these bedrooms from the rest of the quarters, which only reinforced that sense of otherness. A chill clung to the place which was entirely separate from the cold air introduced by the lowered thermostat. It was dark too, but Scott was reluctant to switch on the lights until he'd located John and figured out exactly what was wrong with his brother, in case it was a migraine or something similar. He'd experienced enough of those himself over the years to know to keep the lights off.
Scott had a childhood memory of their neighbour's cat. She had been a tabby with soft fur the same colour as tree bark with stripes which turned faintly ginger in the sun. He couldn't remember if her eyes had been green or amber and that little detail bugged him, but he could recall petting her every day on his way home from middle school. She had been a friendly thing – called Mabel or Mary or something like that – and would always purr if he tickled her chin.
Then, one day, she wasn't there. Missing posters sprang up the following weekend. He'd dragged John into helping him look, even recruiting Virgil to search the back yard just in case the cat had found its way over the fence, but there had been no sign. Sometimes when animals were hurt, Lucille had explained, they found a quiet, dark place to hide until they felt better. Which sounded alright, except the cat had never showed and eventually the neighbour replaced her with a grumpy tortoiseshell which left a tiny scar on Scott's hand when he tried to stroke him.
It was fairly obvious why this memory had returned to him now, but he didn't care for the comparison. He discarded the thought, focussing on the hallway ahead of him. He'd discarded his jacket back in the lounge, but now he wished he'd brought it with him as the chill coaxed goose bumps from his skin. He poked his head around the doorframe of each room until he noticed that the final door had been left open, just a fraction but enough to hear anyone coming - and John called Scott paranoid.
He pushed the door shut behind him and waited for the few seconds it took his eyes to adjust. He'd grown used to the gloom in the corridor, but this was a new level of darkness. Strange lights blinked and his heartrate spiked before he recognised them as the hibernation glow of a holo-projector. There was a lamp with a dimmer switch to his left, so he turned it on to the lowest setting, just sufficient to see his way to the bed without faceplanting – the layout of this room was entirely unfamiliar.
John was buried beneath a duvet as well as two extra blankets. It really made no sense – why lower the thermostat if he was already feeling cold? The duvet was pulled over his head so that only a tuft of hair was visible, the fabric clutched tightly within a fist. He was curled in on himself like a wounded animal, face hidden in a pillow, breathing too rapidly to be asleep although he made no signs of noticing Scott's presence.
"Hey," Scott whispered, sitting on the edge of the mattress. "Migraine?"
In truth, it wasn't what he wanted to ask. He had many, many questions. But aside from the freezing temperatures and almost fearful body language, the symptoms did match the diagnosis. John didn't suffer from migraines like Scott and Alan did, but he'd certainly pushed himself into the realms of such pain when first trialling the contacts. It had been a long time since then, but the memories of his brother unable to stand the slightest of sensory inputs without silently crying from pain would be forever engrained into Scott's mind. Thankfully, this didn't seem as bad, but John was still clearly hurt and Scott intended to fix it.
There was a pause.
John didn't lift his head from the pillow, so the fabric muffled his words and Scott had a struggle to even hear him.
"No. Just a bad headache."
It might well have been a bad headache, but it certainly wasn't just that. John with just a headache tended to be snappy and irritable, but would simply take some painkillers and carry on with his day. He definitely did not turn into a recluse or bury himself in blankets and darkness. He also didn't usually have that distinctive edge to his voice which whispered of a precipice beyond which lay unimaginable depths of fear, dread and desperation. Suddenly, his grip on the duvet didn't seem to be fighting against pain, but rather an anchor in face of the unknown.
Scott didn't voice his growing suspicions.
"Have you taken anything?" he asked instead.
John made a vague, non-committal sound which was lost within the pillow. Scott wasn't entirely sure it had even been English. He reached over to tug a corner of the duvet. John glowered at him with bloodshot eyes and made a feeble attempt to grab it back.
"There's Tylenol in the cabinet," Scott offered.
Something flickered in John's eyes. He gave up on retrieving the duvet and rolled over to put his back to Scott.
"I can't take anything," he muttered at last. "Not on top of everything else."
And there. That ever so slight emphasis on everything else. It confirmed Scott's suspicions. He shoved John's shoulder until his brother shuffled aside – although not without grumbled curses – and stole the space beside him.
"So," he said conversationally, "It's loud tonight, huh?"
If he really, properly focussed, then he could just about sense fear which didn't belong to him. It lurked at the back of his mind, familiar and yet foreign all at once. He glanced over at John as if he could somehow see the threads which linked them together. It was an intricate network which no one fully understood.
He reached out, stopping just short of actually touching so that his hand hovered above John's back. John had bundled one of the blankets against his chest and now curled around it. There were tiny tremors skittering across his shoulders. His breathing was ragged. Scott couldn't distinguish his brother's exact emotions, but they were a heavy presence at the back of his mind.
"John," he prompted.
"Yeah," John mumbled, pressing his forehead against the blanket. "It's really fucking loud. Meds barely made an impact. It's getting stronger, Scott. And I still can't contact EOS. The signal's too weak. The furthest I can pick anything up from is just over the Canadian border, but even that's too broken up to make sense." He hesitated, then confessed in a tiny voice, "I'm running out of time."
"Don't say that."
"Just because you don't want to hear it doesn't make it any less true. There are stronger meds here and they've helped but I'm still on borrowed time."
Scott caught his own wrist and squeezed until the bones protested. He relinquished his tight grip before it could bruise and took a deep gulp of icy air. Even with warmth pumping through the pipes, the room was still cold enough for his breath to fog. Denial mixed with desperation to form a pit in his stomach. For a moment, he thought he was going to be sick.
"Stop talking like that," he snapped.
Blankets rustled as John sat up. He looked even paler than usual, ghostly in the blue glow of the dimmed lamp. There was something pleading in his eyes when he braced his elbows against his drawn-up knees and examined Scott's face. In that moment it seemed as if time had swept backwards and landed them back in their shared childhood bedroom, crowded onto Scott's bed to fend off nightmares; John facing his fear head-on while Scott pretended he wasn't scared as if the terror would flee of its own accord if he ignored it for long enough.
