Shout out to FF net for not sending me review alerts? For months? And being an idiot I didn't think to check the actual reviews page because I have alerts turned on and trusted them which was a terrible decision on my part. So consider this a massive apology for not replying to anyone because I've now read through your comments and I appreciate them all so, so much. Thank you!
Tycho Reeves: certified genius and multi-millionaire with a shiny public image. Probably used to expensive finery but having earnt such taste given he'd worked his way up the ladder. Had been frequently approached by various companies with high price tags in an attempt to bribe him into working for them. And… could have been mistaken for any other survivor in the Sanctuary.
Actually, he seemed more ragged than most. He had the frenzied gleam in his eyes of a man who hadn't slept in several days and was either on the verge of a breakthrough or a breakdown. His arms were smeared in grease which had also transferred to his face and hair and his hands were almost as rough as the burns over his knuckles. He was elbow deep in the guts of a futuristic-looking generator when Scott finally tracked him down.
The workshop was an old candy factory which had been torn apart and transformed into an engineering bay. Every step was a safety hazard. There wasn't a clear inch of floor. Each bench was covered in miscellaneous scrap metal. A shelving unit was layered in circuit boards. Spare wires dangled from hooks.
Fluorescent lights flickered unevenly, reflecting off the sharp edges of Tycho's project. It was a Frankenstein's monster of generators, formed of parts salvaged from other machines and patched together with functionality as a priority over appearance.
Tycho didn't acknowledge their presence. In fact, he showed no signs of being aware of their arrival at all. He muttered to himself, clenching a screwdriver between his teeth as he reached for a new bolt.
"Does he even know we're here?" Scott queried dryly.
Virgil shook his head with a distinctly fond smile.
"He gets like this. Lost in his work, I mean. He'd get along well with Brains." He knocked on the nearest workbench. "Hey, Tycho. There's someone here to see you. Remember you agreed to the meeting about the drone?"
Tycho bolted upright and nearly smacked into the overhanging lamp. He ducked under it and picked a path into the clearer space, rubbing the back of his head as he straightened up.
"Hi," Scott greeted. He left the paparazzi smile well alone. There was no need for any of that here. He got the sense that Tycho Reeves had been surrounded by similar circles pre-Z-Day and had reached the same mindset as Scott in which honesty was valued above formalities. "I'm-"
"-Commander Scott Tracy of International Rescue. Yeah, I know who you are. I also know why you're here."
Tycho's tone was difficult to read until he wiped the oil off his palms against his worn jeans and stuck out a hand.
"I know the stories. Hell, I know your brother. I like working with Virgil. We've achieved some real gamechangers here. But let's not waste each other's time: I don't build anything weaponizable. Especially not for the GDF."
"Good," Scott agreed, catching Tycho's gaze and holding it. "I don't represent the military. I'm here on behalf of International Rescue. I agree, we shouldn't create anything that could potentially cause further damage. But if your reputation is to be believed, you're more than capable of adding a failsafe, some sort of self-destruct mechanism in case of that scenario."
Tycho's brows ticked upwards with a hint of amusement. "Shouldn't you of all people know better than to trust a man's reputation?"
"Prove me wrong or prove me right." Scott shrugged. "The choice is yours, Mr Reeves. But if we work together, I think we've got a good chance of turning this whole ugly mess into something better."
Tycho turned his back to hide his expression. He drummed a hand against a workbench, studying the driving rain through filthy windows.
"Technically," he replied slowly, "It's Doctor Reeves. But if we're going to work together, you should probably call me Tycho."
Scott glanced over at Virgil. His brother was distracted by one of his own projects, rummaging through a collection of debris spread over the desk in the far corner. As if sensing eyes on him, Virgil looked up and offered an encouraging smile.
"Is that a yes?" Scott ventured.
"It's a maybe." Tycho swept aside cables to reveal a holoprojector. "Talk me through your idea while I make notes. Virg, help yourself to my coffee supply." Mischief crept into his voice as he turned to Scott. "You haven't earnt caffeine privileges yet. The stuff's like gold dust these days." He grinned. "I need to decide if I like you first."
"What's the verdict so far?"
"Jury's still out." Tycho cleared a space on the desk. "Take a seat, Scott. I get the feeling this is going to be a long conversation." His smile wavered. "It's been a while since I've had chance to work on something like this."
Scott searched his memory and vaguely recalled talk of a design that would have revolutionised public transport. It had still been in the early stages when Z-Day rolled around but he remembered Brains being very excited about the idea.
"Hypertrain," he murmured. "That was yours, right?"
"Hypercar," Tycho corrected with a faint note of sadness. "We lost so many opportunities. We were on the verge of a brighter future than our grandparents could have ever imagined."
"Then work with me. Help me rebuild a similar future for the world."
"You really believe it's possible?"
"I think anything's possible with hard work."
Scott activated the holoprojector and held it out to him.
"The story's not over yet, Tycho," he said softly. "What side of history do you want to be on?"
December brought the first clear skies in a while and so it was somewhat inevitable for them to gather in the garden and stare up at the stars which lost loved ones now called home. By the darkest hours of the night, temperatures fell to an average 11F, but shortly after sunset when the frost had yet to settle it was still bearable provided they wrapped up in coats and thick scarves and heated blankets over the pipes to fend off hypothermia later.
Was it sensible? Hell no. But that connection to the sky had been forged in their souls from the very beginning and so, given the opportunity to spend some time beneath the stars, none of them were about to turn it down. It was the closest to peace as anyone could find at current. If only there weren't some crucial pieces missing, such as the fact their family wasn't whole.
Gordon could be excused. He was still recovering from his latest bout of sickness and had been ordered by Virgil to remain in the warmth. He was supposed to be tucked up under a blanket on the couch while Jasmin divided her attention between keeping an eye on him and whichever movie they had chosen. Scott suspected that the squid would sneak outside to join them as soon as Jasmin drifted off and given the looks of the kid half an hour earlier, it wouldn't take very long.
But Alan? There was no reasonable explanation. Nothing that could make sense of why the kid who had loved the stars nearly as much as John had chosen to stay inside. He hadn't even provided an excuse, just shrugged, pulled his hood up, and trudged upstairs with that uncanny ghostlike quality clinging to his heels again as if he were wavering on a line between realities.
And it was oh-so-wrong but no one seemed to know what to do. So, instead they were all here, trying to ignore the elephant in the room; the awkward silence whenever their gazes drifted to the empty chair which had been laid out in expectation of Alan's presence.
But the sky remained a blessing. The expanse of stars was unfathomable. A lack of light pollution was countered only by the smoke particles which still remained from the initial weeks of the apocalypse. The Milky Way branched across the darkness, spiralling stars guiding the way to new adventures and treasured memories.
Scott had never shared his father's and brothers' desire to be an astronaut – circumstances had thrown that career path at him regardless – but sometimes, struck by the sense of being infinitely small yet part of something far greater all at once, he thought maybe he got it.
He laced his fingers beneath his head and let his vision fade at the edges until his senses were entirely consumed by light and possibility. Hope flickered in his veins as fiercely as the nearby campfire. Each breath tasted of woodsmoke and the sharp snap of ice. He was surrounded by grief but everything still existed within his memory; in his head, he had never truly lost anyone.
In reality, he knew better.
"You're going to set yourself on fire." There was a rustle as Virgil snagged the back of John's sweatshirt and tugged him away from the flames. "You're the most uncoordinated person I know. Don't test your luck."
John muttered something in an unfamiliar language which was doubtlessly uncomplimentary. Scott propped himself on an elbow in time to glimpse Virgil's exasperated expression as John held out his hands to the fire and shot them both a challenging look.
"I'm not treating you for burns," Virgil warned.
"You won't need to." John jolted as a stray spark scorched his thumb. "Don't say it. Virgil, I swear, if you say anything…"
"It depends. Are you going to listen to me now?"
"Jeezus," Scott sighed, dropping his head back against the blanket he'd draped over the grass. "You sound like children." He waved off their protests. "John, don't cause any medical emergencies. Virgil, stop fussing. Just… I don't know. Grab a drink and chill."
