Scott woke to the heavy-limbed, vaguely nauseous sensation indicative of broken sleep which hadn't lasted long enough. His head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. His senses were stubborn, remaining obstinately out of reach so that he had to consciously think about where he was and how he had come to be there. Was it possible to acquire a hangover simply by proximity? He hadn't had even a sip of alcohol yet hadn't felt this rough in weeks.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling until his vision cleared. His situational awareness was shot to hell and his thoughts were sluggish. It took several minutes to process his surroundings. He was sprawled on top of the duvet. His arm had gone numb where it was trapped beneath John. The room temperature seemed warmer than usual, dialled up so that the usual morning chill was lacking. Distant clamour proved that the others were already awake. Finch's bark echoed through the gap under the door, hastily hushed by Alan.

John was out for the count and showed no signs of stirring any time soon. He was still dressed in the clothes he'd borrowed from Medical. Sweat and liquor had dried into stiff creases so that the shirt sort of crunched when he rolled over to bury his head beneath a pillow. The only light source was in the corridor outside and it slowly spread across the carpet like a water leak – just as unwelcome and inconvenient.

Scott fumbled for the holoprojector. He yanked his arm free and the blood rushed back to his fingers with painful pins-and-needles. The glaring blue of holograms did nothing to improve his headache. It wasn't as late as he'd expected – only seven – but he still cursed himself for wasted time. He staggered into the shower in the hopes of feeling somewhat more human.

Cold water was invigorating but didn't ease the exhaustion. He felt drained as if the last few weeks of progress had been undone in a handful of hours. It wasn't a thought he could afford to dwell on.

He yanked a hoodie over his head and scrubbed a towel through his hair and nearly had a heart attack as he stepped out of the en-suite to discover Virgil sitting on the bed like some sort of sleep paralysis demon.

"Jeezus," he muttered, rubbing his knuckles over his heart. "How long have you been there?"

"Not long." Virgil had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry."

The apology was unnecessary, especially when he revealed that he'd brought aspirin and water with him. John's was left within reach for when he eventually woke up, but he'd melted onto the mattress in that boneless way only achievable through deep, dreamless sleep which suggested he wouldn't be awake for another hour at least.

Virgil sank back onto the bed while Scott hunted for a clean pair of jeans. "I've been thinking."

"That's dangerous," Scott joked, rifling through drawers. Teasing was instinctive and easier to fall back on than conscious thought which seemed a greater task than climbing Everest. He dug the knuckles of his left hand into his eye where the stabbing headache appeared to originate, continuing his search with the other.

Virgil chose to ignore that comment in an impressive show of patience honed throughout years of having Gordon as a co-pilot.

"Why go to Warren? Hira has access to the equipment we need."

"She has access, but not ownership."

"You know," Virgil ventured slowly, "Technically, we already have permission."

Scott tried to recall that meeting with Warren. It seemed a lifetime ago now and his memory was hazy, inconsistent, rooted mostly in inferences than in fact. He had a vague memory of Warren making some comment about medical care for John, a feeble attempt at appeasement that did very little to soothe wounded partnerships. It had been a fleeting remark, swiftly swept aside by grander occurrences, difficult to remember when immediately followed by crowds and creatures and a uniquely human brand of violence.

"It was an offer, not outright permission."

Virgil busied his hands with unfolding one of the spare blankets. "Same difference. And if Warren starts making trouble, we've got something we can offer him in return. He said his wife doesn't know about what he gets up to in the lower levels. Seems like he probably wants to keep it that way. So, we offer an exchange. He gives us medical equipment and we don't mention anything to Francesca."

Scott paused halfway through crawling into his jeans. "Sorry, what? You – you – want to blackmail Warren?"

"Only if he makes trouble," Virgil defended himself. "But I don't think he will. It's just an idea, anyway. We don't know what the Hood's got over him, so I'd rather avoid working with him if possible."

Scott repressed a shudder at that name. A memory was nosing around his subconscious mind, trying to pierce through the cotton behind his eyes, a sharp, pointed spike which threatened to fray the tentative stability he'd built up over the past couple of months. He cleared his throat, pretending not to notice Virgil's concerned frown.

"So, Hira?"

Virgil shook the blanket out to its full size and draped it over John, who was attempting to bury his head under a pillow, shoulders tightening at the sound of their voices no matter how quiet they attempted to remain. Even in sleep, that hangover was putting him through the wringer.

"Hira," Virgil agreed, hushed so as not to disturb John.

Scott found it easier like this. Serving the occasional teasing comment. Stepping into a business mindset to assess the best strategy. Establishing where to apply pressure and when to step back. Letting the pieces fall into place for a successful plan. Shrug on the façade as if were an old coat which wasn't comfortable but had become familiar enough to be worn like a second skin. Pretend to be okay. Repress. Deny.

And the worst part was that Virgil would let him. There were an innumerable number of reasons why. Scott could guess at any possibility and it would probably hold an element of truth; Virgil didn't want to risk triggering him, was unsure of where to tread in this dangerous territory, was a little scared of hearing the answers to difficult questions, wanted to trust Scott to know his own limits, wanted to believe that he was better and would ask for support when he needed it.

It would be so simple to go along with it. Ignore the memories clamouring at the back of his mind. Pretend not to notice the undercurrent of feeling. It was a constant churning current, dulled by medication so that it no longer threatened to pull him under the surface, but it was still there. He could spend the rest of his life dancing around the truth, but that would put others at risk because once those pills were gone and he was faced with killing humans-within-monsters again he was going to be a goddamned liability.

He'd lied. About a lot. About everything, maybe, to everyone. Even himself. Perhaps not to John. It was difficult to remember exactly how much he'd confided in his brother at this point. But he'd definitely glossed over some of the gory details. It was difficult to find the words, he told himself, but the excuse tasted bitter like lies and liquor. He'd spun a different story depending on who was asking because there were some people he never wanted to hear the truth.

He'd never tell Gordon, not everything, and he sure as hell wouldn't tell Alan, but Virgil? He would tell Virgil. He would tell him everything, just as he had once promised to. Not yet. But soon. Once they were beyond the Hood's clutches, free to breathe in the open sun and trade secrets like candy rather than weapons.

Virgil smoothed the blanket across John's back. There was such care in the action that it made Scott's chest hurt. He leant against the wall and closed his eyes briefly, trying not to think or feel anything. Just breathe. Get through one moment and then the next. Don't remember the past but don't imagine the future either. It was fine. It would be fine.

"Scott," Virgil prompted gently. There was a muted edge to his tone which suggested this wasn't the first time he'd called. The worry on his face proved that he was desperate to ask, to openly care, but knew that any such attempts would be rebuffed.

It wasn't the right time to talk. There was too much to get done. It wasn't safe to admit weakness yet. But pretending to be okay would be such an obvious lie that it would only generate more concern, so Scott relented.