"We always knew this was a possibility," John began.
Scott cut him off mid-sentence. "No. You decided it was a possibility. I never agreed."
"I'm putting everyone in danger. If the hivemind regains control-"
"Then we'll handle it. We did before."
"Jesus, would you let me get a word in?" Despite his irritation, there was still a clear note of fondness in John's voice. He let the silence settle until he was satisfied that Scott wouldn't interrupt him again. "I'm not suggesting anything drastic. I never said I didn't have a plan. There are a couple of options, I'm just not a fan of any of them."
Tension was creeping into his shoulders, braced against the dull light. Pain had clouded his eyes again. It was only noticeable if you'd known him for his entire life. Scott gestured for him to wait, slid off the bed and knocked the lamp back into darkness, then fumbled to find his way back again. He smacked his elbow against the unused side-table with a curse.
"You're a disaster," John remarked wryly.
"It's one of my many charms," Scott quipped, somewhat breathless in the face of the throbbing pain from his elbow. His shoulder knocked John's in the darkness, but his brother made no attempt to move away, so he stayed close. John was a long line of ice against his side, but he was no colder than the rest of the room. "Talk to me. What are our options?"
John reached for holograms. The instinctive habit had been reignited by their access to holo-projectors again. He elbowed Scott before he could make some teasing remark.
"They're gathering. The infected, I mean. There are so many of them, Scott. Cameras only show us the immediate area around the compound. If we could get a drone up there or- I don't know. I need access to satellite imagery because their behaviour doesn't make sense and that worries me. Why here? Why not continue heading north?"
"Any further north and they freeze."
"Not now. It's almost summer." John curled his hands around his knees, nails digging into the soft fabric of his sweats. "That's why it's getting so loud."
The darkness made it all too easy to imagine that the hivemind had drawn him into its clutches again. Scott pressed a little closer against John's side to ground himself and prayed his brother wouldn't notice. God knew John worried enough about him already these days.
"Technically," John ventured, "I might know a way to buy myself more time."
"What's the catch?"
"It would indebt me to a man who I would rather see dead."
Scott swallowed. His mouth suddenly seemed very dry. He forced himself to unclench his fists before John could call him out on it. A chill trickled down his spine. There was phantom pain in his forearms where needles had burrowed into his skin deeply enough to leave scars. It was a wonder he had gotten off as lightly as he had – on a physical level, anyway.
"The Hood," he ground out. The name installed a chokehold on his vocal chords. He swallowed. "I- He's still around?"
"No," John was quick to assure him. "He's detained. He nearly killed you, Scott. I would never let him walk free. Thankfully, most residents were on my side. Our family has more to offer than the Hood does. I get final say over whatever happens to him."
His voice grew as dark as the room.
"Do you know they offered to shoot him? Outright, just like that. All I had to say was yes. Hell, I could have asked for the gun and they'd have given it to me. But death would be too easy for him. I want him to suffer. Besides, he still has information on the parasite and unfortunately it's locked in his head. That's the only reason I saved him."
Scott ran a thumb over the raised scar tissue on his arm down to the pulse in his wrist. His heartbeat leapt against his fingertips.
"You wouldn't have let Alan kill him," he whispered.
John sounded icy. "No, I wouldn't have done. I'd have finished the job myself. And as soon as I drain every drop of information from the bastard – the second he's no longer useful – I'm going to put him through hell. He is going to beg me for mercy, for forgiveness, for his life."
Scott had never been scared of his brother, but there was something new in John's voice, something different, a sharp-edged danger which was oh-so-wrong.
"John-"
"He's a threat and threats must be eliminated."
The first thought which sprung to mind was EOS. It was closely followed by realisation because John did not sound like that. Scott suddenly wished he'd left the light on. They were sat so close together that he could feel the lighter in John's pocket which his brother had taken to carrying around like a talisman. He didn't know how to reach for it without alerting the hivemind – because this wasn't John, couldn't be – but he was also painfully aware that he was the only person standing between it and the rest of the bunker. Or, more to the point, Virgil and Gordon, who were only a few rooms away and were not immune.
If it came down to a fight, Scott wasn't sure he'd win. The hivemind overwhelmed human inhibitions which was what gave the infected their seemingly superpowered strength. He had regained a little muscle mass since they'd arrived at the bunker, but he was still far below a healthy baseline and he was disadvantaged by the fact he would hold back. Instinct would keep him from hitting John hard enough to hurt. He was very aware that the hivemind didn't have the same hang ups.
Then, just as he was about to make a wild grab for the lighter, John seemed to snap out of the strange trance. Who knows where the line is between John's control and the parasite's, Gordon had asked back on the train and now the words returned to haunt him. He was aware that something had shifted – that presence at the back of his mind had lightened and really, what in the twilight-zone kind of shit was his life now?
"John?" Scott ventured.
John physically shook himself out of his thoughts. "Sorry, what?" He shivered. "Must've zoned out for a second. Christ, why is it so cold in here?"
Impossibly, the temperature seemed to have fallen further. Scott knew it was simply a side effect of dread.
"You tell me," he replied, trying desperately to keep his voice level. "You're the one who turned the thermostat all the way down."
John held himself perfectly still. "I don't remember doing that."
"Yeah, I had a horrible feeling that's what you were gonna say."
Scott stole the lighter from John's pocket and ignited it. The tiny flame cast an arc of light which flickered across the walls to create strange shapes. He caught himself holding his breath, unable to pinpoint the exact reason why. John watched the flame, fire reflected in dark depths of his pupils as if it could light him up from the inside-out.
"I went under again, didn't I?"
Scott tightened his grip on the lighter. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
"That's not a no," John pointed out, while Scott floundered for an explanation that didn't sound completely terrifying. "Fuck. It's influencing my actions again, just like it did on the train. Why else would I have turned down the temperature? Fire and heat weaken it, so presumably the cold increases its control. What happens next time? What if it hadn't been you who came to find me? No one else is immune. I told you back at the apartment that I'm a risk and now-"
"And now we handle it. It's just another problem. We'll find a solution." Scott held out the lighter for John to take. "You said the Hood might have a way to buy you some time?"