Something in his voice must have triggered Virgil's sixth sense for knowing when he was upset as there was a brief pause followed by warmth as his brother flopped down at his side. He opened one eye and groaned at the sight of Virgil's concerned, kicked puppy look.
"Don't do that." He raked his fingers through his hair. "Virgil, I am fine."
"Are you?" Virgil asked quietly. "Really?"
Scott's instinctive reply was yes. It was automatic like a reflex, but he hesitated. Honesty had always been important to Virgil but now he valued it more than ever. And the truth – the bitter, ugly truth with all of its dangerous edges – was that Scott wasn't okay. Not right now. It wasn't a full spiral, just heavy exhaustion, but history had taught him how quickly that could become overwhelming. The horrible feeling of being out of his depth refused to leave him alone.
"I've got too many damn thoughts," he confessed at last, pressing his thumbs against his temples where the tension lurked. "It's not a problem. It's just…"
"A lot," John supplied.
"Exactly. Tycho has agreed to build the drone, so we should soon have eyes where the nukes dropped and… I don't know what we're going to find, but it won't be pretty. What the hell do we do with that? And then I've got these assholes from other safe zones who are just waiting for my infrastructure proposal to fail so they can turn around and say they told me so before they bomb the shit out of the infected again. And it's completely counterproductive because they seem to forget that even if they successfully dispose of every rotter, we're then left with nothing because they destroyed the goddamn planet."
Scott buried his face in his hands and watched firelight play through his fingers.
"So, yeah," he breathed. "It's, um… A lot."
"And then there's Alan," Virgil murmured.
"And then there's Alan," Scott echoed. He pushed himself to sit up, hunched over his knees to toast his hands in the fire's warmth. "I- Yeah. Alan's… Christ, I don't know what to do about him. I got this concerned email from Dr Briggs after his last session. Yeah, I kinda noticed the fact my kid's turned into a fucking robot. I don't need her snide comments to tell me to keep an eye on him."
"That's unfair," John pointed out mildly. "Her email didn't sound accusatory at all."
"Not the issue, John. Really, really not the issue."
Scott drew a ragged inhale and tried to restrain the emotion in his voice. Virgil's hand gripped his shoulder, warm and reassuring.
"He didn't want to see the stars. The stars. He's been obsessed with the damn things ever since birth and now he's not interested? That's not even a red flag, that's like a… What's a deeper shade of red? Crimson? I don't know. It's not- God, I can see him spiralling and I can't do anything to help because he won't fucking let me."
John made a vague, non-committal sound and Scott was tempted to throttle him.
"Hmm? Hmm? Is that all you've got to say?"
"Guys," Virgil protested.
"It's a familiar feeling for me," John remarked, pointedly ignoring Virgil's wince.
"Oh, fuck off," Scott snapped. "What are you implying? I tried. You know I tried. I went to therapy the first time-"
"Dad didn't give you a choice."
"You're not exactly the poster boy for great mental health, John."
"I never claimed to be."
"Would it kill you to show an emotion? For once, can you drop this whole… act?"
Scott could pinpoint the exact second he screwed up. John went scarily still, face blank except for the steely ice in his eyes.
"You want emotion? You want to know how I actually feel? I am terrified. I consistently have to watch as people I love go through Hell. It's the same pattern over and over. The worst part is that I can't fix it. I can't change anything. At least on rescues I could identify the issue and improve my knowledge in that area to avoid a repeat incident. Do not accuse me of not caring because I- I care. You know I do or at least you're supposed to know and- It's unfair, Scott."
"Okay," Virgil said firmly. "That's enough."
Scott stared into the heart of the flames. "Sorry."
"You can be a bastard sometimes," John muttered.
"John," Virgil sighed.
Scott shook his head. "No, I deserved that."
The awkwardness of ensuing silence was almost palpable. It gradually dissipated as the minutes swept past, replaced by the lull of crackling firewood and distant whirr of generators. The stars seemed brighter than ever as if trying to offer reassurance through their light.
An orange gleam promised that Mars was watching over them too, although Scott couldn't decide whether he found that a comfort or more desolate sadness. He dropped back against the blankets and subconsciously shuffled closer to Virgil to fend off the chill. John remained sitting up, leant back against his hands as he craned his neck to glimpse the faintest stars.
"I'm too used to southern skies," Virgil mused. "I keep looking for Alpha Centauri."
John made no comment. It was near impossible to tell whether he was lost in the stars or in his own thoughts. He only jolted back to reality when Scott reached over and snagged his sleeve, pulling him into the moment with a sharp tug.
"Sorry, what?"
"Nothing," Virgil replied before Scott could get a word in edgeways. He fumbled for Scott's wrist amid the blankets and squeezed it meaningfully. "I was just thinking aloud."
"Where did you go?" Scott murmured, catching the flash of unease in John's gaze. "Lost in the stars again?"
It was an easy excuse. John could have taken it and although Scott wouldn't have believed him, he'd have let the matter slide. But he remained quiet and reached for something in his pocket.
Scott expected it to be that ever-present lighter. But the object was smaller, nestled within the damp fabric of John's glove, blinking in the reflection of firelight. It held the distinctive shine of pure gold, albeit dulled by previous wear and subsequent handling. For a brief moment, Scott entertained the nonsensical thought that John was looking after an engagement ring for someone, only then flashes of memory installed a darker suspicion.
"Is that…?"
"The Hood's ring," John confirmed.
Virgil took a moment to sort through his thoughts. "Okay. That's, um… Why do you have it?"
"How do you have it?" Scott amended. The tunnels were a blurry afterthought that he only returned to in nightmares but he was fairly certain that the Hood's grisly death had been too quick for goodbyes and entrusted jewellery. "You said you watched him die."
"I did." John ran a thumb around the gold band. "But in that moment when he realised I wasn't going to help him…" He drew a sharp breath. "It was his last act. His last words too. He wanted me to give this to Kayo if we find her."
When, Scott silently corrected, not if.
"Why?" Virgil's voice held that distinctive edge which only ever made itself known when he was angry on behalf of another. "Is this one of his attempts at manipulating her? He's tried to mess with her head in the past. He's dead. Toss the ring and pretend you never saw it."
"It should be Kayo's decision." John tipped the ring into his opposite hand and curled his fingers into a fist around it. "It's not my place to take that choice away from her. Besides, I think there might be more to it. There's an engraving inside. As far as I can tell, it's coordinates."
Scott stared into the depths of the fire. "There's no way this can lead to anything good."
"Probably not," John conceded. "But Kayo deserves to know the truth."
It was cold enough that ice was beginning to form on the edges of the blankets. The chill seeped through clothes with the numbing effect of anaesthetic. Scott couldn't bring himself to register it. All he could think about was the implications of those coordinates; the Hood had created this entire mess and it was plausible that he had known more about the parasite than he'd ever let on. If the answers were anywhere, then Scott was willing to bet that those coordinates held the key.
"Why did you keep it secret?" Virgil asked, more softly this time.
John tucked the ring back into his pocket. "I don't know."
"Bullshit." Scott levelled him with a challenging look. "You're still hiding something."
John returned his sights to the stars. A heavy minute passed in utter silence.
"They tore him apart." He flattened his hands against the icy ground as he tried to repress a shudder. "As in they literally tore him into pieces. And when he was no longer recognisable, he became any other human. Only then… Then he was just someone I didn't save."
"John," Virgil whispered.
"I hate him. I'm glad he's dead. Hell, I'm happy he suffered. But it's still…"
"Complicated?" Scott supplied. "It's a human life."
"Exactly." John brushed ice off his gloves and buried his face in them. "I didn't want you to ask questions. That's why I didn't mention it until now. I don't want to remember how they- I don't want to remember. But you needed to know before we make contact with Kayo because I'm almost certain that she'll want to check these coordinates."
Virgil latched onto that final sentence. "You think we're close to international comm links?"
"That's the plan." John shivered again and Scott gave into the urge to pull him close. "I'm aiming to establish a connection within the next month."
"Next month?" Scott repeated with an incredulous laugh. "Holy shit, Jay. That's awesome."
