Written for the Febuwhump challenge: not trusting reality.
TW: POW/references to torture
"I need all available units to head northeast and-," Scott stopped.
The tune was half-familiar, even in that toneless whistle. In fact, that was what made it familiar.
"-and support Thunderbird Two-,"
Chills ran down his entire body and his hands gave an involuntarily twitch. Glancing around, he scanned every face, but he couldn't see who was whistling.
But he'd never seen him whistle. Just heard him. It screamed through his memory louder than any alarm could.
"Sir?" The harassed fire captain was watching him, waiting for his instructions.
Scott shook himself. He took a half-second to feel the sun on his face and then turned his attention back to the man in front of him.
"Support Thunderbird Two: follow my colleague's directions, he'll let you know where you're needed. Keep two men... What is that sound?"
It was barely audible. Heavy machine rumbled through the area. Thunderbird Two's VTOL engines would've drowned out everything if Scott wasn't so used to them. The water cannon Virgil was throwing on the stubbornly raging fires was almost deafening.
But he could still hear it.
That tuneless whistling; that jaunty tune that was always in complete contrast to where he was.
"Sir?"
He didn't hear the captain this time. He could only hear that tune. He turned, stumbling away from Mobile Control, shoving people out of his way as he searched. Broad backs; wiry hair; a limp from some unknown injury... The signs were everywhere and nowhere at once. Every time he saw one hint, the sound would come from the other direction.
He was surrounded by fire, yet Scott was shivering. He couldn't stop it; his body was acting on instinct. The whistling was always a sign of what was to come, a warning of pain and humiliation he couldn't prevent. He just had to see who was making the noise, just had to-
Someone grabbed his arm.
Hands snatched at him, finger-marked bruises overlapping the ones from the numerous times before. They pinned his arms, holding him while cord looped around his wrists...
"No." It was little more than a gasp as Scott tore free. He stumbled back, ignoring the shocked expression on the man in front of him.
Violent shivers wracked his body now but he was hot, so hot... He tugged at the collar of his uniform. It was too tight, too restrictive, and he couldn't breathe... Not with that damn whistling still ringing in his ears. His fingers scrabbled, trying to pull the material away...
Laughter as he choked. Fighting the material wrapped around his throat, desperately forcing fingers between it and his neck as they twisted, pulling tighter, watching him flail, fighting for air...
There were too many people here. Scott saw everything and nothing all at once. Everywhere he turned, he caught a glimpse of that face. It was always turning away from him; never enough to give him a proper look.
And always, that whistling ringing in his ears.
Scott shoved through the crowd. Startled cries fell on deaf ears, all he could hear was that tune. He was no longer the Field Commander of International Rescue. He was just a man desperate to escape the grasping hands, fighting not to be pulled back there...
He broke free of the crowd, uncaring of the stares. He could hear a voice calling his name, a familiar, concerned voice coming through his comm-link. But he couldn't respond. Couldn't say John's name. He'd never said his brothers' names in that place, couldn't invite them into that hell even if it was in his own mind.
He ran.
He didn't know where.
Didn't care.
His breathing came in short gasps, not in anyway connected to the spontaneous exercise. Smoke filled the air, the smell of acrid burning filling his nostrils, skin burning, agony ripping through his side, a scream tearing unbidden from his throat as the brand pressed against him, mocking laughter, shouted questions...
No. He wasn't burning. It was a faded scar, nothing more.
Scott stopped running. He wasn't sure how far he'd gone, but the crowds were behind him now. He could still hear it, though. That same tune, half-whistled, the same few refrains over and over again.
That was good.
It was when the music stopped that was the problem.
When the bolt drew back and jeering faces filled the cell, selecting, taking him, taking one of his team...
There were buildings in front of him. Some part of his mind clung to rational thought. He'd reached the outskirts of the town. The evacuated town: half the residents were helping fight the fires; the other half safely moved to friends and relatives to escape the inferno. He tried breathing deeply, but the smoke was as thick here. It made him cough...
Gasping for air as the cloth was pulled from his face. Dripping wet hair falling into his eyes, ice-cold water running down his chest, stinging the cuts but soothing the burns. He choked, retched, fighting to remember the basic instinct of breathing...
This wasn't real. The wounds – physical and mental – had healed. His commander would never have sent him out here if he couldn't handle it. His dad would keep him safe.
Shaking hands lifted until palms rested on the rough stone in front of him. It scratched against his skin but the sharp sting was a relief. Bracing against the building, he let his head hang, focusing on his breathing.
How many people had seen him run from Mobile Control? How many people now knew Scott Tracy's truth: that he was broken, weak...
Pathetic.
