Here was the plan: gather as much information as possible, kick the hivemind outta John's head – and Scott's too for that matter – and cram their bags with as many supplies as they could physically carry. Also, they needed to find the entrance to those maintenance tunnels which had been blocked off and kept hushed ever since the first disgruntled residents had fled. Alan claimed to have that part covered, saying he had friends amongst the catering crew who knew where the door was.

"So, basically," Gordon translated after Scott highlighted the importance of being inconspicuous when gathering supplies, "You're telling us to steal."

"No," Scott defended himself before realising yes, that was exactly what he was asking of them. "Well… kind of."

Gordon promptly burst into laughter. Their impromptu meeting collapsed into chaos from there onwards.

They hollowed out a space in the back of a wardrobe and filled it with pilfered supplies: litre bottles of water, dried goods, long-life food, ration bars, first aid materials, glucose tablets. The bunker's teenage residents regularly traded and so Theo, Jasmin and Alan were able to pick up a few non-essential but very welcome goods: a battered tin of paraffin wax, binoculars, a stainless-steel whistle, 5m paracord and the best find of all – a Swiss army knife which Alan won under mysterious circumstances that none of the trio were willing to divulge.

Medicines were a little harder to get hold of without drawing attention. Taking directly was too obvious and no one was sure whether they were actually allowed to leave. Scott got the impression that it was frowned upon and often met with aggression which made sense given they were taking supplies away from other residents. So, secrecy remained vital. Unfortunately, this left them with no other option than to skim off the top of prescriptions.

Virgil vehemently opposed this. Ellis, on the other hand, who also had access to the medicine cabinets for some reason, had no such qualms. She was fast becoming a firm friend. It transpired that she'd been brought into the bunker by her father who had since passed away. Ellis had buried herself in her research to avoid addressing her grief, fearing that many within the bunker would seek to take advantage of it, sniffing out weakness like sharks did blood. She brought them all the medical supplies they needed and made them swear not to ask how she'd come across it. Virgil still shifted uneasily in his seat but didn't complain.

So, it was all starting to come together. Scott stole several sturdy rucksacks from old expedition equipment which had been mothballed since rotters had amassed in such great numbers. He helped himself to several sleeping bags and ground mats too, reasoning that no one was going to miss them. They also still had their stuff leftover from Marisa's apartment to supplement their collection.

It was going too well.

So, inevitably, everything went to shit.

Scott really should have expected it.


It was steadily approaching one-thirty when Scott jolted awake. It took a moment to collect his senses. He was still groggy with sleep, thoughts sticky and incomprehensible, movements clumsy as he struggled to free himself from the blankets. For once, there was no one else in his room. Virgil and Gordon had fallen asleep on the sofa and Alan had crashed on Theo's bed mid-movie. Yet there was a thin beam of light from the corridor falling across the carpet, proof that someone had opened the door.

He scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "'Sup?"

The word pitched upwards with a yawn. There was no immediate response. He blinked, willing his eyes to adjust quicker. Movement shifted in the doorway. The lack of answer knocked his instincts into overdrive. Paranoia raised its head. All exhaustion flew out of the window as adrenaline dripped into his veins. He tossed aside the blanket and reached for the lamp.

"N-no, no, don't." John's voice was small, thready. "My head hurts badly enough already."

Scott left the lamp in darkness. "What's going on?"

"I think- I think I fucked up."

It felt as if he'd been doused with icy water. His blood ran cold. He wasn't used to hearing that tone from John, but that didn't mean he didn't recognise it from their childhood. It was a lost, fearful voice, the sort used by little kids seeking comfort after a nightmare but nervous of angry rebukes from an awoken parent. But there was something else too – it was laced with desperation, the sharp-edged panic of a survivor clinging onto a crumbling cliff by their fingertips.

"John?" He rose to his feet, taking a cautious step across the carpet. "Talk to me. What happened? Is it the hivemind?"

John sucked in a breath. "Sort of." The words were raspy. "It's, uh- I don't know what to do. I need you to- don't… don't freak out. Please."

The time for kindness was over. Scott was too concerned to care about John's protests. He switched the lamp on but kept it at the lowest brightness. He immediately had to bite back a comment.

"Holy shit, Johnny."

John gripped the doorframe fiercely enough to leave welts in the wood. He was listing heavily to the side, pupils blown wide and glossy with fear. He was ghostly pale, one hand grasping the fabric above his heart as he drew rapid, shallow breaths. His t-shirt was plastered to his skin with sweat. He swallowed, then unsteadily ground out,

"I think I've accidentally overdosed."

Scott was stunned into silence. "What?"

"I- It was so loud, and I m-miscalculated…" John's grip slipped from the doorway. It was only Scott's reflexes which kept his brother from taking a nosedive onto the floor. He winced as John's chin collided painfully with his collarbone. "Sorry, m'sorry, Scotty, I fucked up, I need your help."

"It's okay, I'll fix it, it's alright, Johnny, I've got you."

Scott gritted his teeth, willed his muscles not to give out on him, and scooped his brother into his arms. It helped that John was so damn skinny. Somehow he hadn't put on any weight since arriving at the bunker. He was overly floppy in Scott's arms – like a dead thing, Scott's brain unhelpfully suggested – gasping for air like a fish outta water.

