The first few flights were short hops between safe zones. The decontamination packs were stored in secure crates at the rear of the cabin alongside other supplies. Word had gotten around about the project and survivors had willingly donated. Improved comm links had cultivated a stronger sense of companionship a very human bond of solidarity and compassion. Many people had fled the radiation and even those who had been luckier could empathise with the survivors who were still suffering.

It was simple flying which Scott could have done in his sleep. Or blindfolded. Or with his hands tied behind his back. It wasn't boring as such – he'd spent too long grounded to take his newfound wings for granted like that – but it wasn't exactly the chance to push the limits that he'd been craving.

It was the first time he'd flown solo since the apocalypse had begun.

He reflected on that final flight to New York with dull pang of pity for his past self's naivety. How easily he had dismissed that video clip of what he now knew to have been some of the earliest infected. He had walked away without a second thought like an idiot. Back then that board meeting had been such a high priority. Now, money was meaningless. He glanced over his shoulder at the crates, faintly amused by the way history repeated itself; here they were, back to trading supplies like medieval townsfolk.

It grated to stay subsonic when he knew just how powerful the engines were but accelerating to hypersonic speeds would burn too much fuel. He had a rough estimate for how long he would be airborne but that could very easily change and so the math had to account for an overly generous safety margin.

That being said, it was a longer flight down to the rendezvous point, so once he had completed his round trip to collect supplies from the other safe zones he could push the engines a little harder until he was travelling at only ten kilometres per hour below Mach 1.

There was a brief moment immediately after take-off but before the wings had gathered enough lift to fight against gravity in which everything seemed entirely weightless. Time stood still. Reality bended the rules to fit around the plane. The ground spiralled away and the sky beckoned. It was both exhilarating and a comfort: simultaneously a return home and the dawn of a grand adventure.

It didn't matter how well you understood the science behind it – physics and math and even a hint of chemistry too – there would always be magic in flight. That moment when wheels left the ground held a sense of wonder which had heartrates quickening in either anticipation or anxiety depending on your attitude towards flying. Throttle forward; landing gear retracted; shift from VTOLs to horizontal flight; aircraft nose to the ceiling and sights on the sky.

In the three minutes it took to climb to cruising altitude, every worry seemed to fade. Wingtips cut ribbons through the clouds as he skimmed the uppermost layer of white cotton, then rose a little higher to take advantage of the tailwind. For the first time in months, he could properly exhale. He propped his forearm against the canopy and grinned at the warmth of the sun. It was entirely plausible that he was the only person in the sky - across North America at least if not the world.

He had a mission to focus on. People were relying on him. This was the time to be responsible. But… those lives weren't in imminent danger. He could afford to take sixty seconds to let loose, go wild, have some fun. He'd been apart from the sky for too long and while it still felt as if a part of him were missing – because no matter how responsive this aircraft was, her controls could never match up to One's instinctive reactions – everything seemed to slot neatly into place.

So, he pushed to the limits; broke the sound barrier but remained below hypersonic speeds; tried an inverted dive; carved patterns in the clouds and spun loops through the expanse of blue from which deeper navy marked the mesosphere above.

The subsequent adrenaline rush was a pleasant buzz quite unlike the sickening energy spike that he'd grown accustomed to throughout the apocalypse. The clouds were too thick to spy the ground, but he flipped to fly upside down so that the sea of blue became his world and the cotton wool formed a new sky. He imagined there was some sort of clever remark which could be made about changed perspectives but he couldn't bring himself to care about anything except the familiar butterflies of defying gravity.

He rose to the operational ceiling limit then - in a move which was utterly insane and served no purpose beyond easing the itch in his soul that missed daring death just to soothe his own ego – let the plane fall from the sky. It was a manoeuvre that he could have pulled in his sleep and he recovered easily enough, but it left him giddy with adrenaline and laughter. He drank in the sight – and the sound and the feeling – before puncturing a hole in the clouds and hurtling towards his target.

The trail of trucks could easily be picked out from above: a thin line of ants meandering across an empty expanse. Technically, the meeting place where Scott was supposed to join them was not for another few miles – they were still within land which had been reclaimed from bandits – but he didn't see the harm in extra protection. He dropped down for a fly-by, an unnecessary display given they had already established radio contact but one which boosted morale. Several figures riding in the backs of trucks lifted their arms and he could imagine their loud whoops.

"Nice wings," the civilian safe zone leader – whom he had since learnt went by Zee – remarked dryly over the radio link.

"Nice wheels," Scott replied without missing a beat.

A loud laugh crackled from the comm. He shook his head with a wide grin, then turned his attention back to the true task. Thermal scans didn't show any bandits in the vicinity, so he flew on to check the road ahead. Turbulence grew worse but the land below looked clear.

A new air pocket sent his wings lurching to the left. He gained altitude to compensate, irritation prickling across the back of his neck. At this height visibility was reduced, blocked by low cloud and a strange haze. It was hardly the first time he'd had to rely on instrumentation but he still liked having visual confirmation. There was actually very little to do, so he called John.

"No," John answered in lieu of hello or any appropriate greeting. "Go away."

"That's hurtful."

"I'm busy. Bother Virgil."

"Virgil's busy too. And before you suggest Gordon or Alan, they're also unavailable. Gordon's got that big show today, hasn't he? That one he planned with the kids. He somehow persuaded Alan to paint the backdrop. So, they're both busy."

"Then call Marisa."

"I can't just call Mari."

"Why not? You called me."

"I bother you all the time. It's different."

John's holo vanished as he changed to audio-only. "I'm on the verge of a breakthrough. I've nearly secured a signal to the UK. Someone's been broadcasting on the GDF open frequency for months and if you'd just let me concentrate then I think I can stabilise the connection."

"Seriously?"

"Scott."

"Okay, okay, I'm shutting up. You won't even notice I'm here."

"I can sense you. It's very irritating."

"…What does that even mean?"

John's holo reappeared. He pushed his glasses up into his hair and pinched the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh. For several seconds, he just looked at Scott which translated his meaning both succinctly and successfully.

"Sorry," Scott conceded, suitably abashed. "So… the UK might actually be a possibility? Before Christmas?"

"If you'd let me get on with it, then yes."

"Point taken."

John knocked his glasses into place again. "Go back to showing off."

"Are you still mad because I buzzed the tower?"

"It was entirely unnecessary, Scott."

"Anyway, who said I was showing off?"

"So, you haven't done a fly-by at an unnecessarily low altitude?"

There was a brief pause.

"I'll let you get back to work," Scott said and promptly ended the transmission.

Radiation levels gradually ticked upwards. It wasn't dangerous but extended exposure would not be healthy. He kept an eye on the Geiger counter. If he'd had his way, they'd have evacuated both safe zones and brought the survivors north. But there was no infrastructure in place to support them, not to mention the more crucial issue of how there was currently no way to safely transport that many people.

