Ellis had transformed her quarters into a working research laboratory. Every scrap of space had been dedicated to science with the exception of a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen which were squashed into the smallest set of rooms like an afterthought. The clinical white walls and cold tiles seemed fitting in this setting. Ellis had blended the line between home and workplace so that the two were no longer separable and she seemed to like it that way.
Scott was fondly reminded of the way Brains had once spent days living in his lab, unwilling to step away from a project long enough to make the trek upstairs to sleep in an actual bed and so catching snatches of rest on a battered couch that Virgil had installed after the third instance of finding their friend asleep at his desk. There was even the same collection of empty cups, although Ellis chose vibrantly coloured energy drinks over coffee. And, of course, there were the holograms.
Hundreds of them cluttered the air. Multiple projectors had been pushed together to form a bigger picture. Just looking at them induced a headache, although Scott would admittedly take a headache over the dull fire in scarred bitemarks. It seemed contradictory to feel eternally cold and yet experience that burning pain at the same time. It wasn't a sharp, bracing agony, but a dull ache as if he'd scalded himself under a hot tap and had to wait for the skin to calm down.
Needless to say, his brothers did not agree. The kitchen fiasco had ended in a full smother-hen session which Scott was not used to. It was okay when he was being overprotective, but not when everyone was hovering over him. But the hivemind experience had wiped him out, leaving him unable to muster the energy to pretend to be fine and send them all away.
Plus, you know, he didn't want to be by himself. It was a ridiculous fear because Gordon and Virgil hadn't been able to keep him from being pulled into the hivemind before, but he couldn't shake the idea that it would sink in its claws and drag him back into the darkness the second he was left alone.
Every shiver, the slightest shadow, a low rumble as the air recycling unit switched tanks – it all preyed on raw memories. He clawed his nails into the couch cushions as if he could physically keep himself from being trapped in his own head. He was desperate to ground himself, but nothing seemed real. He even sounded robotic to his own ears, answering John's questions whilst trying not to gasp for air because it seemed as if the room were being drained of oxygen.
Everything was spinning out of control again. He was caught on one of life's fairground rides, but it wasn't fun, hey, stop the ride, I want to get off now. Constant underlying panic made him nauseous and light-headed which only reinforced the terrifying sense that he was about to be dragged back into the hivemind. It wasn't the space itself which he feared, but its unknown quantity. What would it do to him? Trap him there forever? Gain control, somehow turn him into a carrier after all? Did he pose a risk to his family? Maybe he should be alone to keep them safe.
"I can practically hear you thinking," Virgil observed, vaguely teasing but mostly concerned. The couch dipped as he sat down, stealing the tiny space at the edge as Scott was lying on most of it.
Scott ghosted a hand across the healed bites on his shoulder. The tightness in his chest wasn't real, he reminded himself. There was plenty of air to go around. But they were below ground and all that soil was bearing down on them and there was nowhere to go and-
"Hey." Virgil snapped his fingers, softening again as Scott's eyes focussed on him. "Don't check out on me." A faintly pleading note entered his voice. "Talk to me, Scott. What can I do?"
"I don't know." It came out more desperate than he'd intended. "I don't know how this thing works. None of us do. I don't know what's gonna fix me."
Virgil reached over grip his good shoulder.
"Fix it, not you." he insisted earnestly. "You don't need to be fixed. There's nothing wrong with you."
"That's not what you said to John earlier."
Scott wished he could take back the words as soon as he said them. It had been a low blow, uncalled for at best and downright cruel at worst. Virgil was worried and he had every right to be. But that half-empty Zoloft bottle by the bathroom sink was not the biggest issue at current.
"Sorry," he muttered, draping an arm across his face to hide from Virgil's searching look, still patient despite the fact Scott was lashing out for no fucking reason. "I just- Sorry."
"It's okay." Virgil caught Scott's wrist and raised his arm so that Scott had no choice but to meet his gaze. "Really. I get it. It's okay. But I wasn't asking how to fix the hivemind. I meant what can I do that will help you feel better right now?"
Scott closed his eyes to hide from the care on Virgil's face. It took a brave person to love so openly, he considered, trying to summon dregs of a similar bravery himself. In the end, his voice came out embarrassingly small. He dug his fingers into the cushions to keep from wincing.
"It's cold."
Virgil knew him well enough to translate it's into I'm.
"Your temperature's within a healthy range. A little lower than your average, but still normal."
"I know," Scott mumbled, overwhelmed by a rush of utter desolation. He wanted to sink into the couch, fuse with the fibres, just switch off every fear. Sometimes he thought back on his younger self and wished he could protect that child from everything to come. "But I still feel cold."
He dared to lift his arm from his face to spy Virgil's expression. His brother looked thoughtful but also deeply sad – although grief was a constant these days. Maybe it always had been. Perhaps it was another Tracy quality – stubbornness and loss. Scott didn't want to think about it.
"I don't want to hurt you," Virgil began, wrestling with guilt versus his instincts. "And I know you're already in pain, so if this doesn't help or makes anything worse, then let me know."
Scott tried to unpack exactly what that meant and immediately got his answer when Virgil attempted to lie down too, only it was a little too small for two grown adults, so he ended up essentially crushing Scott against the cushions. Pre-Z-Day it would have been a problem, but he had dropped enough muscle mass since then to not suffocate his brother. Besides, Scott was not complaining.
It took him a moment to remember hey, safe person, instinctively flinching at the contact as his mind recalled foggy instances of needle bites and bruising grips and a harsh voice. He choked down air and then relaxed into the hold. Virgil's hair was tickling his chin where his brother had tucked his face into his shoulder, but hey, Scott could put up with that. His bad shoulder protested movement, so he was forced to hug back one-handed, but he still managed to hold Virgil close, absently tracing circles across his upper back.
Virgil let out a damp laugh. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"
Scott frowned at the ceiling as if it would tell him what he'd done this time. "I can't?"
"You're still trying to comfort me," Virgil pointed out gently, reaching around to tap Scott's wrist. "I think it's engrained into your subconscious."
"Probably," Scott conceded, coiling his fingers in the back of Virgil's shirt instead.
Virgil returned to clinging onto Scott in a manner which more resembled Gordon's octopus tendencies rather than his usual bear hug. He was impossibly warm and real and the hivemind had never seemed so far away than in the face of his steady heartbeat. His grip tightened a fraction as he sighed.