"I feel hungover." A wondering note crept into his voice. "How does that make sense? John's the one who drank the bar dry. I didn't touch a drop. Yet somehow I feel worse than the mornings after some of my college nights."

"Emotional hangover," Virgil explained with a little half-shrug. "It's a real phenomenon."

There was a beat of silence.

"I feel okay," Scott assured him, deliberately opting for I feel as opposed to I am, which wasn't exactly truthful but wasn't an outright lie either and so eased his guilt somewhat.

Virgil looked decidedly uncomfortable.

Scott could practically see him wrestling with a question. "What is it?"

"Do you feel okay? Or do you just not feel bad?"

"I feel numb to this entire fucking mess, if that's what you're asking." He shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from fidgeting. "I can't afford to think about it. I can't deal with it right now. This place is suffocating. Let's do what we have to and get out of here. Then we'll talk." He hesitated, before adding softly, "Really, Virg. We'll talk. You can ask anything and I'll answer honestly this time. No more secrets, I swear."

Virgil held his gaze for a long moment. "Let's get this done. One more hurdle, then we're out of here."

"Exactly."

"I'm holding you to that promise."

"Good. I need you to. Don't let me avoid that conversation again."

"Oh, believe me," Virgil promised, "I won't." He pushed himself off the bed. "You need to eat something. Oh, and Alan's got hold of tunnel maps from somewhere. You might want to take a look."


The dining room table was covered in maps – genuine paper copies with curled corners and creases carving misleading roads and rivers across states. The ink was faded on one side where it had been folded into a tiny square and stuffed away in a hidden box behind a row of tall hardbacks on a bookshelf in a storage locker, but the interior was as vibrant as the day it had been printed. It was pinned in place by an empty jug and the paper buckled as it tried to tear itself free and spring back into its memorised folded square.

There were pens everywhere. Most were missing their caps. A series of pencil lines marked complicated routes. State maps had been left untouched, but a detailed map of Duluth was in pride of place, currently clamped under Alan's elbow so that the harbourfront was partially obscured. A holoprojector displayed wind directions and average current patterns. Alan was in the process of copying this data onto the city map, chewing on the end of a pencil absently. He glanced up at Scott's approach but didn't pause in his work.

Scott tugged at a corner of the state map. "Where did you get these?"

It was a fairly redundant question. He could already guess the answer – yet another illegal win. Or perhaps Alan had simply listened, located the appropriate room, then picked the lock – a newly acquired skill. Either way, he was drawing even more attention to himself and that made Scott nervous. They were already on the bunker's radar as possible troublemakers.

It didn't matter that he'd provided information on the GDF bunker; that John had improved radio signals and defences; that Gordon and Marisa had spoken at length about bandit activity in the south; that Virgil had fixed up the generators to improve their efficiency. Bunker residents hadn't liked them to begin with. Morals didn't belong in a place like this and so their presence put everyone on edge.

Now, examining the maps over Alan's shoulder, Scott spotted a new problem.

"That's miles away from the harbour."

Alan grimaced as the pencil splintered between his teeth.

"Uh, yeah." He wiped graphite from his mouth with the back of his hand. "Where did you think the tunnels came out then?"

"Near Canal Park." Scott stared at the red cross Alan had marked on the map as if it might magically shift itself closer to Harbour Basin. "Shit. That puts us near the I-35. Interstates are basically rotter hotspots in their own right."

"Uh huh," Alan mumbled distractedly, casting a dark shadow across the map as he leant forward to examine another marking. "Hey, I have a question. What's the date?"

Scott had lost count again. Everyone seemed to have a different answer, so there was little point in asking.

"Late June, I think. Final week? I'm not sure. Why?"

Alan picked up a new pencil. "No reason. It's probably nothing."

Probably nothing normally translated to definitely something, but Scott didn't have the time nor the energy to pick apart Alan's cryptic comments. Not today. He temporarily shelved the problem of where the tunnels emerged and headed for the kitchen, sparing a moment to send Hira a message to request a meeting ASAP.

The cupboards were miserably bare. Supplies were running low, but not this low. Someone had ordered for their allowance to be cut. He massaged his temples, silently wishing he could sink through the fibres of the universe to a simpler world where he didn't have to worry about anything.

"Heads up," Gordon announced, tossing a granola bar at him. "You just missed a call from Hira. She seemed… off."

Scott examined the packet in his hands without truly seeing it. He ran his thumb along the seam of the plastic. The ink had bled at some point so that the ingredients list was now unreadable. Anxiety bubbled in his veins, hot and urgent with agitation. Unease slithered down his spine.

He twisted to spy the empty holoprojector sitting innocently on the table. He was reminded of a fly snared in a web, struggling to free itself, sensing the spider approaching but unable to see it. Every instinct whispered of threats. Nothing added up. Two plus two suddenly equalled five. It was like trying to navigate a maze whilst blindfolded.

"Scott." Gordon's voice was sharp, cutting through the spiral. "Breathe, bro."

Scott ignored the flash of worry in Gordon's eyes. "Hira seemed off? In what way?"

It took a moment to realise that this was a bad day. Gordon cracked his knuckles, pretending to think whilst actually trying to patch together the few words he'd been able to hear. Scott took a bite of the granola bar and switched to signing without having to be asked.

Gordon shrugged. "Dunno. She just seemed on edge. Kinda like she was reading off a script with a gun to her head, you know? Or maybe I've just watched too many low-budget action movies."

Scott demolished the rest of the granola bar and considered the pros and cons of crawling into bed, hauling the duvet over his head, and staying there for the foreseeable future. He wanted to go back to sleep already and he'd only been up for an hour. The tension headache constricting his temples in a vice wasn't helping matters either.

But now he was thinking about Hira and how close she was with the Warrens and hey, wasn't it weird how every person in the bunker seemed to have some sort of connection to the Hood? And why did the tunnel maps not match the original copy he had seen during that meeting?

Also, he couldn't stop considering the side effects of even a single session of radiotherapy. Not to mention that the Hood was still alive. Neither Gordon nor John had clarified exactly what condition the man was now in, but he had the survival capability of a damned cockroach and so would undoubtedly be making trouble again within, like, a week.

One problem at a time, Scott reminded himself, crumpling the empty granola packet into a tiny ball until the plastic creases grew sharp inside his fist. He eyed that innocuous holoprojector again, convinced that it was watching him, then shifted his attention back to Gordon.

"How bad is it?"

Gordon gave another of those deliberately loose shrugs which probably would have worked well on Marisa or Jasmin or literally anyone who hadn't known him for his entire life. Scott knew better, knew to read the tension in his brother's jaw and the carefully trod line between overcompensating for his muted hearing and speaking so loudly that his headache developed into migraine territory.