Boots. Fists. A lead pipe. Rope burning his wrists as they suspended him from a hook in the ceiling, boots not able to get any purchase. There was a fire the other end of the room, the smoky air making it difficult to both see and breathe. He didn't want to see, didn't need to... He knew. He'd soon make the acquaintance of whatever was heating in those flames...
Running footsteps. Stones giving way under heavy boots, curses as feet lost their grip.
The heavy thud of steps coming down the corridor. It was worse when the thuds stopped. When they arrived.
"Scott!"
"... Tracy. Captain. Serial number seven six, one eight nine, five six five."
"Can you hear me?"
"Are you deaf? Answer the question!"
"Are you okay?"
"You think this hurts? You know nothing, boy."
A hand touched his back. Scott whirled, lashing out blindly. They'd come for him this time and he couldn't, just couldn't it again, the smoke was too thick, his throat too raw...
He didn't connect with anything but heard a startled yelp. It was one of the first sounds he recognised since hearing the tune.
The music. The music had stopped. No. Not stopped. Stopping meant danger, pain, humiliation. He just couldn't hear it. For some reason, there was a tiny part of him that clung to the difference.
He strained his ears. He'd heard the bolt any second, the laughter. But all he could hear was...
"... and components four through seven need replacing, but I need more 10mm screws and the bolts with the fixtures to get through that. Pod three has low foam levels but until that shipment from Tokyo comes in, we're stuck using that other stuff which always blocks up the nozzles-"
He blinked.
"- but I've found a three-inch screwdriver clears them out fine."
"Are you reciting your maintenance list?" The words came without his permission. The ringing in his ears cleared as Virgil stopped his run-down of all the components found in the pods of Thunderbird Two.
His brother grinned at him.
"Thought it was more likely to catch your attention. The back-up was the top ten best classical pianists of all time, but figured that risked you running again."
He didn't continue his bizarre topic of conversation. Instead, Virgil just looked at him. And Scott looked back.
It was definitely his brother he saw. Through the haze of smoke, it wasn't tools that he was painfully familiar with, but a face he knew as well as his own. One that didn't bring pain, but comfort and reassurance.
Virgil's grin morphed into a serious expression as he watched Scott focus on him. He touched his comms.
"I've got him, Thunderbird Five."
Scott took in a shaky breath. As the smoke again hit his lungs, a scar on his side flared in remembered pain.
"Here."
He tried to pull away, but Virgil was too quick. Scott acquiesced and took the oxygen mask. It only took a few inhales before his mind cleared, like a breeze wafting away his clouded mind. He handed it back to Virgil, watching mutely as his brother returned it to the tank on his back.
"You were in Two," he finally said. For once, Virgil didn't call him out on his powers of observation.
"And you were in the past," he said gently. Watching Scott closely for a reaction, he stretched out a hand and, when Scott didn't flinch, gripped his arm reassuringly. It was grounding but Scott had been known to respond badly if it was too soon.
That reminded him of his wild swing and he looked at his brother anxiously, but there was no bloody nose or black eye. Nor did his fist hurt. He'd missed. Thank god.
"Thanks," Scott said gruffly. Embarrassed. "For pulling me back."
"Always." Virgil squeezed his arm, then let go. "What triggered it?"
They'd been coming when he'd first come home. The smallest of innocent things plunged him straight back into the nightmare. But the mandatory counselling and every doctor's favourite remedy – time – had slowly grounded him in the here and now.
He hadn't realised Virgil had been paying attention when he'd learnt coping mechanisms for stopping the past. He needed a voice, a lifeline, to cling to, and the more mundane the words, the better.
He certainly hadn't known that his brother still remembered the tricks.
"The whistling," Scott muttered.
They started back towards the danger zone. As the number of people increased, Scott kept his gaze fixed on where they were going and, when it came into view, Mobile Control. He couldn't face seeing their expressions.
He didn't look at Virgil but felt his brother's gaze burn into the side of his head with pinpoint accuracy.
"There was this tune," Scott struggled to explain. "And a guard who-,"
"It's okay." Virgil's hand was back on his arm. "That's enough."
The chances of him hearing it again were slim indeed, and how was he supposed to explain it without trying to whistle the tune himself if Virgil wanted specifics?
They reached Mobile Control and Scott stared blankly at it. What had he been doing before this? Where were things up to with the rescue?
"Thunderbird Five, de-active remote control of MC." Virgil smiled gently as he nudged Scott into position.
"F.A.B." John's voice came from the instruments in front of them. "Your last orders have been carried out, Captain, and relinquishing control back to you."
Scott smiled. They never called him that. But right now, it was what he needed. His hands settled on the panel in front of him and his mind focused on the alerts, comms and overall situation flashing at him.
"F.A.B."
Scott looked at Virgil, and nodded.
He was back in the here and now. This was his reality, not the hellhole that had destroyed his life for six months.
He was back in the zone.
He was back.