"Let me take care of you for a change."
"That's been happening too much recently."
"No, not too much. It's not a chore. I- Do you realise that looking out for you helps me too? Everything's unravelling but caring for my family? That's my constant. So, let me. It'll help us both."
Scott took a deep breath. "Okay."
Virgil lifted his head, looking doubtful. "Wait, really?"
"If it helps you, then yes."
"That's not the only- You know what? Sure. I'll take that." He tucked his chin over Scott's shoulder, pulling him close. "Is this helping at all?"
"Yeah," Scott admitted, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. His voice had run away somewhere. He trusted Virgil to read the hidden gratitude behind his words. "It helps."
And it had helped. Now, five hours later, in Ellis' lab, he glanced across to meet his brother's raised eyebrows as Virgil gingerly pushed a half-empty can of sugary liquid away from several precious readouts. Some of those holograms were vaguely familiar, reminiscent of the research into links between immunity and genetics that Brains and Grandma had begun up on Five in liaison with the multitude of scientific minds on Mars. Scott recognised that same DNA strand from all those months ago in Jerusalem. Clearly information had been shared via unofficial means at some point.
But they weren't here for a rundown on Ellis' latest discoveries – although doubtless she would ramble her way into a full-blown lecture anyway. She'd given up on holograms and had taken to scrawling on the walls with erasable markers. There was ink smeared over her fingers – the downside of being left-handed, she claimed - and a hint of it on her chin too. Scott had tried to – and subsequently given up on – reading her handwriting, but based off her quick-paced excitement, it was some sort of breakthrough.
Papers rustled as Gordon uncovered an unopened packet of cookies.
"Are these going spare? Can I have them? Is that cool? Ellis? Ellie, can I-? Oh, she's not listening. I'm just gonna…" The seal held strong, so he tore it open with his teeth. "Ah ha." He held a cookie aloft like a trophy and caught Scott's eye. "What? Quit judging me. Normally I'd go to the gym, but for obvious reasons I'm not allowed, so stress-eating it is."
"How old are those?"
Gordon squinted at the date stamp. "Only two months over the use-by." He took a bite, littering crumbs over his jeans. "Oh, relax. It's the apocalypse. No one has standards anymore."
"Uh huh," Scott replied dryly, but still took one when offered. Gordon was right – the bar for what was considered edible had hit an all new low since Z-Day.
The cookie was dry and broke into several crunchy chunks, but it was by no means the worst thing he'd tasted. Besides, he could treat it as a distraction, something which he sorely needed. It was taking all of his self-control not to start pacing or tapping or generally freaking the hell out. Apprehension was one thing, but dread was quite another and he was currently experiencing both in equal quantities.
Because the real reason they were here, in Ellis' quarters? Neutral territory. A place to meet the Devil without descending to Hell or summoning him to their own home where he could infect everything with a sense of threat. That was the motivation for the knife tucked up Gordon's sleeve which he didn't think anybody knew about, for the protective promise of a cold death in John's eyes should anything go wrong, for the way Virgil was sticking close to Scott's side and looked one impulsive second away from grabbing his brother and bolting. It was why they had lied to Alan, but told Marisa the truth about this meeting so that she knew to keep the kids occupied because the aftermath was not going to be pretty.
Virgil was dead set against even keeping the Hood in the same bunker, but John claimed to be using him. Gordon had kept his opinions secret but tension had worked its way into his jaw upon hearing that name and hadn't left ever since. He'd been grinding his teeth for the past twenty minutes. Those cookies were probably a dental mercy. Alan was to be kept in the dark – something which Scott wasn't convinced he agreed with, but Virgil refused to back down on that one.
And Scott himself? He didn't let himself think about it. It was a necessary meeting, so what was the point in dwelling on feelings when he didn't have a choice? Of course, he could always bury his head in the sand and hope the hivemind would politely go away on its own but that was a non-starter. So.
He crushed cookie crumbs under his thumb, exhaling slowly to try to trick his dumb brain into believing he was still in control. Because he wasn't, was he? When he had no choice, how could he have the upper hand? The Hood might be their prisoner, but he still held all the best cards and until someone unlocked the information and dragged it outta his head, he always would do. Somehow, Scott was still at his mercy.
Once upon a time, he would have hated the idea. Now, it simply terrified him. The slight pressure of Virgil's knee knocking against his own pulled him out of the spiral before he could fall any deeper. He brushed crumbs off his hands and sat back in his chair, overly conscious of Gordon's concerned eyes. Suddenly, the faint outline of a blade through his brother's sleeve seemed comforting.
"We could still leave," Virgil reminded him quietly.
Scott let out a dark laugh. "Yeah, right. The hivemind's dragging me under. The Hood is the only person who seems to have any answers. You know we can't leave."
Virgil ducked his gaze to the table. "There has to be a meeting, but you don't have to be here. Go with Gordon. John and I can handle this."
"John's been trying to handle this for the past month," Scott pointed out. "The Hood's told him the bare minimum. Clearly he wants something. Kinda seems like that something is me."
"Fuck that."
Scott couldn't help but grin. "You're picking up all of my bad language."
"John's too," Virgil noted. "And Gordon's no angel."
"I'm a fucking delight, asshole," Gordon quipped, taking a decisive crunch of cookie. "I dunno what you're talking about."
Virgil tried desperately to hold back a smile.
"Thanks for proving my point." He turned back to Scott. "I'm not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?"
"Not a chance."
"Is there at least anything I can do to make it easier?"
Scott leant back in his chair, faux-casual. "Got any Xanax?"
"Scott." Virgil blended the line between stern and vaguely horrified. "Be serious."
"Whoever said I wasn't serious?"
"To be fair," Gordon piped up, "I would also kill for a chill pill right now."
"Oh my god," Virgil whimpered, burying his head in his arms on the tabletop, "Why are you like this?"
Gordon stole another cookie with a loud snigger. "Trauma, probably."
Scott attempted to focus on their voices. Gordon's cheer might have been false but it was convincing enough to be a distraction. It worked better than the cookies, anyhow – Scott hadn't been hungry to begin with, but now he just felt sick and shaky, and the sharp jolts of chest pain had returned as if he were about to have a heart attack. Knowing that it was anxiety did not make it any better. He already felt as if he were about to face death without having to deal with the threat of physical symptoms. He coiled a hand in his shirt and reminded himself to breathe.