"Virgil will know how-" Scott began, but John cut him off before he could finish the sentence.

"No." John seized a fistful of Scott's shirt. "Do not get Virg."

"John, he's our medic. I don't know what to do."

"He's not immune." John blinked back desperate tears. "You can't- Scott, it's too loud. If I can't hold it back- We can't risk it. Please. I can't- Please."

"Okay, okay, no Virgil. Who?"

John squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply. The air rattled in his lungs. Scott was struck by a lightning bolt of pure fear.

"John," he snapped, instantly cursing himself when John flinched. "What did you take? And when?"

He'd had a couple of college friends who'd gotten too deep at a party, testing waters that Scott himself had never been tempted by, and he could vaguely recall the basics. He'd then also had a crash course in learning about correct dosages and the danger of taking too many painkillers when the effect wasn't immediately obvious.

Please don't be delayed-action meds, he prayed to the universe.

John shivered, despite steadily burning up. He stammered out various names which were only vaguely familiar and thankfully weren't opiate based given there was no Naloxone on hand. He'd taken them six minutes ago – not ideal, but not life-threatening either… yet, anyway.

"Fuck," Scott whispered, gulped in a lungful of cold air, then kicked his mind into action mode.

It seemed counterproductive to ask John to take yet more drugs, but it was necessary, and the emetics worked almost instantly. He held his brother upright, one arm wrapped around John's middle and the other smoothing hair back from his forehead. He tried to murmur reassurances, but doubted whether John could hear him, breathing ragged and face wet with silent tears as he gagged.

Next on the list was activated charcoal. John choked it down, hands shaking too badly to grip the cup of water, so Scott held it for him. They sat on the bathroom floor, backs resting against the bathtub. John had discarded his drenched shirt but continued shivering. His pupils were still dilated and his pulse was concerningly irregular.

Scott was still tempted to wake up Virgil – so far the hivemind hadn't made an appearance, so it was probably safe - but John's vitals were improving. It seemed they had caught it just in time, before he had fully absorbed the meds into his system. But it wasn't over yet. They were only partway through the checklist.

"Okay?" Scott asked, catching John's wrist to time his brother's pulse.

John tipped his head back against the edge of 'tub.

"Okay," he breathed, stronger than before. He closed his eyes as if willing the words to be the truth, jaw still clenched against his pounding headache. "Okay, yes. What's next? Did you call Ellis?"

"Yeah, she messaged five minutes ago. She's on her way." Scott hesitated. "Can I get Virgil now? Because I am ninety percent convinced the hivemind isn't going to be an issue."

John opened his eyes a slither to reveal baleful blue. "Do not wake Virgil."

Scott sank back on his heels. He'd been crouching for too long and his knees were beginning to make their complaints known. Now that they seemed to be out of the worst of things, concern was melting into irritation. Wasn't he supposed to be the reckless one?

"I think you lost your right to make requests when you fucking overdosed. You don't get to make demands now."

John glowered at him defiantly. "It was an accident."

"I'm getting Virgil."

"Okay then."

Scott made no move to leave. John – the smug know-it-all – let out a low chuckle.

"Knew it."

"Oh, get fucked," Scott muttered, as if his heart wasn't still doing circus tricks in his chest, hyped up on fear and adrenaline. He took a deep breath to calm himself. "Ready?"

"Not really," John confessed, steeling himself in preparation to stand. In actuality, he less stood than clung onto Scott and tried not to collapse right back onto the tiles.

Scott looped one of John's arms around his neck and wrapped an arm around his brother's waist. He waited for a moment to be certain that they weren't about to end up in a heap of limbs on the floor before taking a cautious step forward. John spat some unknown words, trying to keep from listing too far sideways.

"So," Scott asked casually, "What language was that?"

John resigned himself to the indignity of being mostly carried.

"Dutch."

"I didn't even know you could speak Dutch."

"Are you trying to distract me from the possibility that I've fatally poisoned myself?"

"…No."

"You're a terrible liar, Scott."

Scott tightened his grip. "You're fine."

"I'd better be. No one else in this family has a working brain cell."

"That's such crap."

"Oh, true," John deadpanned. "I forgot Virgil."

For someone who had nearly put themselves into any early grave, John was certainly chatty. It was probably a side-effect of relief, but also maybe a touch of delirium. Scott wasn't about to tell him to be quiet – as long as John was talking, he was sort of okay, so it was reassuring to hear his voice. He unceremoniously dropped John on the bed, then darted to the door to let Ellis in, reluctant to leave his brother alone for any longer than absolutely necessary.

Ellis greeted him with a bright smile totally inappropriate for such an hour.

She lifted an oxygen tank and portable toxicology test. "Where's my subject?"

"Uh… do you mean patient?"

Ellis shook her head. "Nope. John's my official test subject. We've been making some fascinating discoveries, so I can't have him impeding the process by dying or something equally as irritating."