On the upside, the two safe zones had planned a secure bunker. Once their resources were pooled, they would work together to construct it in triple-quick time. Survivors from both zones would live there until it was feasible for them to move north – or further south if contact had been gained with that hemisphere by then – and once the decontamination packs had been delivered, radiation sickness should no longer be an issue.

A flicker on the thermal scans caught his attention. A glitch maybe? He drummed a hand against the canopy. Instinct told him that it was worth paying attention for a few more seconds. It had been over a year since he'd last flown One yet he found himself reaching for the VTOLs instinctively except oh wait, those controls were situated elsewhere. In the time it took to register this, the glitch had returned to prove itself to be a distinctive target.

Goddammit.

The bandits were approaching from the east. Their speed was consistent with that of moving vehicles: fifty, sixty miles per hour. He dove to below the cloud cover to examine the landscape. It was mostly flat with no obvious observation points, so how the hell had the bandits known to head for the supply chain? The only possibilities were a hacked radio signal or some sort of drone technology and he was willing to bet on which it was.

It didn't take long to locate the drone. He took entirely too much pleasure in tracking it, stalking from afar, smug in the knowledge that he could see the bandits on his screen but they could not see him. They couldn't hear him either given their engines and his altitude, mice to his silent raptor.

He hovered above them for a minute. Dark satisfaction flooded into his grin, reflected back at him in the glass as he activated the targeting system. He locked onto the drone in four seconds – damn, he was outta practice – and despatched it in less than two.

Then came the fun part – persuading the bandits to turn back and flee with their tails between their legs. He switched to manual targeting and finally revealed his presence, swooping from the clouds to fire a warning shot and accelerating to higher altitudes before anyone had time to process what the hell had just happened.

"That's right," he muttered as the group closed ranks and changed course. "Run back to whatever miserable hole you crawled out of. Next time I won't be so merciful."

The rest of the mission went smoothly. He landed using VTOLs and helped out on the ground for a couple of hours.

"Thanks for the help," Zee told him as he propped himself against the fuselage to finish his drink before heading back to the Sanctuary. "I've missed knowing there's a Thunderbird around to haul my ass outta trouble."

Scott patted the gunmetal hull fondly. "She's no Thunderbird, ma'am."

"With you at the controls?" Zee arched a brow. "Son, she may as well be."


It was approaching eleven-PM when he arrived back at the Sanctuary. It was so dark that the sky seemed to have a presence - not unwelcome but slightly unsettling at the same time – which pressed in on all sides. Tiredness physically ached behind his eyes and his clamber from the cockpit was an undignified slither as a consequence.

"Smooth," Gordon called, lounged against the wall where he'd watched from a questionably safe distance as Scott had landed on the helipad. "Elegant, even."

Scott was too tired to think of a retort, so flipped him the bird. Gordon grinned, kicking away from the wall to join him. The GDF hub passed in a blur as they headed inside to the elevators. The mirrored walls were dizzying and Scott pressed his knuckles against his eyes with a repressed yawn.

"This is late for you," he remarked.

Gordon shrugged. "Our resident night-owls are asleep. It's a weird role reversal. Well, John's still working but that's Johnny for you. I figured I'd catch up with you while we have chance. How was the mission? Shoot any bandits?"

"Sort of."

"Good riddance."

The cold air of the street refreshed him a little. Scott stifled a yawn and looped an arm around Gordon's shoulders. If it had the added benefit of keeping himself upright when all he wanted to do was fall asleep on the spot, then hey, no one had to know.

"How'd today go?"

Gordon tipped his head back to study the dark sky.

"Good, I guess." His voice was distant. "Tiring. More so for Alan than for me, which is why he crashed so early. It's just…"

He scrubbed a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh.

"I dunno. He feels even a hint of happiness and feels guilty for it and it's painful to watch. But it's easier for him now that you know. It was- Well, there are some details he left out and I'm not gonna break his trust but ouch, y'know? Not good."

"Ouch," Scott echoed quietly, casting him a sideways glance. It was an unofficial question and Gordon was too observant to miss it.

"I might as well tell you, 'cos Virg knows now and he's literally incapable of keeping secrets from you. So, um, remember how I said the hole in the wall by the bathroom happened when I accidentally slammed the door into it? Yeah, that wasn't me."

"I kind of figured that much."

"Really?"

"It's a suspiciously fist-shaped hole, Gords. And I've punched enough walls to know what that looks like."

"That is such a concerning sentence."

"When did Alan…?"

Gordon scuffed his heels in the slush where scattered salt had melted the ice.

"The day you guys left for the airbase. We had this serious conversation about it and that's how I got him to agree to tell you about some of the depressingly tragic shit going on in his head."

"We need to figure something else out because Dr Briggs clearly isn't a good fit." Scott stuffed his hands into his pockets, absently noting how much colder it was here. "John thinks the UK might be an option by the end of the month."

"Yeah, well." Gordon hesitated, voice becoming a hushed whisper. "John thinks a lot of stuff." He twisted his bracelets through his coat sleeve. "Allie's… Telling us about it isn't a magic cure-all. But it's better now he's not stealing meds."

Scott tried to gauge the level of bitterness in those words. "Are you angry with him about that?"

"Obviously. But he took them because he was desperate and they made him feel even worse which is punishment enough, so, you know. It is what it is or some bullshit. I just want him to be okay."

"And?"

"And he's scaring the hell outta me." Gordon kicked at a clump of snow. "You want to know the worst part? He seemed completely fine around the kids earlier. Like, one-hundred percent a-okay, on top form. All smiles and jokes. If I didn't know better, I'd have been fooled too. And it's terrifying. Because I do that. I know how- I hate how good he is at pretending. Because then it's like, okay, what if this isn't a new thing? What if he's felt this shitty in the past too but I missed it?"

"Is he okay right now?"

"I'd say it's fairly fucking obvious that he's not okay."

"In this precise moment, is he safe?"

Gordon trailed off. "Yeah."

"Then let's just… go from here. Get some sleep, reassess in the morning."

"Okay."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Scott tugged him closer. "We'll be alright."

The remainder of the walk consisted of weary silence. It was an uncomfortable reminder of those weeks which Gordon had spent mostly trapped in his own head; trauma which he still hadn't fully talked through and had since repressed due to necessity. He still got sort of twitchy when handling guns nowadays, not to mention that the sight of Alan on that railing had probably revived the memory of Scott too close to the edge of the hospital roof. Even months later, it was a raw image.

The house was a merciful reprieve from the cold. Someone had left the TV on in the lounge, playing some British-narrated documentary on deep-sea creatures, turned so low that the words were a reassuring murmur. Marisa was curled into a corner of the couch, leafing through a book with one hand whilst she carded the other through Alan's hair. He was stretched across the cushions with his head pillowed on her knees, fast asleep while Finch watched over him from the floor.

Scott curled a hand around the doorframe to steady himself. An unfamiliar mix of emotions made it difficult to find words although he couldn't pinpoint the reason why. He turned back to Gordon with questioning look.