John passed the light across his palm. The flame hissed at his fingertips, twisting into a writhing creature. He curled his hand into a fist around it to extinguish the fire. The room plunged back into darkness.
"The Hood knows that information is the only reason I've kept him in the bunker. He's not going to willingly give it up because he knows he wouldn't have any leverage left. But he has provided some answers, just to prove that he isn't bluffing."
"Such as?"
"That frequency of his – the one which drives away the infected – I know a little more about how it works now. The human brain emits various waves – although we can forget alpha, delta and theta in this scenario – and if you examine the neurofeedback pattern-"
Scott repressed a groan. "Short version, Jay."
It was too dark to see, but he could just sense his brother's smirk. Goddamn geniuses. Always so smug. Scott stretched and 'accidentally' elbowed him in the process.
"Short version – infected still have human biology. The Hood's frequency interrupts the hivemind. This temporarily enables the human fear response to override the parasite in newly infected."
Scott recalled those rotters fleeing from the Hood back in the city. "Why run? That implies it's the Hood they're scared of."
"Not necessarily. Newly infected are still aware. They probably wanted to get the hell away from any survivors so they don't have to go through the horror of- Well. Consuming a living person."
Those implications seemed heavier in the darkness. Scott longed to switch on the lights. He focussed on his senses – the slight pressure of John's shoulder against his own, chilled air which threatened to make him cough, soft faux fur of a blanket under his hands.
"The parasite wants the Hood dead. When you went under for a second… It wants him out of the equation. Why? The frequency only works on relatively newly infected and besides, it's a temporary fix. What else does he know?"
John bolted upright as realisation struck. "I think a far more interesting question is how the parasite knows he has information in the first place. Unless, of course, it has a door into his head."
A distant memory stirred in the back of Scott's mind. You don't have anyone else with immunity? Of course, but they're unwilling to accept the risks. It made too much sense, and he hated it but couldn't deny the evidence. The parasite somehow had a link into the Hood's mind. The Hood had lost a limb since Z-Day but before knowledge of immunity had become common – he would hardly be the first to attempt amputation to counteract a bite. In the early days of the apocalypse, most people had still believed that it would stave off infection. It was only more recently that information had begun to spread that it held only a 30% chance of stopping it.
"The Hood must be immune."
John spat a breathless curse. "Of course he is. No wonder he never admitted it – everyone wants to get their hands on immunity. Those without it are at risk from rotters, but we're in danger from survivors."
"What if that's the reason why infected are gathering here? They're not after you or me – we don't pose a threat. But the Hood…" Scott shook his head as if it would knock all the puzzle pieces into their final places. "So, what's the plan? Get him to use that weird frequency on you to disrupt the hivemind link?"
"Even if it only buys me another week, that'll still be something. And in the meantime, I'll try to drag more answers out of him."
Scott glanced across at the clock steadily ticking towards eighteen-hundred.
"Actually," he mused, "There might be someone else with information." He fumbled in his pocket until the hard edge of a business card met his fingertips. "What have you heard about Noah Warren?"
"I hate this."
"Uh huh," Virgil replied absently. There was a vaguely exasperated slant to his shoulders as he watched the floor levels tick downwards on the elevator panel.
"I mean," Scott continued to grumble, "It's the apocalypse. I thought I'd finally be free of suits. But no, somehow I've ended up wearing one again."
Virgil's sigh was long-suffering. "Man, what a tragedy."
"It is." Scott tugged at his cuffs with a growl. "It doesn't even fit me properly."
Apparently Noah Warren believed that this was the sort of meeting which required formalwear. He had correctly assumed that Scott was no longer in possession of such an outfit and so had sent up a collection of suits in various sizes. Scott wasn't sure whether to take this as an olive branch or an indirect insult. He'd settled for protesting to Virgil about it for the entire journey down to the entertainment zones which was set across five levels. His brother looked five seconds away from bolting back to their quarters, not to escape the meeting but to avoid hearing any more of Scott's complaints.
There was a very large, highly conspicuous elephant in the elevator with them. Neither of them mentioned it, but given their new family motto of no secrets they were both aware of it – or, to be precise and actually name the issue: aware of John's dwindling control over the hivemind/his own actions.
Virgil had been reluctant to leave their brother alone for the evening, but John had knocked back two sleeping tablets and promptly crashed in the back bedroom again, so it was safe to assume that he wouldn't pose a threat for several long hours. Besides, Gordon had been informed of the situation too and while he remained unsteady on his feet he still had his wits about him. He was parked out on the couch in the lounge watching a shark documentary with a backup lighter tucked safely into his pocket just in case. Also, no one thought it was a good idea to let Scott meet Warren alone. So. Here they were.
It was strange how something as simple as clothes and a spot of hair gel could influence his sense of self. Scott eyed his reflection in the elevator doors, vaguely amused by the way he automatically stood up straighter, stepping back into the shoes of CEO as if not a day had passed since that fateful board meeting. He gave his cuffs a final tug and smoothed his lapels.
Virgil repressed another exasperated sigh. "Stop fussing."
"Isn't that usually my line?" Scott shot him a teasing smile. "There's a serious case of role reversal going on here. It's throwing me off."
Virgil side-eyed him. "You're… surprisingly upbeat."
Scott didn't blame him for being suspicious. Given everything they'd just learnt – about John, the Hood, even about Alan… wow, it had been a long day – it would make more sense for him to spiral. But he was well-used to throwing on a mask and for once his fake it 'til you make it strategy appeared to be working in his favour. His head was clearer than it had been in ages. If Warren tried any tricks, he'd see straight through them. He almost relished the idea of a challenge. The one side of business he'd always enjoyed had been putting corporate assholes in their places.
The bar was a large, spacious area. One end was dedicated to a set of leather booths while the other held several tables, presumably functioning as a restaurant upon request. Unlike the minimalism applied to living quarters, the bar was a tasteful collection of mahogany wood with warm lighting and the occasional gold furnishing. A set of LEDs ran around the underside of the bar, casting seats in soft light. Glass displays boasted a grand selection of drinks. Two chandeliers reflected light, their crystal raindrops filled with trapped rainbows. Various potted plants situated around the room introduced hints of green to the colour scheme.