She swept past Scott in a cloud of curly hair and the stained lab-coat which seemed to be permanently fused to her person. Scott trailed behind her, dragging his heels a little as he peered around the living room door in the silent hope that the commotion would have woken Virgil. Unsurprisingly, his brother still dead to the world, snoring away with no sign of stirring any time soon. Even Gordon was still asleep despite being notoriously easy to wake.

John already looked better. He'd pushed himself to sit against the headboard and had stolen one of Scott's shirts, once again feeling the chill of recycled air now that his temperature was dropping back down to its unnatural baseline.

He was a much better patient when Ellis was the one in charge, or maybe it was a sign that he secretly felt a lot worse than he was letting on – Scott's heart sank at that idea. He was already vaguely panicky but had squashed it beneath the calm clarity of his first responder mindset. Now that Ellis had control of the situation, he could let the feelings trickle back in and it didn't matter how many times he had been faced with this sight over the years – seeing someone he loved wearing an oxygen mask always filled him with dread.

Ellis held up a pouch of clear fluid. "Get the lights, would you?"

Scott caught John's eye, silently questioning just how bad that headache now was. John's expression was mostly hidden behind the oxygen mask but offered a thumbs up instead.

"What is that, anyway?" Scott eased the lights up slowly. "Point nine sodium chloride?"

"Partly." Ellis flicked the bag then, apparently satisfied, set about prepping a needle. "Hartmann's solution, to be precise. We've got to raise his blood pressure and this will have the bonus effect of flushing his system quicker. Now…" She turned back to John. "How are you with needles?"

John lowered the oxygen mask to shoot Scott a breathless grin. "Oh, I'm fine. My brother on the other hand…"

Ellis glanced over her shoulder curiously. "Really? You have trypanophobia?"

Scott scuffed his heel against the floorboards. "it's not a phobia."

"It definitely is," John reported gleefully.

Scott was beginning to wonder whether Ellis had added something a little extra to that oxygen.

"Yeah, alright chatty Cathy, that's enough outta you." He planted a hand over the mask to prevent John dragging it off again. "No, I don't have a phobia, I'm just not a needle fan. I feel like that's a regular human reaction- Ow. Jeezus, Johnny, keep your bony elbows away from my ribs."

John rolled up his sleeve for Ellis to insert the needle.

"Don't muzzle me with an oxygen mask then." He thought for a moment, then added, "And don't call me Johnny."

Ellis tried to bite back a smile.

"I just didn't have you down as not being one for needles," she remarked as Scott turned away to avoid the sight of glinting metal. Nope, no sir, still not a fan. "Okay. This is a fast-acting tox test, but it'll still take twenty minutes. Your vitals look a lot better, so I think we're in the clear. Not great, but we've already established that's due to the parasite's presence in your bloodstream, so-"

"Ellis," Scott muttered, trying not to cringe.

She flapped a hand at him. "Oh, relax. These are private quarters. No one's listening."

An unsettled silence enveloped the room.

John yanked open the bedside drawer, retrieved a deck of playing cards, then dropped them onto the mattress with a dramatic flourish.

Scott raised a brow.

"We've got twenty minutes to kill, haven't we?" John plucked the ace of diamonds from the deck and held it aloft like a challenge. "What's the issue, Scott?" His grin turned devilish. "Scared you'll lose?"


Scott presumed that he was asleep, although this was unlike any dream he'd ever had. For a start, he'd never experienced something so real. He could taste rot in the air, feel the oppressive humidity plastering his shirt to his skin, hear the distant throb of an unnatural heartbeat. The constant thrum of energy shivered under his bare feet. Everywhere he turned was engulfed in darkness.

He had to be asleep because he couldn't remember how else he'd have gotten here. He could recall Ellis somehow winning three rounds of Whist, remembered the results of John's toxicology test proving that he'd survived this latest brush with death, had a faint memory of showing Ellis to one of the unused back bedrooms before crashing on the mattress beside John. And then – nothing, until here.

He was back in the hivemind space. It had never occurred during his sleep before. Logic assured them that he wasn't a carrier, but he still entertained the terror that the parasite might have stolen his body while he remained trapped in this strange purgatory.

Being here didn't bring him fear this time, more like dread. Fear was a sharp-toothed, swift monster whereas dread was a dull, morose threat which slowly drained every sense until all that remained was soul-crushing anxiety. It snuck up on you whereas fear would take you in a chokehold. But until he reached that point of no return, he had a precious few minutes in which he was still in control – of his body, his feelings, his own sanity.

He inhaled deeply. The air tasted rich with water and a strange, earthy smell like freshly turned soil as if someone had been digging graves. He was still wearing the same clothes he'd fallen asleep in, but the despite the short sleeves he wasn't cold. It was if physical sensations were muted here. He was aware of the sticky heat and the glutinous mixture underfoot, but his senses had been numbed.

He crouched down to trail his fingers across the floor. It was some kind of non-Newtonian fluid, viscosity increasing under stress so that he could walk on it without sinking beneath the surface. It was tacky like treacle. At first glance it appeared jet black, but, smeared across his hands, it was actually the deep coffee colour of old blood. Faint ripples shivered across the surface. The origin appeared to be in the same direction as that uncanny pulse.