"What? Oh, yeah, I forget to say – Marisa's here. Virg was asleep and John's reached that point where he gets so absorbed in a project that he's completely oblivious to everything around him, so she offered to keep an eye on Al while I went to meet you. Like, he's fine, he was mostly asleep, but I didn't want to leave him alone."

Gordon chipped the final clumps of ice from his boots and tossed them aside to dry off. He slapped a hand on the switch for the overhead light as he headed into the kitchen, earning a demonic hiss from John who was hunched over pages of notes and a mangled radio.

"This is why you need glasses," Gordon informed him cheerily. "Because you work in the dark and squint all the time. You're like a bat." He peered over John's shoulder. "Huh. That looks promising."

"Really?" Scott asked from the doorway.

Gordon snorted. "Hell if I know. I'm not a coding genius."

"This isn't code," John growled.

"What is it then? Looks like an alien language. Xen something? What's the nerd phrase?"

John batted him away with a low curse. "Xenolinguistics. Now get out of my space."

"Oh, he's grumpy." Gordon skidded out of range with a laugh, hastily muffled in his sleeve as he recalled that Alan was asleep in the next room. "Yo Scoot, did you eat?"

"Um…"

"If you're thinking about it, then it was too long ago. Go chill with Mari, I'll make you something."

"That's… oddly considerate of you."

"What can I say, I'm a ray of sunshine." Gordon swung open a cupboard door dangerously close to John's head. "But mostly because I don't trust you with a knife right now. You're dead on your feet. I can't believe you piloted in that state. Reckless flying!" He lowered the breadknife. "Okay, seriously Scott, sit down. You're a hazard."

Scott tried to pretend as if he wasn't stifling another yawn. "Rude. I demand respect."

"I'll respect you a lot more if you sit your ass down, old man."

"Whatever, kid."

He nearly stumbled into the doorframe on his way into the lounge. In hindsight, agreeing to the supply mission the day after his return from the airbase had been a mistake; he'd pushed past his limits and now not only was he exhausted but his situational awareness was shot to hell. He rubbed the forming bruise on his hip as he sank onto the armrest beside Marisa, unwilling to risk waking Alan by moving the kid's feet so that he could sit on the actual couch.

Marisa lowered the volume on the already-quiet TV. "Wow. Look what the cat dragged in."

"You're hilarious."

"I am, aren't I?" Her teasing smile melted into something fonder. "Really though. You look shattered. How did the supply run go? Any trouble?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"Oh, I'm sure."

Scott scrubbed the tiredness from his vision. "Thanks for this evening. You didn't have to come over."

"Of course I did. We're… Well. You survive with someone for long enough and you tend to grow attached, don't you?" Marisa's gaze flickered back to Alan's death grip on the blanket. His knuckles were still scabbed, angry bruises painting the back of his hand in maroon. "He's a good kid."

"Tell me about it." More anguish bled into Scott's voice than he'd intended. "Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to see that."

Marisa reached up and caught his wrist as he went to run a hand through his hair. For a moment, they sat in silence. She seemed as startled by her own action as he was. In the dim light thrown from the stained-glass lamp it was difficult to read her expression. Her grip loosened but Scott didn't pull away, waiting with a strange sense of eagerness to learn what she'd been about to say.

She hesitated, then whispered, "You're doing a good job. It's an impossible situation, but you're… You're handling it well, that's all I meant."

"I don't know what the right choice is anymore," he confessed. "If John can contact a safe zone in the UK… every part of me says to go. It's not as if Dr Briggs worked out. But we have no idea what we'd be flying into. At least here we've got access to resources. It's stable. Safe. How can I give all of it up on a possibility?"

Marisa's grip tightened a fraction. "Can you live with yourself if you don't?"

"I…"

"The most important thing for Alan is a support system which is us. As long as we're with him, he'll be okay. As for the rest: if it doesn't work out, we can come back. It's not a one-way trip. It might take a while, but we'll figure it out."

"I just… I don't want to screw this up."

"I know." She traced a soothing circle with her thumb. "But whatever you decide, we'll back you up every step of the way. You're not alone. We're a team, remember?"

"Right," Scott agreed faintly. His heartbeat was tripping over itself, a strange, fluttery thing that was not entirely unpleasant. "I, uh- Yeah. Sorry, I'm…" He gestured vaguely. "…all over the place. I think I need to crash for a few hours. It's been a long day."

Marisa eased Alan's head onto the couch, miraculously managing not to wake him as she slipped out and shook the pins-and-needles sensations from her legs.

Less than forty-eight hours earlier, Scott had witnessed her plunge her hands into zombified brains and face down bandits yet now she was in soft clothes with the light scent of rationed soap powder, impossibly gentle as she crouched to press a kiss to Alan's forehead. It seemed impossible to reconcile the two instances with one another but also made perfect sense. She was a collection of contradictions and Scott still couldn't figure her out.

He braced himself against the back of the couch as his balance wavered.

Marisa shot him an exasperated look. "Go to bed, Tracy."

"I'm fine."

"Hmm." She stepped closer – so close that their knees brushed; warm cotton against the rough fabric of his flight suit – and deliberated something, then settled for running a hand over his shoulder. "Don't stay up too late, okay?"

"Yeah, Scotty," Gordon chimed in, balancing two plates on one arm as he carried drinks into the room. "You need your beauty sleep. You could give someone nightmares with that face."

"Thanks," Scott deadpanned.

Marisa let out a hushed laugh as she scooped up her jacket from the armchair. "Oh, I don't know. I think you're fairly easy on the eyes. Night guys, see you tomorrow."

Gordon set the drinks on the coffee table, watching her go. "Huh."

"What?" Scott demanded.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

"I hate it when you do that."

"Shut up and eat your sandwich."

Scott sent him a final dubious glare, then sank into Marisa's vacated seat. The sandwich was good, although to be fair he had reached the point of hunger where anything would have tasted Michelin-star-worthy.

Gordon took his empty plate back into the kitchen, while Scott settled into the embrace of the couch, revelling in the warmth. A knot of tension had formed in his lower back at some point throughout the day and he twisted awkwardly in an attempt to reach it. If Gordon were to return sooner than expected, he would doubtless be in for a world of 'old age' jibes.

"Are you okay?" Alan asked groggily, peering up at him from behind the long-slung hood of the sweatshirt he must have stolen from Scott's room at some point throughout the day. "What time is it?"

"Late," Scott replied, barely gracing the clock with a glance. "And I'm okay. Just forgot how uncomfortable most cockpits are."

He seriously missed One; the majority of military aircraft really weren't intended for anyone of his height. It hadn't been an issue in his early twenties but oh boy was he feeling it now. He made a final attempt to press his knuckles against the tightly wound muscle in his lower back and gave up. Hopefully there was enough hot water left in the tank for him to boil like a lobster in the shower for a while; that always helped. Either that or painkillers. Probably both. Okay, definitely both.