"Yeah," John agreed quietly. He cast an uncertain glance at Virgil. "What if we can't find them?"
"You haven't been able to escape Penelope's clutches ever since Oxford," Virgil pointed out wryly. "She'll find you." He shook his head with a faint smile. "And as for Kayo…"
"Kayo's a survivor." Scott didn't realise he'd spoken at first. "What? It's true. She's a survivor and she's family. We'll find each other no matter how long it takes. Hey, we found Gordon didn't we?"
"Technically," John said, "Gordon found us."
"I'm a genius like that," a familiar voice echoed from behind them. Gordon offered a crooked smile, leaning against the backdoor in a thick winter coat which resembled a duvet. "Is this a private party or can anyone join?"
"Anyone who isn't recovering from illness and should be keeping warm," Virgil replied with a pointed look at Gordon's gloveless hands. "I told you to stay inside."
"Well, that's on you. You should know better than to trust me to do what I'm told."
Scott tugged off his gloves and tossed them at his brother. Virgil gave a resigned sigh but didn't protest as Gordon slipped on the gloves and made himself comfortable on the blankets next to them. Scott reached for the squid and pulled him closer to keep him warm while John casually tossed more kindling onto the fire despite pretending not to be concerned.
"Jasmin's asleep," Gordon reported, shivering slightly as he curled into Scott's side. "So is Alan."
Virgil glanced up. "You checked on him?"
"Uh huh." Gordon propped his head on Scott's shoulder. "Finch is with him. He's out for the count, so you guys can stop fretting until the morning."
"We're not fretting," Scott protested.
"No, we definitely are," Virgil corrected without shame. "But I feel like we're entitled to be worried and Gordon, you're lying if you claim you're not concerned too."
"Hey, I never said I wasn't." Gordon quietened as his gaze fell on the stars. "Huh. That's… pretty damn spectacular actually. No wonder you guys have been out here so long."
John twisted the ring in his pocket, seeking out each constellation instinctively as if ticking off a check list.
"Do you find it strange how we don't refer to them as zombies?" Gordon mused. His hair kept tickling Scott's chin but he refused to push him away. "It's like we still can't bring ourselves to believe it's real. Because it still seems like we've fallen into a video game, right? I dunno. I've just been thinking about it lately. Zombies, man. Jeez."
"Zombies," Virgil echoed, breath fogging in the air like a ghost. He shook his head with a dull chuckle. "Zombies. What the hell?"
John stared into the heart of the fire with a carefully concealed shudder. His expression remained neutral but tension kept him as still as a statue as he tried to forget memories. No one knew the details of the time he had spent alone amongst the infected; he could probably attest to the accuracy of the term zombie better than anyone.
"Sometimes," Gordon whispered, "I wonder whether this is all happening inside my head. Because, um, it wouldn't be that farfetched. Like, I pulled some dumb stunt out on rescue and landed myself in another coma. And this is just some fucked up creation of my subconscious."
"Yeah," Virgil agreed. "I get that. For the first month, I kept thinking maybe I was already dead."
Gordon exhaled in a rush. "But this is real."
Scott couldn't tell if it was a question or a statement.
"It's real," he confirmed, losing his train of thought as he glimpsed the pure grief in Virgil's eyes. He found his brother's hand amid the darkness. This time his words sounded like an apology. "I wish it wasn't, but it is."
Less than forty-eight hours later, there wasn't even a hint of clear sky to be seen. The world was engulfed in thick snow. Salt cut tracks through the roads but great drifts still formed along sidewalks and against buildings. Windows froze shut. Locks refused to turn. It took entirely too much effort to force the front door open and still the snow kept falling. It wasn't quite blizzard worthy but it wasn't far off either.
Even in the apocalypse, snow brought childish joy. It took less than five minutes of being awake for Gordon to crash into the kitchen and declare gleefully, "It's snowing!"
"Your observational skills are unparalleled," Virgil grumbled, face down on the tabletop as he waited for Scott to finish doublechecking his math on the drone propulsion system he was working on with Tycho. He'd been up half the night scouring over schematics and had handed them to Scott that morning with a vague, inhuman mumble which Scott had somehow been able to translate as check this please. Needless to say, Gordon's bounciness was not welcome.
"What's up with you?" Gordon scrubbed his hands through shocking bed hair and went on a hunt through the breadbin. "Why are you in grizzly mode?"
"Grizzly mode," Virgil echoed. "What even…? Just no."
"Uh oh," Gordon stage whispered, leaning over Scott's shoulder to glimpse the schematics. "He's grumpy."
Scott couldn't quite hold back his smile.
Virgil levelled him with a betrayed look and jabbed a thumb at the pages of equations. "So?"
"So," Scott echoed, just to be a little shit. He shunted his chair out of range as Virgil made to elbow him. "It looks good. Everything adds up. Your theory's sound, so now it's just a question of finding the physical materials to put it all together."
Virgil retrieved the notes. "Tycho's handling that. I'm just the- Gordon, what the hell are you doing?"
Gordon froze, bracing himself against the doorframe as he struggled into an extra pair of thick socks on top of the thermals he was already wearing. Ever since his fever had broken, he'd seemed unable to keep warm. Given this, the logical course of action would be to remain indoors, swaddled in several blankets on the couch with Finch serving as a portable radiator. Then again, this was Gordon and logic didn't register on his radar on a regular day, let alone when snow was involved, so really Scott should have expected these antics.
"It's snowing," Gordon said simply, gesturing to the window as if they could have somehow forgotten. "We lived on a tropical island for years. Are you seriously telling me that you didn't miss snow in winter?"
"No," Scott replied in unison with Virgil.
He didn't need to glance across to know that his own unease was mirrored on Virgil's face. Gordon and Alan might have been young enough to escape snow-filled memories, but the rest of them hadn't been so lucky. Snow was a novelty that Scott had been very happy living without for so many years. Now, he was only grateful that the Sanctuary wasn't located in the mountains. God knew they all experienced enough nightmares as it was without adding resurfaced childhood trauma to the mix.
Gordon stuffed a hat over his head, good cheer undimmed by their lack of enthusiasm.
"Come on." He tossed a spare beanie at Virgil. "It'll be fun. Just for a few minutes? You can micromanage the snowman."
"You're building a snowman?" Scott didn't know why he was surprised. "How old are you?"
"Young enough to not have to worry about grey hairs, unlike someone." Gordon balled up a tissue from his coat pocket and bounced it off Scott's head. "Ha! Bullseye." He danced backwards on light feet, eyes gleaming with mischief as he waited for Scott to take the bait. "You gonna let that slide, Scotty?"
There was a brief pause.
"Don't fall for it," Virgil sighed, already resigning himself to the inevitable.
"I'm not falling for anything," Scott protested. He cast a glance out the window. The snow had formed a thick carpet, perfectly smooth and unmarred by human spirit. The idea of damp clothes and frozen fingers did not appeal and yet…
"Wow," Gordon said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice as he took on a mock sad tone. "I know the apocalypse changes people, but I never expected it to make you boring."
Virgil shook his head in exasperation. "And you'll give into him in three, two…"
"Boring?" Scott kicked back his chair with a screech, snatching a coat from the rack. "I'll show you boring, guppy."
"-One," Virgil finished. "Fifteen minutes, Gords, tops. Okay? I do not want you getting a chill."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Gordon called over his shoulder, already bolting out the front door as Scott skidded into the corridor after him, hot on his heels.
The Sanctuary was alive with childish delight. The kids who lived several doors down were chasing one another through the snow. More laughter echoed from the next street over. A miserable cat glowered from a window of the house opposite, yellow eyes baleful as it longed for warmer weather.
Finch bounded into the snow without hesitation, tail wagging so fast that she nearly broke the sound barrier. She barrelled into Gordon's legs and knocked him flat on his back in a snowdrift. Scott paused, concern overriding his attempts at revenge. This proved to a monumental error in judgement as in those few seconds Gordon somehow managed to amass an entire armful of snowballs.
"Think fast, Scooter!"