Scott stood back up, trying to wipe his hands clean. He'd have loved a weapon, but he doubted whether it would do any good. This wasn't a physical place, after all. He thought back to Ellis' claims that the hivemind was beyond human comprehension – she had no idea just how accurate her theories truly were.

He glanced over his shoulder to be met with yet more impenetrable darkness. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching him. There was a familiar heat of eyes boring into his back. He repressed a shiver, then cautiously stepped over the first set of tendrils.

He was initially reminded of a spider's web. Each tendril pulsated in time with the ripples passing across the floor. They were all interlinked, larger branches snaking off into lots of smaller arms which connected at the centre to form one main artery. He imagined that stepping on any one of them would relay his exact location back to the supposed spider, something which he wanted to avoid at all costs.

The treacle-like substance squelched underfoot. He sort of wished he'd worn shoes in bed, just so he'd have them here with him. A low vibration – deeper than thunder, barely audible to human ears – passed through the space. He closed his eyes against it, gritting his teeth. He swore the wave rattled his bones, pressed against the interior of his skull, jumpstarted his heart like a defib. When he opened his eyes, the tendrils were fading but still glowed a strong, luminous green as if they'd been held under a UV lamp.

He'd never wandered this far into the hivemind. Dread clawed up his spine, infecting every nerve with a sharp impulse of unease. Just how deep could he go before it was too late to turn back? What if he couldn't wake up? He was tempted to call for John, but shied away from the instinct, unwilling to draw his brother back into the hivemind. It was fine. He could handle this by himself.

Another painful buzz shook everything right down to the basic atoms. He ducked to his knees, curling his hands in the strange treacle, gasping for air. Whatever lay at the centre of the hivemind, it didn't want him here. All the more reason to find it, he thought darkly, pushing himself back to his feet.

Something was emerging out of the gloom. A strange, glowing light. The only comparison he could think of was stumbling across an anglerfish in the bathypelagic zone – see, Gordon? He did pay attention to those marine biology rants after all – but this was far bigger.

It occurred to him for a second that maybe it was radioactive – there was a definite link between the parasite and radiation after all – but he dismissed the thought soon after. The creatures had fled from the fallout. It was one of the only known ways to kill them. Why would the hivemind harbour something so self-destructive? There had to be another explanation.

The tendrils were thicker here. They cloaked the floor so that he could barely find a place to step. It was like a bramble thicket. He paused to take in the sight. It was too bright to see whatever laid at the centre, but it flashed in time with his own heartbeat. The tendrils gathered around it protectively, occasionally writhing, a nest of green eels with electrical pulses to match. There was a strange hum too, like whispers but indistinct. Radio channels, turned to the lowest volume and all playing over one another.

"Centre of the hivemind," Scott wondered aloud, only registering that the tendrils were curling around his ankles when movement caught his eye.

He stumbled backwards with a startled yelp, but they had snared him in place. He crashed onto his back, trying to claw them away, but they tightened, constricting like snakes, and all the while that strange, hypnotising light kept humming, sending waves of luminescence through the tendrils.

They're not veins, he realised, disregarding his thoughts of spiderwebs too. It's one giant nervous system.

He couldn't get free. Lashing out, resorting to digging his nails into the sinewy flesh of the nerves until his fingertips met a feathery interior, thrashing as their grip tightened – none of it was effective. He gulped down a lungful of air before they dragged him beneath the surface and-

Scott bolted upright. The lights were dim but he was alone in the bedroom. Blankets had tangled around his legs and waist, pinning him in place. He pushed them away, scrambling to free himself, still breathing in panicked, rapid gasps.

His heart was pounding so fiercely that blood turned to thunder in his ears. Tiny tremors ran through his hands. He was shivering as if he'd plunged through ice and yet the thermostat promised it was a comfortable level. He coiled his fingers in the bedsheets, trying to anchor himself. Real, real, real.

"Shit," he choked out, just to hear a voice even if it was his own, rough with residual terror. He gripped the damp fabric above his heart where the tendrils had coiled. The healed bites on his shoulder and stomach ached with a dull fire he hadn't felt in nearly a month. Despite this, he was so cold.

A hot shower threatened to invite another trip into the hivemind and the idea of falling into that headspace was terrifying. He tore off his damp shirt, dried the sweat from his skin with a towel and yanked a hoodie over his head. He couldn't leave the empty room quickly enough. Panic was a growing whisper at the back of his mind and being alone threatened to tip him over the edge.

Nothing seemed completely real. His own hands were vaguely hazy at the edges. He pushed his knuckles against his eyes and blinked but he still couldn't shake off that disconnection. How could he know for certain whether he was awake or if this was simply another hivemind trick? He couldn't trust pain for he'd felt that in nightmares before. Not even his own frantic heartbeat was a certainty. He needed another's mind to assure him that this was real.

The clamour of raised voices led him to the kitchen – John's and Virgil's. Scott was about to interrupt – because yelling at the guy who'd nearly died less than twelve hours ago wasn't a good idea in anyone's books – but then his own name was mentioned, so he hung back in the corridor to listen.

"How am I wrong for trying to keep you safe?" John defended himself loudly, pitched with that sense of self-righteousness that had triggered so many arguments between him and Gordon over the years. Johnny was notoriously bad at admitting when he was in the wrong. "I couldn't be certain just how much influence the hivemind had over me. I wasn't about to put you at risk. Or any of the others, for that matter."