In other words, pretty dang bad. Not as terrible as some days, but certainly painful and distressing and a general blow to morale that they could all do without. Scott sort of wanted to just sit on the couch and watch crappy movies with his brother all day. It kinda seemed like they could both do with the break and a chance to switch off their minds.

"Avoid Medical," Gordon said at last.

"Why?"

"I called security to get the Hood stitched up last night. He's still holding back something. If it's important enough to keep secret even when John was tempted to kill him, then it seems like it's something we should know, so I let them keep him alive. He might still be under observation, I dunno, so steer clear just in case. Hira can meet you elsewhere. I'd come with, but…" He gestured vaguely to his head. "I've got a whole light show going on right now. It's like my own personal firework display. Yay."

"Gordon…"

"I'll take some Oxy. It's chill. Might even clear up by tonight."

"That's not-"

"Let it go."

There was a warning edge in Gordon's voice. A hint of a challenge too. He wasn't pushing Scott to talk and wanted the favour returned. There was an unspoken understanding that they were both testing their limits and would pay for it later, but this wasn't the time nor place.

Gordon's gaze slid to the projector. He tilted his head ever-so-slightly, just enough to confirm Scott's suspicions that their comms had been bugged. By whom and why?

"Be careful," Gordon signed, grim with suspicion. "Don't trust anyone."


Virgil came with him to meet Hira. She sent them directions to a tiny restaurant tucked away on the penultimate highest level of the bunker.

It consisted of three rooms knocked into one slightly larger space furnished with marble tiles and fake columns. The walls were covered by projections of sunlit scenery with a fountain and fancy ferns at the restaurant's heart. The water reflected strange patterns like a fractured rainbow across a raised ceiling. Everything smelt of rich, indecipherable incense and faint music pumped through discretely placed speakers.

Hira had snagged a corner table between a large potted plant and another fake window displaying a wildflowers in Yellowstone national park. It was close enough to one of the speakers to keep their conversation secret from prying ears but sufficiently distant from the music so that they could hear one another without having to raise their voices. It spoke measures that Hira knew to make such a choice despite neither Scott nor Virgil warning her beforehand that they were under surveillance.

Their resident ID cards declined. Scott drew a sharp breath. A dull ache in his jaw made him realise that he was grinding his teeth. Hira offered to order entirely on her own card, but the waiter took a second glance at Virgil's ID and paused.

"Are you Alan's brothers?"

Virgil's gaze flickered to Scott momentarily. "Yes."

"Oh. Well. Forget it then. It's okay. I'll put your orders through and say there was a supply miscount if anyone questions the numbers."

The waiter couldn't have been much older than Gordon, still fresh-faced with hope despite the exhaustion which stained his eyes and hollowed his cheeks. He clutched his notepad like a lifeline, but his fingers trembled as he suddenly remembered Hira's presence and tried to gauge whether she was a friend or foe.

He had a pianist's hands, Scott thought absently, struck by a wave of anger that the kid had no room in his life for anything other than work, that hobbies were a lost relic, that all his shiny hope would soon rust away to nothing.

"Can I ask why?" Virgil queried, voice lowered so as not to draw attention. There was enough warmth in his voice to make the waiter relax. "Are you friends with Alan?"

"Yeah," the waiter replied hesitantly. "But also… Alan's been helping all the staff. Like, a lot. With a bunch of stuff. And he stuck up for us. No one's done that since the doors closed. It gave us a bit of hope, I guess, that there are still kind people in the world, you know? We've tried to help him too, share our rations with him since your cards got shut off."

Scott sat up straighter. "That's not a recent development?"

"Scott," Virgil murmured, knocking his ankle against Scott's in warning. Scott checked his tone and mentally cursed himself when he realised he'd spoken more curtly than intended.

The waiter rocked awkwardly on his heels. "Uh, no? Happened 'bout two weeks ago. I assumed you knew."

"So, all our rations…?" Scott realised aloud.

"Alan helped us, we helped him in return. It's the least we could do."

Virgil stared down at his menu for a long minute. There was something desolate swimming in his eyes before he blinked the emotion away and looked up with a reassuring smile.

"What's your name?"

"Benjamin, sir." The waiter cleared his throat. "But everyone just calls me Ben."

"Ben." Virgil injected so much genuine gratitude into his voice that it was almost unbearable to hear. He held Ben's gaze so that the boy could read the honesty in his eyes. "Thank you. Really. It means more to us than you realise."

"Oh." Ben ducked his head sheepishly. "You're welcome?" He coughed. "So, um, did you want anything else or should I put those orders in?"

Scott lightly kicked Virgil beneath the table when it seemed like his brother was on the verge of tears or maybe just tempted to drag the poor guy into a bear hug.

"That's everything, thanks," Hira cut in with a smile.

They waited until Ben had vanished behind the swinging door to the kitchen. Scott turned to Virgil to be met with astonishment to mirror his own.

"Two weeks ago – that's when I took Warren and Gerry for the fly-by."

"So, what? They wanted us to leave? Why then?" Virgil leant back in his chair. A ghost of pain flitted across his face. He was nursing a headache of his own. "I don't get it. We're still missing something."

Hira knitted her hands together, so tense that her knuckles audibly cracked. She kept her head bowed, voice lowered to a whisper.

"Noah is just a figurehead. Belah Gaat is pulling his strings. When you came along – everyone else heard the name Tracy and thought money. But it wasn't about finances for Gaat. He's smart enough to realise that the old world is dead. Money isn't worth anything anymore. Probably won't be ever again. But he's told people what they want to hear, fuelled their fantasies and so on. He's strategic to a sociopathic level. He has a strange vendetta against your family. When you arrived, he started losing control. Acting erratically.

You're a problem because you have potential. This way of life has never been sustainable and so it's always been at risk. It wouldn't take much to flip it on its head and if anyone was going to take that step, it would be you. Gaat tried to split you apart, use each of you to his own advantage, but it obviously didn't work, so he started trying to get rid of you. Noah's been in on it from the start. These people are manipulating you but you're in so deep that you can't distinguish the truth from the lies anymore."

Scott gripped the edge of the table and leaned closer. "What are you saying?"

"Your plans aren't your own."

Hira finally looked up, eyes wide with urgency.

"Ever heard of subliminal messaging? It's a similar theory. Gaat manipulates everyone and everything. The second you stepped foot in this bunker you became one of his puppets. Everything is confusing, isn't it? Nothing adds up. Every theory hits a dead end. Because of him. You think you have free will, that your decisions are secret, but they're not. They're the result of Gaat's schemes.

He didn't account for every outcome. You took him by surprise. Alan took him by surprise. Given what I've learnt of yesterday afternoon, John also went further than anticipated. But you're still treading the path he wants you to take. You don't have all the puzzle pieces because none of us do. The only person who knows the full picture is Gaat himself."