He returned his attention to Alan. The kid had pushed himself upright, cross-legged with the blanket pooled in his lap where he could fidget with the edge. His PJs had ridden up to expose a skinny ankle but the sweatshirt sleeves concealed his wounded knuckles. He lifted one knee to his chest to wrap his arms around it, resting his chin on top as he studied the muted TV screen with sad eyes.

Scott reached over to place a hand on the nape of his neck. "How was your day, bud?"

"It was okay, I guess." Alan tensed slightly, then relaxed under the touch. "It was good to see the kids happy. Some of them are really young and this is all they've ever known." He bit his raw thumbnail. "It's weird. Like a sad weird. But they enjoyed the show, so that was cool."

Scott studied him for a minute. Sadness had engrained itself into every fibre of his being; a heavy sense of grief that hung around him like fog; desperate and despairing in equal measures. The sweatshirt would have been oversized on him even before Z-Day but that knowledge didn't make it any easier to see it swamp him now. There was a certain fragility about him like a songbird – oh-so-easily shattered.

"We haven't had chance to talk much since that radio call, huh?"

Alan shrugged wordlessly.

"Do you want to stop the sessions with Dr Briggs?"

"Am I allowed to stop them?"

"If they're not helping, yes. Not every therapist is a good fit."

"It's not like I can afford to pick and choose."

Scott caught Alan's hand before he could draw blood from his nail. "You don't need to worry about that, okay? If Briggs isn't working out then we'll find another way-"

"-To fix me."

"To help you."

Alan dropped his head back against the couch cushions. The lamplight revealed the desolation in his eyes; tiny frown twisted by self-accusatory darkness; shadows carving hollows in his face. Part of the reason why he claimed to be constantly cold was probably because he still wasn't eating enough, a fact made obvious by the new sharpness.

"People have died. Like, there are people who survived the zombies only to die from dehydration or starvation but I'm here with all these resources and I have- I have you guys and all of you love me so much so why can't I… I'm making people worry about me and I hate it."

"It's not your fault. It's- God, I know how you feel because I've been there. But you can't control how your mind reacts to trauma."

"Yay."

"Alan…"

"No, no, I know. I know. I'm just… tired. All the time. And people keep treating me like I'm about to fall apart. Which- I mean, I get why they're doing that, but it just makes me feel even more broken."

It took a great deal of skill to repress a flinch. Scott eyed the shadow in the doorway, propped against the frame just out of range of the lamp. Gordon had his hands hidden in his hoodie pocket, chewing on one of the drawstrings. He didn't seem surprised by the words; pained but also resigned as if he had heard far worse confessions from Alan over the past few days.

"I don't know what's going to help," Alan continued heavily, "But acting like I'm made of glass definitely won't." He stared at their reflections in the TV screen. "I miss Kayo and Grandma."

"Yeah," Scott agreed, overcome by a new wave of exhaustion. "So do I."

"What if I'm stuck like this?"

"You're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because I wasn't."

Alan dropped his gaze to his scabbed knuckles. "But you're a lot braver than I am."

Scott let out a mirthless laugh. "How'd you figure that one out?"

"Um, seriously?"

"Allie, you've asked for help. Do you have any idea how long it took me to accept that I even had a problem, let alone to accept that I couldn't handle it alone? Over a decade. I had to hit rock bottom multiple times before I let others help me. That's not bravery."

Alan contemplated that for a few seconds, then tipped sideways to rest his head on Scott's shoulder. It was officially an ungodly hour of the morning but that didn't matter. There were no pressing engagements planned for tomorrow. He curled closer and Scott wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Footsteps brushed the carpet as Gordon silently joined them, folding into his own corner of the couch and stealing an end of the blanket.

"Hollow," Alan decided aloud. "That's what it feels like. And then occasionally all the badness rushes in and swallows everything. It sucks."

"It does suck," Scott agreed.

"I want it to go away."

"It will."

Alan shrugged, stretching across the couch to tuck his feet under Gordon's knees. Gordon instinctively put a hand on his ankles and jolted away with a squawk.

"Holy shit, dude. Your feet are freezing."

Behind all the grief, there was a faint gleam in Alan's eyes. "Oh, really? I didn't notice."

"Bullshit. Hey, there's a miraculous invention called socks. Wear them."

"Okay, Mom."

Gordon gave a mock shudder. "Never call me that again."

Scott tousled Alan's hair and sat up. "Time for bed. C'mon, it's almost three."

"Uh oh," Gordon stage whispered. "Scott's in Dad Mode. Everyone run."

Scott let that comment slide but only because it earnt a faint smile from Alan.

"Bedtime," he repeated with a warning look at Gordon. "Let's go."


John's stabilised radio link with the UK ran into several critical issues over the next couple of days: a lack of replies from the other end and the recurring issue of how they would even travel there should anyone eventually answer. The airfield had been a loss and the reclaimed GDF jet couldn't carry more than four people at any one time.

The solution materialised out of the blue in the form of an offer from one of the safe zones which Scott had collected decontamination packs from. The zone in question happened to be a small civilian airfield with a lengthy runway capable of handling passenger jets.

One such aircraft had made an emergency landing there on Z-Day when all major airports in the area had been overrun. It would need refuelling but it could easily make a transatlantic crossing. If they could organise their own transport to the safe zone and agreed to take several survivors also seeking safe passage to the UK, then the plane was theirs.

This raised the issue of where to land. There wasn't an extensive choice of runways long enough to receive such a large aircraft in the UK. Besides, Scott didn't want to land too far north and be faced with a road trip to reach the Creighton-Ward estate.

They gathered at Finn's house to survey the available data, spreading maps across the kitchen table and projecting holograms onto the fridge, clustered on chairs and colourful bar stools.

"We know for a fact that Heathrow airport was overrun," Finn recounted, filling a series of cartoon-patterned mugs with precious coffee from his own secret supply. "London was hit badly. It was the second city in the UK to go dark."

Gordon tore the cap off a pen with his teeth and scrawled a red cross over Heathrow, swiftly followed by another over London City airport. He dropped the pen back onto the narrow strip of clear table between the maps and frowned. It was a sea of red crosses, other runways deemed too short or airports within areas which were suspected to be hot zones.

"Well, shit," Marisa remarked casually, earning an undignified snort from Gordon. "Any ideas?"

Scott glanced back at the holographic readout of the jet's limits. The required stretch of runway could possibly be squeezed, maybe a few metres shorter depending on their final passenger load. He could always dump excess fuel on the final approach too, lower the weight as much as possible. But it would be asking the impossible to attempt a landing on any of the private airfields left on the map.

"Could we alter the plane?" Tycho suggested, accepting the mug Finn handed him with a grateful smile. He leant over Virgil's shoulder to jab a thumb at the diagram of the jet. "Figure out a way to decelerate quicker; introduce some mechanism to increase drag, maybe improve the brakes?"

Virgil kneaded his forehead. They'd been tossing the problem back and forth between them like a hot potato for the past hour and they'd still gotten nowhere.

"With what resources?" he pointed out. "We had trouble constructing even the drones."

"Scrap the plane altogether," Finn joked. "Take a boat instead."