Gordon lifted his feet onto his chair to sit with his knees to his chest. His jeans rode up his ankles slightly to reveal a metallic gleam where he had a second blade tucked into the side of his shoe. It was a wonder he hadn't yet stabbed himself, but it reinforced the image. He now seemed like what he truly was – a survivor. God knew he wore the look better than Scott did.
Movement flickered as the projected timer ticked over to a new hour. Less than twenty minutes remained until the Hood's arrival. Scott caught himself picking at his knuckles and tucked his hands under his thighs before Virgil could call him out on it. He vaguely wondered whether Ellis would mind if he locked himself in her bathroom to either freak out or throw up or pass out.
He reached for Gordon's untouched bottle of water and took a long drink to trick his body back into a regular breathing pattern. The label crinkled under his palm. He tightened his grip until the plastic protested. It was telling of just how obviously on edge he must have seemed when his brother didn't protest about the stolen drink. Gordon's attention appeared to be captured by something over Virgil's shoulder. Scott twisted to spy Ellis and John.
"Fascinating," Ellis was saying, circling John like a shark. "So, when you got a larger dose your adaptive immune response was activated on a sufficiently large scale to combat the parasite but not quite enough to purge it entirely from your body… and you received multiple bites, so the subsequent higher concentration of pathogens enabled the hivemind to take control rather than remaining a mere neural link…"
"Should we rescue John? Ellis has got that crazy smile again. I feel like she's only one step away from suggesting a live autopsy."
"Gordon," Virgil sighed.
"Okay, okay." Gordon held up his hands in surrender. "But if she gets out a cranial drill, I reserve the right to say I told you so."
John had grown too used to Ellis' antics to be perturbed anymore. He excused himself from her latest explanations to answer his radio, ducking into another room which had been transformed into a small lab lined with various bottled chemicals. No one needed to ask who he was speaking with – they'd all been present when the security team had said they would call when they were ready to transport the Hood from his holding cell.
Virgil reached over to grip Scott's wrist. "Okay?"
Gordon let his knife slide down his sleeve then balanced it delicately over his knuckles. His gaze was just as worried, but he remained silent, keeping his blade in sight like a promise.
"Yeah," Scott replied simply because what was the point in the truth? The truth was that he doubted he'd ever be okay again. The truth was that he wasn't sure if he ever had been. The truth was that all of this fear was ridiculous because he knew the Hood couldn't lay a hand on him – his brothers wouldn't let that happen. And yet.
And yet his skin was crawling at the mere idea of being within five feet of that monster. He was in thermals and the thickest sweater he'd been able to find but still couldn't get warm. He could taste copper and liquor, but he hadn't had a sip of alcohol and there was no blood in his mouth. He had no conscious recollection of his time with the Hood, but his body could remember the cruelty. The thought of yellow eyes overlaid with green contacts bruised his bones with memories.
Every so often a nightmare would awaken a flash – nails digging into his jaw, bruises around his windpipe and wrists, blood draining into plastic veins, choking on clean air, so much pain – and even those were enough to leave him in pieces in Virgil's arms at three in the morning, so he dreaded to think what an in-person meeting would achieve.
Would it shatter him again? Leave him staring listlessly at a ceiling too tired to exist? Prompt that voice which still sometimes tried to convince him that he didn't deserve to be happy or to even live? So, maybe it wasn't the Hood's potential actions which scared him, but what the man might awaken.
He crushed the plastic water bottle between his hands. There were thick scars across his palms which would never fully fade, and he hated the constant reminder of that helplessness, hopelessness, the overwhelming desolation. He wanted to escape, to leave the bunker just as he was – forgo any supplies, just the clothes on his back and the old packet of gum in his pocket – and run until his mind consisted solely of sunlight and his own heartbeat. He didn't want to be here. But hey, he didn't have a choice, not when he could still feel that pressure at the back of his head and saw John flinch with fear which was not his own.
So.
Gordon switched to balancing his blade on his opposite hand.
"All set?" he queried, tipping backwards in his chair to glimpse John's face as their brother headed for the front door. John didn't reply but offered a brief thumbs-up before the latch clicked behind him.
There was an uneasy silence. It was broken by the squeak of a damp cloth as Ellis attempted to scrub equations off the wall and discovered that her markers were not as erasable as advertised on the packaging. Scott was struck by hysterical urge to laugh for no reason. Not a genuine, amused thing, but a panicky, strangled surrender to the anxiety creeping up his throat. He took a moment to assess whether or not he was actually going to be sick.
"I hate this," Gordon muttered, flipping his knife up to catch the hilt. He curled his fingers around it until the force of his grip leeched all the blood from his knuckles. "I really hate this. You should just let me stab the bastard until he talks. He values his own survival above everything – I bet he'll be real' chatty if he thinks I'm about to slit his throat."
"Jesus, Gords," Virgil exclaimed.
"What?" Gordon snapped defensively. "After everything he did, you don't think he deserves it?"
"It's not about what he deserves."
"Then what is it? Still scared of violence? Because believe me, Alan's not the only one who's thought about what it would be like to kill him. I've imagined it in detail. John has too. When you remember… Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't want revenge."
Scott glimpsed Virgil's haunted expression and cleared his throat. "That's enough. Revenge doesn't solve anything. It just…"
"Just what?" Gordon prompted, still bristling.
Scott hesitated. "Consumes you. And at the end of it all, you still don't feel any better. It's a trick."
Gordon considered the words for a few moments, turning them over in his head like he rotated the knife in his hands. "If he makes one wrong move, even looks at you weirdly… I can't guarantee I won't snap."
Scott was briefly warmed by a surge of affection. "As much as I appreciate you looking out for me, I can handle myself."
Gordon's gaze darkened slightly. "I'm not a kid, Scott."
"No. You're not. But a part of me will always look at you that way. Alan too. And I know you hate it, but I can't switch it off."
"Because you helped raise me." Gordon blinked as if he'd surprised even himself. "Right?" he added, quieter, more of a whisper. "That's why it's different with Alan and me?"