Virgil was struck into silence.

Scott studied the rolling clouds above the Yellowstone landscape. Fake, like everything else. He'd suspected for a while that he couldn't trust his own mind – certainly not his memories, anyway – but he'd never expected to be proven right.

He caught Hira's gaze. "Do you know why we asked you here?"

"I can make a fairly accurate guess."

"Would it work? Or is it another trick?"

Hira hesitated. "Theoretically, it should work. My concern is with your physical state. John's, too. I'm not prepared to help unless you both agree to preliminary tests."

"They will," Virgil confirmed, shooting Scott a stern glance which was unnecessary because why would he argue on that point? "Both of them."

"Theoretically?" Scott questioned.

Hira worried her lower lip. "I mean, there are risks with every procedure. Radiotherapy has side effects. Medical advancements have made it safer, but neither you nor John are in good physical condition."

"Thanks," Scott deadpanned.

"My main concern is the hivemind itself. You'll both have to go under while we treat you. Deep under. If something goes wrong- Scott, we have no way to pull you out. We don't know how the hivemind works, not really. We don't know what it'll show you. It might convince you that wherever you are is real and out here is the dream. That might even be what Gaat's counting on. It's dangerous and I want you to be aware of that before you agree to anything."

Scott couldn't look at Virgil – knew they were both thinking back to that conversation, 'it wants to trap me in the hivemind' - as he pointed out quietly, "Hira, what other choice do we have?"

Hira took a sip of her drink to avoid answering. It was some fruity thing, carbonated, little bubbles rising to the surface to collect around the rim, pink like her nail varnish. It was the same shade as one of Penelope's dresses and Scott longed to put his head down on the cool table and let the grief wash over him. Instead, he sat and watched the drink fizz without comment.

"You could come with us," Virgil offered. "After, I mean. When we leave… You don't have to stay."

Hira placed a hand on his wrist.

"Oh, Virgil." Her smile was sad. "I wish I could. But the truth is that no matter how terrible it gets, I'd still rather live here than face the world out there."


Tests ran over a few days, pushing them beyond their original planned leaving date. Scott mentally stepped back and let autopilot take over. Numbness was developing into a keen sense of desolate exhaustion which he knew to be dangerous. As soon as the results came back, he crashed on the couch and drifted in and out of sleep for the next four hours.

It was late evening when Marisa knocked on the doorframe.

Scott hadn't bothered to go to bed. He had a holoprojector in his lap, scrolling through the possible side-effects for systematic radiotherapy treatment, which was the worst idea he'd had in a while as he'd successfully freaked himself out. If he pressed his knuckles to the underside of his jaw, he could feel his pulse fluttering with nerves.

"Can I join you?"

Scott kicked a blanket out of the way to make room. "Sure. But I'm not great company tonight, I'll warn you in advance."

Marisa brushed a hand across his shoulder. "I'm not looking for company, so that doesn't bother me."

The only light shone from the projector; that sci-fi shade of blue which sapped the colour from everything to leave them in a monochrome room as if they had stepped into an old photograph. It bore into his eyes until he saw ink blots every time he blinked. Words swam in front of him, terrifying phrases and photographs which should have stayed in a medical student's textbook. He tossed the projector onto the coffee table and exhaled slowly, imagining the knot of fear in his chest unravelling with each breath.

Marisa switched on a lamp. It illuminated every sign of life and love that they had introduced to this place; scuff marks on skirting boards from discarded sneakers; coffee rings on the table; pawprints on the carpet; blankets which seemed to materialise from nowhere; Alan's sketches and Theo's comic strips mixed into one lopsided stack; John's glasses left on a dogeared paperback and so on and on because this place would never be home, but they had made it theirs regardless.

Scott couldn't wait to leave.

He'd entertained the thought once before, back in the GDF bunker – humans were never meant to live a life under artificial lights. He considered it again now.

He'd never let himself be trapped below ground again. Hira would rather be safe in the darkness, but he would readily accept a shorter lifespan if it meant he got to live freely under an open sky for however long he had left. So, no matter what, he was getting out of here. He had to see the sun again. Taste rain on the air. Hear the wind whisper in tree canopies.

He just wished it was all a guarantee rather than a hope.

"Virgil mentioned that your tests came back green."

Marisa spoke as if referring to the weather – something mundane, perfectly innocuous – but her gentle touch to his elbow betrayed her concern. When Scott glanced across, her eyes were wide with genuine compassion, face warmed by a hint of a smile. She held his gaze, searching for something in his expression, but he couldn't be sure what.

"How do you feel?" she asked.

Scott eyed the projector. "In general, or about tomorrow?"

"Both, I suppose." Marisa drew her feet onto the couch, settling against his side to prop her head on his shoulder. "I know we don't really talk. Not about ourselves, anyway. But we're friends and I hope you know that I'm here for you, whatever you need. It might be easier talking to me than your brothers. Less pressure. You don't need to worry about upsetting me. So, if you need an ear, then I'll be here."

His voice seemed choked. He tried to keep it steady. "Thank you."

Marisa looped her arm through his. "Anytime."

Scott tipped his head back against the cushions. The ceiling had been pristine when they'd first arrived but now it was pockmarked from the time Jasmin and Gordon had tried to teach Alan and Theo how to shoot using rubber practice arrows. There had been some fleeting moments of happiness here, he mused. It was just that all the bad outweighed the good.

"Mari?" She squeezed his arm, and he took that as a sign to continue. "Can I ask a favour?"

"Oh, I don't know. Can you?"

"You're far too much like John sometimes."

"John's a genius, so I'll take that as a compliment." Marisa dropped the teasing tone. "Go on. What's this favour?"

"If tomorrow doesn't go according to plan… You need to take charge. Get them out of here. Take them to the GDF safe zone. You have to be the one to step up because Virgil will be a mess."

Marisa was silent. Scott didn't say anything for a moment. He was experiencing a strange, disconnected sense of déjà vu.

Kayo, he realised with a jolt. He'd had a similar conversation with her before he'd left for Jerusalem. In a strange sort of way, it made sense to be having it again with Marisa, because she reminded him of Kayo. He hoped they got the chance to meet one day. Kayo would love Marisa. They'd get along like a house on fire.

"It's a big ask," he admitted. "I'm sorry to put it on you."

"Don't be. I understand. And the answer is yes, of course I'll do it." Marisa's gaze was electric with an intensity that Scott nearly shied away from. She gripped his arm tightly. "But you'll be fine. Do you hear me, Tracy? You'll be fine. Both of you will. We haven't come this far to lose now."

"We should never have come here."