Virgil shoved back his chair. It skidded across the tiles with an ugly screech.

"That's not the point," he growled. "I get why you didn't want us involved. My issue is that you put all of the responsibility on Scott. What would have happened if things hadn't gone according to plan? What would have happened if you'd died, John? Because you put him in a position where he'd have been forced to carry that guilt alone. That's not fair. That's not- You can't do that. You know you can't. I mean, Christ, John, we're already walking a tightrope here."

"He's doing better."

"He's not well."

The words hung in the air momentarily. Virgil pushed away from the countertop and began pacing back-and-forth between the cupboards and the table.

"If I'm playing what-if scenarios, then you know damn well that he is too. None of this is ideal without you adding more issues to the mix. He's still on the meds. Have you not questioned why he's made no complaints about that? Because the Scott I know? He'd have refused to take them in the first place, let alone voluntarily stayed on them."

"Then maybe you don't know him as well as you like to believe you do."

Virgil froze.

"Fuck you, John," he said at last, unable to keep the hurt out of his voice. "Just- Fuck you. Do you have any idea what- How am I supposed to- Alan's blocking me out, Gordon's suffering from post-concussion syndrome, Scott's still borderline suicidal, and now you're… You want to know why I'm so angry? Because you put both of you at risk unnecessarily. You should have come to me last night or at least made me aware. Not only were you an idiot with your own health, but you also put Scott's wellbeing on the line too. And you still seem completely oblivious as to just how selfish-"

"I know."

John took a deep breath as his shout faded.

"I know," he repeated quieter. "Of course I'm aware just how fucking selfish it was. But I wasn't thinking, Virg. I thought- I felt like I was dying and I- Answer me honestly – when everything's falling apart, who do you instinctively turn to? It's not as if Grandma's an option now. So yes, in hindsight it was a monumentally terrible idea, and I should have woken you. We'd have figured out the hivemind, or called Ellis sooner, I don't know, but I- I didn't think."

Virgil sank into a chair at John's side. For a moment they sat quietly. John buried his head in his hands, still swamped in that stolen shirt from Scott's collection. Virgil shifted his arm closer so that their elbows bumped in silent solidarity. John exhaled slowly, seeming to draw strength from the contact. When he raised his chin, his eyes were bright and glassy.

"What if we're making the wrong decision?"

Virgil frowned. "In what sense?"

"Leaving." John dropped his gaze to the whorls in the tabletop. "I hate it here. We all do. And Penny and Kayo are out there somewhere, so obviously we have to leave, but… I just can't help but wonder. We have access to resources here. I'm going to hit withdrawal, you realise that, right? If we actually break the connection, then I'll no longer need the meds, but I've been on them for so long that my body's grown dependent. That wouldn't be easy pre -Z-Day, let alone now."

"We'll take enough with us so you can reduce the dosage slowly. Hitting detox overnight was never on the table, it's far too dangerous."

"It's not just that."

Virgil tugged his sweatshirt cuffs over his hands.

"I know," he admitted tiredly. "It's the Zoloft. That's what you're wondering, isn't it? What if Scott comes off it and we're right back where we started? Only worse because we'll have left behind our supply."

"Bandits probably have some," John joked humourlessly. "We could always trade Gordon's oxy."

"That's not funny."

"I know." John interlocked his fingers to still the tremors. "When he gets triggered-"

"If," Virgil corrected.

John shook his head.

"No, not if. When. Because it's going to happen sooner or later. We can't protect him forever, as much as I'd like to. It's the apocalypse and we're already down our sharpshooter. Jasmin's got good aim, Marisa can handle herself and I'll do my best, but we're going to be in trouble. Being realistic, Scott's going to face killing more infected and I don't know how he'll handle it. It's no man's land up there - he can't go unresponsive."

"We'll figure it out," Virgil assured him. "Focus on one problem at a time for now."

"I can't help it. Worrying about the bigger picture was my job. I always had to be one, two, hell, three steps ahead so if something went wrong I'd have multiple solutions for you. I can't switch off the part of my brain which is used to planning for as many scenarios as possible."

Virgil was quiet for a moment.

"Okay," he said at last. "Would talking scenarios help?"

"Possibly," John conceded. He bit back a yawn.

"Coffee?"

"God, yes."

The brief interlude gave Scott chance to step into the kitchen and pretend he hadn't been eavesdropping for the last ten minutes. It took a great deal of self-control to ignore the discussion he'd overheard but he didn't want his brothers to know he'd been listening.

Besides, he wanted to avoid the conversation which would follow at all costs. It was bad enough having those thoughts swirling around his head like a cursed microwave without having to actually vocalise and work through them. John wasn't the only person considering that question – every time Scott set eyes on that little orange bottle perched by the bathroom sink he also wondered whether he was truly better or if he was being kept afloat by medication. It was the reason why he was so reluctant to come off it – he couldn't put his family through that again.