"Right," Scott replied softly. "Because of that."
Gordon set his knife down on the table. "Okay. I get that. I love you for that. But Scott, you're not actually my parent. It's not a one-way street. I look out for you too, whether you accept it or not. I mean, Al's a whole other story, I swear the kid calls you dad like five times a week, but you and I? We're brothers. Let me help."
Scott was hyperaware of Virgil's watchful gaze.
Let me help.
Well, shit.
"I don't remember what happened," he confessed in a rush, unable to look up from the scrawled notes on the table but uncomfortable under the weight of twin stares. "So I don't know what my own triggers will be. Just- don't let him touch me. And if he mentions Dad…"
"Dad's a no-go subject, gotcha." Gordon's tone did not match his words. He sounded vaguely like he was trying to coax a stray cat into accepting some food. "Anything else?"
"I…"
Scott yanked himself out of his own head before he could access those memories. He was shivering again – more likely trembling although he refused to admit it – and tugged his sleeves over his hands to hide the scars. He hated how much weight he'd dropped, but it had the one bonus of making most clothes oversized on him – it felt as if he could hide amongst the wool of his sweater.
"John will know if it's getting, uh, a lot," he said instead.
For once, they could put that hivemind link connecting them to good use. John had enough tact from years of dealing with the public and businessmen to know how to put an end to the meeting without making it obvious. Scott just hoped they'd get the information they needed before they reached that point.
Gordon exhaled through gritted teeth in a low whistle. "We've got this."
Scott couldn't find enough confidence to agree. He leant back in his chair to ground himself in the feeling of hard plastic against his spine, wrapping his arms around himself until his ribs protested. He couldn't stop shivering. The sweater was soft against tender scars, warm like a hug, and, if he closed his eyes and imagined, it brought a brief respite from the constant dread. He wanted to curl up somewhere safe and sunny and dream of home for a while.
"Hey, Gordon?" Virgil's voice was colder than usual. "I changed my mind. If the Hood tries anything… give him hell."
Gordon held Virgil's gaze for a long moment. "Copy that, Vee."
The Hood's wrists were secured in handcuffs. His eyes were no longer green, but one of them was blank and sightless where the cybernetic link had been damaged but not fully severed. His broken nose had healed badly and now cut a jagged line down his face. Scars coated his jaw like cracked ceramic. His high-tech arm had been replaced by a basic prosthetic. There was murder in his stare and a hint of desperation in his wild smile. He held his head high, cold gaze melting into something delighted when he saw Scott.
Scott had once rescued a pair of kids who had fallen down an old well. They'd been lucky – no injuries other than scrapes and bruises – but they had been petrified. It had taken him a good twenty minutes to calm them down sufficiently to be certain that they wouldn't cause themselves any injuries panicking on the way back up. They'd described that pit in the stomach, how the light had faded quickly but slowly all at once, anticipating hitting the water only to keep falling. He imagined that experience had felt a lot like this.
He was back there but trapped in the present moment at the same time. His mind couldn't pin down which instance was truly happening. Reality was a slippery fish escaping his grasp. He was both here and there. Now and then. He could feel panic in his veins, recalled lashing out clumsily because his body didn't seem to belong to him, but it still knew that he was in danger and why wasn't anyone coming for him?
There had been blood from his ruined palms everywhere, hot on his feverish skin. He'd tasted it when hands had clamped over his mouth to stifle his screams. He'd been backhanded so violently that his vision had momentarily whited out and he cracked his head against the floor. Fingers twisted in his hair, yanking painfully, a voice demanding that he just held still while a sharp sting ignited in his forearm. He thrashed like a drowning man to get away, no, no, please, no, while an angry voice filled the air in a thunderclap.
He couldn't fight back, couldn't even think, but then he couldn't breathe either. Blood trickled down his arm where he'd torn free of the needle. His own pulse was deafening, throbbing in his ears as he gasped for air, clawing at the hand constricting his throat but he was too weak from everything. Just give in, you agreed to this, you wanted to hurt, Tracy, you wanted to die, the voice snarled, while the bitterness of an unknown drug dissolved on his tongue and then he was floating and nothing mattered except now he was back in the present and he still couldn't breathe-
Scott, John shouted, and it was only when no one reacted that Scott realised he had heard him through the hivemind. He caught his brother's gaze, focussing on that familiar blue to keep himself from drifting. John gave him a reassuring nod. You're safe. I promise you, you're safe.
His chest ached. Scott tried to take a deep breath, but he couldn't get enough air in. He straightened up in his chair, digging his fingers into the fabric of his sweatpants until he felt the dull pain of a forming bruise in his legs. Virgil shifted his chair closer until they were pressed together, breathing as one. He caught Scott's hand and guided it away, holding on tightly. He was both an anchor and a life-raft and Scott clung onto him whilst fighting to maintain a poker face as the Hood stared.
Gordon broke the silence.
"Hey, Hood? I've got something for you."
He raised both middle fingers with a wide smirk.
The Hood made a strange, animalistic snarl deep in his throat and tried to lurch towards him. John tightened his grip on the man's shoulders and forced him into a chair with a final cold warning stare which promised an entire world of pain should he move again. The Hood settled his cuffed hands in his lap, shoulders fraught with agitation as he scowled at Gordon who offered a sunny smile and flipped him the bird again.
John shot Gordon a look.
Gordon stopped deliberately antagonising the Hood. He settled for rotating his blade in his hands so that the metal winked under the overhead spotlights, a constant reminder that he was armed and therefore remained a threat. The silence had to be grating on him, but he made no move to break it.
"So," the Hood noted dryly, gaze alighting on Scott, "You're still alive then." He eyed Virgil as he added, "And after all that fuss…"
Gordon's knife stopped turning. "Can I stab him yet?"
"Not yet," John replied, injecting a healthy dose of reluctance into his voice. He caught Ellis' eye and tilted his head in a silent signal to continue with the plan that they'd discussed earlier. She turned away and pretended to busy herself with holograms.
Scott wasn't the one in chains and yet he felt uncomfortably like the Hood was secretly in control. He reached for one of Ellis' pens to occupy his hands. The Hood's gaze was heavy, boring into his back. He glanced over his shoulder. The Hood had lowered his chin to cast his ruined face in shadows, but a gleam of yellow promised that he was still watching them.