"No," Marisa agreed, "But what's done is done. We can't change our pasts, only our futures. Don't worry about your brothers, I'll look after them if the worst happens, but fight to come back to us anyway. That's the one favour I'm asking in return, okay?"

She slid off the couch and rose to her feet. Golden light softened her features, sweeping away sharp edges induced by the apocalypse to return the hopefulness she'd worn pre-Z-Day.

"You should get some sleep."

"Soon," Scott conceded, unwilling to give tomorrow the chance to arrive any faster. "Really, I mean it. I won't stay up much longer."

"Hmm. You'd better not." Marisa stepped closer to cup his face. She brushed a thumb across his cheek, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "If I don't see you in the morning – good luck."

Scott inhaled sharply.

"Goodnight, Mari," he whispered.

She withdrew her hand with a sad smile. "Goodnight, Scott."


If the past week had slipped by in a daze, then reality suddenly came crashing down. The fogginess evaporated. Everything was as clear as crystal water. Scott almost wished the numbness would return, because being himself was not fun.

He couldn't shake the dread, that instinctual feeling that something was going to go wrong. He also kept recalling how the hivemind had tried to drag him into its heart, stealing his memories for its own gain, twisting perception so that his senses became unreliable. And quite aside from all that, he didn't relish the idea of actively exposing his body to radiation, which seemed ironic given how many times he'd ignored his Geiger counter ticking into the red over the years.

If John was nervous, he didn't show it. He didn't say much of anything. He answered Hira's questions robotically, running through checklists without even a hint of emotion. It was more concerning than if he'd been openly afraid. He put on a good show when saying goodbye to Alan and Gordon, but there was an underlying edge to his voice and Scott couldn't help but worry.

"It's not too late to back out," Virgil said quietly, muted further by his visor. It was weird seeing him in radiation overalls whilst Scott himself was in plain old sweats and a black t-shirt. "Just say the word."

"Name a single better option," Scott pointed out. "Hell, not even a better one. Just any other choice. Because from where I'm sitting, this is our only way forward."

Virgil's worried frown made a reappearance, looking at something over Scott's shoulder. Scott twisted to spy John talking with Hira, voices hushed so that their words didn't carry.

"Did he ever tell you what it was like? When he was alone with the infected?"

Scott shook his head. "Not a word."

"He didn't say anything to me either." Virgil crossed his arms with a rustle of plastic. "But whatever he saw, it terrifies him. That's why he's trying to repress all emotions right now. He's walking back into his worst nightmare."

Scott briefly imagined returning to that place. He dug his fingers into the sides of his chair. Nausea reared its head. He swallowed.

"Well, he won't be going alone. I'll find him."

Virgil studied his face for a moment. "Don't go too deep. Make sure you can find your way back again. I mean it. No self-sacrificial bullshit."

"Yessir."

"Scott."

"Not funny?"

"This is one of the only places I can't follow you. If our roles were reversed, how would you feel right now?" Virgil didn't give him a chance to reply. "Just… be careful. Please."

"I will." Scott could read the disbelief in Virgil's eyes. "Hey, I'm serious. I can't make any guarantees, but I'll try my best, okay?"

"Okay." Virgil took a deep breath. "Okay," he repeated in a ghost of his usual voice. He sounded a little choked.

Scott reached for his arm and tugged him closer until they could lean their foreheads together, just breathing, letting the moment unravel around them. There was an unbearable sense of finality about it that made Scott want to hold on tightly for as long as possible.

"I'll be right here," Virgil whispered, partway between desperation and urgency. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll be by your side the entire time, even if you can't see or hear me."

Scott hesitated, painfully aware that his voice was close to shattering. "Virg…"

"I know."

Because of course he did. They'd never really needed words to understand one another.

The room was a sterilized, squarish thing. There was no colour. Everything was in grayscale from white walls, tiles and ceiling to the black chairs which looked like they'd been stolen from a dentist's office. Equipment was laid out on a chrome table. Scott's first thought was of a futuristic jail cell or perhaps a mad scientist's testing room, which didn't bode well for his prospects given he was the lab rat in question.

Ellis and Hira encouraged them both to take a seat. Scott kept his eyes on Virgil, partly to reassure himself but also because this was the last time he'd see anyone other than John for the next couple of days. They were giving themselves a precautionary forty-eight hours post-treatment to ensure they were no longer radioactive before returning to their family.

Hira and Ellis dealt with John, but Scott refused to let anyone near him with a needle except for Virgil. It was ridiculous. He was being paranoid for no reason. He trusted Ellis. He mostly trusted Hira too. And yet. He tipped his head back against the padded chair and fixed his gaze on the ceiling, trying not to shudder at the electric jolt of pain as the needle slipped under his skin.

Virgil's hand landed on his shoulder. "Okay?"

"Okay," Scott agreed somewhat breathlessly. He reached for Virgil's hand on impulse, unable to vocalise the sudden rush of terror which took him by surprise.

Virgil held on fiercely. "I'm right here, remember?"

I know, Scott thought, unable to speak without falling apart.

For the first time, John allowed fear to creep into his voice. He caught Scott's gaze.

"Ready?"

Scott shoved every other thought out of his head and steeled himself against the fear.

"Ready."


Giving into the hivemind was like slipping underwater. Everything was cool and dark. It was a case of letting go and not fighting as he sank.

The deeper he fell, the colder it got. He sought out that heavy pressure at the back of his mind and allowed it to consume him. Physical sensations drifted away. Senses grew muted.

It was like falling asleep, only he was consciously aware of it. He was reminded of the first time he'd ever leapt from a diving board; how the water had engulfed him, how the sudden cold had stolen his breath, how for a moment it had felt like he'd never resurface.

Usually, he jolted awake within the hivemind. He was never aware of this part. But this time, he kept sinking. Deeper and deeper. No concept of time nor space. He was lost in the void. Fear sparked like lightning, coursing outwards from his heart, an electric shock which ignited his memory. He had to find John.

The issue was that he didn't know how. It had always been a subconscious effort. He closed his eyes against infinite darkness and reached for that otherness, a creeping terror which didn't belong to him. He searched for that connection, a thread pulled taut between them, tested by time but still holding strong.

John was nearby, just out of reach, so close that Scott wanted to scream. But the moment slipped through his fingertips and the hivemind seemed to twist, dragging them apart, urging him to stop fighting.

Scott!

He was in the centre of a tornado. Reality was spinning, swirling, sending everything out of control.

Where are you? I can't find you. Shit, shit, Scott, you've gotta-

Scotty!

Except that last one wasn't John's voice.

Scotty, wake up.

His senses returned to him all at once. He became aware of the world around him. He was on his back on soft grass, freshly cut so that it felt like bristles beneath his fingertips. Sunlight played across his closed eyes.