Virgil inhaled sharply upon spying the collection of framed paintings.
"Expensive?" Scott guessed.
Virgil schooled his expression as they approached the bar. "One of those was on display at the Louvre last March."
"Really?" Scott tilted his head as if a fresh perspective could offer him a better insight. "Don't look like much to me."
Virgil let out a strangled sound.
"Oh my god." His whisper was pained. He cast Scott an appalled look as if he was personally offended by his brother's lack of knowledge regarding fine art. "Scott, it's a Da Vinci."
"Oh, a Da Vinci?" Scott drawled. "Well, in that case I take it all back. I'm in awe. Wow. I can't look away. However will I sleep at night knowing this is just a few floors down?"
Virgil looked tempted to throttle him.
Scott stifled a chuckle. "C'mon, head in the game, Virg. You can geek out over art later."
Noah Warren struck an imposing figure. His suit was crisp and perfectly tailored. He nursed a glass of something rich and red in one hand whilst scrolling through a holographic data packet with the other. He was sat at the bar, occasionally making idle conversation with the exhausted tender behind it. Two other glasses sat in front of the seats to his left, waiting to be filled.
Scott's steps faltered. He had never mentioned bringing someone with him. He disliked the idea of being predictable. Men like Noah tended to use it to their advantage. He was conscious of Virgil's confused expression and forced himself to plaster confidence over any hesitation that may otherwise have showed on his face. He rolled his shoulders, mentally cursed at the rustle of ill-fitting fabric, then strode over to greet Noah with a firm handshake and a paparazzi smile.
"Scott." Noah's smile reminded him of the winter sun – appearing warm but remaining just as cold as the ice around it. His grip was slightly too strong. You could tell a lot about a person based off their handshake. "I'm glad you could make it. And you brought an associate?"
"Brother," Virgil corrected, reaching out to shake Noah's hand. "Virgil Tracy. It's a pleasure to meet you."
Scott repressed a laugh. Virgil had several strong opinions regarding the Warren family and none of them were particularly favourable. He might not have been in the public eye as much as Scott, but he'd undergone the same press training and so knew how to deal with situations such as these. He was doing an excellent job of hiding his true feelings.
"Shall we?" Noah gestured to the empty glasses, then snapped his fingers to draw the bartender's attention. Virgil winced. Scott gritted his teeth and bit back a comment. "The service is rather slow tonight. Lord knows why. I'd say they need some… motivation, but I'm afraid your brother might take offence to that. Alan's a real firecracker, isn't he?"
Scott couldn't tell if it was a poor attempt at small talk or whether he was being baited. He ran a thumb over the crystal markings of his glass and took a deep breath.
"You mentioned video footage earlier."
"Of the guard?" Noah slid the tablet across to him. "Feel free to forward the recording to yourself. Alan might have his own opinions about how to deal with the situation, but I doubt you adhere to such a strict moral code. None of us do when it comes to family. If it ever came down to a choice between loved ones and the fate of humanity, we all know we'd choose the former."
Oh, so he was definitely being baited.
Virgil casually knocked their elbows together, making as if he were merely reaching for his glass. The bartender swept forwards to offer Noah a refill, clearly sensing the awkward lull in conversation and desperate to ease it given his own evening depended on the final attitudes of the clientele.
"Leave the bottle with us." Noah twisted it so that Scott could glimpse the label. "An excellent year, wouldn't you agree?"
Personally, Scott was trying to keep track of the conversation. Red wine had dredged memories from his subconscious and he couldn't look at it without recalling a glass swaying from the Hood's fingertips. Even the smell tore him from the moment to leave him adrift between reality and the past. He flattened his hands against the bar. His palms felt sticky. He knew it was merely residue from previously spilled drinks, but his mind whispered that it was blood. Those lacerations had healed but now they throbbed with phantom pain.
"I'll take that, thanks," Virgil said, voice forcibly light as he slid Scott's glass away. "You can't drink tonight, remember? Med eval in the morning."
There was no medical evaluation in the morning and they both knew it, but Noah didn't. Scott exhaled slowly. He couldn't risk glancing at Virgil, not when Noah was still observing them, but hoped his brother could sense his silent gratitude.
The far wall was lit with jellyfish holograms. Their alien shapes reflected in the glass shelves behind the bar. Drinks were dappled by the blue light. It was strangely hypnotising. Scott watched the floating colours for a few more seconds before driving his thumb into his left palm until his nail bit the skin. Virgil shot him a sharp look which he promptly ignored. The pain jolted him back into the present as if he'd plunged headfirst into freezing water.
He tore his gaze away from the jellyfish. "I'd like to hear more details about this committee."
Noah propped an elbow against the bar. "Certainly. Ask away."
"How about you give us the basic rundown first?" Virgil asked.
There was a new edge to his voice, the sort of sharpness which came with worrying but being unable to show that concern. His knee knocked against Scott's out of sight. Scott tapped a hand against the table, aiming for nonchalance but secretly telling his brother to Q.U.I.T. W.O.R.R.Y.I.N.G.
Noah sat upright.
"There are a collection of original residents who have some concerns. We believed the situation above ground would have been resolved by now, but it shows no signs of improving and our supply chain has now ceased. This poses some serious issues in the not-so-distant future. The GDF are fundamentally useless. Many of their bases have become corrupt. Others have cut comms and gone dark. As for national armies – there's been no word. Other countries may have faired better but without working radio links, it's impossible to know. Our committee is dedicated to gathering information. We hope to put together enough data to discover a clear path forward if not an outright cure."
Scott observed the slight tremor in Noah's hands. There was a sickly undertone to his skin and when he took a sip from his glass he savoured the taste like a heatstroke victim valued water. Many of those opioid prescriptions upstairs were in his name. Hira adhered to strict patient confidentiality, but looking at Noah now Scott had to question just how bad the man's prognosis was. There were rumours of course, but none of them were hopeful.