Scott ducked. The snowball sailed through the space he had been and collided with an unsuspecting Virgil. A moment passed in shocked silence. Virgil removed his hat, shook the snow from it, and tugged it back on again in a deliberately calm manner which promised there would be payback.
Gordon hastily stifled a loud laugh. "Oops."
His grin wavered as it dawned on him that he had incurred the vengeance of not just one but two big brothers. The mischievous gleam soon returned to his eyes as he considered the challenge and backed up to shelter behind his snowdrift, gathering new ammunition.
Scott was struck into a strange, nostalgic sense of grief which came hand-in-hand with the warm buzz of happiness that fended off the chill seeping through his clothes. He scooped up a handful of snow but couldn't drag his thoughts away from the matter. Only a few months ago, he had been lost in his own head and Gordon had been trapped in a hospital bed. But now they were here, free under the open sky, and Gordon was red-nosed and bright-eyed with laughter while Virgil pelted him with snowballs and it was just…
Man, life was strange.
Jasmin and Theo's arrival put an end to the snowball fight. This was probably a blessing as their coats were soggy and ice had found its way beneath waterproof layers to leave them all shivering.
Scott had accepted his fate and hadn't attempted to move from the snowdrift he had crashed into, but Virgil and Gordon had fallen into a tussle which showed no signs of letting up any time soon. Gordon was sprawled on top of Virgil, trying to pin him against the snow, but Virgil had captured his hands and also happened to have muscle mass on his side; Gordon's efforts were doomed from the start.
The snow had temporarily ceased falling although heavy clouds promised this wouldn't last for long. Theo and Virgil – who had somehow been roped into the snowman contest – opted for appearance, carefully selecting pebbles for eyes and a merry red scarf, while Gordon and Jasmin aimed to create the largest snowman possible. Scott watched the proceedings and made very helpful, constructive comments which weren't at all irritating with the sole intention of poking fun, no sir.
Dark fabric flashed in his peripheral vision before an elbow clumsily knocked against his shoulder as the culprit flopped into the snowdrift at his side. He tried not to visibly react; Alan seemed akin to a wounded animal, liable to bolt at the slightest sharp movement or wrong word.
A sprinkling of flakes glided from the sky as the snowfall began to pick up again. Finch snapped at them, prancing about Virgil's heels as he stepped back to admire his work. Theo was grinning from ear-to-ear, meeting Virgil's offered high-five with a resounding smack. The snowman's red scarf was a blot of colour against the greyscale landscape, artfully constructed in comparison with Gordon and Jasmin's lumpy, misshapen creation.
"Scotty, call it," Gordon ordered, gesturing grandly to the snowmen. "Which is better?"
Scott hesitated. Logically, the answer was Virgil's. For starters, it actually looked semi-okay whereas Gordon's was listing heavily to one side and had already lost two of the pebbles from its smile.
"Gordon's and Jasmin's," Alan piped up quietly. He rubbed his knuckles against his flushed cheeks, eyes watering in the cold wind. "It has character."
Scott shot him a fond look. "Is that your official opinion?"
"Uh huh." Alan gave a tiny shrug that was almost lost in the fabric of his oversized coat. "Snowmen have gotta have character."
"Did he say mine?" Gordon looped an arm around Jasmin's shoulders with an elated whoop. "Ha! Suck on that, Virg. My snowman's better than yours, loser."
A new gust of icy wind interrupted his taunts with a violent shiver. It was sufficient to distract Virgil from whatever retort he'd been considering as he slipped into Medic Mode and ushed Gordon back to the house.
Theo and Jasmin hung around for a few more minutes, admiring their individual snowmen and exchanging teasing remarks which nearly ended in a full-blown scuffle. Their laughter was matched by Finch's delighted barks, echoing around the street as snow erased the world.
Alan slumped onto his back, spreading his arms to dig his fingers into the ice. He stared up at the sky, gaze distant as he chased his thoughts down rabbit holes until a snowflake landed on his nose and made him sneeze.
"Are you making a snow angel?" Scott asked, bemused.
"Maybe," Alan murmured, sweeping his arms through the snow in a wide arc. "I dunno. I'm just… listening. It's nice to hear people laugh."
Scott glanced over at Theo and Jasmin, who were trying to reclaim the stick that Finch had stolen from one of the snowmen's arms. "Have you patched things up with Theo yet?"
"Kinda."
The tentative truce could be easily broken by pressing the matter so Scott didn't ask him to elaborate. Alan pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes and inhaled deeply. For a moment, he held himself perfectly still, listening to the cheerful voices as he battled whatever darkness lurked in his own head. He didn't seem to notice the snow melting from his gloves onto his face nor did he react when Scott reached across to wipe it away.
A low, pained howl sliced through the hastening snow.
Alan bolted upright just as Scott caught his shoulder and pulled him close. Finch's ears flattened as she began barking furiously. Theo froze and Jasmin shouldered in front of him instinctively. No one moved. The sound returned; eerie and unmistakeable.
Infected.
"Get inside." Scott pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand for Alan. "Everyone, inside now."
Doors along the street were opening. Curious heads poked out. Fear formed a tangible thread connecting everyone. Marisa ventured into her own front yard. Even at a distance, Scott could read the fear on her face.
"They're outside the wall, right?" Alan whispered. "They can't get in. That's not possible."
Finch fled into the house.
Scott sucked in a sharp breath as the wails grew louder. His grip on Alan's shoulder was probably painful but he couldn't bring himself to let go and kid had yet to shrug him off.
"No," he replied slowly. "They can't get in. We're safe here."
The lie tasted bitter. In all honesty, he didn't know. The infected were hungry and the long-standing theory that cold strengthened them had never been disproven. The Sanctuary's defences were strong but primarily relied on the wall itself holding firm. His memory flitted back to that horrifying moment when the creatures had overwhelmed the Salvation Gates.
"Jasmin, Theo, go home." He gave Alan a gentle shove towards the house. "C'mon, Al. I need to get in touch with Finn."
Surveillance and reports from other snow-stricken safe zones suggested that while the infected were riled by the blizzard, they were unlikely to break through the defences. This offered some peace of mind, although the majority of survivors suffered a restless night. Even those who did manage to drift off had their sleep disturbed by desolate howls. The infected kept crying out until the following morning when their wails finally grew more sporadic.
Tensions ran high. Paranoia lurked in every shadow. Yet within the perilous mix of emotions was a sense of relief; progress was still being made; radio links were stronger than ever; supply runs were on the horizon rather than a mere fantasy; Tycho and Virgil's drone was coming along in leaps and bounds. And if the occasional howl sent Scott's anxiety levels into orbit then hey, at least the constant snowy gloom made it easy to hide his true feelings.
Their house took on a distinctive, almost tangible buzz created by energy and curated by activity. John had filled the place with more holoprojectors than could be healthy so that he could continue working late on those nights when sleep evaded him – which was more often than not – and every kitchen surface was covered in drone designs, ringed with coffee stains and crumbs from hastily consumed rations.
Gordon had taken custody of the erasable markers – much to Virgil's annoyance – to plot lesson plans for his upcoming biology classes and his bedroom walls were a mess of ink. Scott drifted between his brothers' various lairs and split his time between the GDF hub and keeping an eye on Alan, a task which wasn't hard given the kid rarely got out of bed these days.
He spent mornings ensuring everyone had eaten and then worked until late evening with Finn. By the time he got home, Tycho and Virgil were deep in drone discussions and/or on the verge of passing out with pens still in their hands, John or Gordon were cooking dinner - a job they alternated between them – and Alan would make a brief appearance to feed Finch. It wasn't an ideal routine but it was better than nothing and hey, at least they were all (sort of) functional.
The drone was ready for roll out by the end of the week. It was a large, heavy structure which had taken some inspiration from one of Brains' scrapped designs for an airborne version of MAX. Scott chose not to point that out; he was unsure whether Virgil had made those additions subconsciously or in a kind of homage but either way it was bound to be a sore talking point.
They prepped the drone for flight and set up shop in the GDF hub to watch the live feed as it crossed the border and headed south.