He blinked in the bright light until his vision cleared to reveal blue skies studded with scraps of white cotton and a canopy of young leaves, swaying gently in a warm breeze. He could smell pollen in the air, sticky in his hair and on his hands.

He distrusted this new scene. Where the hell was he? This couldn't be the hivemind. The hivemind was darkness and ice and terror.

He was in boardshorts and an unbuttoned blue shirt which fell to his sides as he sat up. He'd regained a warm tan and muscle mass. He ran a hand across his stomach, up his ribs, over his shoulder where the skin was supposed to be puckered from rotter bites. Confusion mounted as he discovered smooth skin.

No scars. His history had been erased. But as he reached for the memories they flitted away, giving way to entirely different collection of moments. He shook his head as if he could knock the pieces back into place. He knew that he'd been somewhere else. Somewhere painful. Purpose nestled in his heart, a vulnerable, restless thing which remained anonymous.

But when he thought back, all he could recall was being here. Home. In the sunlight. Why was he searching for scars again? He'd never suffered an injury bad enough to cause himself permanent damage, save for that time when he'd accidentally sliced open his leg on a rusty bicycle spoke.

His head was spinning. Maybe he'd spent too long in the sun. He could already feel his skin turning tender, reddened and hot to touch when he laid a hand on his chest. He tanned more than he burned but he still had limits.

"Scotty," a young, insistent voice called again. A blond head peered down at him, all wide blue eyes and tousled hair which curled upwards at the back like a duck's tail. The August heat had encouraged a generous helping of freckles to the surface as if the kid had run rampart in the fields again and been splattered with dust for his troubles.

Scott stared at him. The sight in front of him didn't match the image in his head.

"Alan, you're… little."

"I'm not," Alan protested hotly, features twisting into a frown. "I'm nearly as tall as Gordon and he's already in high school." He repressed a sneeze as pollen drifted into his face. "Anyway, what's that gotta do with anything?"

"I… don't know."

Scott blinked. For some reason, he'd momentarily expected Alan to be older, maybe late teens, a real spitfire but effortlessly kind with it. Which was ridiculous, because Alan was his baby brother, only ten and still short enough for Scott to prop his elbow on the kid's head when they were both standing. Alan had brought home a paper mâché volcano from school only a few weeks ago for God's sake – he was very much still a child. So, where he had gotten this idea about how a teenage Alan would be?

Scott rubbed his temples. Definitely too much sun.

Alan took a step closer. He was barefoot and the longer grass under the tree tickled his ankles. He shook his feet to rid them of ants.

"Scotty?" Uncertainty crept into his voice. He twisted his hands together. "Are you okay? Because you're acting weird."

Scott threaded his fingers through his hair. Everything was perfectly vivid and yet he couldn't shake the sense that it was unreal, or perhaps that he didn't actually exist, or that he had somehow come unplugged from the world and didn't know how to reconnect himself.

He'd never felt like this before. He wanted to bury his hands in the ground and crush the leaves in his fists until sap ran down his wrists, to run so far that his chest hurt; anything to prove to himself that this was real. It was a disconcerting feeling.

"Sorry." He summoned a reassuring smile. "I'm okay, Al. Just had a strange dream, that's all."

He pushed himself upright, ruffling Alan's hair. Alan tilted his head, squinting slightly in the sun. His skin was already flushed pink with sunburn, so Scott caught his hand and tugged him into a walk, heading back up the slope towards the house.

"What was your dream about?" Alan queried, swinging their joined hands back-and-fro. There were grass stains on the back of his shirt. He had ink on his chin and Scott was struck by a strange sense of déjà vu as he licked his thumb and wiped it away, ignoring Alan's indignant squawk.

"You know, I actually can't remember."

Alan blew a raspberry. "Boring."

"Oh, I'm sorry? What was that? Did you just call me boring?"

Alan's eyes gleamed with mischief. He picked up the pace, sensing that he had entered dangerous territory and hoping to place himself within range of rescue before pushing any further. His impish smile revealed the gap where he'd lost another tooth.

Scott inhaled sharply as a vague memory stirred of another lifetime, of a much younger Alan bounding into his room to reveal a baby molar clutched in his fist. God. That must have been some dream he'd had.

"Maybe," Alan sing-songed, dropping Scott's hand to dart out of reach with a loud laugh. Scott let him scurry on ahead for a couple of moments before sweeping him off his feet and dangling him over his shoulder in a fireman's lift. Alan wriggled to free himself without any real effort, grinning like a madman. His laughter echoed around the garden.

"Put him down, Scooter," Grandma called from her deckchair, set underneath a purple parasol on the patio. "You'll make all the blood rush to his head like that."

Scott set Alan the right way up again. The kid bounded off gleefully, drawn to the smell of fresh food like a wasp to sugar. Grandma watched him go with a bemused smile. She seemed younger, face worn by age but not by worry. She beckoned Scott closer as she reached for her glass of iced tea, patting the spare lounger beside her.

"I haven't had chance to catch up with you yet." Her tone was faintly chiding, but her gaze was warm with fondness. "How's the hero life been treating you?"

"Too much search, not enough rescue."

Scott rolled his shoulders, considering shedding his shirt altogether. It kept clinging to his skin with sweat. A dull pain flared at the back of his head as he tried to recall the last few weeks before he'd taken leave to come home for Virgil's birthday. He knew the facts – helicopter, search and rescue, good friends, great girlfriend, nice apartment and a loving family – but the details kept escaping him.

"I miss fixed wing flying," he confessed after the silence stretched on a little too long to be comfortable. "But I love my job, so…"

"Nothing's perfect," Grandma replied dryly.

She sighed, gesturing to the chaos developing around the sprinklers. Gordon had redirected them from the flowerbeds over the lawn and was happily standing in the spray to cool down, face upturned towards the sun. A delighted black-and-white dog pranced about his heels, snapping at the water, tail wagging a rate of knots.

"I swear that kid's part fish."

Scott nearly jumped out of his skin. "Jesus, Dad. Don't sneak up on me like that."

Jeff openly laughed. He clamped a hand to Scott's shoulder before his grin melted into a frown as he spotted Gordon's exploits.

"Gordon Cooper! What have I told you about wasting water? And be sure to dry Finch before she treads mud in the house again!"

Scott tipped his head back to glimpse his dad's secret smile. "How is the squid? Still hell bent on going to the Olympics?"

"Hmm." Jeff gave Scott's shoulder a final squeeze. "Just you wait and see. He'll get there."

"He's certainly stubborn enough," Scott joked.

"I wonder where he learnt that," Jeff replied without skipping a beat.

Grandma raised her brows. "Really, Jefferson? None of your boys ever stood a chance. That stubborn gene runs in both sides of the family."

"What's Tin's excuse then?" Gordon queried, skidding to a halt on damp grass just in time to catch the tail-end of their conversation. He wiped his feet on the towel usually used to dry Finch, lifting his heels for inspection. "Happy now?"