Ellis paled.

John shot her a knowing smile. "Serious suggestions only."

Scott resisted the urge to knock his head against the table. It was probably time to take a break but that felt a little too much like accepting defeat. He ground his knuckles against his eyes and tried to reset his brain, taking stock of the kitchen to distract himself; weak sunlight filtering through the potted herbs on the windowsill; soapy plates on the draining board; Gordon's mismatched socks.

"Here." An elbow gently bumped his own as a mug of coffee slid under his nose. There were no more available seats, so Finn crowded into his space to share the chair. "Shove over, sugar."

"You're a menace," Scott informed him.

Finn shot him a blinding grin. "Oh, for sure. But I made you coffee, so all is forgiven." He bashed his knee against the underside of the table as he tried to regain his balance. "Ow, fuck."

"Language," Scott teased.

Finn glared at him. "You're fired. This is your fault. Why are you so tall? Normal people can share chairs."

"No. They really can't. Chairs are designed for one person at a time, Wolvin."

"Oh God. Not the surname. Just stamp on my heart, why don't you?"

Scott shoved him off the chair entirely. "Oops, sorry sweetheart. My bad."

Finn floundered, disarmed by the pet name despite the sarcasm. He cleared his throat, propping himself against the table while Scott tried not to laugh.

"Here's an idea," John said in a faux innocent voice, an evil gleam in his eyes that had Scott's heart sinking. "Why doesn't Marisa share a seat with Scott and Finn can have her chair? You take up the least room, Mari, so it only makes sense."

"Don't I-?" Ellis began to ask, who as the shortest person in the room by far should have been the one to share a seat. She was cut off by Gordon's meaningful cough and John's warning look. "Never mind."

Scott checked Marisa wasn't looking, then caught John's eye and mouthed, "Fuck you."

Because it was ridiculous. Apparently even the apocalypse wouldn't put a stop to John's matchmaking tendencies. Nor Virgil's for that matter. Unbelievable. It wasn't as if this could even go anywhere.

He shuffled sideways to make room for Marisa, resting an arm on the back of the chair so as not to accidentally elbow her. She drew her feet up onto the rung of the seat, seemingly unaffected by their proximity as she leant over the maps.

Across the table, Gordon was grinning like a Chesire cat. Scott glared at him whilst trying not to focus on Marisa's presence, sharing warmth through his hoodie and her long-sleeved shirt where she was tucked under his arm to keep from falling. He returned his focus to the maps. Just the maps. Nothing but the maps. In fact-

Wait.

Hold on a second.

"Wasn't there an old shuttle site?" He snatched up the holoprojector. "Dad launched from there for his second lunar mission. It was somewhere southwest of London, close to the coast."

Tycho ran a thumb over the chipped rim of his coffee mug. "Wasn't it decommissioned in 2056?"

"Yes," John confirmed, but there was something different in his voice; the sharp thrill of possibility; a rush of adrenaline as all the puzzle pieces began to fall into place. "But it's still there. And it shouldn't be overrun because it was out-of-bounds to the general public. The only people on site would have been security personnel."

"What state would the runway be in?" Virgil held out a hand for the holoprojector to examine the old images that Scott had found on the GDF database. "Bear in mind that we're not landing a Thunderbird. Commercial jets aren't as forgiving."

"It was decommissioned for official launches," John explained, leaning back in his chair as he twirled a pen between his fingers. "But it was kept on the list of possible landing sites in case of emergencies since the commercial space trade took off. By that logic, it must be reasonably well maintained."

"It's been over a year of the apocalypse," Ellis reminded him.

"So, it might be a bit overgrown." Scott shrugged, eyeing the jet diagram. "I can handle that."

"No one's going anywhere until we get a reply from the UK," Finn interrupted. "When that happens, we can question it. They might confirm that the site's a no-go or they can check for us before we greenlight it."

Gordon cast the silent radio a longing look. "We've just gotta hope that somebody's listening."


By the end of the week, the connection was still too weak. Tycho and Virgil threw themselves into a new project to boost the signal involving a variety of technical explanations that Scott didn't fully understand. The stronger signal brought sporadic bursts of indistinct chatter that could just as easily have been static as it was unfocussed words, yet by the eighteenth of December there had still not been any direct communication.

John dedicated every waking moment to the radio. He was fixated on the project to the point of forgetting that anything else existed. They took it in turns to remind him to eat and drink and actually sleep on occasion – because he got snappy when disturbed during work – or in Gordon's case took it so far as to actually hide the radio whilst John took a quick shower. That incident had not ended well; the house probably still echoed with the aftermath of that explosive argument.

"They're right there," John stressed at some dark hour of an unknown night – the dates were blurring together again now that the brief snatch of sunshine had subsided back into relentless cloud. "I can hear voices but I can't make them out. It's just out of reach which is worse in a way."

Scott passed the flask to him. They were crowded onto the porch step, watching snow drift through the halo cast by the streetlamp. Virgil had custody of the radio, upstairs in Gordon's room with Alan and the squid himself, Finch flopped across their feet and sleep not so far away.

"Nothing I try has any effect," John continued, taking a sharp swig. Polished metal gleamed in the low light. "And I- I know I should take a step back. I know it's time for a break because sometimes I swear I can hear someone asking…"

Scott pressed their shoulders together. "Asking?"

John took another gulp from the flask.

"Asking for International Rescue," he finished flatly.

So, it wasn't going particularly well. Then, roughly ten hours later, when they were all crowded into the living room – Marisa and co included – with a movie playing mostly for background noise and huddled under more blankets than hypothermia victims, the radio came to life.

It was sat in pride of place on the coffee table between two empty glasses and the half-eaten sandwich that Theo had sneakily talked Alan into picking at. At first, Scott thought he'd imagined the voice. A glance over at Virgil revealed otherwise. There was a brief instant in which no one moved. Then, as the unfamiliar voice repeated itself, both Gordon and John lunged for the radio.

It wasn't the greatest of connections but it was stable. There were several UK GDF bases but this was one was based several miles south of London in a fortified bunker that had since expanded to encompass a reclaimed suburb. The houses were fenced off to protect civilians from any attackers.

"Infected?" Finn tried to clarify in the hastily arranged meeting.

"No, gas bandits. They come in and bleed the place dry. And don't get me started on the roadblocks. I'd rather run into a zombie than an ambush. The bastards have got no bloody morals."

Scott mentally added gas bandits to the list of threats he expected to face once they touched down on UK soil.

The next step was to haul their asses over a hundred miles in a roughly south-eastern direction to the safe zone with the jet. Goodbyes were difficult and leaving the Sanctuary hurt more than he had anticipated. After a year of losing one home after the other, he wanted to cling onto the first place that had shown them kindness.

As the metal walls faded in the rearview mirror, he committed the sight to memory alongside the handshakes and hugs which still haunted his skin; Lou's farewell; Tycho's brief embrace; Finn's promise to keep the torch of hope burning until their return.