"Our next meeting is tomorrow, shortly after lunch. One-o-clock. You're welcome to join us." Noah rolled his glass on its base. "You've survived above ground far longer than anyone else in this place. Your experiences hold invaluable information."
Virgil stared into the depths of his drink, turning over the details in his head.
"And if we refuse?" Scott challenged. Something about Noah's tone was ringing alarm bells.
Noah's smile was all teeth. "I wouldn't recommend it. Everyone else has paid a hefty deposit. You are the only residents whose contributions have been non-financial."
"We don't exactly have access to a bank," Virgil pointed out.
"That's your problem."
Scott leant back in his chair to keep his posture open.
"Are you threatening us?" he asked casually, forcing a grin as if it were all a grand joke. "Because I'll warn you now – that wouldn't be a smart move."
"Threatening is such an ugly word," Noah protested. "No, no, I'm merely… providing some incentive, let's phrase it like that."
"Blackmail," Virgil translated.
Noah's gaze darkened. "Certainly not."
"You need us." Scott's grin was genuine this time. He sat up straighter so that Noah was once again reminded of their height difference. "You've got no other new sources of information. If we say no, you're done. Unless, of course, you're willing to leave the bunker, which I highly doubt. So, if you think you hold all the cards here, you're wrong. What's the worst that can happen? You revoke our access rights? We'll just leave. We're more than capable of surviving above ground. The past few months have proven that much."
Noah's face pinched with consideration. "Oh, Tracy. You have no idea who you're dealing with, do you? How exactly do you think these people earnt their wealth? You were born into it, but the majority of people here are new money. Now they've got a taste for their lifestyles, they'll do anything to keep hold of it. When supplies run low, exactly who do you think will be the first people they turn on? You're fresh blood and that's a dangerous position to be in. There's a lot of resentment against your family down here. Tracy Industries, the do-gooders. How many companies did you put out of business?"
"Only the corrupt ones," Scott snapped before he could stop himself.
"Hmm. I'm sure." Noah interlocked his fingers and rested his chin in the formed net. "Everyone loves an underdog until they're the ones living at the top of the ivory tower." His smile was shark-like, reminiscent of his court days. "Regardless, I believe the real question is why wouldn't you want to join us? You have your own agenda. It might even mirror my own. After all, mine isn't the only prescription in that locked cabinet. He's dying, I presume? Your brother? John, isn't it?"
Scott lunged out of his seat.
Virgil caught his wrist and held him back. "Don't."
The blood was still roaring in his ears. Scott sat back down, shaking off Virgil's hand.
"How about you keep your damn mouth shut about things you don't know shit about, Warren?"
Noah held up his hands in surrender.
"My apologies. I didn't intend any offence." His tone softened a fraction. "What's his diagnosis? Perhaps we can come to an agreement. My own medication is limited, but I still have access to better treatment than the general baseline on offer. Hira has been working with you, hasn't she? Ask her. She'll confirm." He sighed. "Look, we got off on the wrong foot here. I didn't intend the conversation to go this way. I genuinely believe we can help one another."
Scott was still imagining how it would feel to have Noah's nose shatter under his knuckles.
Noah drained his glass. "Come with me. I doubt you'll have seen this before."
"Seen what before?" Virgil queried, reluctant to follow the man anywhere – a sentiment which Scott shared but which paled in contrast to his sheer curiosity.
Noah beamed at them. "Hollywood no longer exists, so we've had to come up with our own entertainment. It's rather popular in the End Times, I must admit." He gestured towards the elevator. "Come on, they'll be starting soon and we wouldn't want to miss the opening act."
Virgil hung back, voice lowered to a whisper. "I don't like this."
"Neither do I," Scott muttered, "But if the Hood's frequency trick doesn't work… Virg, we're running out of options and fast. What if stronger meds can help?"
"Working with this guy feels a lot like making a deal with the devil."
"Yeah, well." Scott shrugged. "What's one more trip into Hell?"
Noah retrieved a smooth, innocuous piece of white plastic from his interior blazer pocket. When he tapped it to the reader in the elevator, it began to glow with a strange alien hue. Eight new levels appeared on the options list. He selected the lowest and turned to dazzle Scott and Virgil with a blinding grin. The elevator jolted slightly as it descended past what they had previously believed to be the final floor. Suddenly those jokes about heading down to Hell had lost their humorous quality.
As the doors parted, Noah spread his arms grandly. He was immediately washed in a stream of purple and blue, silhouetted against a chaotic blend of rave flashes and disco spotlights.
"Gentlemen, welcome to the party." His smile took on a conspiratorial taint. "This is where the real magic happens."
These eight floors appeared entirely lawless. It was as if someone had taken casual nightclubs and blended them with the beating heart of a Las Vegas strip. The entire space vibrated with music. It rumbled through from the next floor up where mega speakers deafened partygoers. Bass shook cocktail glasses off their perches. Scott could feel it reverberate across his teeth. The volume snaked between his ribs to replace his heartbeat with drums. He couldn't hear his own thoughts. Even the blood in his veins seemed to have been turned to liquid music. The effect was as intoxicating as it was suffocating.
These levels actually resembled a bunker as opposed to a celebrity guest house. There were no grand paintings or gold-edged mahogany panels. Beyond the disco lights, the only illumination were standard camping lanterns which purred with the unreliable energy of flickering batteries. Rich smells of fresh liquor, strong perfumes and colognes and the stale stench of body odour fogged the air. The crowd danced as one – limbs entangled and hair lashing so that they resembled a gigantic creature. It was oddly reminiscent of when the infected tried to scale walls en-mass only to collapse on top of one another. There was something distinctly off-putting about it.
Noah clapped his hands to their shoulders. His breath was hot with the ghost of red wine. Scott repressed the urge to shove him away.
"The show doesn't start for another half hour." Noah tapped his access pass to their keys to give them clearance to the remaining seven levels. "Grab a drink, maybe even a partner." His chuckle was low and oily. "Loosen up a bit. Looks like you've already got some admirers."