That being said, he'd felt so undeniably alive at the controls of the helicopter that it seemed impossible to believe there wasn't some part of him trying to genuinely heal. Chemicals could soothe his scars, but the sky stirred something in his soul, and it was enough to give him a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he'd be okay without the meds after all. Either way, he didn't have much of a choice about it. The days 'til their departure were quickly dwindling and their squirrelled supplies wouldn't last long after that.

Virgil waited until John had left the room before he levelled Scott with a knowing look. "So, how much did you overhear?"

"I didn't overhear anything," Scott protested, unable to make eye contact. That in itself was an obvious tell. He pretended to hunt through the fridge, a ruse which didn't last long given the mostly empty shelves.

Virgil caught him by the shoulders, tugged him back, then shut the fridge door and leant against it with folded arms. He looked more concerned than unimpressed, but Scott still felt distinctly chastised.

"Try that again," Virgil prompted, "But without lying this time."

Scott dropped his gaze to the floor. Words fled beyond his grasp. He still hadn't fully regained his sense of reality after the hivemind. His ribs ached with phantom bruises where those parasitic tendrils had snared him and tried to drag him into the darkness. When he blinked, his retinas were stained by that green luminescence. Ice had gripped his bones again. It was a living, breathing creature under his skin, making every breath painful. He didn't realise he'd wrapped his arms around himself until Virgil coaxed his hands away from his biceps before he could leave bruises.

He took a weary breath.

"Scott?" Virgil ventured, unbearably gentle. "Hey. Look at me." His eyes were searching. "Where'd you go?"

"I'm right here."

"You zoned out for a moment there."

"I- Yeah. I guess. Sorry."

Virgil raised a brow.

"I mean, uh, I'm not sorry because I'm not supposed to apologise for reactions I can't control or some shit like that."

Virgil bit back a comment. "Sit down. Have you eaten yet?" He didn't wait for a response. "We have…"

"Not a lot?"

"Cereal?"

"With no milk?"

"Only four months ago we were eating canned dog food," Virgil pointed out.

Scott took the offered box. "Cereal sounds great."

They sat opposite one another in comfortable silence. Virgil kept his questions unspoken for now, clearly hoping Scott would volunteer information without need for an interrogation. Granola clusters were heaped into cereal bowls – painted cream with yellow interiors like cracked open eggs – and a jug of water sat untouched. John's abandoned coffee mug had left a stained ring on the woodwork. Stray strands of Finch's fur carpeted the tiles, now sticking to Scott's heels as he silently questioned why he hadn't thought to put on a pair of socks.

"Hey." Gordon knocked on the doorframe to announce his presence. "Ooh, cereal? I'm starving, man. Any left?"

He didn't wait for a response, just hopped up to perch on the table and tipped the packet upside down to pour the final clusters into his cupped hands. It was lightly coated in cinnamon which left his fingers dusty. He wiped them against his shorts with a wide grin at Virgil's disgusted look.

"So," he began, crunching on granola, "Any idea what crawled up Johnny's ass and died? Because he is in a terrible mood this morning. Worse than when we try to wake you up before seven, Vee."

"It was a long night," Scott interjected before Virgil could speak. "He's just tired."

Gordon lowered his handful of granolas. "Really?"

Virgil caught Scott's eye.

"There may have been a slight medical issue," Scott elaborated. "But it's fine. We sorted it." He lowered his gaze to the cinnamon residue at the base of his bowl. "Seriously," he added quietly, picking out patterns in the spice, "It's dealt with. Let's leave it at that."

Let's leave it at that because otherwise his mind would churn out more what-if scenarios than he knew how to cope with. Because he didn't want to remember last night. Because he didn't want to think about how his heart had lurched and John had looked at him as if it could possibly have been goodbye. How they had both been strung out on a line of terror but had pretended for each other's sakes. How John had shaken so badly under Scott's hands that he'd feared his brother would shatter. The way it could happen again so easily unless they chose to trust the one man who Scott couldn't think about without losing his grasp on reality.

So.

Gordon slid off the table. Virgil kicked out a chair for him. He rinsed his hands under the faucet then returned, dropping heavily into the seat. He studied Scott intently as if he were some sort of lab sample under a microscope.

"Can I help you with something?" Scott asked dryly.

Gordon ignored the pointed comment. His voice was soft as he queried, "Where does it hurt?"

Scott was struck into silence.

"What?" he finally replied in a truly remarkable display of eloquence. He didn't dare look at Virgil, fully aware that what was not a denial.

"You're in pain," Gordon said simply, still in that quiet, considering tone. He'd dropped all traces of the jokester act. "It's easier to recognise when you've been there, so I know it when I see it. So, what's hurting?"

Scott hesitated. It was as good as any vocal confirmation. Not that it had really been a question to begin with – Gordon knew pain and could pick it out from the slightest of tells. Despite this, Scott was still reluctant to admit his brother was right. He was very aware that worry was a two-way street – as much as he wished otherwise, his family worried about him as much as he fretted over them and God knew he'd already given them enough cause for concern over the past couple of months.

"We should be focussing on our evac plan."

Virgil shook his head. "It's under control and you know it. What hurts?"

Scott glanced across at Gordon. His brother's gaze was relentless. For once, he wasn't tapping either, just sitting there expectantly.