They took two trucks. Cramming nine people plus a dog into one car had been bad enough on the drive to Duluth – Ellis probably still cringed upon remembering how she'd been crushed against the door – but they'd managed it out of necessity. This time, they had more space and drone images to assure them that there were no bandits or scavengers in the area.

It was a slow journey with poor conditions but they made it without any unforeseen problems. They spent two nights at the safe zone – one to recover from the journey and the second to prepare for the flight ahead of them. Scott and Virgil teamed up with a pair of engineers from the safe zone to check the jet over and concluded that she was airworthy.

The proposed passenger list was longer than anticipated given the UK GDF had warned that the situation was still fairly dire over there – poorly organised bunkers meant that tracking down loved ones was near impossible – but nowhere near the plane's full capacity. Fuel was a more complex issue – they couldn't afford to waste such a precious resource but Scott also didn't want to load the minimum just in case they ran into issues or he had to make more than one landing attempt.

He found himself overlooking the plane from the old air traffic control tower; sunset leaking reds and golds over the salted tarmac; de-icing units already prepped for the morning. Virgil found him roughly ten minutes later, armed with their dinner rations and an extra jacket.

"Excited?"

"Apprehensive," Scott corrected, shrugging on the jacket because apparently he was an idiot who still forget to bring warm clothing with him when entering unheated buildings during the Canadian winter. "You'll be my co-pilot, right?"

It had only just dawned on him that he hadn't asked, just assumed that Virgil would be right there by his side as ever.

Virgil shot him a bemused look. "Is that even a question?"

"Depends," Scott counted. "Is that a yes?"

Virgil shook his head fondly. "Shut up and eat your rations."

It was quiet up here; everyone was packed into cafeteria at the heart of the safe zone in the old terminal and the underlying chatter was blocked by thick glazing designed to mute turbines.

There was an odd otherness about the view like peering through a looking glass to find the mirrored world slightly changed. The runway had been ploughed and salted and the plane itself was cordoned off, bathed in overhead lights and sunset-glow; it was a similar sight to pre-Z-Day yet also boasted a twisting, turning eeriness indicative of the apocalypse.

Winter sunsets were always more vivid. There was a fine line between beauty and horror; the spread of red light across the ice looked disturbingly like blood. Scott crumpled the paper bag in his hands, averting his gaze from the runway. Everywhere he turned seemed to hold a warning sign. They had worked so hard for so long to find Kayo and Penelope and now that they had reached the penultimate steppingstone all the uneasy questions swept in with a vengeance.

"What if we can't find them?" He scratched a bit of dust away from the old radar display. "You heard what the GDF said. It's near impossible to track down survivors. If they're not at the manor… Do we stay in the UK? Search every bunker?"

"One problem at a time," Virgil reminded him. "We'll cross that bridge if we get to it. Logically, it makes the most sense for them to have gone to the manor. Penelope knows that we'd either meet there or on the island."

"Penelope might choose logic, but Kayo wouldn't. Not if she still believes we're alive. She'd burn the damn world all over again if it meant finding us. I don't know if she'd stay in one place on the off chance that we made it that far."

"Scott…" Virgil trailed off, staring at the plane as if it were the last lifeboat left on a sinking ship. "It's the only lead we've got. Let's check it out before we consider worst-case scenarios."

Worst-case scenarios, Scott thought to himself sardonically, watching the bloodied sunset age into rusty maroon. Yeah, right.

The irony was that none of them had voiced the ultimate worst-case scenario; searching every survival shelter in the country would still be preferable to finding a body. Ever since they'd established contact with the UK GDF, he'd been plagued with nightmares of that hypothetical. Just thinking about it made him feel sick; vision swimming; hastily eaten rations now sitting like a cold stone in his stomach.

"We'll find them," Virgil said quietly, sounding so confident about it because there was no other acceptable outcome. "It might take a while, but we will."

"Of course we will," Scott agreed after a long moment, curling his hands into fists as he bit back a final, desperate comment, but will they be dead or alive?


The flight was due to take off in the early evening Central Standard Time, landing late morning in the UK where the GDF would meet them at the old shuttle launch site. Drones had been used to establish a rough weather map across Canadian and British airspace but the Atlantic remained an unknown quantity.

Boarding took nearly two hours; emotional goodbyes were a long, drawn-out process, not to mention all the luggage which had to be loaded. Dusk had darkened to night by the time the doors were locked and set to automatic.

The cockpit was a relatively large space; a mercy given they were about to embark on a roughly ten-hour flight. Technically, there were only enough seats for four people but there was a fifth jump seat which could be unfolded for an additional crew member – or in this case a brother. It had to be pulled out from a concealed wall panel and locked into place or else it would snap shut again, earning a startled yelp from Alan as he nearly caught his fingers in the hinges.

Anxiety settled onto the backburner for the time-being, replaced by a thrill of anticipation. Pre-flight checks all showed green lights and a radio call confirmed that the de-icing was complete. Scott ran through a mental list to familiarise himself with the controls.

It had been a while since he'd flown something on this scale but at least it was an Airbus and so used a joystick, another point in his favour. Virgil, on the other hand, preferred Boeing - their controls being more similar to Two's - and made this opinion known. Scott, being a very mature person, just laughed at him.

The cockpit door locked with a heavy click as Gordon slammed it shut behind him. John, half-asleep in his own chair with his legs stretched out in front of him, jolted upright at the sudden sound.

"Sorry." Gordon didn't sound particularly apologetic. He dropped into the seat behind Virgil and leant forwards to peer at the controls. "Ooh, fancy. You sure you know how to fly this?"

He dodged Virgil's elbow with a wild laugh.

"Is everybody seated?" Scott questioned before they could descend into a full-on squabble. He reached up to flick the switch for the seatbelt sign and wow, okay, this was weird. Could he add commercial airline pilot to his resume now?

Gordon kicked off his sneakers with a loose shrug. "Hell if I know. I'm not an air hostess."

"Thank God for that," John muttered, still sulking from his rude awakening. "You'd be terrible."

"Excuse you, I'd be awesome. I've totally got the legs for it."

John turned to stare at him. "Do you honestly think that would be a contributing factor?"

"Okay, so maybe knowing first aid and how to put out fires would be a stronger argument, but my case still stands!" Gordon cracked the neck of his water bottle and jokingly held it out to Alan. "Would you like a drink, sir?" He beamed. "See? I'd be great."

Scott paused as he went to reach for the intercom. "Have you had sugar?"

"No."

"Yes," Alan corrected. "He found one of those maple syrup granola bar things."

He ducked out of range as Gordon made a wild flail for him.

"You're such a tattling lil bitch."

"I am not."

Take off was surprisingly smooth. The runway had been salted again which probably helped matters but it was an easy ascent too despite the thick clouds. The radar didn't show any severe storm systems for several miles at their cruising altitude of 43,000ft so Scott switched off the seatbelt sign and sat back in anticipation of an easy flight. There really wasn't much to do once autopilot took over; he didn't want to jinx them by describing it as boring, but no other adjective was accurate.