"What are we expecting to find?" Finn asked under his breath, tilting slightly towards Scott so that his words weren't snatched by the crowd. Every GDF recruit was packed into the room, eyes locked on the large screen which currently only showed a haze of green where vegetation had repopulated Wisconsin with thick grass and innumerable weeds.
"Not sure," Scott admitted, hooking his fingers through his beltloops to keep from fidgeting. If the states were a wasteland, he had no idea what that meant for the future. "Hopefully not a radioactive nightmare."
"Either way, we're gonna need a strong drink after this."
"Drinks," Scott corrected, meeting Finn's wry smile. "Definitely plural."
"Your wish is my command, sugar," Finn teased, knocking their shoulders together. "Just say the word and I'll break out the good stuff."
"Technically," Scott countered, falling readily into the banter to distract himself from dread, "Your wish is my command. Sir."
"Oh, really?" Finn's smile twitched into a smirk. "I'll make note of that. Might be good to remember later when you start causing trouble."
"Who says I'm gonna cause trouble?"
"Scott, you're a menace. Don't try telling me otherwise."
The room was filled with energy, charged by an electrical current of anticipatory dread which evoked whispered rumours and unsettled rustles as people shuffled in place. Faces were flushed from feeling, eyes shiny with a peculiar blend of horror and hope as the camera feed slowly repainted the North American map. So far, the only revelations had been hordes of infected in unexpected areas and just how quickly concrete creations had fallen into disrepair.
The true test had yet to come as the drone trundled onwards, all lights holding green and systems remaining faithful. In just under ten minutes, it would cross into the outermost circle of the first strike zone. Scott sort of wanted to look away. He glanced across at Virgil and Tycho, sat side-by-side on the edge of a desk, conversing in hushed voices.
Tycho surreptitiously retrieved a silver flask from the interior pocket of his jacket, embossed with the initials of some unknown victim of the apocalypse, and skilfully unscrewed the cap with a swift twist of his index finger. He eyed the livestream ruefully, then shook his head and took a quick swig from the flask before offering it to Virgil.
For a moment, Virgil hesitated, then reconsidered as the drone images revealed the mottled remains of a ruined town and took a long drink. Tycho thumped him on the back with raised brows, pretending not to notice Scott's watchful gaze.
"Six minutes," Lou remarked, materialising at Scott's shoulder without warning. She rubbed her knuckles against her chin, trying to repress a smile as he startled. "I don't know if I can watch."
"You don't have to," Finn reminded her. Wistful affection threaded through his voice as he blurred the line between superior officer and friend. In the apocalypse, the latter was more important. "I'll include the basic details in the report. Read it over and you'll be fine. You wouldn't be the only person to change your mind about watching this live."
Scott's mind wandered back to the house where Gordon was spending the day with the teens. There had been several lengthy discussions last night about whether or not he should attend. Points had been made about unnecessary guilt; recounted details of scouring cities for resources before Jenkins had ordered in the strike teams; motheaten blankets, smeared fingerprints over shop windows, ashes of burnt-out campfires and other such traces of lost survivors who hadn't been found in time.
Last night was the first in a while that Gordon had awoken with nightmares of his time alone in the apocalypse. After an entire hour of Virgil calming him down, rubbing his back as he tried not to choke on memories, he hadn't needed Scott's advice to know that watching the drone footage wouldn't be a smart plan.
But Lou made no attempt to step away. Her face was lined with rugged determination, shoulders set as she steeled herself in preparation of what would doubtlessly be graphic footage. Scott secretly longed to be over next to Virgil, but he had to be seen at Finn's side as the other bunkers were also tuned in. He could glimpse their holograms bobbing in his peripheral vision and straightened up instinctively, but still couldn't shake the uneasy wish to have a brother with him.
"Three minutes." John wrang the neck of a water bottle and pressed it into Scott's hands. "Drink that," he ordered in a low, urgent whisper. "You look as if you're about to pass out."
Scott stared at him. "Are you psychic?"
"If I am, I'll never tell. I'll be back in a minute."
"Where are you going?"
"To ask Tycho if we can borrow whatever's in that flask."
Scott forced himself to return his sight to the screen. Images seemed to overlap as his senses lagged, clogged by frayed thoughts as his mind ran away from him again. Dread was a physical, heavy mass in his lungs; even deep breaths were shallow, mouth dry like he'd swallowed cotton wool; background noise fading into a high-pitched ringing as he dragged his attention back to the livestream in time to spy the rugged moonscape of radioactive ruins.
The sight rendered the room speechless; fear banishing all thoughts and infecting minds with such deep-rooted horror that it left even the resident geniuses childlike. There was an audible intake of breath as if they were on a space station and someone had opened the airlock to let all the oxygen rush out.
Each new image brought instinctual terror, a weary, primal fear upon seeing manmade worlds wiped out. The video feed flickered, dizzy with sporadic static and the brief time lapse as the signal struggled to stay strong, but the view was sickening no matter how blurry.
The city had been razed to the ground and the surrounding areas were dark with ashen shadows. Fire had ripped through everything and left empty ghosts in its wake. The strongest structures listed on stricken foundations; partly crumbled walls; melted metallic monsters; beams twisted into skeletons; gaping holes like mouths in the earth where cellars had been exposed.
In the nauseated silence, the drone of heaters seemed deafening. Scott twisted his wrist to press a thumb against his pulse, hidden from view of those holoprojectors, half-convinced that this wasn't real. The steady thump of his own heartbeat was undeniable. So was the rush of sickness. He reached out instinctively to brace himself against a desk but met thin air where the centre of the room had been cleared to make space for more people. Instead, he found the soft cotton of the lilac hoodie that John had taken to wearing as of late and turned to catch his brother's eye.
John stared blankly at the screen without a word for several drawn-out seconds. Pained resignation briefly interrupted his forcibly neutral expression; the same kind that Scott had once heard over the radio when victims outweighed survivors and the rescue was doomed from the start. He caught Scott's wrist, squeezed once, then tipped his head back to take a long swig from Tycho's flask.
"Well…" he muttered breathlessly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth with a stifled wince at the sharp bite of liquor. "Fuck."
Scott couldn't bring himself to look back at the screen. John offered him the flask and he took a bigger gulp than was probably sensible given he had a collection of safe zone representatives watching his back. He glimpsed Finn's sideways glance and couldn't quite keep the defensive snap out of his voice.
"What?"
Finn's weak smile held a helpless quality. He nodded to the flask. "Is that going spare?"
Voices were beginning to creep back to life. Several people had left the room. Virgil shouldered through the crowd, Tycho at his heels. Finn handed the flask back to him with a grateful look. Tycho just grimaced and took another gulp for himself.
"Congratulations, Jenkins," Finn spat. "You rendered half the goddamn States uninhabitable. Fucking bastard. I hope he's rotting in Hell."
They stood in silence, watching as the drone continued its lonely path. The devastation was inconceivable. Scott wanted to carve out a little patch of safe universe and hide there for a while. His chest felt tight again as if he couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Virgil's hand on his shoulder was possibly the only anchor he had to reality. The vague, fogginess flirted with his subconscious, offering to take over for a while so that he could float above it all.
"Goodbye Kansas," Lou breathed.
John let out a sharp chuckle, brittle and cold. "There's no place like home, right?"
Their childhood house hadn't been in their family's hands for years. It had been sold a very long time ago and Alan probably couldn't remember it at all, but the rest of them did and so there was something jarring about knowing it was gone.
Erased. Just like that. Rubbed from existence to leave a mere smear in its wake. The baseboard behind the free-standing closet in Virgil's old room which had held their names, scourged into the wood with Scott's penknife; the wizened apple tree in the back yard under which they had scattered the ashes of Skipper the Dog; kitchen walls which had borne witness to so many precious moments – all of it destroyed.
The forlorn howls of rotters beyond the walls suddenly seemed a very minor problem; more of an irritation than anything else.
The worst part, Scott considered, was that all of this suffering – the rise of death and destruction – was the result of human greed. The Hood and Jenkins had both been drunk on the illusion of godlike power. The surge of hate in his veins was so strong that it took him by surprise. He snatched the flask back from where it had ended up in John's hands and pretended the snap of liquor had caused his burning eyes.