"You're being uncharacteristically quiet," The Hood remarked. "What's wrong? Cat got your tongue? I seem to recall you being very chatty when we were last together. In fact, I had some trouble getting you to shut up. Don't you remember, Scott?"
Yeah, Scott remembered. He was trying desperately not to, but the memories were bubbling to the surface like a waterlogged drain, bringing all of the horror with them. Every second he spent in the Hood's presence tore another brick from the carefully constructed wall of repression. He didn't want to know what laid behind it. He already knew too much.
Don't you remember?
Which part? Shouting into the bloodied hands clamped over his mouth? His confused, feverish ramblings when past and present had blended together, hastily muted by a sodden bundle of cloth used as a makeshift gag? When his voice had been stripped by screams so that it hurt to even whisper? How at one point his entire being had seemed to consist solely of his own erratic heartbeat and he'd been so lost that he'd mistaken his hallucination of his father as reality but had been unable to call out to him because his throat was too raw?
John looked up sharply, registering a flare of panic which was not his own.
"I saved your life." Scott spoke before his brothers had chance to react. His voice was rough but steady. Plastic fractured as he clenched his hands around Ellis' pen. "The deal was to get you out of the city, then we'd go our separate ways. But I let you stay. I shared our supplies with you. I got you safely to your bunker."
He had never trusted the Hood, yet a hint of betrayal crept into his words regardless.
The Hood studied him with something akin to pity.
"You did. But you're a fool if you ever thought it changed anything. That's your problem – you believe everyone deserves a chance, deserves to be rescued. It's another Tracy weakness – seeing goodness in people even when they have proved themselves to be incapable of it. If you're trying to make me feel remorse, it won't work because I don't care. I got what I needed from you. I also got what I wanted from you."
Scott reeled back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
The pen splintered. His hands looked as if they were dripping in navy blood. A cold chill scuttled down his spine as the Hood simply smiled.
"You're the one in chains," Gordon snapped. "Don't think for a second that you've got any kind of power here."
The Hood's smile widened. "Haven't I?"
"Enough." John slammed the Hood into his chair, driving the air from his lungs. "You know why you're here. Stop talking, start working, or I'll change my recommendation from long-term imprisonment to fight ring bait."
"You're too much of a Tracy for that," the Hood spat between spluttered coughs.
John gripped the Hood's chin and yanked his head up until they were eye-to-eye.
"You know what else being a Tracy means? Protecting our own, by any means necessary. I've killed before. I'll do so again if that's what it takes. Now, if you value your life, go ahead and prove you can still be useful, because believe me, you have no idea what I'm capable of."
The Hood glared daggers. "I thought you wanted a discussion."
"I find a clear head helps with that sort of thing." John's grip tightened to dig his nails into the angry pink of still-healing scars. "Go on."
The Hood tore his chin free, charged with electric fury. The past few weeks had evidently taught him that John was not someone to be messed with as he inhaled deeply, unclenching his fists to focus. A thin line of tension set root in his jaw. There was a vein twitching in his temple. He blinked, revealing a glowing eye as the implant activated.
Scott lurched back in his seat instinctively. The idea of letting the Hood mess with his brainwaves seemed unthinkable now that it was a reality. God knew the man had already fucked with his head enough. It was only Virgil's hand on his wrist which kept him seated. It wasn't an untested method, he reminded himself. John had vouched for the success of the frequency – it just didn't last very long, hence why meds were still necessary.
He didn't notice a difference at first. The changes were subtle – his perpetual headache had lifted, and he could no longer sense an undercurrent of otherness. He felt more alert too, as if he were seeing the world in greater clarity. He rubbed his temples cautiously, hardly daring to believe it, but the frequency seemed to have worked. He could no longer feel the hivemind's pressure. He just hated that it was a miracle created by the Hood.
John stepped back. "Did you get it?"
Ellis nodded emphatically. "One frequency recorded from start to finish."
Her glasses gleamed as she whirled around to her hivemind data.
"Which is fascinating. The hivemind must have some level of physical communication in order to be disrupted by a frequency… neurochemicals, perhaps… a type which don't occur naturally in humankind… destabilised by specific vibrations so that messages cannot pass through… fast-acting regenerative properties enable it to establish communication again within a… How long does the effect last?"
"Sixty minutes," John reported, only partly listening to her. He turned back to the Hood. "Now I have your frequency, you've outlived your usefulness."
He swiped the knife from Gordon's hands and held it to the Hood's throat with steady hands. Each heartbeat brought vulnerable skin to the razor's edge.
"Unless, of course, you have more information to offer, in which case I might consider letting you live for a while longer."
The Hood made a furious growl like a rabid animal. "I never agreed to a recording."
"And my brother never consented to any of the shit you put him through, but you still went ahead with it."
"You're a bastard."
"So I've been told. Are you going to talk? Consider your answer carefully. I'm not in a merciful frame of mind. Here's a deal - you provide information and in return I won't end your miserable life right now."
The Hood craned his neck, but John pressed the knife closer until it bit flesh. There was twisted delight in his eyes as he watched the Hood swallow uneasily. A terse silence followed. It held the same tension as a courtroom before a verdict and John was both judge and jailer.
"Yes," the Hood muttered grudgingly.
John's icy smile held a hint of murder. "To quote you, it's been a pleasure doing business."
They took a break before the interrogation, which they were diplomatically referring to as a discussion.
Ellis set one of the holo-projectors to record the entire conversation just in case they forgot anything important or misheard something, referencing the statistical drawbacks of eyewitness testimonies when the Hood snarked at her. Gordon kept a close eye on him, expression forcibly neutral but sharpened by intent which promised that he would show no mercy. His knife had been returned to him. It was perfectly balanced across the back of his hand like a poised acrobat. The Hood's gaze was automatically drawn to it, serving as a constant reminder of the stakes – information in exchange for life.
Scott caught John's silent gesture towards the door. He left it a few seconds, then headed into one of the adjourning rooms, aware of Virgil following. Moments later, John joined them there.
It was a small, squarish space which had presumably once been a games room according to the consoles gathering dust in the corner. Plasterwork gaped where Ellis had torn sockets from the walls to access the wiring directly. It was one of many projects which she had begun but never finished, presumably whilst on a caffeine buzz and too restless to get her thoughts into working order.