"Hey, don't snap at me." Jeff raised his hands in surrender. "If you want to annoy your mother by getting dirty footprints all over her clean kitchen, then go ahead. I'm just trying to rescue you, bud."

Gordon considered this. "Yeah, valid point." He turned to Scott. "Dude, you look outta it. Are you high?"

"Gordon," Scott yelped, turning a horrified stare on their dad. "I am not high."

Jeff shook his head, turning his attention to the grill. "I don't want to know."

Gordon sniggered. He kicked Scott's feet aside to make room on the lounger. It was good to see his confidence returning. Last time Scott had been home – Christmas? God, it had been a while – the kid had hit a wall with the swimming and had been withdrawn in a way that Gordon never was, so it was good to see that he'd overcome that hurdle.

For some reason, Scott couldn't look away from their dad. It seemed as if he hadn't been home for a far long time than a mere seven months. There was a curious heaviness in his chest similar to grief, which made no sense. He was struck by the urge to wrap his father in a hug and not let go.

Gordon whacked him on the arm.

"Yeesh, Scotty. Where's your head at? Like, I was joking before, but now I'm actually concerned. Which is weird." He flaked out on his back, propping his head in his crossed arms. "You should try some of Mom's lemonade, see if that helps. Just sort your vibe out, yeah? Otherwise Virg is gonna come home and start flapping, you know how he gets."

"Virgil cannot help being an empathetic person," Grandma chided. "It's what makes him such a fantastic doctor."

Gordon rolled his eyes. "Doctor in training. He's still a student. Anyway, it wasn't a criticism. I'm just saying. Virgil does his whole worried mother-hen thing if I even sneeze, so if he sees Scott moping around he'll totally go overboard."

"I'm not moping," Scott protested, shoving Gordon's head away from his knees. "I'm just tired, that's all. It's been a long month."

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry your life is so difficult with your cool job and awesome apartment and supermodel girlfriend."

"She's not a supermodel."

"She could be. Jeez, bro. You know how to pick 'em."

Scott draped the towel over Gordon's head and strode into the kitchen without looking back. His brother was in that awkward teenage phase where he wanted to reach out but didn't know how and so settled for jibes which toed the line between teasing and offensive.

The kitchen island was littered with a series of clingfilm-covered bowls. Scott peeled back a corner to steal a strawberry from the fruit salad within. He took a moment to assess the recent additions to the fridge – Alan's latest report, Gordon's newest swim-team photo, a magnet which Virgil had brought back from a medical conference in London – before prying open the door to retrieve the jug of lemonade. The rim was sticky and he licked sugar from his thumb as he searched for a clean glass.

"Oh, Scott, perfect timing." Lucille stepped back from the spare cake tins she'd been trying to reach on top of the cupboards. "Can you get those for me?"

Scott lowered his untouched lemonade to the counter. That unfounded grief had exploded outwards, crawling up his throat to strangle his voice. He stared at his mother, unable to breathe.

"Scott?"

"Sorry." He coughed. "Sorry, yeah, I- Yeah." He plucked the tin from the cupboard and handed it to her. "Here."

Lucy kissed his cheek. "Thanks." She caught his chin, tilting his face so that she could inspect his expression. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?"

"I don't…" Scott swept her into a fierce hug. He buried his face in her shoulder, eyes burning with the threat of tears as he inhaled the familiar scent of her shampoo and favourite perfume. He took a ragged breath and willed himself not to cry.

"Scotty," Lucy murmured, smoothing his hair back, "What's worrying you?"

"I don't know," he choked out. "I just- I don't know. I can't remember, Mom."

"Did you hit your head?"

"N-no, I don't think so."

"Maybe you've had too much sun." Lucy pressed a hand to his forehead, voice soft with worry. "You do feel a little warm. Come here, sit down. When did you last drink something?"

"I don't know."

"That's fast becoming your favourite phrase, fly-boy." Her tone was lightly teasing, a direct contrast to the concern in her eyes. "I'll get you some water. Virgil's due home any moment, so we'll see what he thinks."

Scott stared at his hands, flattened against the cool marble countertop.

"Mom," he breathed, with a slowly dawning sense of utter dread. "Where's John?"

And briefly – so quickly that he almost believed it had been his imagination – there was a voice as familiar as his own heartbeat, twisted by pure terror into a scream.

Scott!

Lucy paused. Her back was turned to him, but he could see her shoulders still as she held her breath. A shadow fell across the tiles as Jeff stepped through the sliding doors. Absently, Scott realised that he could no longer hear Finch's barks or Gordon's and Grandma's conversation. Even Alan's distant laughter as he tried to encourage Tanusha to join a water-fight had vanished.

Scott, where are you, I can't-

Scott rested his head on the counter. "This isn't real."

It wasn't a question.

Jeff's smile was so sad that it hurt to make eye contact with him. "Maybe not. But why does that have to matter? You can be happy here, son. You've earnt this."

Scott curled his hands around the edge of the counter until his knuckles ached. His chest hurt as if he'd been holding his breath for too long.

Scotty, please-

Even more distant, more of a thought than an actual voice:

I don't care! There's gotta be something. These readouts are off the charts, they're both going too deep. Pull them out! Dammit, Ellis, I can't lose-

"You've been hurting for such a long time," Lucy whispered, gently placing a hand on his upper back. She pressed a kiss to his hair. "But you don't have to be in pain anymore. You can stay here. You can be happy. No more fighting. No more fear. You can be at peace, sweetheart. You deserve your chance at happiness."

Scott sucked in air through gritted teeth. His vision was swimming. When he lifted his hands, he discovered that his face was wet.

"What about them?" he asked roughly. "What happens to them?"

"They'll be alright," Jeff confirmed in the same soothing voice once used to ease childhood terrors. He sounded convinced. "You got them this far. You taught them how to survive. They can make it from here without you."

"They're not your responsibility, Scott," Lucy murmured. "They never should have been. It wasn't fair and it wasn't right."

Memories flashed behind his eyes. Scott buried his face in his hands.

"If I stay…?"

"You won't have to remember any of it," Lucy confirmed without needing to hear the full question. She rubbed comforting circles across his back. "All of the pain – you can leave it behind. You can just be happy. There'll be no more suffering, I promise."

And the thing was-

It was so tempting.

Too tempting.

Like standing on a cliff edge in a quarry during childhood wondering whether to stick with the safe option or take the plunge no matter how painful it might to turn out to be. Only this time it was returning to reality which seemed dangerous. Because here-

Here he didn't carry scars or burdens. Here he got to rescue people for a living without having to run himself ragged in the process. Here, he got to have a happy family. He got to have his parents back. He still had his brothers and his sister. He even had a dog and a relationship and no painful memories because there was no Hood, no apocalypse, no Bereznik.