"Alright, Scott," Finn murmured heavily, kneading his forehead to fend off the tightening band of pressure. "How are we going to play this?"
John cast a glance over the holoprojectors. "You've got a lot of frightened people. Don't mistake that for true anger."
"We've shown them violence," Virgil ground out in a hoarse whisper. He curled his fingers in the cuffs of his sweater, shrinking under the sudden weight of their stares. "Now show them compassion. We're building a better future, right? That starts here."
Scott turned to Finn. "I spoke to you before about the possibility of going to Europe. I need your promise that we'll make that a reality. Because this is- I can't look at this and not search for my family."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
Finn nodded. "Get a stable comm link set up between here and the UK and we'll figure it out. But for now… Let's get to work, sort our shit out, then get blackout drunk. Sound like a plan?"
Tycho lifted his flask in a clumsy toast. Virgil stole it from him, still ashen with horror and shaky on his feet as he leant into John's side.
"Sounds like a plan," Scott confirmed wearily.
Some things in life were so terrible that thinking of them in detail was unbearable. The radioactive wastelands which had consumed the heart of the US definitely made the list, but so did the sickening certainty that someone had been skimming off the top of his Zoloft prescription.
Long, gruelling hours at the GDF hub had left him dazed, exhausted in the overwhelmed, adrenaline crash sense that usually came hand-in-hand with post-rescue shakes as the full horror of tragedies finally hit him. He wandered home as a ghost, lost in the gloom of a snowy evening and darkness so thick that he could have drowned in it. He stumbled through the front door without bothering to knock the ice from his boots and limped upstairs to the bathroom on autopilot.
It had been a while since he had last properly looked at the Zoloft bottle. He tipped a dose into his palm every morning and knocked it back without thinking. The observation had dawned on him gingerly like some sort of nervous animal poking its head above the precipice of his subconscious, a murmured thought of how the pills seemed to be decreasing quicker than he was taking them. He had shrugged the idea off and continued to ignore it because the truth was fairly obvious but he couldn't bring himself to face it.
He cradled the orange bottle in his hands now. It seemed faintly fluorescent in the dull light from the hallway, spreading under the bathroom door like a water leak. He twisted the cap one way and then the other, picking at the edge of the faded label as he tried to remember how to breathe. Images flashed behind his eyes like a photo reel; he longed to find a way to turn them off but suspected that only existed at the bottom of a drink.
The bottle rattled. He set it on the side and tipped forwards, bracing himself against the sink as he met the dark eyes of his reflection. Footsteps shifted around the house, muted by the same shocked silence which had infected every atom at the GDF hub.
He ran the faucet and dunked his head under the icy water, gulping down air in a shocked gasp as he finally jolted back into the present. Dull pain registered on his wrist where he'd pulled the bracelet taut and those TB1-themed beads had dug into the skin. He scrubbed his hands down his face and reached for the Zoloft.
The question which kept haunting him was whether this was real. Not the situation; there was no escaping the brutal facts of that. But the truth remained that he was handling it… sort of okay, really. It hadn't knocked him into a spiral. He was still functional. He felt like crap but that was to be expected. So, he couldn't help but wonder if that was reflective of his own improvement or due to the meds. Was it genuine progress? Or was he going to nosedive once he came off them entirely?
He upended it into his cupped hands and counted the pills with an ever-growing rush of dread which spiked as he ran out on a number too low to be accurate. Recounting produced the same answer. After the fourth attempt, he had to accept reality. He poured them back into the bottle and took a step away as if putting physical distance between himself and it could change the bitter truth.
He didn't know why he'd chosen now of all times to confirm his suspicions. It was probably the worst moment; he was already jittery. Maybe it was because things were so dreadful that he wanted to get them all out in the open to save himself from any further unwanted surprises. Once the issues were out there, he could deal with them. Hopefully, anyway.
"Fuck," he hissed, startled by the sharp quality of his own voice. It seemed to shatter the silence like brittle glass. He yanked a towel off the pipes and roughly dried his hair, heart pounding an uneven drumbeat, vision stricken by momentary dizziness. Footsteps faltered in the hallway outside. He threw the door open.
If Gordon was surprised by his brother's wild-eyed, frightened animal appearance, he didn't say as much. "Um… you good?"
"Where's Virgil?"
"At Finn's place." Gordon went to comment, then clawed back the words. "Are you sure you're-?"
"I'm fine. Finn's place, yeah? Great."
"Scott…"
"I'll be back later. Look after Alan. Don't do anything I wouldn't. Or anything I would. Just… be responsible. Act like Virgil, okay? I've got to go."
"Scott, can I just-?"
"Thanks, Gords. See you later."
The invitation of drinks at Finn's place had initially been an open offer to anyone with a role within the GDF but soon spread far and wide until it seemed as if most people in the Sanctuary had migrated to the flat, squarish roof.
Low-slung cloud prevented sound from travelling great distances, so it was safe to turn up the music and sing karaoke in loud, slurred voices made slippery by liquor and liquid despair. Word of the devastated southern states travelled quickly and everyone was looking for a distraction. Heavy bass threaded through the streets, slinking down dark alleys and coiling in pools of lights under lampposts, a constant pounding thrum like a heartbeat.
The siren song of a party invited anyone who was not yet in attendance and Scott was momentarily thrown back in time to his college days; tight-fitting jeans and loose shirts; unironic red solo cups; music so loud that it became a physical presence; the smeared crescent of a girl's lipstick left on his neck when he awoke the next morning to a growling hangover but a sense of satisfaction too. This gathering would be nothing like those days, but the allure of feelings-free bliss waiting at the finish line of a relay race of strong drinks was a welcome relic.
Lights blared from the building like a beacon; flashes of vibrant multicolour; an alien landing strip or perhaps a disco freed from a room. The clouds above reflected shades of purple, blue and pink whilst also maintaining the sickly yellowish hue of soon-to-fall snow.
Every room in the house was packed and not just with familiar faces. Finn's distant shout was incoherent, broken by brittle laughter that had a similar hysterical pitch to an overwhelmed child. Clearly he was beyond caring what went on in his home, an idea that was proven by the number of slipped packages containing gateways to a numbness far more dangerous than alcoholic blackouts.
The house was crammed to capacity and then some. People of all ages clustered in corridors, stairwells, the dark recesses of unlit corners; rooms filled with the vaguely sour smell of too many bodies packed into one space. A couple of heavily built GDF agents were slouched against the wall outside, sharing cigarette smoke and grinding the ashes under their heels so that once-white snow became a dreary concrete grey. It was a night for forgetting; a night to set aside grief like an unwanted overcoat and find new warmth in the artificial sentiment of losing oneself in pre-apocalypse coping methods.
Scott scouted each room briefly, a quick look around a doorframe followed by a hasty retreat before he could be spotted and lose his ghostly sense of anonymity. Everyone was too off their heads to recognise him at first glance and consequently he could float around the house as if he were invisible.
Every step towards the roof brought an uncanny feeling of being undone, unravelling, a balloon with a cut tether drifting away into the sky. He was swamped by every emotion and none all at once. It was making his head spin. He stumbled through the door onto the roof terrace, seeking clean air and possibly even a hint of clarity too as he clung to that important thought of I need to find Virgil.
The terrace was bitterly cold yet people shed layers as if they were gathered around a swimming pool in the fever-heat of midsummer. A string of lights wove through the railings, twinkling merrily in the face of a desolate sky.
Scott longed for an ability to press pause on the moment until he could catch his breath. Instead, he pushed his way through the crowds, making use of his height to pick a path over to the makeshift bar where bottles glittered like iridescent beetles. He'd spotted a familiar shock of ginger hair and while it was Virgil he was intent on finding, it was still a relief to locate John too.
"This isn't your scene," he commented, sliding into the recently vacated space at John's side before a pinch-faced woman with shrew-like features could steal it. "I thought you hated events like this? You don't like loud noise. Or talking. Or… well, people."