He was falling back on old instincts, Scott recognised as he identified which objects could serve as weapons, the quickest way to reach the exit and so on. The paranoia was unsurprising given the memories which were resurfacing.
He yanked his sleeves over his hands and hooked his fingers through loops in the yarn. Having something physical to grip onto helped distract him from dangerous thoughts. Oddly enough, he missed the hivemind's presence. It had nested in his head for so long that he felt incomplete without it.
"So..." John knocked the door shut with his heel and leant against it. "That trick usually buys me an hour of silence. It might give you longer, maybe a little less, but an hour is the general guideline."
Virgil reached out cautiously, brushing a hand against Scott's shoulder. "How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a semi." Scott bit back a dark laugh. "But that's not down to the hivemind."
He inhaled deeply. The air was sharp and snappy with old chemical fumes from past experiments. There was distinct undertone of burnt toast. An empty energy drink shone in the glare of overhead LEDs. It was a collection of chaos, completely different to the Hood's quarters. For that, at least, he was grateful, but it didn't help him shake the memories.
John's frown was lined with worry. "He got in your head."
"Wasn't that the entire point?"
"You know what I mean."
Scott nudged the empty can aside with the toe of his shoe.
"I'm fine," he muttered.
"I felt your panic. You're not fine."
"If I say I'm fine, then I'm fucking fine, okay?"
John raised a brow. "Ah yes, because that was convincing."
Virgil glanced between them, worrying his hands as he deliberated whether or not to step in.
Scott resisted the urge to snap at John again. "I'm handling it."
"But?" John prompted, choosing to ignore Virgil's warning glance.
There was an old crate of something pushed up against the wall instead of a couch. Scott kicked it to establish the sturdiness, then sat down on it heavily. Foggy light-headedness was slowly returning and he couldn't tell whether it was just a side-effect of the frequency or his own mind trying to shut down again to protect him. He balled his hands into his fists on his knees and ducked his head, breathing deeply.
"I can remember now," he ground out, unable to look up. He couldn't bear to see the looks on their faces. Virgil would call it empathy and John would call it sympathy, but Scott would never be able to see it as anything other than pity.
The Hood had pitied him. He'd openly stated it. Scott could recall that now.
It had been one of those feverish moments when he'd fallen into delusions and the combination of heat, fear and chemicals had made him pliant. For a brief instance he'd been a scared child, reduced to panicky gasps as cold fingers clamped his wrists to drag his hands away from his face. His heartbeat was tripping over itself. The room tossed and turned like a ship at sea. Shadows grew mouths and stumbled freely into the light. He couldn't remember how to speak.
The Hood – then just a nameless, blurry shape – made some agitated snap, irritated by the idea of his victim dying before he was finished with him. He hauled Scott upright and marched him into the bathroom, only the fever had sapped all remaining strength from Scott's bones and his legs buckled to send him crashing onto the tiles. He probed his chin - his fingers came away wet with blood. He tried to clamber to his feet, but his body was shaky and treacherous, so all he could do was stammer apologies as the unknown figure physically dragged him under freezing water.
The cold was sharp. He dug his fingers into the grouting, scrabbling at wet tiles to get away. Pain ignited across his face. It took a moment to realise someone had slapped him. His vision wouldn't focus. He scrambled back on his heels and cracked his head against the wall. A frustrated shout echoed above the roaring shower. He flinched. The movement tugged at the soaked clothes which clung to his skin, seemingly suffocating. The room was spinning again. He put out a hand to steady himself but the wall wasn't where he thought it was. He jarred his bleeding chin as he collapsed onto the floor.
"How the mighty have fallen," a voice remarked, darkly amused, almost smug.
Danger, Scott's instincts whispered. He fumbled for something – anything – which could serve as a weapon. A hard-soled shoe slammed down on his wrist. He curled in on himself with a pained cry, all senses once again lost. Pain throbbed from his fingertips to his shoulder. He cradled his arm to his chest.
"Look at you now." The Hood's snide smile was countered by the disgust in his voice, "I think I might even pity you."
As much as each unlocked memory brought sickening terror, they also brought shame. Scott braced his elbows on his knees and tangled his hands in his hair. He closed his eyes as he heard Virgil step closer. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin again. Everything hurt on every level.
"Hey," Virgil called, voice brimming with calm reassurance. He tried to guide Scott's wrists down, but although his touch was gentle and nothing like the Hood's, Scott still flinched. Virgil let go as if he'd been burned. "Sorry."
"It's fine," Scott tried to say, sort of wheezing the words between gasps. He buried his face in his hands, identifying the raised line of new scar tissues on his chin with his thumb. It was worse now that he knew the origins. Goodbye mirrors, he thought hysterically. He peered between his fingers to spy the heartbreak in Virgil's eyes.
"You remember," John echoed quietly. He tipped his head back against the door with a dull thud. There was something faintly desperate in his eyes as he asked, "…Everything?"
Scott drew a ragged breath. "Not yet."
Momentary silence settled. Virgil – still crouched in front of him, gaze imploring as he silently begged Scott to confide in him – lifted his hands but made no move to actually close the space between them. He left it as a free choice. Scott stood up from the crate, caught Virgil's hands to haul him upright too, then pulled him into a fierce hug. He met John's gaze over Virgil's shoulder.
"He'll pay for this." Cold fury laced John's voice. "I'll make him pay for all of it."
Scott was struck into silence, unsure how to respond to that level of intensity. He'd heard it from John a few times before. One of the more recent occasions which sprang to mind was that conversation held in Two's cockpit, when John had confessed to masterminding the privateer satellite's fate. They were all protective of their family, but whereas Scott was the danger you saw coming, John was the death who lurked in the background.
Virgil reluctantly pulled away and held him at an arm's length. "You don't have to go back in there."
"Yeah, I do," Scott corrected. "If I don't, he'll think I can't face him."
John shifted his weight from one foot to the other uneasily as he asked, "Well… can you?"
Scott didn't directly answer. "I can't let him believe he's won. I don't want him to think he-"
-broke me.
"To think he what?" Virgil questioned.
Scott shook his head. "Nothing." He changed the topic. "We should head back. Time's running out and we can't let the hivemind overhear any of this."