Scott followed Noah's gaze to the duo who were openly eyeing him as if he were the main course on their menu of evening entertainment. Apparently even God-knew-how-many pounds lighter with dark circles under his eyes and a wariness as if he were about to bolt, he still drew attention in a crowd. Maybe it was the hair gel. Although if Penelope's past remarks were to be believed, then it was actually the dimples.
He blamed the suit. He'd undone the top buttons and removed his tie since stepping out of the elevator as these lower levels trapped warmth. It was a cloying heat, sticky and sweaty so that his shirt had become partly transparent and now clung to his chest. He could sense the woman's gaze tracking lower.
Noah sidled off before Scott had even realised the man was gone. He turned in a wide circle trying to spot Noah's head amid the crowd but he had vanished.
"Great," Virgil deadpanned. "As if this night couldn't get any worse, now our guide's ditched us."
Scott inhaled deeply. The sickly-sweet stench of unclean smoke filtered above dancing heads. The air tasted of candyfloss and something else, richer and less-than-legal. Not that the law applied anymore. He undid his cuffs and rolled them up to his elbows, hooking his blazer over one shoulder before turning to Virgil, unable to hold back a grin.
"Might as well make the most of it, right?"
Virgil reluctantly allowed Scott to pull him into the crowd. "Is this your attempt at reliving your college days?"
Scott hooked an arm around Virgil's neck and hauled him close enough to actually hear.
"What would you know about my college days, little brother?"
"You're a chatty drunk." Virgil replied dryly. It was suddenly very easy to tell that he and John were related. "I would love to un-know some of the things I've learnt, but hey."
The truth was that if Scott could persuade his brain to switch off the paranoia, ignore the apocalypse above ground and their own unfolding set of tragedies in the spaces between, then he might actually have enjoyed it. If he could have downed a drink without being thrown back into memories of the Hood, then that would have improved the experience drastically. It was basically an underground rave and those were designed to only be enjoyed when drunk.
Even so, there was something liberating about losing himself in the crowd. The attention helped too. He wouldn't turn down those free self-esteem points thank-you-very-much, even if he didn't want any interaction going further than a slinky dance and wandering hands.
A vague thought drifted across his mind that he was supposed to be keeping an eye on Virgil, but it was swiftly chased away by hands threading through his hair and the warmth of a body pressed against his own. He didn't have to think. Emotions were a hindrance which he'd discarded at the doors. Even the taste of liquor on another's lips became background noise. Fingers hooked his beltloops and tugged him into the midst of the dancefloor.
It had been so long since he'd been able to lose himself. All that existed were physical sensations. Unfamiliar hands presented no threat for the first time in almost a year. His vision was stained by a kaleidoscope of flashing lights. Voices mixed with the music. He knew his hearing would be foggy later, ringing in the aftermath, but couldn't bring himself to care. There was lipstick on his borrowed shirt and the scent of someone else's cologne now cloaked his clavicles but who cared?
"Sorry," Virgil's voice suddenly sounded in his ear, before attempting to pull him away from the crowd. "I know you're having fun and I hate to ruin it for you, but you need to keep a clear head, remember?"
"Virg," Scott protested, trying not to cringe at his distinctly teenage whine. "Just- I don't know, grab a drink or something. Go find someone to dance with. We've still got ten minutes."
Virgil's frown took on a healthy dose of pure suspicion. "Did you take something?"
"No." Scott bit back a defensive comment. "Look, I just want a chance to forget. Can't you let me have this? Just for tonight? This might be the last time it's an option."
Virgil's confusion blurred into pained understanding. "I know. But Scott, this isn't- This won't end well."
These people knew he was. Between flashes of light, they twisted into unrecognisable creatures. They all wanted a piece of him. Many of them weren't even bunker residents but workers. Their pupils were blown wide with induced elation, hands trailing over forearms, blinking coyly through lashes in the hopes that a night of fun might inspire someone to bring them up to higher levels and introduce them to a life of luxury. They were users, pure and simple. It was possible that some of them genuinely liked him, but now, looking into the crowd rather than outwards, they seemed hungry. Their meal of choice might have been different from the rotters', but they were no less ravenous.
"Scott," Virgil tried, reaching for his arm.
Scott shoved him away and made a beeline for the stairwell. The light here was a dull purple like a bruised thundercloud. There was a glitter sheen on his skin. He tried to rub it away from his wrists but it stuck fast. He left it alone with a growl, barging through the door to the next level. The music was even more deafening so he turned on his heels and headed up yet another floor.
He entered into a large room filled with reflective shades of blue. He was reminded of an aquarium or perhaps the way lights looked beneath the surface of a swimming pool. It was a strange mosaic of aquamarine LEDs which formed geometric patterns across the ceiling and ran between floor tiles. A bar serving extravagant drinks was at the centre. Several patrons sipped from flutes which held liquid that glistened like jewels. They were dressed in varying outfits from full suits to sheer gowns. Lace and sequins featured heavily. Several people sported cat liner, eyes ringed in heavy charcoal.
Scott could still hear his own blood rushing in his ears. He stole a seat away from the main crowd and hastily drew up a drinks menu from the holo-projector to avoid making eye contact. Their whispers slunk into his ears anyway. He wiped sweat from his temples and stared intently at vibrant cocktails which he had no intention of ordering.
It didn't take long for Virgil to track him down. His brother turfed a curious patron out of the seat beside Scott, then leaned over to switch off the projector.
"What was that?"
Scott dragged a hand across the back of his neck.
"I wanted a distraction," he muttered.
"Not that part."
Virgil hesitated, then decided against asking why did you bolt like a bat outta hell, what the fuck, Scotty?
Which, you know – Scott appreciated it. He set about trying to clean lipstick off his shirt, but experience had taught him that this was a lost cause.
Virgil swivelled his bar stool to examine the rest of the room.
"What's with the eighties music? Never Let Me Down Again? Did they forget to download anything from this century?" He held up a hand to catch the bartender's attention. "It's good, don't get me wrong. It's just not what I'd expect."
"And what would that be? Techno crap like Gordo used to blare in his teens?"
Virgil shrugged. "Something like that." He greeted the bartender with a warm smile. "Hi, two waters please."