"I like free drinks," John replied pointedly, pressing the cold side of his bottle against his forehead as he tried to focus on anything other than the crowd around him. "And someone needed to be here to keep an eye on Virgil."
"Sorry, what?"
"Our brother," John said slowly as if explaining complex gravitational equations to a kindergarten kid, "is very drunk."
"Seriously?"
"Oh, I'm deadly serious." John gave a dark chuckle as he took a dreg from the bottle. "We came here directly from the GDF hub. No one wasted any time before starting on the hard stuff. Finn's been off his head for the past forty minutes. I haven't seen Lou, I think she went home. But Tycho and Virgil? It's not pretty. Thoroughly predictable, but not ideal."
Scott reached over the bar to snag a bottle. "Where is he?"
"Downstairs, I think." John caught Scott's wrist before he could drain the rest of the drink. "Slow down. I'm not dealing with both of you tonight."
The comment might have been sharp but Scott still registered the real concern behind it, well accustomed to picking up on the faint nuances in John's face from near misses on rescues when his professional mask had slipped just a fraction. He tightened his grip on the bottle, suddenly hyperaware of the bodies around him; the brush of fabric; fingers coiling around his elbow as someone sidled up to him with a request to dance.
"Oh, fuck off," John snapped, glare hot enough to melt the residual ice on the roof. "He's not interested." He snatched another bottle from the bar and shoved it into the woman's hands. "Take this and get out of my sight."
Scott raised a brow. "That was… something."
"I'm not in the mood to be dealing with people tonight," John muttered, rolling his shoulders as if to physically shake off the woman's faded insults. "If you want to sleep with the first person to throw themself at you then that's your business but do it after you help me get Virgil home."
"Right," Scott agreed softly.
The tiny word was almost snatched by the sharp snap of music and misery. He exhaled in a rush, chasing away the overwhelming awareness of his own senses with another long drink, then reached for a cup which he filled too high with a clear bottle that he had assumed was vodka but turned out to be something far stronger.
"Scott," John said, not quite a rebuke but not entirely dissimilar. He gripped the bottle and sought eye contact which Scott avoided, ducking his gaze to the stained rings of past drinks on the scuffed woodwork. "Christ. Would you just…" He tossed back the remainder of his own glass and slammed it onto the bar. "Let's go. You shouldn't be here."
"It's a free country."
"It's not healthy for you to be here, now come on."
The idea of stepping back into the crowd which stood between them and the exit seemed akin to climbing Everest immediately after completely a triathlon; completely insane and so exhausting that the mere thought was nauseating. Scott leant back against the bar, vaguely conscious of how it dug into his lower spine like a dull bruise. He was sweating despite the chill and the vague ringing in his ears had increased to a low buzz.
Thoughts came thick and fast like watching passing mundanities from a city train; each sight speeding by too quickly to pin it down and examine it. There was an entire hurricane trying to squash itself into his chest and he couldn't catch his breath. The realisation dawned on him like an afterthought – a hazy, disconnected observation – which swiftly grew to leave no room for any ideas other than the fear of freaking out in front of everyone.
"Shit," John muttered, seizing him by the bicep and dragging him over to the icy railing. "You don't need to prove my point, you know? No, don't look at them. They're irrelevant. Look at me. You're okay. There's plenty of air. You can- No, give me that. I've already got one drunk brother to handle, I don't need another. What is this, anyway?"
"This?" Finn's voice chimed in, accompanied by a warm weight as he plastered himself against Scott's back, reaching around to claim the drink for himself.
Oddly enough, his presence served as an anchor and Scott took an unsteady breath as he felt Finn's loud laugh rumble against his back.
"You're hitting the hard stuff tonight, huh?" Finn staggered slightly, tossing the empty cup over his shoulder. His eyes were unfocussed, pupils magnified to dark pits with the distinctive sheen of intoxication. "Moonshine, baby."
"Great," John deadpanned. "You're serving illegal liquor."
"Yeah, yeah, so what? Good luck calling the cops on me, Tracy." Finn wiped a clumsy hand down his face. "It's hard to find drinks nowadays. We've gotta make our own and this shit's one of the only recipes I know. Gimme a break. Yo, Scotty, you good?"
"Yeah," Scott mumbled, still partly floating, strung out on a thin piece of string so that he only had one foot in his body and could witness the partygoers from afar. "Sorta."
"There ya go. Back with us, huh?" Finn gave him a light push towards John. "All yours, Red. Look after him for me. Today's been crap."
Scott zoned back out. The party was a confusing blend of mismatched pieces; lights glittering off bottles and glasses; slinky dancers moving like cats; watchful eyes which saw nothing of true value; desperate hands and stolen jokes; amber-hearted heaters to beat back the cold; a constant cloak of misery which hid in the shadow of drinks and drugs and resurfaced again just as people believed they were safe from that disbelieving grief.
John's grip was tight on his arm, guiding him past glazed glares and reaching hands until they tracked down Virgil.
Tycho was talking faster than he could form words and the result was a lot of frantic gestures and slurred half-syllables. Virgil nodded along as if he could understand. He was lounged in a large armchair the same colour as rusty leaves in autumnal Connecticut, surrounded by a collection of empty cups which Tycho kept accidentally knocking over. The lights were dimmed to warm embers in the tiny spare room and most people had left to find a brighter, more exhilarating night.
"Scott," Virgil declared delightedly, rough with drink and emotion. The desolate spark of horror hadn't faded from his eyes since he'd glimpsed the drone images despite his attempts to drown it in drink. "Scotty, c'mere."
Scott gingerly stepped closer, trying not to trip over the debris. Virgil grabbed his hands and pulled him down onto the armchair too, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
John muttered something in Polish, kneading his forehead as he took in the sight. "This is a nightmare."
"Not if you drink enough," Tycho informed him, bouncy and bubbly like a cartoon character, all chirpy as he offered a cup. "We've done our job. Fuck the world. We deserve a night off."
John took a cautious sniff. "What even is this?"
"No idea," Virgil confessed, tucking his face into the crook of Scott's neck. "S'like… sharp."
"Sharp," John echoed in a long-suffering tone.
"Yuh-uh."
Scott stole a sip from Virgil's cup. "Jeezus, this tastes like aviation fuel. And I would know."
"You drank aviation fuel?" Virgil's eyes widened.
"What? No."
Scott was saved from any more drunken interrogations by a sudden commotion in the main room. It wasn't entirely unexpected; tensions were high. But something about the tone of those shouts rang alarm bells. He scrambled to his feet and followed John up the narrow flight of steps to the roof.
The atmosphere – sabre-toothed desperation for a break from everyday apocalyptic horror mixed with carefree recklessness – had faltered. The music dulled slightly, replaced by chatter which aimed for whispers but came out at full volume. Heads swivelled to the railing as if drawn by magnetism, a sick fascination which kept all eyes fixed on another's downfall.
"I'm not screwing around!" Gordon's shout held a frantic note, a wild plea for reason as control of the situation spiralled out of his grasp. It was unclear when he had arrived at the party but he sounded stone-cold sober. "Get down from there right now."
Scott shouldered aside the onlookers and stumbled out of the crowd in time to witness his worst nightmare come to life. He took a feeble step closer. Words abandoned him. He was utterly helpless, rooted to the spot by some otherworldly force. Thoughts bundled together to form a rush of white noise as jarring as a scream.
"M'not doing anything wrong," Alan protested. "Jus' wanted to see the sky."
He spread his arms as if he were about to take flight, craning his neck to search the sky for stars hidden by gloom. His calm air was almost as chilling as the sight of him standing on the railing to begin with, sneakers slippery with ice and made all the more precarious by the betrayal of alcohol in his voice.
"You can see the sky from down here."
"It's loud."
"The party? But you were the one who wanted to-" Gordon held up his hands in surrender. "We can leave, okay? We can go someplace where it's nice and quiet. But you've gotta come down from there first. It's really dangerous and you're, uh, you're kind of scaring me, Alan."
"I'm scaring everyone."
"You don't have to."
"I don't know how to s-stop."
"Maybe not," Gordon conceded, inching closer until he could wrap a hand around Alan's ankle. "But I know how you can make a start."