"Everything, I guess." He held up a hand as Virgil went to speak. "Don't freak out. It's not bad. It's just old injuries flaring up. I'm more aware of them today. You know the drill."

Those final words were mostly directed at Gordon.

"Yeah, I get that." The desolate note in Gordon's voice was painful to hear. "And I'm guessing you didn't sleep much last night, huh? That's probably why it's worse today." He laced his fingers behind his head and leant back, eyes dimmed by sadness. "It's constant, so you get used to it like background noise, but on bad days… You know you can tell us, right?"

"I know."

"Because trust me, I'm gonna worry a lot more if I see you overcompensate and end up limping rather than just telling me."

"I don't limp."

"Actually," Virgil interrupted, "You do. Slightly. Not all the time. I'm presuming it's because Gordon's right and you're subconsciously shifting your weight onto your other leg. Is your ankle that bad?"

Scott gave up on trying to remain casual. Pain was a dull blanket which had enveloped his entire body. It was sharper in some areas, little jolts of fire as opposed to the low-level ache. He'd been clenching his jaw without realising and now a headache was setting in. He dragged his hands down his face to wake himself up a little.

"It's not my ankle," he admitted, sounding more exhausted than he'd intended to let on. "I fucked up my knee back when Alan and I were on our own. I don't think it healed properly. I didn't rest it either, so I probably damaged it further. And…" He forced himself to confess, "The bites are painful again. It's not a big deal. I'm just… aware of it, that's all."

And it really wasn't a big deal. Pain was... well, not an old friend, but an old acquaintance, certainly. It had stalked him for years. Injuries flared up. It was just a fact of life. He pushed himself past his limits and he paid the price for it time and time again. Like Gordon had said – it became background noise, just another part of daily life which he only noticed if he actively focussed on it. Once the human body learned how to break, it tended to remember and harboured the lesson in the form of haunting aches, a quiet reminder of that weakness.

So. Not a big deal.

Virgil and Gordon were having another of those silent conversations. For all the complaining Gordon did about Scott's and Virgil's supposed psychic connection, he certainly didn't seem to mind when he was the one in their shoes.

Scott considered speaking up – hey, I'm still here you know? Quit acting as if I'm not in the room – but honestly? He couldn't bring himself to care. There were too many other issues to worry about. Besides, it was a relief to see Virgil and Gordon acting as a team again. There had been too many frayed relationships lately. Trust was a precious commodity these days.

They came to some sort of silent agreement. Virgil scooped up the empty cereal box and retreated to the other end of the kitchen, trying to pretend like he wasn't listening in.

"So," Gordon asked casually. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"Uh…" Scott struggled to think through the brain fog. Somewhere there was a physical list of daily tasks pinned to the back of a door. "John's got a meeting with Ellis. I…"

The chill was growing worse. A growing sense of dread warned him that something was wrong. He tried to ignore it, fighting to hold onto his train of thought.

"I said I'd go with him. Then there's, um, there's…"

He couldn't tell if the heavy pressure was due to his headache or the hivemind. God, he hoped it was just a migraine coming on – he'd never thought he'd see the day where he wished for one, but he'd take that pain over hivemind activity. His pulse jittered at the thought. His ribs still ached with the memory, despite the fact it hadn't been a physical experience. It was so cold. Even thinking seemed sluggish. He gripped the edge of the table to anchor himself.

"Scott?" Gordon's voice was sharper, suggesting that this hadn't been the first time he'd called. At some point he'd slid off the table and now stood at Scott's side. "Hey, talk to me. What's the deal, bro? You good?" A note of panic crept in. "Virgil!"

Virgil was there in an instant. Perhaps he'd never left. Reality had grown hazy, so it was difficult to tell. His hand landed on Scott's shoulder, saying something. Scott couldn't make out the words – they were lost behind the roar of blood in his ears. He took a deep breath and blinked to clear the spots milling at the edge of his vision.

"M'fine." He braced himself against the table, then repeated, firmly, "I'm fine."

"Right," Gordon shot back sarcastically, "Because that little display was so convincing."

"Just got light-headed for a second. It's not-"

Virgil's grip tightened. "I swear, if you're about say it's not a big deal again…"

"It's not a cause for concern," Scott amended. He was met with a matching set of unimpressed glares. It was uncanny coming from Gordon of all people. "See?" He pushed himself out of his chair. "I'm completely fi-"

Oh, big mistake.

The kitchen blinked out of existence.

Scott whirled around, breath snatched by panic. Everywhere he turned, all he could see was the impossible darkness of the hivemind. Pain writhed around his ankles. A glance down revealed tendrils coiling around his legs like manacles. He kicked them away, stumbling backwards with a startled shout. That alien glow had doubled in size and now resembled an unstable sun – pulsating, blinding to look at directly, sending out waves on an unbearable frequency that knocked him to his knees. He doubled over as the noise stole every sense from him.

It cut out as suddenly as it had started. He slowly uncurled from his hunched position. Warmth trickled down his neck. He lifted a hand to his ear. His fingertips came away wet with blood.

"Shit."