The planet was entirely dark but for once this wasn't a sign of the apocalypse. The Atlantic had always resembled spilled ink and this flight was no different. They dimmed the cabin after about forty minutes to encourage people to get some sleep and lowered the cockpit lights too.

Alan was out for the count almost immediately which was unsurprising; he had always slept better in flight than anywhere else having practically grown up on planes. John slept in fits and starts – a collection of catnaps more than proper rest – and eventually gave up altogether. Gordon didn't even try, retreating to the cabin when he inevitably got bored. Finch was a better passenger, curled up silently at Alan's feet, watching stars skim the windows.

After an hour, Scott talked Virgil into taking a break. There was no need for both of them to watch over the controls, especially not with such a long flight ahead of them still, so he took the first two and a half hours, Virgil took the next three hours, then he took the three after that and so on.

Gordon returned from the galley with an armful of snacks which they shared; heavily salted; washed down with bottled water and miniature soda cans; greasy fingers cleaned on an old packet of napkins found in a crew locker. Finch waited patiently for crumbs to be tossed her way and was rewarded with a sandwich crust from Virgil.

They ran into a half-hour of mild turbulence after that but it was nothing the autopilot couldn't handle and soon subsided back into smooth skies.

Scott went for his break, stretching his legs by walking up and down the aisle. The majority of people were asleep, using entire rows as beds given the plane was two-thirds empty. He met up with Marisa in the galley where she'd discovered more leftover secrets in the crew locker; a battered romance book that he'd never heard of; cherry flavoured chapstick; compression socks; an unopened box of thin mints.

"It's like a treasure trove back here," she recounted, leafing through dogeared pages.

Scott stole one of the mints. "Uh huh. You've struck gold."

"Aye, me hearty." Marisa paused, then glanced up with a distinctly red flush. "I have no idea why I just said that."

"You've been spending too much time around Gordon," he teased, reaching around her for another mint; he'd missed sugary goods. "You should know by now that he's a hazard."

"Don't be mean."

"I'm stating facts."

"He's got a good heart."

"I know. He's still a hazard."

Marisa swatted him with the paperback. "Shouldn't you be flying the plane?"

"Oh, shoot! I knew I forgot about something." Scott flashed her a grin. "Relax, Virgil's keeping an eye on things."

"So now you're here, bothering me instead."

"You love it when I bother you."

"Do I?" Marisa pushed the thin mints out of his reach. "Do I really?"

"Do you?"

He stepped closer to grab the box and realised a second too late that he'd backed her against the cupboards. They were close – too close – but she made no move to push him away and he couldn't bring himself to leave.

"You tell me, Mari," he murmured, startled by his own curiosity. There was something electrifying about eye contact; invigorating and terrifying in equal measures; allowing himself to be seen; welcoming vulnerability as opposed to running from it. "Do you like having me around?"

"I…"

"Um. Am I interrupting something?" Jasmin propped herself against a cart, arching a brow as she aimed a smirk in her sister's direction. "Because I can come back later."

Scott cleared his throat and took a step back. "No. I was just, uh…"

"Scott came to collect the mints," Marisa cut in with a forcibly light laugh. "Oh, hey. That's where they went." She pressed the box into his hands. "I wonder how we didn't see them before."

"Right, yeah, the uh- the mints. Thanks."

"No problem."

"I'll see you later then?"

"Yep. Later. Is a time. When I'll see you." Marisa tucked her hair behind her ears, studying the floor intently as she avoided looking at him. "Don't crash the plane."

"I'll do my best to keep us in the air."

Jasmin's teasing tone filtered along the aisle after him as he headed back to the cockpit, accompanied by Marisa's hissed protests.

"Is this going to become a thing?"

"Shut up, Jasmin."

"Oh my god, you do like him."

"Not another word."


Midway over the Atlantic, the cockpit was mostly empty. Virgil had gone for his second break and had joined Gordon and Marisa in the cabin. John had vanished to speak with Ellis about twenty minutes earlier and had yet to return. It was just Scott, Finch, Alan and the hum of the aircraft around them, a not-so-unfamiliar setting after all.

Alan had crawled into Virgil's vacated seat, curled under a thermal blanket. He didn't break the silence. There was something peaceful about the steady rumble of engines; a breathing promise of flight all around them.

The passing stars seemed so close that Scott could have reached out and grabbed one. He mentally listed the constellations, seeking patterns amid the chaos. Lonely satellites spun high arcs through the darkness while the occasional meteor blazed across the sky. Below, the world had been erased; the wild expanse of ocean was disconcerting when he considered that fact that if there were to be a technical failure or any other emergency, no one would be coming for them.

"You're quiet," Alan observed, cradling his paper cup of hot chocolate so that the rising steam warmed his chin.

"So are you," Scott pointed out.

"No. Well, yes. But you're quiet in a different way."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Like, um, thoughtful silence?" Alan gnawed on the edge of the cup then alighted upon the word. "Contemplative! That's what I meant. Not in a bad way. You seem sort of… happier? Since we arrived at the Sanctuary. It was a good place for you."

Scott didn't have a response to that. He watched a satellite trundle overhead, absently picking at his own empty paper cup.

"Are you going to be okay if we can't find Penny and Kayo?"

Alan's eyes were bright amid the mess of electronic lights and endless dark night. He curled his fingers around his cup, uneasiness crushing his voice into something tiny and almost childlike in its fearful quality. The blanket in his lap fell unnoticed to the floor as he awaited an answer.

"Probably not," Scott confessed, suspecting that honesty would be safer than lying when Alan would only see right through him. "But it won't be as bad as the Minnesota bunker. I'll talk to people if my head gets loud, okay? I promise."

He let the silence resettle before venturing, "How are you feeling?"

Alan hooked the fallen blanket with his ankle and dragged it back to his lap. "Like, right now?"

"Right now."

"I don't know. And I'm not just saying that to be difficult. I genuinely don't know. It's just- I don't feel numb but I don't feel much of anything else either? Kind of… emotionally bruised? God no, that's stupid, forget it."

He swept a hand through the longer hair curling around his neck, gaze fixed on the stars.

"It's easier to breathe up here," he admitted, draining the final dregs of cocoa powder; a much-missed luxury that had briefly been reclaimed thanks to the old drink sachets on board. "I'm still… But it's easier." He gave a half-hearted shrug. "But then it always is in the sky. Flying makes everything go away for a while."

It was too dark to read his expression, underlit by the amber glow of the controls. But there was a heaviness in his words which hurt to hear; an anonymous pressure that made the moment fragile.

"John's right," Scott joked, although it came out as more of a lament. "You're too much like me."

Alan leant his head against the window.

"If I thought I'd taken after you, I'd like myself a lot more," he said quietly.


The shuttle site was a cold, empty wasteland. It hadn't snowed in the UK but severe frosts had left grand expanses of ice and a bitter wind constantly bludgeoned the coast. A few concrete buildings huddled together under miserable grey skies. GDF trucks were parked beside the rusting carcass of a retired 2035-model shuttle which provided some shelter from the gale.