It dawned on him as they filed out of the room – the reason why John had stayed by the door. He hadn't been keeping Scott from leaving but blocking anyone else from entering – ensuring the room felt safe and remained that way.
"Johnny," Scott called under his breath.
John's steps faltered. "What's wrong?"
"Thanks."
John inhaled sharply. "Don't thank me yet."
The Hood's chair sat empty upon their return. The man in question was on his feet, although still in handcuffs. He hovered by Ellis' side to peer over her shoulder at the carefully constructed timeline projected across the wall. His features were pinched with concentration, yet he managed to maintain that air of smug superiority as if he believed himself to be five steps ahead of everybody else in the room at any given moment.
Gordon hadn't moved from his seat, but he'd shoved aside papers to prop his sneakers on the table, tipped back in his chair as if daring the universe to give him yet another concussion. The knife was pinned in place by one hand, drumming his fingers against the blade thoughtfully. His gaze was fixed on the Hood, reading tiny hints from the man's body language. He glanced up as they entered and caught Virgil's eye, silently communicating something which flew over Scott's head but registered with his brother in an instant.
"What?" Scott whispered as Virgil caught his arm and yanked him back out of the room before the Hood had chance to notice them.
Virgil frowned at the closed door. "Just wait a second."
Gordon ducked out to join them under the guise of fetching more water. He must have left the knife with John – not that it mattered given the second one tucked into the side of his shoe. He didn't say anything at first, gaze falling heavily on his eldest brother.
Scott shoved his hands into his pockets, mentally cursing the residual shakes which had yet to dissipate. "I'm fine. What's the problem?"
Gordon hesitated a fraction longer but didn't call Scott out on the lie. He probably assumed Virgil had a handle on the entire brother-wrangling front.
"The Hood's trying to play us."
"Well, I could have told you that," Scott said flatly. "He tries to get in anyone's head. It's old news."
"It's not just that." Gordon propped himself against the wall, twisting his fingers together. Excess energy made him jittery. "I don't know. It's weird. There's something else going on with him, but I can't put my finger on what exactly. He's got some big secret and it's tied to the hivemind. Or the parasite, whatever, they're the same thing really. Point is, he knows more than he's letting on and I think he's gonna use that knowledge to screw us over."
Virgil's hand on Scott's shoulder tightened protectively. "In what way?"
"Not right now," Gordon elaborated. He scuffed his heels against the skirting board. "I dunno. Later? I get the feeling that he wants out of this place too. Kinda seems like he's holding back so he can manipulate us into taking him across the border. Also, he kept asking about Ellis' research into immunity and…"
He trailed off, ducking his head to guiltily examine the marks he'd left on previously clean paintwork. The unspoken words hung in the air like dust. Scott bit back a snappy demand for Gordon to just spit it out already.
"And?" Virgil prompted, sort of cautiously. Scott stole a surreptitious look sideways to glimpse the apprehension on his brother's face. "Gordon? What else?"
"Okay, I might be wrong. I'm probably wrong. It's just what I picked from his conversation with Ellis, so, uh…" Gordon reluctantly lifted his gaze from the floor. "That night in the fight ring when you saw the guy from the railyard? How exactly do we think he got infected? And apparently workers have been going missing…"
Virgil muttered something filthy as realisation dawned. "You think they got infected on purpose?"
"Human trials," Gordon confirmed, with another little sideways glance at Scott. "He's, uh, he's testing a vaccine. Unsuccessfully, apparently."
Scott drew a sharp breath. Oxygen tasted strangely bitter. He tried to rid his mind of glistening flesh and exposed bone. The roar of crowds faded in his ears. He discarded the memory, praying it wouldn't torment him again later. Human trials. Had they been volunteers? Or had they been manipulated, given no other choice? God, he'd indirectly caused that. The Hood's suppose vaccine was based off his blood. If he hadn't handed himself over, then the man wouldn't have had anything to test in the first place. He wanted to be sick.
"How is that even possible?" Virgil was asking. "He's been in lock-up for weeks. John made sure of it."
"John doesn't have the contacts," Gordon shot back. "Which means he can't have eyes and ears on every inch of this place. The Hood was here before us. He must have allies. He's probably been working with people on the inside as long as he's been in that cell. He might have been trialling the vaccine this entire time. It doesn't work for whatever reason, but the point is-"
"He's not actually a prisoner at all," Scott realised in a rush. He planted a hand against the wall as his vision swum. "Oh, fuck. You're right. He's playing us."
"Why?" Virgil sounded genuinely baffled. "If he could walk around as a free man, why voluntarily stay locked up? He's in handcuffs. I don't get it. Is it another manipulation strategy?"
Gordon shrugged. "Maybe he thinks he's safer locked up." He dragged his hands down his face to wipe away the ghost of a smile. "He's scared."
"Of us?" Scott asked doubtfully.
"Of John," Virgil guessed.
"Of the hivemind," Gordon corrected. "I think that's why he's helping us. He wants to escape too – this place is running of supplies and fast – but he can't do that while John's still under the hivemind influence. So, he'll help us break the connection and kick its ass because it benefits him too."
Reality was growing hazy again. Scott flattened himself against the wall as darkness drew curtains across the corners of his vision. He grasped a fistful of his sweater and felt his own heart pounding against his knuckles through the wool.
The Hood was free. He had been the entire time. He was a sophisticated predator who did not need to go hunting when he knew his prey would come to him. Because it had been predictable, hadn't it? Their paths were inherently intertwined from the dawn of existence. Any choice Scott ever made led back to him and always would until one of them was dead.
Fingers snapped in front of his face.
"Sorry." Gordon winced at Scott's flinch. A shadow of misplaced guilt crossed his face. "Trying to be gentle wasn't working."
It was only then Scott registered Virgil's hands on his biceps, trying to draw him back to the present. While he appreciated it, Gordon's strategy worked better because his brain was still hardwired to respond to sharpness over kindness. He eyed the closed door. Dread formed a pit in his stomach. He was never going to be safe so long as the Hood was alive. None of them would be.
I got what I wanted, the Hood had said and now Scott fought to stay afloat in the face of panic as he considered the implications of that statement.