Alan considered this point for several infinitely long seconds. He glanced down, finally registering Gordon's grip and blinked at the sight as if only just noticing that his brother was genuinely scared.
Gordon met his gaze and refused to look away, painfully gentle as he whispered, "Please."
Scott surged forwards even before Alan's heels smacked onto the roof. Gordon yanked the kid into his arms, tightening his hands to fists in Alan's shirt.
"Jesus Christ, Al," he gasped out, ragged with relief but still unable to shake the fear. "You scared the shit outta me."
Alan stared at him blankly as if the entire interaction were a mystery to him. He was breathing rapidly despite this supposed indifference, cheeks flushed from the bitter wind and concoction of drinks he'd downed at some point throughout the evening.
"Alan," Gordon repeated urgently, lifting his hands to cup the kid's face in a move usually left to his much bigger brothers. "Hey, hey, you're okay."
"Gordy?" Alan said in a tiny voice, suddenly drained of all colour and shaking as badly as Scott's hands were. "I'm gonna puke."
Gordon didn't quite leap back in time as Alan promptly threw up over his shoes. In a different context, Scott would have found it funny because he'd been in Gordon's place so many times, but right now he was struggling to comprehend any of what he'd just witnessed.
He was vaguely aware of John frozen at his side and Virgil's sluggish confusion behind them, still too dazed by drink to understand what had happened but processing enough to recognise that they'd reached some sort of emotional tipping point of which the fallout might possibly be worse even than the radiation.
Gordon pressed his knuckles to his mouth, swallowed, then steeled himself, bravely attempting to ignore his ruined shoes. He planted a supportive hand on Alan's shoulder, tracing circles with his thumb as he eased his brother away from the mess.
"Sorry," Alan choked, continuing to wheeze apologies as he stumbled and nearly tripped. It was only Gordon's reflexes which saved him from faceplanting. "I r-ruined your shoes."
"It's just shoes, Allie," Gordon tried to joke, all light-heartedness overwhelmed by panicked concern. He threw a frightened look at Scott. "They don't matter."
"N-no, 'cos I…" Alan let out another of those weak, hiccupping sobs, curling a hand against his chest until his nails dug into the fabric above his heart. "I keep ruining every- e-everything."
"No," Gordon denied with a vehement shake of his head. "You haven't ruined anything. I swear to you, okay?" He faltered, floundering for words but finding himself at a loss. "You want me to swear on Four? Okay, sure. Hell, look, I'll even swear on Mo-"
Alan nearly backhanded him, slapping a hand across his mouth before he could finish the sentence.
"Don't. Not on Mom. Not- Okay? You can't- Not without knowing- Just don't."
Gordon shoved his hand away. "Okay. I won't."
They fell into a raw, fragmented silence. People were staring. Scott could feel their gazes, hot on his back, corrosive like acid, every ugly secret laid bare for judgement. He wanted to scream at them to leave, had they not already witnessed enough pain since Z-Day, did they really need to watch more as if their lives were some sort of goddamn soap opera to be dissected and gossiped about?
John had that part handled, coercing the crowd away, claiming the rooftop for their own personal Tracy tragedies. Virgil tried to crouch at Alan's side but ended up on his hands and knees in the snow. Gordon shot him a dark look but didn't comment.
"What happened?" Scott demanded, experiencing a brief flash of guilt as Gordon wilted under the sharp tone. "You were supposed to stay at home."
"Alan wanted to be here," Gordon confessed in a tortured whisper. "It's been so long since he's wanted to do anything, so I thought… I lost him in the crowd and then I found him again and I don't what he drank or how much but he's, um, kind of wasted. Sorry. Yell at me later, 'kay?"
Alan picked up on the low threads of conversation, eyes wide and owlish, clenching his jaw in an attempt to hold back another miserable whimper. He couldn't keep his gaze focussed, blinking rapidly as if the world were a mirage spinning in-and-out of reality. Scott caught his chin and tilted his head to inspect his pupils.
"Oh, shit," Gordon exhaled. "Is he…?"
John swept him aside to examine those blown-wide pupils.
"What did you take?" His voice rose to a shout. "Alan, what the fuck did you take?"
"Zoloft," Scott supplied quietly.
Alan's flinch confirmed it. He tore himself away from Scott's hands and nearly slipped on the frozen flagstones where spilled drinks had formed a new threat. He was breathing in that ragged, uneven pattern; strangled, shallow gasps indicative of a developing panic attack. There was a wary sense of a cornered animal about him, too overwhelmed to bolt but fearful of every movement.
John's face went scarily blank. "What?"
"Zoloft," Scott repeated wearily. "The numbers don't match anymore. How much did you take?"
"I…"
"No." John spun around, clawing his hands through his hair with an icy laugh void of any emotion beyond utter exhaustion. "This isn't happening."
"John," Scott ventured, taken aback by the wild light in his brother's eyes.
"I'm not doing this again. Do you understand? I cannot do this again. I had to watch you with your goddamn death wish for years and I'm not doing it again. Not with him. I'm just- I'm done. Okay? I'm done with this."
Gordon remained frozen. Virgil was clawing his way towards sobriety, face turned upwards so that the falling snow melted down his face like tears. Alan stared helplessly at John's back as his brother stalked over to the railing and clung to it in an aching grip, bowing his head as he leaned over the void and screamed. The sound was so painful that Scott flinched.
"I'm sorry." Alan's voice shattered, small, terminally devastated. "I'm s-sorry, I didn't- I was just trying to- They worked for Scotty and I needed to- I just wanted to stop feeling like… I wasn't getting better and Dr Briggs wanted to give up on me but then I'd be stuck like this and I just wanted to be okay so I could stop worrying you so I- I tried one and it didn't work and then- I took two today b-but now I feel even w-worse a-and-"
Gordon jolted forwards just in time to catch Alan as his legs gave out. He crumpled into Gordon's arms as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him. Scott knelt in front of them as Gordon eased Alan gently to the ground, curling around him like a human shield, refusing to let go even as Alan lashed out until finally his wild struggles ceased.
"What happened?" Scott asked softly, wiping blood from Alan's chin where he'd bitten his lip.
Alan stared at him for a long minute, searching for some unknown certainty.
"I think I killed someone."
Virgil scrubbed snow over his face to wake himself up, tilting his head as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard. John turned away from the railing and Scott caught his gaze over the tops of Alan's and Gordon's heads to be met with sickened dread.
Alan swallowed, trying to find his voice before it abandoned him again.
"I didn't mean to. He just- There were two of them at the bunker and they- One guy had a gun and he, um, he h-hit me with it and I couldn't- I tried to grab it from him and it- I didn't mean for it- I didn't know it would fire. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, I was just trying to escape, I swear, but it went off and- The other guy, he, um, he fell down a-and there was s-so much blood but I didn't stop to check if…"
Horrified silence stole the oxygen from the air to leave them all breathless, dizzy with shock and the rush of self-loathing that accompanied the realisation that they'd failed to protect the one person they'd sworn to save from carrying such a burden.
"Alan," Virgil murmured, damp and twisted with barely restrained emotion. "God, Allie."
"It never stops. It's always in my head. And it's so loud, I can't think sometimes and- I k-killed him, I… I hate this, I hate me, I need it to get better. I just want it to go away and it never does and I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry for everything but it won't stop."
Scott slid an arm around him and coaxed him into falling against his chest while Gordon scrambled to his feet to check on John who appeared to be having some sort of silent breakdown.
"I want it to s-stop," Alan choked out between gasps for air, inhales tripping over exhales, strangled by sobs as he buried his face in Scott's shirt. "I need it to go away, Dad, I can't keep- It has to get better. Please. It's got to- I just want everything to be quiet."
"I know." Scott pressed a kiss to the crown of Alan's head. "I know," he repeated, hating the way his voice betrayed his secret tears. Virgil fell into place at his side, swiftly followed by Gordon and John.
"It's going to be okay," John promised, glaring up at the sky as if daring some greater power to claim otherwise. "You'll be okay, Allie."
"We'll figure this out," Scott agreed fiercely. "It's going to get better."