He felt himself say the words but didn't hear them. The tendrils were knitting together, forming a giant web which surged forwards, slowly at first but then picking up speed. He turned on his heels and bolted. The darkness was directionless but anywhere was better than staying put. The hivemind saw him as a threat to be exterminated and he didn't want to find out what would happen if it caught him. Was it all a mind game? What would happen to his physical body? He wasn't a carrier, so it couldn't use him to activate the parasite in anyone else, but it could break him instead.

Sprinting wasn't sustainable. He pushed past the wall and hit a second wind. It seemed unfair that physical restrictions should apply here but the hivemind made the rules. Another of those deafening thunderclaps rushed across the space like a shockwave from a nuclear blast.

It knocked him clean off his feet. He hit the floor, rolling instinctively to distribute the impact, then scrambled to his knees. His ears were still ringing, pushing his balance off-kilter. His hands slammed painfully against the floor as he tried to catch himself. He wiped blood from his face, blinking rapidly to make sense of the sight in front of him.

He was on some sort of precipice. It was strangely familiar. An old childhood memory stirred – the rocky edge of a quarry; ground thick with dust and unstable boulders; the siren song of an impossible jump and a friend's dare; belief in flying rather than falling; a lake so impossibly far below which would then catch him but not without spitting him out with a broken leg. Somehow, the hivemind had snatched this moment from his head and now projected it around him.

No way back, nowhere left to run.

It's a leap of faith, Scott had told John in that abandoned pharmacy ages ago now. Well, it was a lot harder to take that leap when you were actually standing on the edge… It was a good thing he'd always been an adrenaline junkie. He didn't look back, didn't take a deep breath, didn't hesitate. He just ran and willed himself to fly.

"Dammit, Scott, wake up!"

He jolted awake, narrowly avoiding smashing his head against Virgil's, who had been leaning over him, face stamped with worry. He gulped down air as if he'd been drowning, vaguely aware that he'd somehow ended up on the floor. His head was in Virgil's lap, Gordon at his side, counting his pulse.

Gordon looked very young and scared all of a sudden. "What the hell was that?"

Scott reached up and clumsily grabbed Virgil's arm. "Where's John? You've gotta find him, tell him that we were wrong. It's not just the Hood bringing them here, it's me. It's after me too. It wants me gone, out of the hivemind for good."

Virgil stared at him. "Wait, wait, slow down a second. What? You- You were back in the hivemind? Is that… Scott, you just passed out for nearly three minutes and-"

"Listen to me. It wants control. It's trying to get control."

Gordon caught on before Virgil did. "But you're not a carrier?"

"It's not trying to takeover physically, it's trying to trap me in the damn hivemind."

There was a pause.

Scott tried to catch his breath. Panic thrashed in his lungs. He felt oddly shaky as if he'd just run a marathon. When he tried to push himself upright, his arms gave out and he collapsed against Virgil's chest. Virgil refused to let him go, hold almost painfully tight as if he could physically keep Scott from drifting back into the hivemind.

"Shit," Gordon breathed. "We…" His eyes were bright with dread, words drenched in reluctance as he ventured, "We need to severe the connection even if only temporarily."

"No," Virgil snapped. "I know what you're thinking. No fucking way. Not happening. Not on my watch. Find another solution."

Gordon sank back on his heels. He didn't shout in return, just replied, exhaustedly, "There is no other solution."

"Bullshit."

Scott focussed on every tiny detail – the grains of sugar in the grouting between tiles, that faint scar on Gordon's left thumb from a rockpool adventure gone wrong, the forest green of Virgil's shirt, his own heartbeat – to distract himself from the jolt of panic as he asked, quietly, "It's the Hood, right? His frequency blocks the hivemind."

It wasn't a true question. He already knew the answer.

Virgil's arms tightened around him. "You're not going anywhere near him. I won't let that happen."

"Hivemind or the Hood?" Scott was struck by a vaguely hysterical urge to laugh. "Jeezus. Someone up there must really hate me."

He ducked his head to hide the embarrassing betrayal of tears. His eyes were burning. At least his ears weren't bleeding. That had only been in the hivemind. He caught Virgil's wrist and tapped twice. Virgil's grip loosened slightly, but he still didn't let go completely.

Gordon reluctantly clambered to his feet. "I should get John, right?"

"He's with Ellis," Scott began to protest, only to be cut off by Virgil.

"Get him."

Gordon's gaze shifted between them both. "I… Yeah. Okay. I'll be back in a minute."

His steps trailed out of the room, light-footed, muted by threadbare socks.

"Scott," Virgil began softly.

"Don't. Don't start."

"Okay." Virgil lowered his head to Scott's shoulder. "Okay."

Scott tapped a hand against the floor. He had to actively remind himself how to breathe. His heart was still skipping and starting. He closed a hand around his wrist to check his own pulse. Anxiety clogged his throat, strangling vocal chords so that his voice came out small and vulnerable.

"Hey, uh, Virg?"

"Yeah?" Virgil replied after a moment, still painfully gentle.

"Remember a while ago, back when we were travelling cross-country, when you asked me if I was scared?"

Virgil's tiny intake of breath was bracing. "I remember."

Scott closed his eyes. "I think I'm scared now."

"I know," Virgil murmured. "I think we all are."