Virgil went to lift his hands away. Scott caught them and held them in place before he'd even realised that he was moving. For a minute, they stood in silence. He met Virgil's searching look, aware of Gordon's wide, worried eyes as their younger brother watched them and tried not to fidget for fear of disturbing the moment.
"Who's he working with?" Scott wondered absently.
Virgil shrugged off the question. "Could be just about anyone." He faltered, recognising the look on Scott's face. "But… you have an idea, don't you?"
"Sort of." Scott relented. "Noah Warren fits the profile."
"Really?" Virgil frowned, recalling their past interactions with the man. "Doesn't the Hood usually try to control people? Warren doesn't seem like someone who'd readily take orders."
"Desperate people," Scott corrected quietly. He couldn't hold eye contact any longer. "It's, uh- He targets desperate people. They're easier to manipulate and half the time they don't even realise that's what he's doing."
He studied his untied laces, the scuff marks that Gordon had left on the wall, a loose strand dangling from the hem of his sweater – anything to avoid spying his brothers' expressions when the implications hit them, because it was an indirect confession and he hated it.
He cleared his throat.
"Warren's a dying man, so he's bound to have a degree of desperation about him. The timeframe matches too."
"And Warren introduced you to Ellis, who the Hood needs in order to fix the vaccine," Gordon realised in a rush.
Something shattered in Virgil's eyes. "Are you saying we can't trust Ellis?"
"I think she's an innocent party in all of this." Scott was relieved to spy the same confidence when he glanced over at Gordon. "She's being manipulated too, but she's not the main target. We're still the Hood's getaway plan and his top priority is his own survival. The vaccine is a nice-to-have in his books. He'd probably hold the whole damn world to ransom."
"What's left of it, anyway," Gordon muttered. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Right, let's get this shit wrapped up because I've got a killer headache coming on. Also, John's, like, crazy on edge, so we should probably get back in there before he snaps and we have to hide a body."
It was supposed to be a joke. Just a casual, throwaway line. But Scott glimpsed Virgil's tiny, almost imperceptive wince.
Gordon's eyes widened slightly. "Wait, is that an actual concern?"
"No," Virgil replied, a little too hastily for anyone's liking. His gaze shifted back to the door. "I mean, probably not. I don't know. A year ago it wouldn't even be a thought, but John's proved just how far he's willing to go to protect family and- Well." His voice grew small. "It's not just about protecting our own anymore. He's angry."
Gordon let out a dark chuckle. "That makes two of us."
"Three of us," Virgil added, "But it's different with John. Revenge doesn't solve anything and he knows that, but he won't let it stop him. He's done it before with the privateer satellite and he'll do it again with the Hood."
"He recovered the satellite," Gordon pointed out. "He didn't actually let it burn up."
Virgil looked distinctly uncomfortable. "It's different this time."
"Why?"
Gordon hadn't been there for the immediate aftermath of Scott's time with the Hood. Even his memories of his eldest brother's rescue were now hazy thanks to the head injury. He only had vague descriptions from Virgil and Scott's reluctant confessions to go off and they had both omitted most details. If he'd known what it had been like, he would never have needed to ask why John was unlikely to stop until the Hood was six feet under. He wanted revenge too, but his plans revolved more around pain than actual death.
John was past that point and had been for a while, ever since he'd held Scott through hyperventilation; since he'd practically had to beg him to eat something when his sugar levels had been dangerously low to begin with even before thirty-six hours of nothing; since long, painful hours of holding Scott's wrist to monitor his then-irregular heartbeat, still weak despite medical attention; since cradling Scott close and murmuring reassurances until he lost his voice while Scott begged him to stop, please, I want everything to stop, let me go, Johnny, please, I'm sorry, sorry, sorry, just let me d-
Scott looked to Virgil and was met with the chilling certainty that his brother knew damn well there was a chance that John would kill the Hood and he would let it happen, because yes, they'd faced losing one another before but never in that way. Virgil hadn't even been privy to the full aftermath of Scott's crash. He'd never had to consider losing him in such a way until it had nearly become a reality. But now a new understanding had been forged between Virgil and John and that was the reason why Virgil wouldn't stop him.
Revenge solved nothing, but justice had yet to prevail and likely never would within these walls, so John was going to take matters into his own hands. Once upon a time, Virgil would never have gone along with it, but the apocalypse had changed them all and, when it came down to the wire, Virgil's love for his family was stronger than his own morals. It was a realisation which Scott found just as shocking as Virgil did himself.
"If he goes ahead with it, he'll have to live with it," Scott said quietly. He didn't try to protest. There would be very little point. He wasn't the only one with that Tracy stubbornness. All he could do was warn against it because he'd been faced with taking another life more times than John ever had and it was an increasing burden which had tormented him ever since. He didn't want more death on his brother's conscience just to avenge him.
"I know," Virgil replied, voice already laden with heavy grief. "We both will. But it's not your concern." He caught Gordon's eye. "It's not yours either. Stay out of it. I mean it."
Gordon studied him for a long moment. "Don't get involved, Virgil. Please. There's no coming back from that. It's a one-way ticket. It'll change you. Believe me, it's a horrible feeling to look in the mirror and not recognise your reflection. Too much is different. We need you."
Virgil was a closed book. Whether it was a deliberate choice or the result of suffering so many emotions that they all condensed into one incomprehensible mess remained unclear.
"Whatever John does is his choice," Gordon continued softly. "But let me handle it with him. I've got enough shit on my conscience. Might as well add to it." He flapped a hand in Scott's direction. "I'm joking, Scooter, chill. But really. This isn't your role, Vee."
Virgil raised his brows. "What is my role, exactly?"
"Uh, you're the heart of us." Gordon gave a nonchalant shrug. "Duh."
Scott wrapped an arm around Virgil's shoulders and tugged him close. He didn't mention the way Virgil was shaking, nor how his brother sank against him.
"Sounds about right to me, Virg." He tightened his hold slightly. "Don't change. Not for anyone or anything. You're exactly who we need you to be. Fuck the Hood. He doesn't get to take anything else from us."
"Not even in death," Gordon chimed in cheerily, although he still wore that worried frown.
Virgil found his voice. "What now?"
Scott didn't have a plan. None of them did, not really. How could they when the Hood was always several steps ahead of them? So, he summoned a smile no matter how weak it seemed and replied simply,
"We'll figure it out together."