The passenger list had consisted of several GDF agents yet they all deferred to Scott, expecting him to speak on their behalf. He probably struck a questionable figure - pale and greasy from lack of sleep and harsh aircon which had broken halfway through the flight – but stepped up to the task regardless. A quick talk with the GDF revealed that the plans had changed, so everyone funnelled into the old command centre to warm up.

The initial idea had been to transport passengers on the trucks to the nearest bunkers. This had been scrapped in the last hour when the GDF had received a tip from a nearby survival camp that gas bandits had set up blockades on both roads away from the shuttle site. Ordinarily, it would have been a case of brute force – the GDF outgunned the bandits by far – but no one was willing to risk a shoot-out when there were so many civilians at risk.

"Okay, so what's the new plan?" Scott checked his tone as Virgil lightly caught his elbow. "We can't stay here forever."

"We won't have to." The GDF officer – Max? Mike? Something beginning with an M, Scott was certain of it – twisted his radio onto a different frequency. "We'll call for air support. They usually focus on picking up survivors - the ones who've run into sticky spots where we can't reach them, you know? – but they make exceptions."

"They?" Gordon echoed, confusion mirrored on Alan's face.

And then came the fatal words.

"International Rescue? This is Mark Jones of the GDF Expedition Unit. We could do with an assist."

Stunned silence stole the air from the room.

"Sorry," John cut in, "Did you just- Did you ask for International Rescue?"

"Tell me about it," Mark (who very clearly did not know their names and had not recognised their faces either) chuckled. "It's not exactly IR when there's only two operatives and one Thunderbird, but then again they still save lives, so what else do I call 'em?"

It was the loudest silence Scott had ever known. He couldn't fully process the words, let alone the implications; they bounced around his head too quickly for him to pin them down. The world faded around him to mere background stimuli. He registered the high-pitched ringing in his ears shortly before the overwhelming wave of adrenaline, so strong that it made him nauseous.

Voices passed back and forth somewhere amid the fog that had engulfed reality. He was aware of someone's hand on his shoulder, their grip tight enough to bruise but still not enough to pull him out of the daze. Minutes passed in desperate silence.

Two operatives. One Thunderbird.

He daren't hope yet could do nothing else.

The sound of a Thunderbird was distinctive. He could pick out the thrum of Shadow's engines from the roar of the wind an entire thirty seconds before she actually alighted on the tarmac. Mark was chattering away, describing how those brave young women from International Rescue had been such a help over the past month-and-a-bit and Scott sort of wanted to knock him unconscious.

They were all frozen in the doorway as if fearing that stepping over the threshold would shatter the spell. Was it an elaborate illusion? It couldn't be real, surely. Scott couldn't bring himself to believe it. It couldn't be this easy, could it?

He went to dig his nails into his palm instinctively only to have Virgil grab his hand, clinging on for dear life. Somewhere to his left, John whispered something inaudible, sucking in a sharp breath as a familiar figure slid gracefully from the cockpit.

Alan tore free of their group and bolted across the tarmac. He collided with Kayo at full speed, shoes slipping on ice, recovering at the last second in a tight bundle as they clung to one another. Their exact words were snatched by the wind but their voices were just about audible; unrestrained emotion; strung with tears; disbelief and delight.

Kayo clasped his face in her hands, studying his expression, then let him tuck his head back against the crook of her neck. Her fingers were white knuckled, coiled in the loose fabric of his hoodie as she curled around him, daring the universe to snatch him away for a second time.

The hug was fierce enough to threaten cracked ribs but neither of them cared. Kayo buried her face in his hair, unable to bring herself to let go, hauling Gordon close as he barrelled into their sides.

"Oh my god, Tan." His gasp was almost lost behind a choked sob and Kayo's own frantic exclamation, rocking forward on her heels to lean their foreheads together. "You're okay. You're here. You're- God, Kayo, I thought you were- Never do that again!" His voice cracked. "Please. Don't do that to me again."

"Never," Kayo swore, face wet as she reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks and glimpsed the scar weaving across his temple. "Never again, Gordon." Her touch was featherlight as she traced the area, eyes softening at his tiny flinch. She lifted a hand to his nape and drew his forehead back to hers, voice falling to an urgent whisper. "I promise you."

Scott hung back as Virgil finally let go of his hand and stumbled into the huddle. Kayo fell into his arms, exchanging tearful murmurs and a thousand stories told in a single look. He tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. They stood like that for several minutes, sharing apologies and heartbeats until they could finally convince themselves that this was really happening.

"I'm sorry," Kayo breathed. "I should never have left."

Virgil sought her gaze so that she could read the honesty in his eyes. "You're forgiven."

There was a brief beat in which the world stood frozen when Kayo turned to John. He took a step towards her but no further, letting her choose whether to close the distance. She didn't hesitate. He held himself perfectly still as she studied him, hyperaware of how much he had changed in the months since they'd last seen each other. Kayo's fingers trembled as she pulled him into a desperate hug.

"God, John."

"I'm okay."

"You…"

"I know. I'm okay."

And Scott-

He couldn't bring himself to move. He was frozen; trapped in the moment before a fall; outside of time and space; unable to break free because longing was safer than loss and the deeply buried ghost of self-loathing in his soul that still berated himself for the circumstances that had driven Kayo to spend almost a year of the apocalypse alone.

Not alone, he reminded himself – two operatives – but it didn't make him feel any better.

But then Kayo turned to look at him and every fear shattered like broken glass. It just didn't matter anymore. His priority was his sister and fuck anything that was going to keep him from reaching her, be it fear or anything else. He crashed into the hug as she threw herself into his arms, words tripping over each other, her head tucked beneath his chin as she let herself be held.

"I never gave up on you," Kayo promised. "I never gave up hope, not once."

"I know," Scott assured her, his own voice rough with emotion. "We never gave up on you either."

Kayo's expression crumpled. "You're really here."

"We're here."

Scott wiped the tears from her face. The shaking had moved from her hands to a full-body tremble, gripping his biceps in a bruising hold as her gaze flitted over his new scars. She'd picked up several too, including one which cut through her right eyebrow.

"We're here," he repeated softly, folding her back into his arms. "We found you."

"I love you," Kayo gasped out, muffled by his shirt as she buried her face in his shoulder. "I didn't say it enough before I lost you. I love all of you and I didn't think I'd have chance to tell you."

Alan pushed his way under Scott's arm to join the hug. Gordon appeared on Kayo's other side, Virgil enveloping them both and John looping an arm around them too. They clung on until they could remember how to breathe without fear of losing one another.

"Hey, Kayo?" Gordon spoke up after a while. "I like your new hair. It looks cool short."

She let out a damp laugh. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"It's badass," Alan agreed solemnly.

Kayo hauled them all close again. "You have no idea how much I've missed you."

"Believe me," Scott murmured, "We missed you just as much."