The bartender stared at him. "You want water?"
"Yep."
"Just water?"
Scott took pity on them. "Two plain waters, that's right."
The bartender blinked owlishly. "I have literally never served water from this bar."
"First time for everything," Scott quipped. He let his shoulders slump as the bartender turned away. The clink of glasses drove pain behind his eyes, usually indicative of a stress headache in the not-so-distant future. He buried his head in his hands with a groan.
Virgil slid the water under his nose. "Drink all of it."
"Yeah, yeah." Scott took it like a shot. "Happy now?"
Virgil ran a thumb around the rim of his own glass absently. "Not really. Why is this place kept secret? This can't be all there is to it. It's essentially just a night club. Why lock that away?" He pinched the bridge of his nose to fight off his own headache. "Whatever the main event is, it can't be good."
Scott spotted Noah picking a path through the milling crowd. "Looks like we're about to find out."
Noah had clearly been having some fun of his own. His shirt was misbuttoned and reddened skin escaped his collar. The rosy flush of wine warmed his face. His eyes looked overly bright in contrast. He patted Virgil on the back with an audible smack.
"You need to learn how to lighten up, pal."
Virgil clenched his jaw against a sharp retort.
"Back off," Scott called, voice dipping low with threat.
Noah leisurely waved a hand. "Oh, calm down. It's just an observation." He sank onto the stool beside Virgil and leant back against the bar. "There are plenty of lovely ladies here who would be more than happy to help you relax. Or guys, if that's not your area."
Scott curled his hands around the edge of the bar to keep himself from forming a fist. "Warren, I told you to back off."
Noah raised his 'brows. "What's the big deal?"
"I don't have a deal," Virgil snapped. He took a steadying breath. "I have a- I have someone. Not that I owe you an explanation."
"And I've got a wife upstairs, but I don't let it stop me." Noah's laughter was slurred. "It's the End Times! Everyone dies eventually. Who cares? Just have a good time. Where is your someone anyway? That Marisa woman? Or maybe you've got eyes for my Hira, hmm?"
Virgil abruptly shoved back his seat and stormed off.
Noah shook his head, bemused. "Is he always so touchy? It was just a joke."
"Get fucked," Scott snarled.
He left Noah surrounded by empty glasses and a collection of curious onlookers. It was probably wrong to leave an ill man alone – especially given Scott was ninety-five percent that Warren wasn't supposed to be drinking while on such strong medication – but he couldn't bring himself to care. His mind kept replaying Virgil's tiny flinch at Noah's words. If Scott hadn't walked away, he would have thrown a fist regardless of the repercussions.
He tracked Virgil down in a quieter stairwell. The music was muted and the lights were a tasteful low blue as if they'd been lulled by approaching midnight. Virgil sat on the steps, elbows braced against his knees, face hidden in his hands and fingers locked painfully in his hair. He didn't look up at the sound of Scott's approach, but his shoulders dropped slightly.
Scott took a seat beside him and didn't say anything.
"I miss him," Virgil confessed in a damp voice, still refusing to lift his head from his hands. His grip on his hair tightened to flush the blood from his knuckles.
Scott shuffled closer to press their shoulders together. "Brains?"
"Yeah." Virgil exhaled in a rush. "And I'm lucky. I got to say goodbye. So many people didn't get that chance. And now- Fucking Warren cheats on his wife and treats the whole thing like a joke, as if people haven't seen their loved ones torn apart in front of them. He has no idea just how privileged he is."
"Not to be the devil's advocate here, but… the man is dying, Virgil."
"He's still a bastard."
"You're not wrong." Scott gently guided Virgil's hands away from his face. "Want me to beat him up for you?"
"I feel like that would be morally wrong."
"Oh definitely, but I'll still do it if it would make you feel better."
Virgil slumped against his side, propping his head on Scott's shoulder. "Do you think we'll ever see them again?"
Mars was a very, very long way away. They couldn't even make contact with EOS. If he were brutally honest then no, Scott doubted whether a reunion was on the cards. It was almost unbearable to consider that though. The only comfort he could find was in the knowledge that at least some of the people he loved were safe. But that wasn't what Virgil needed to hear, so he lied.
"Yeah, of course we will."
A series of raised voices echoed up the stairwell. Distant clamour was growing like the raucous of a stadium before a baseball game. Scott rose to his feet instinctively and placed a hand on the wall. Tiny vibrations confirmed that a lot of people were moving towards one area. He closed his eyes, listening intently until his ears rang.
Virgil tilted his head, curiosity bright in his eyes. "Do you think that's the main event?"
"Probably," Scott agreed. He held out a hand. "Want to check it out?"
Virgil grabbed his hand and hauled himself upright. "We've come this far - we might as well."
Up until now, the fight ring had been more of a suggestion, a rumour without foundations. Scott couldn't deny the evidence when it was staring him in the face. The heart of all secret eight floors had been hollowed out to make room for a large, open space which resembled a cross between a gladiator arena and a boxing ring. It was difficult to make out the details at a distance, but he glimpsed a sandy floor, barbed wire fences around the edge and two gates which blocked exits at either end of the auditorium. Presumably those dark caverns held tonight's stars. It didn't take a genius to guess that the fighters were probably infected.
People were crammed into every available space, so Scott took advantage of Virgil's bulk to push through the crowds until they came to a railing. He craned his neck to spy similar balconies above and below. A distinctive rush of adrenaline and anticipation set the audience buzzing like a caffeine shot. The stench of alcohol permeated every atom, but it still couldn't quite overpower the undertone of rot. If anything, this riled onlookers more.
"Do they have banners?"
Virgil was staring over Scott's shoulder. Scott twisted to spy a set of colourful signs held aloft to catch the camera's attention. The live footage was streamed onto giant screens which now picked out people's expressions whilst waiting for the main event to start. Apparently one infected was a reigning champion – a goliath, six-foot-seven, heavily muscular although those were slowly becoming concaved as the parasite's appetite grew – and this fan favourite was starring tonight.