Except-

Scott, Scotty, just go, it's too late, I'm sorry, I tried-

Except-

Even in the apocalypse, there was hope. There was compassion. There was kindness. There were good people worth fighting for. There were moments worth treasuring. There were memories which he could hold in his heart like a lifeline.

Except-

Gordon, whispering terrible puns under the cover of darkness when no one could sleep and the night seemed too heavy to bear; Alan, teaching Finch to spin for a treat; Virgil, always ready with the right words or a much-needed hug; John, recounting stories of the stars and hope.

Except-

Watching the sun rise on another day with Gordon because they were still the only early-risers even in the apocalypse; getting to hold Alan while the kid believed him worthy of the title Dad; trading secrets with Virgil through nothing more than a look because they knew one another better than the land knew the sky; promising John that they would always come home to each other no matter what.

Knowing that life was always, always worth living even in the face of such adversity that it threatened to crush him; surviving, because he was Scott frickin' Tracy and he wasn't just going back for his brothers but for himself.

"You're right," he said, lifting his head to meet his parents' searching gazes. "I do deserve a chance at happiness. But I want it to be real. And maybe I'll never find it out there, but that's a risk I'm willing to take."

"We love you," Jeff protested.

"I know," Scott whispered, "But they love me too. And they're still here."

He reached for the part of his soul which he had dedicated to that scrawny, screaming little brother on a cold October day so many years ago, and yanked.

Everything went dark.

The hivemind spat him out in an endless expanse of writhing tendrils. A thick red fog billowed in the distance. The ground throbbed with that alien heartbeat again. Scott scrambled to his feet and kicked away the closest feelers.

"John." His shout was so loud that it was painful. "John!"

Panic rose in a wave. He couldn't think. The hivemind was closing in. He could feel dull pain in his ankle as the tendrils wove closer to drag him so far under that he'd never find his way back. He couldn't hear John anymore and somehow that was worse than hearing him scream. He'd never heard John sound that scared. Ever. So, for him to have now fallen silent…

No.

Instincts tugged him towards the left. He took a breath, opened his eyes and ran.

The tendrils gathered thick and fast like vines choking a plant. Everything was shaking as if the hivemind were experiencing a category seven earthquake.

He pushed all of it aside. Don't think, just act. He wasn't going to give up now. Not even when the air was so toxic that he could scarcely breathe. Not when the tendrils grew sharp enough to draw blood. Not when that heartbeat sent out another pulse which left his ears weeping. Find him.

"Dammit, Johnny, where are you?"

The hivemind was growing desperate. It threw every trick at him to keep them apart. Scott was really hoping that whatever happened in here didn't have real-world impacts because he was pretty certain he was nursing another concussion. He pushed through the pain to hit a second wind and then left his limits in the dust. His heart was pounding so fast that he couldn't catch his breath, but he was close and giving up had never been an option.

He skidded to a halt and crashed to his knees. The impact was jarring. He could taste blood in his mouth and it was a visceral reminder of everything which awaited him out there. But that was unimportant because the hivemind had his brother and he was not going to let that happen.

He yanked the tendrils away, violent and brutal, clawing at the cursed things while all the while they tried to drag John under and threatened to engulf him too.

"Goddammit, let go!" Scott wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and pretended not to notice the crimson. "Johnny, you've gotta wake up and help me here, 'cos I can't do this alone. You hear me? Wake up, John. Wake the fuck up."

He plunged his hands into the mess of writhing hivemind nerves until he found John's shoulders and pulled his brother to his chest. John seemed to jolt out of the trance as if he'd been holding his breath, coughing and choking until he could get enough air into his lungs.

"God, Johnny," Scott gasped, partly crying, partly laughing, hysterical certainly and concussed probably. His head was spinning again. His hold on John's biceps left bruises. He might even have drawn blood with his nails. He curled around his brother like a human shield, screaming and shouting. He didn't know what he was saying anymore.

John reached up clumsily and pawed at his face. "You've gotta go. Get out." His voice pitched with desperation when Scott didn't move. "I'm telling you to leave. You owe me, Scott, I kept all of your shitty secrets until they nearly killed you and now you owe me, so you've got to do this for me. Get the hell out of here."

"Not without you."

"One of us has to make it back."

"Fuck that."

"Jesus Christ, you don't get it, do you? It's not going to let me leave. It was never going to let me leave and I didn't realise that until now."

Scott grabbed John's shoulders and tightened his grip until John winced. "Look at me. We don't deal with never. You remember? Doctors told Gordon he'd never walk again. That shitty professor at Harvard told you that you'd never make it into space. Never doesn't mean anything, so get off your ass and help me."

John was still trying to catch his breath, but gestured vaguely towards that strange, unholy glow where the heartbeat originated. Scott didn't need words to understand. He smashed a fist into the tendril snaking around his ankle and the light flickered. He wiped the gooey substance from his hand and pushed to his feet.

"Don't play the hero," John gasped out and it sounded horribly like a plea.

Scott shot him a breathless grin. "I'm not playing at anything, Johnny."


His memory was patchy after that.

He could recall a bright, blinding flash of light like a star going supernova. There had been a shockwave of energy so strong that it rattled every bone in his body and tossed him backwards. His hands had been wet with parasitic green which slowly turned to dust before his eyes.

And then there had been a terrible, agonised howling as that glowing heartbeat ceased and the nerves died one by one. Scott could remember crawling on his hands and knees until he could hold onto John but then there was-

Nothing.

Until he jolted awake to the clinical monochrome of the treatment room. Medical alerts were wailing all around him like sirens. His heart was pounding fiercely so that he could practically feel it in his mouth. He gulped down air like a drowning man.

"John."

He yanked out the needle despite all the shouts and threw himself out of the chair. Arms caught him before he could faceplant. Virgil. He grabbed fistfuls of his brother's overalls and met Virgil's wide-eyed gaze.

"Is he okay? Did it work? Virgil, did it work?"

Ellis' voice was wet with delighted tears. "It worked."

John scrambled upright with a choked cry. Scott didn't give him chance to speak, just collapsed onto the edge of the chair and pulled him close. John didn't protest for once, just melted into the embrace, fumbling to tug Virgil into the hug too. He was still shaking violently, a full-body shudder as if he'd plunged into the Arctic, unable to form words as his panicked wheezes shattered into relieved tears. Scott tipped forwards to rest his head on Virgil's shoulder, bracketing John between them.

"Oh my god," Hira was whispering on repeat. "Oh my god."

"It worked," Ellis breathed again, like it was a prayer.

"You came back," Virgil murmured.

"Yeah," Scott confirmed, voice thick. "We came back. We're still here."

John let out another of those shaky, hysterical laughs. "It worked."