"This is…" Scott didn't have the words. He gripped the railing tightly as someone barged past him, jostling a tray of drinks, face painted up with the same stripes as those banners – navy blue and white.
"Barbaric?" Virgil suggested. He pressed a little closer to Scott's side subconsciously. "These were people, but now their suffering is used for entertainment."
"No law, no morals," Scott remarked under his breath.
He peered over the railing to spy the bobbing heads of people below. It was eerily similar to crowds anticipating kick-off at a soccer match. He absently wondered where Noah had gotten to. Had the man truly believed this was a treat? That they'd enjoy seeing this? Or was it supposed to be some sort of test? If so, they'd probably already failed.
Somewhere, someone was selling fresh popcorn. He could smell salt-and-sugar and, to his left, a young boy – eleven-ish at a guess – was gorging himself on it, scooping great fistfuls out of a red-and-white striped tub with buttery fingers.
"No wonder supplies are draining so quickly," Virgil muttered, so tense that his suit jacket pulled taut across his shoulders. He'd earnt the attention of a redhead in a mini skirt who kept glaring daggers at Scott as if willing him leave so that she could make a move.
Scott was struck by a sudden wish to just snap his fingers and magic it all away. He longed to be back in their quarters in ratty old sweats and a threadbare t-shirt with some random movie playing on TV and the weight of Alan's head on his shoulder after the kid inevitably fell asleep halfway through. He didn't want to be here, amongst all these people with hungry eyes and remorseless smiles who cheered in the face of violence.
He was tempted to leave, but some sick sense of curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. Until he saw those infected let loose in the arena, it was all technically supposition. He needed to have his suspicions confirmed.
Blaring music stuttered. It was interrupted by the tannoy. Scott couldn't hear the words as they were immediately drowned out by a chorus of cheers, shouts and hollers from the crowd. It looked as if a wave passed through the arena. Arms flew up, signs shook, grins bore teeth and eyes gleamed.
Mankind had always been tempted by destruction, particularly when it came in the form of violence among their own species. Scott believed good people outnumbered the bad, but here, surrounded by those without morals, his faith wavered. He glanced across at Virgil to reassure himself that kindness still existed.
One of the gates slid open and the first infected stumbled into the ring. It was fairly decomposed but not so far gone that Scott couldn't imagine someone screaming within. That imprisonment hit home even harder since his own experience with a loss of autonomy. He might not remember all of his time with Hood, but that terror of being utterly helpless within his own body still haunted him.
"Hey," Virgil shouted close to his ear to be heard above the roar. "Do you want to leave?"
Scott clenched his fists around the railing.
"Not yet," he ground out.
The crowd went wild as the second gate parted. The first infected froze. Quivering nostrils and yellowed eyes were projected in high definition onto the screens. Then, slowly, like a predator scenting prey, the second infected ambled into view. It dwarfed the first by neatly two feet and was less decomposed too. Someone had painted its face in blue-and-white stripes – suddenly those banners made sense – which it had dripped down its chest like a target. As it staggered closer to the first infected, it opened its jaws and howled.
Scott felt as if he'd been doused in icy water. Virgil's sharp inhale proved that his brother had come to the same realisation. They knew this infected – it was the man Scott had accidentally knocked into back at the railyard. He'd seemed nice. Friendly enough, anyway. No harm done, pal. God, Scott wanted to be sick.
"He was one of them," Virgil choked out, colour draining from his face to paint him as ghost. He turned a horrified stare on Scott. "How can they watch this? How can they-?"
Scott couldn't look away. Morbid fixation drew his gaze to the two infected. The crowd had grown hushed, waiting with bated breath. As seconds ticked by without either rotter making a move, people grew restless. Jeers spread around the arena like wildfire. Someone threw a crumpled beer can. It bounced off the first rotter's temple and left a small crater. A trail of rotten fluid trickled from the impact zone.
At the sight of blood, it was as if a switch flicked. The larger infected roared. It seized the first with colossal hands. The smaller rotter thrashed to free itself, clawing great chunks of flesh away from the second's abdomen, teeth snapping like a snared shark. Both were shrieking and it sounded for all the world like pure human terror. Behind those eyes were two people begging for mercy while the crowds watched on and cheered at every new wound.
"Scott."
For a moment, Virgil sounded like a scared child again. There was a deep, instinctual fear in his voice alongside that faint tremor which promised he was on the verge of panic. His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
"Scott, can we please go?"
Scott swallowed rising bile. "Yeah. Yes. Let's- God, yeah, let's go."
He pressed a hand to Virgil's upper back to keep his brother grounded as they pushed through the crowds to the nearest stairwell. Virgil flinched at every new shriek. No one shot them a second glance, all too engrossed in the action.
Scott leaned forwards, voice low as he urged, "Don't look back."
Virgil instinctively tried to turn his head. Scott spared a second to be grateful for their height difference as he blocked his brother's view. Behind him, the distinctive snap of breaking bones was amplified by speakers. Virgil practically bolted for the stairwell.
Scott glanced back one last time to be met with the sight of the larger infected literally tearing a body in two. Liquified organs dripped from an exposed spinal cord like a gutted fish. The image seared into his mind. He tripped over his own feet in his haste to flee the sight. Even an hour later, safely back in their quarters, he was still breathing heavily.
Gordon was curled into a corner of the sofa, half-asleep, a discarded fidget cube caught in the blanket across his lap. He made a questioning noise as Scott slid into the space beside him and pulled him close. It was a fiercer hug than he'd usually have dared use with an injured brother but Gordon had always hated being treated like glass. He buried his face in his little brother's lopsided hair and tried to pretend that he wasn't on the verge of tears.
"Scott?" Gordon queried tentatively. "Are you…?" He didn't bother finishing the question. Okay obviously wasn't on the cards. "It's alright," he whispered instead.
"Doesn't seem like it."
"Well, it's nearly three in the morning. Nothing ever seems good at this time."
Gordon aimed for light humour, but there was a specific softness to his tone. He patted Scott's wrist, then lifted the blanket so that they could both share it.
"Get some sleep, Scotty," he murmured. "I've gotcha. Whatever's going on in your head right now can't hurt you here."
